Brooklyn Bones (27 page)

When we parted, it was with promises not to make it so long until next time. This time, I think we meant them. I had forgotten how relaxing it could be to spend time with someone who knew me when I was young and stupid.

I made it home in time for my ringing phone. Chris.

“Mom, mom, you’re there.” She sounded very up. “Where have you been?”

“Lunch with Tammy. I do have a life.
”

“Whatever. I have good news. A counselor needs to go to the city soon, and they said I could drive down with her. Cause, you know, it is a special circumstance.”

“What? Say that again. You’re not making sense.”

“Mom, what’s up with you? Here, talk to Katherine.”

Katherine the camp director repeated Chris’ news, and added, “Chris seems to be very worried about how you are doing, and so we are a little concerned about that. It’s against normal camp policy but you’ve had a special circumstance. She could go and then come back a few days later with the same counselor.”

Chris suddenly home? The idea took my breath away, but this time in a good way. I said yes, and then immediately swung into mom mode. Were there clean sheets on her bed? Should I stock up on food?

I certainly was not forgetting why we had sent Chris away—Rick and I—in the first place. Was it really safer now? Safe enough, with the help of Steven and his uncle? Dammit, yes, I told myself. Yes. For a few days, I could surely keep her out of trouble, even if it meant keeping her on a short leash. Perhaps the short leash was unrealistic but there was no way I was going to tell her not to come if she needed to.

And if she was coming home, I needed more time off my job—I knew I was on thin ice there—I would have to swing into action right now. I needed to score a home run before asking for more time off. No post-pizza/wine/fun relaxing for me now.

It was time to dial up Mrs. Rogow’s warehouse and get some work done. A cheerful woman’s voice assured me that Mrs. Rogow’s request had been received and everything would be ready shortly.

When I thanked her, she said, “I’d do anything Mrs. Rogow wanted. She has been a customer here for sixty years, and she is lovely to deal with. The best. Not like…um, not like all our customers. When you come, just ask for me, Rosemarie. All the men know me.”

The warehouse wasn’t far away as the pigeon flies, but I crossed worlds to get there. As I drove downhill toward the harbor, I left behind stable residential blocks and lively streets, moved through blocks of depressed small buildings with no street life, and into a low-end business area. There were storefront tire shops, sleazy body shops operating out of two-car garages, tiny groceries hanging on by the grace of God and the sale of cigarettes and lottery tickets. Then it became an industrial area: stone and marble and tile dealers, importers of Middle Eastern food, contractors’ warehouses.

When I crossed the last avenue the street ended abruptly at a chain link fence. On the other side there were hulking shells of buildings scarred along their dark sides with broken windows. Between the elevated expressway and the buildings blocking the sun, it was dark down here, even on this summer day, and I suddenly wished I had brought a companion.

When I finally found a small through street, the parking lot proved to be full of cars and trucks, with men walking in and out pushing hand trucks. It was reassuringly, normally busy. I found unmarked doors, the colors faded to generic metal. After I walked back and forth a few times, baffled as to how to find Rosemarie, one of the drivers saw my confusion and pointed to the small door between two large barred windows.

Rosemarie turned out to be hefty and very blond, with a face that was meant for smiles and joking around. She wasn’t smiling now. Her office was filled with a stack of storage cartons and Brenda Petry. Petry was definitely not smiling.

She was impeccably dressed and coiffed as always, almost comically out of place in the grimy warehouse, but her face was missing its usual glazed perfection. She looked stressed and tired, and for the first time, middle-aged instead of permanently preserved. I wondered if the designer clothes and shellacked hair and glittering jewelry were meant to be armor.

She looked at me with a new expression. For a fleeting moment I thought, absurdly, that it was fear. She said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

I stammered, “Not you. My research…your mother.” I took a deep breath and started again, in a voice I willed to be firm.
“
Would you like me to explain?” It couldn’t hurt to be polite. At least, that’s what my mother always told me. I’d give her the edited explanation with my professional and scholarly goals. Chris’ interest did not need to be part of that story.

She stared at me with a grim mouth, and yet, still, that fugitive look in her eyes, and finally said, “I suppose it might be useful for me to hear this. Talk fast. I’m stealing time from my very busy day.”

I did talk fast, all about my museum assignment. I added the persuasive—I hoped—point that with access to a complete company archives, I might even use it as a key part of my eventual dissertation. It could be an opportunity to tell her father’s true story and how much her mother supported this. My own shamelessness would have bothered me if she had not been so unpleasant.

I finished with an attempt to build a more personal connection between us
.
“Everything seems to be pointing to my own neighborhood, and even my own block, as the subject of my dissertation.” I added, “I’d love to interview you and add your memories to this—this mosaic I have in mind.”

“I told you before: I knew nothing about the business back then. My parents kept me tucked safely away in the suburbs.”

“But some people remember you.” I added quickly, “It came up by accident. It would be so—so—so—enriching, to have your own personal take on it all. You would be an incredibly valuable source.” Ah, flattery. She certainly looked like the kind of person who would be susceptible

Her sharp intake of breath was almost a hiss.

“Your sources are quite mistaken about my past in the business and your trivial research is a waste of time to me. It’s gone, that past. Can you tell me how it matters for your future?”

Her face set into its glossy mask, and I was never sure, later, that I had seen anything else.

She turned her anger on Rosemarie.

“You cannot give everyone off the street access to our company records. That is a complete breach of your contract.”

“Mrs. Rogow gave me the permission.” Rosemarie’s arms were folded, her frame massive. She acted remarkably unimpressed by the demanding woman in front of her. “Her word is good enough for me.”

Petry flushed. “If anyone around here was well informed, you would know I run things now. As to my mother’s permission, she is not the person who pays your exorbitant monthly bills. You can consider this business arrangement terminated as of today.”

Rosemarie snorted. “You got sixty years worth of records here. You want us to dump them in your fancy office? ‘Cause believe me, I could arrange it. It would be a pleasure. You’d better secure another facility before you make these types of threats.”

“Be sure that I will. You can start pulling the paper work today.” She turned back to me. “As for you?” I had some of my own armor in place. “Give it up now and stop harassing my mother and me or there will be legal actions. Trust me that I have far more resources to do that than you have to fight it.”

I certainly did trust her on that.

She stalked out, and I was forced to watch the boxes—my boxes!—being hauled away after her. I imagined throwing myself in front of the carts, driven by the belief that they were filled with scholarly treasures. I was shaking with anger and shock at being the target of so much fury.

Then Rosemarie and I looked at each other and started laughing. It began with a giggle and ended with us wiping tears from our eyes.

When we finally stopped, she gasped, “What was that all about? She’s always a pain but I hardly have to deal with her in the flesh. She doesn’t get her manicured fingers dirty. Usually it’s her little slaves…” She shook her head. “And Mrs. Rogow was always such a nice lady.”

“I don’t know what it’s about.” I looked around the empty room. “So much for my brilliant academic plans. That idea is down the drain.”

“Don’t be so sure, kiddo. I’ll put it in our system to tell me to give you a call as soon as the boxes get checked back in.”

“But she said…”

“Yeah, yeah, wait till she finds out what it would cost to move all their stuff. Ha. No break from us for good will either. She can count on that. Betcha anything the boxes will come back and that will be the end of it. And I’ll call you the day they do. No worries on that.”

Chapter Twenty

Back in my car, I remained shaken, even though laughing with Rosemarie had cleared my head. The sheer senselessness of Petry’s rage scared me. I didn’t fear physical danger; I didn’t know what I feared. Merely being in the presence of that storm was scary.

I knew it would be all wrong to confront Mrs. Rogow and say, “Why is your daughter a crazy bitch,” but it was tempting. Instead, I thought if there was one person I knew who would appreciate this crazy story, it was Leary. Kings County had had long enough to patch him up; I was already out in my car; I was going to see him. And if he was difficult, that little scene had my adrenaline in overdrive. Let him try giving me a hard time, I thought. Let him try

He was sitting up in bed, eyes open, skin still pale but no longer deathly pale. “I don’t know how I got here, but they tell me you’re the one who called in the cavalry.”

I nodded.

He looked annoyed. “I suppose that’s a good thing, so I have to say thank you.”

“Don’t put yourself out too much. I figured you wanted to have a few more years in this world, but forgive me if I got that wrong.”

“No, no, you didn’t get it wrong. I’m not too good at this making nice stuff, but yeah, thank you.”

I grinned. “Don’t take it personally. I’d have done it for anyone.”

“Good. Now I don’t have to be so grateful.” He closed his eyes as if the brief conversation had exhausted him. Then he opened them again. “Now that we’re done with the small talk, tell me what the hell happened? I don’t remember any of it. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“And to think I came over to get information from you.” I told him what little I knew.

“Sounds about right. I took my insulin shot, and before I could eat, someone came in.” He considered that. “Maybe two someones. Wait…” He seemed to be pondering something. “How the hell did they get in? Was the door busted?”

“Not noticeably.”

“Ok. I must have let them in.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Nope, it’s not, but sometimes I’m a little confused before I eat. So all right, for now we say I let them in.” He got that confused look again. “I’m still blanking about what happened. Anything about what happened. They tell me—the docs, the nurses—that I was beat up pretty good.”

“Have cops been here?”

“Yeah, they took a statement, asked me if it was a break in, did they want money? They said they’d look into it, but who the hell knows? An old man gets beat up in a building with lousy security on a block that’s getting worse every day? It’s ordinary life in the big city. Who cares?”

“Was it money they looking for? Or something else? Your files? Do you remember that at all?” Come on, Leary, I thought. Something useful has to be in there, somewhere in that hard old head.

He looked puzzled. “Not money. I’m sure—pretty sure—it wasn’t a robbery, but I can’t even say why I think that. I have little pieces in my mind—they kept asking me questions, but they weren’t—I don’t think they were—about money, or drugs. I don’t know what else a robber would think I had. Certainly not family silver.” He gave a tiny sly chuckle, like the ghost of the real Leary.

I didn’t know how much to tell him. He was better but a long way from all right. What I had seen would certainly upset him. Would that put him in danger? There was no one there I could ask, but he solved the problem for me by saying, “Come on. You’re holding something back.”

In spite of his condition he gave me a shrewd look. “Don’t you know patients need to be kept calm and contented? Like cows. Worrying about what you’re holding back could cause a medical crisis. You appear to have a conscience, so I’m sure you wouldn’t want that burdening it.”

“Well, it sounds like either the neighborhood has really gone downhill or you really pissed off someone, hard as it is to imagine such a thing.” I hoped to sidetrack him.

“Those days are gone for good,” he said with obvious regret. “That was my job, back then, pissing people off. Now….” His voice trailed away and I stood up.

“Where do you think you’re going
?
You never answered my question.”

“Which question was that?”

“Come on, honey,” he said sarcastically “You know. I want to know what you are hiding. Spit it out. Being in the hospital doesn’t mean I’ve become completely stupid.”

Apparently not. By the time I was done telling him, the little color that had returned to his face was drained away and his eyes were closed. I was reaching for the nurses call button when Leary opened his eyes again, and muttered, “I hate anyone messing with my files. It’s worse—it feels worse—than getting beaten. It’s….”