Brooklyn Secrets (12 page)

So I did.

“I don't believe that. I would know. She must have got it wrong somehow.” I had the sense to keep quiet. In a more subdued voice, she said, “Was that all? She didn't say anything else?”

“No, not a thing. Just that it was a secret, that you would not like it.” She made a sound of annoyance. “And that he had people who would not like it either. I don't know what that meant.”

She put her face down in her hands and didn't move. When she looked up, her first words were, “It couldn't be that kid could it, that Jackie?” She looked at me and suddenly started laughing. We both did.

“That kid with Savanna? That's not possible, is it? Nooo!” For a minute, we were helpless with laughter. Then we stopped as suddenly as we had started.

“I have to think about this. I always thought…and I hoped…but girls will be girls.” She smiled wryly. “How do you think I got Savanna?”

“And I want to tell that cop.” She stood up. “I wonder how we contact him on the other side of that door?” She began a discussion with the desk sergeant and I thought about calling it a night.

The cop emerged. He didn't seem too excited by my information but agreed it might pry something out of young Jackie.

“We probably can't hold him, you know.” He sounded apologetic. “He didn't really do anything.”

“You think he was in Savanna's room to bring her flowers? Come on! You let him go and he'll most likely try again, whatever he was up to.”

“Then next time we'll catch him at it. We'll be watching.”

“Oh, hell no. I'm staying right here until I know something.”

I went home though, luckily hopping a bus to take me from one end of the neighborhood to the other. Chris was already asleep and I collapsed on my bed.

Sometime in the night my phone pinged, but I didn't get up. No one was calling me. Just a text. I went back to sleep. Maybe I even dreamed it.

In the morning I knew it was no dream. I had a photo on my phone. I couldn't tell who sent it. It was a handle that didn't look like a name, and that I didn't recognize. But I knew the location. It was where we had found Deandra. There were some modest flowers wrapped in paper, or single blossoms, obviously from a corner deli; a teddy bear; balloons. It was an impromptu memorial for an unexpected death.

Chapter Fourteen

I had a date. Nothing as exciting as breakfast out, let alone any more intensive form of fun. I was expected at the Municipal Archives at ten sharp. Many subways converge there in downtown Manhattan. Parking is really not possible during the day unless I was prepared to pay a garage the equivalent of a week's groceries and perhaps including my right arm. I was on the way to the subway stop in good time, properly loaded with laptop and the no-tech backup, a notebook and pens.

I hurtled down the station steps to the sound of an incoming train, slid in a second before the doors closed, and twenty crowded minutes later, I was getting off at my stop, a few blocks from my destination. It's a non-descript part of the city, north of the interesting tip of Manhattan, filled with drugstores, bank branches, sandwich shops, cheap clothing, all services for the army of office workers from nearby towers. With no temptation to explore, I arrived ten minutes early. That could be a first in my over-scheduled life.

I think my mouth dropped open when I went in. I expected a plain, cheap, mass-produced office building. What I found was a vast lobby, with marble pillars and a riot of carving painted in pastels. The soaring staircases criss-crossed each other in an elaborate pattern. What in the world had this been originally? I would have to find out, but not today.

Today I went through a metal detector and down a hall into the modest space of the Department of Records library.

Labeled archival boxes were out on a sturdy wooden table, ready for my attack. And here was a copied page from a request-tracking sheet. Well, well, well. With a name and the information for these very boxes. James Nathan. The name still meant nothing to me, but I would look further. The page disappeared into my backpack for safekeeping.

And I dug in. It was a true scholarly effort. I had questions I wanted to ask these pages. These criminals' own testimony about their activities would tell me a lot about them and how they saw their worlds and their careers. At least I hoped so. Personal memories about the time and place often conflicted, and were shaded by emotion. Here was the testimony, on the record.

Of course I had to consider that criminals, even under oath, probably lied with every word, claiming innocence when they were guilty, ignorance when they were right there, and importance that existed only in their own minds.

Besides answers to my prepared questions, there is this in searching in any collection of documents: you never know what you might find. That's part of the fun. Of course, sometimes those discoveries derailed lots of work, too. That situation was key in a famous mystery novel I had read many years ago.

I sat at the table, looking at the boxes and thinking, “This could be an entire thesis, right here. And it's just a chapter of mine. What have I done? I don't even know how to get started. And where can I get more coffee?”

And then I did get started, because I did know how, once I got past my panic. There were finding aides, which meant a guide to the boxes, and one for each folder within, all very methodical. Each folder listing had a name, a date, and a few phrases to indicate what was held. I started at the end, hoping to find the summaries of the trial, and then I looked for some of the Brownsville names I had—the notorious Gurrah Shapiro; Lepke Buchalter; Kid Twist Reles, the guy who betrayed everyone; Pep Strauss, also known as Pittsburgh Phil and a few other names; Louis Capone, not related to the more famous Capone but in the same line of work. They were mentioned in many places but I wanted their own testimony, their own words, to give me some idea about what created them.

And their own words would liven up that chapter. Who says a dissertation has to be boring?

I looked up after three hours, my eyes bleary and fingers itching from the unavoidable dust. My biggest conclusion was that these were very boring human beings. I should have guessed that. You can't be a person who kills for a living and have a lot of imagination.

And most of these guys, however vicious their actions, were not even as high as middle management in “the organization.” The old mob leaders like Luciano, Siegel, Lansky, Anastasia, the ones at the top? Were they really smart and innovative “businessmen?” Perhaps. For sure, that was how they wanted to be seen in their lifetime and after. But these hometown Brooklyn gangsters? They were privates in this army.

They had trouble spelling the words in a threatening note. They used a grandfather's funeral as an alibi. They used a dying mother as a way to avoid an assigned job they did not want to do. They said talking about having a conscience was too deep for them. One of them, at least, did not commit crimes on the Sabbath. They methodically mapped out escape routes while planning a job. That job was often murdering someone, and sometimes the someone was a close friend. It didn't bother them. They compared their first killing to a DA giving his first speech in court; you're nervous at first but you get used to it. They followed orders.

Sometimes they sounded like lovable Damon Runyon characters. Until they started describing what they did with a rope and an ice pick.

I wasn't sure whether I had struck gold or pyrites. I was writing a PhD dissertation, not a blockbuster novel. This all might be too exciting. I had pages and pages of notes in my laptop now, right from the source. I would have to run all this by my adviser.

I tidied up the cluttered table, but as directed, left the files for the staff to return to order. I could not work anymore, but on a whim, I did some web surfing on James Nathan, the mysterious researcher of old Brooklyn crime. Nothing. I had an inspiration and wrote it in as Nathan James. Still nothing. There were lots of hits for the name, as it's not uncommon, but none that were useful to me.

So he was not famous in any way. Never been in the news. Had never written anything that was published, whether in a national magazine or a scholarly journal or probably even a college newspaper. Evidently Mystery Man was neither a journalist nor a historian after all. Maybe he was merely a nut with an organized crime fixation.

One last whim. With Lillian's voice in my mind, I skimmed through all the notes to the material, every description for every box and every file, just to see if her brother's name came up anywhere. No, it didn't. That didn't prove he was not in the gang, of course. Maybe he was so obscure he was never mentioned in the testimony. Maybe he was there but not important enough to be listed in the index.

One overpriced deli sandwich later, I was ready to think about the rest of the day. With my mind filled with gangster names and stories of old Brownsville, I would hop on the train, spend the long trip organizing what I'd learned today, and go look at some of the real places I'd been reading about. And not beat myself up about why I had not had all this completely organized the first time I went there to look around. It's a process, period. Sometimes you need a second look. That's what I said.

I had the exact location of the Moonlight Min Candy Store, the corner of Livonia and Saratoga. The back room there had been the Murder Inc. headquarters. They certainly weren't putting any of their profits into a luxury workspace. And I wondered how Min felt about it all? I'd been intrigued to learn today that there was a real Min and she was a criminally inclined tough old broad herself, nobody's moll. Not a kept woman in any sense, but a female who fit right in with the big boys. She deserved a sidebar all her own. Or maybe she was a potential article subject. Not exactly a feminist example, not even a little, but women who defied, or ignored, the norms for their gender are always interesting.

My mind was speeding ahead with the speeding train, and I jotted it all down.

One more look around and then maybe I was done with Brownsville. I could write this chapter and move on.

The candy shop was easy to find. It's right next to the station stairs. That was one of its desirable qualities in the old days, good transportation and on a busy corner. What it was then—and I knew because I'd seen old pictures—was the kind of all-purpose candy/stationery/soda fountain shop that was already disappearing from most of New York when I was a kid. You could get a birthday card for your mom, a box of candy for the wife on Valentine's Day, the afternoon paper, take your girl for a malted, use the pay phones.

At Min's, in the back room, you could also place a bet with a bookie or pick up a game of pinochle, if you were so inclined and if Min let you. And order up a mob hit along with your sundae.

Now it was a mini-mart. No soda fountain, but you could buy bottled soda and beer and a quart of milk, plus a box of diapers or condoms or cigarettes.
The Daily News.
Hit the ATM for cash and buy a legal state lottery ticket.

The hatch in the sidewalk, allowing deliveries to be slid right into the basement, was still there and looked old enough to be original, but the front of the building had different windows, mostly covered with signs listing all the food stamp programs that were accepted. It was shabby and sad, and probably always was, but the old pictures did have a bit of the quaintness time brings.

Then I gave myself a mental slap. Was I a scholar or a nostalgic tourist? Old-fashioned Coca Cola sign above the door notwithstanding, this was never quaint.

I took some photos with my phone from the safety of the other side of the street, safe enough with people coming and going to the train and other stores. Finally I went across and looked in the windows. A shabby but legitimate business. I went in boldly and bought a soda to justify my presence. People went in and out, making the small purchases that keep this kind of business alive. Barely. Another reason to wonder if there wasn't still some action in the back, perhaps drugs for sale.

No one that I saw went into the back room. Cartons from a beverage distributor blocked the entrance.

The woman behind the counter was ethnically unplaceable, with tan skin, long black hair, T-shirt decorated with a picture of a singer. Latina? South Asian? Arab? When I tried to ask about the back room she didn't seem to understand, and responded, “No, no. Back? No!” I couldn't place her accent. Not Spanish. In Spanish I might have muddled through. I didn't believe she didn't understand me.

I didn't believe it even more when I was hidden at the back, browsing, and heard a customer ask what kind of diapers were on sale. She said clearly, “We got that no-name brand, and Huggies are also reduced this week.”

I went out and looked around. There was a kind of alley along the back. Probably where they kept trashcans, I thought.

And then I did a stupid thing. I walked around the corner and into the alley. Maybe I could see through a window into the back room.

The only window was covered with a metal security screen and too high for me to see in. There was a door, metal, no windows, no doorknob, no way to get in from the outside short of a blowtorch. I was not learning a thing here. Time to go.

I turned and almost bumped into someone right behind me. Way too close behind me.

It was that derelict-looking white guy I had spotted before. Scary clothes, smelling of alcohol, a large open bottle of Colt .45 in one hand. A knife in the other.

“You.” He seemed to have trouble focusing. With visible effort, he tried again. “You. Go away. My place. Mine.” And he waved the knife at me.

Even in my fog of fright, I could see it was a jackknife. Really? I thought in one tiny corner of my mind. You want to be a menace in the hood, and you're using a jackknife. A jackknife?

On the other hand, I did not want to find out if it was still sharp enough to do damage.

I held up both hands so he could see I was unarmed. I took one tiny step away from him.

“I didn't mean to trespass.” A blatant lie. Of course I was trespassing. “Not on your space. I didn't know. And I'm very sorry. I'll go now.”

“You could have stolen my things. I have important things here.” Stubborn. “I keep them hidden.” But his eyes shifted slightly and I saw the clean plastic garbage can with a chain around it and two enormous padlocks.

“Well, do you see any place I could have hidden anything?” I turned slightly, just enough to show him my backpack. I sure didn't want to turn my back on him. “See?”

He stared and stared, and then he lowered the knife and stepped aside. A wave of his knife hand pointed me to the entrance of the alley. I left as quickly as I could. I didn't break into a run until I was out of his sight. His parting words, shouted behind me, were “Don't come back. Or I'll get you good!”

My brain said he was in no shape to harm me. My adrenaline said, “Even if he's a strung-out junky, he could be vicious. And unpredictable. Move!”

I didn't stop until I was around the corner, under the elevated train tracks. There were stores nearby and some foot traffic. I felt safe there, though that might have been a fantasy. In one of the highest crime rate neighborhoods in the city, would anyone come to my aid if he did follow me? There was not a cop in sight.

When I could breathe again, and stopped shaking, I reached for the soda I had bought, and realized I must have dropped it in the alley. Damn.

I looked around the intersection. A boarded-up pharmacy. An old freestanding news dealer kiosk, also boarded up. A couple of bars not boarded up. And there was another tiny market where I could replace my soda before going home. I hoped the sugar would calm my inner shaking; on the outside, I put on my street face, the one that says, “Don't mess with me.”

Soda in my hand, leaning against the wall outside the shop, nobody gave me a second look. I guessed I was not the only one on the street with shaking hands, gulping down a drink.

I had one more thing to do before I left the neighborhood. I wanted to go see for myself the improvised memorial to Deandra. I knew where it was. Right there where I had found her. Under all my busy, ordinary activities, that picture never fully left my mind.

I walked carefully this time, alert to any activity near me. It wasn't hard to find. Even though all the buildings in a project look the same, I remembered where we were going that day. I stood there, silent, for a long time. There were more balloons but the flowers were starting to look frayed. I wished I had brought some.