by Tim O'Mara
By the time we were done, it was well after lunch, so Edgar took me to a pizza place he knew on the Grand Concourse. With Edgar done for the day, we took our time. I got calls from my three favorite cops again – nothing new to report – and ignored any number I didn’t recognize. Edgar booked a job for the following week.
I ordered two slices – one with mushrooms, one with pepperoni – because I was hungry and wasn’t sure what the rest of the day would bring. The veteran cops taught you that on your first day on the streets: eat when you can. My job at school could be like that, too. The first three months as a dean, I was up and down the stairs so many times and missed so many lunches due to conflicts, crises, and conferences, I lost fifteen pounds. The next time my mother saw me she swore I was sick and not telling her something.
By the time we left the pizza place, the Sunday traffic was so heavy it might have been quicker to walk back to Brooklyn. Royce called again just to check in. When we got back to my block, Edgar asked me if I wanted to go in the back way.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Anybody gets in my way, it’s not my fault what happens.’
It turns out we didn’t have to worry. Either the reporters had decided I’d skipped out of the city for a few days or they’d all gone to dinner. I said goodbye to Edgar, promised to call if I heard anything, and told him I would talk to him tomorrow. I also thanked him for keeping me busy.
‘Any time, Ray. I mean that.’
‘I know you do, buddy. Thanks.’
I spent the next few hours cleaning, channel surfing, staring out at the Manhattan skyline, going through old magazines and catalogs – anything to keep my mind off Allison, but nothing worked. Royce kept to his promise and called just about every hour. I told him I could wait until the next day, unless he had real news for me. He seemed to think that was a good idea. He sounded tired.
I opened up the fridge, but nothing appealed to me. There were a few Brooklyn Unfiltered Pilsners, but I don’t like drinking alone at home under stress. I was too tired to hit The LineUp and not tired enough to go to bed. If I were a runner, this would be a good time for a long one. Muscles’s gym would be closed by now, but I went into the bedroom and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and my gym sneakers. I went out to the balcony and went through the entire series of stretches I do before a workout. I did it slow and then I did it again.
I remembered Allison had a pair of five-pound weights in the closet that she took out and played with whenever she was feeling ‘fat’ and didn’t feel like jogging. I took them out, and except for the fact that they were pink, they did the job. I did some real slow lifts I remembered from my physical therapy days; that was as close to yoga as I’d ever been. After thirty minutes of that, I actually felt better.
I went back inside and drank two glasses of water and took a long hot shower. I hit the medicine cabinet and without any guilt whatsoever took one of Allison’s sleeping pills. I put on a clean pair of shorts and a new T-shirt, grabbed my cell phone and went to bed, where I lay sleepless for at least the next five hours.
THIRTY-THREE
Edgar called at eight thirty-seven. ‘Turn on your laptop,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Your laptop, Ray. Go to Allison’s site.’
I got out of bed, went to the coffee table and went to New York Here and Now. And there it was.
ALLISON ROGERS: SPECIAL REPORT FROM THE FIELD
Sometime during the night – I’ve been unaware of the exact time for a while now – we changed locations. I am no longer at the woodsy camp where I woke up yesterday. The smells of childhood summers are gone, replaced by more suburban sensations: I can hear people moving about on the floor below me, I smell freshly cut grass and coffee, a busy roadway is humming in the distance. And the door to the room I’m in is locked.
When I spoke with one of my captors yesterday – the only one who seemed allowed, or willing, to talk to me – he told me to imagine a bunch of goldfish swimming peacefully in a pond for as many years as any of them can remember. Then one day, some catfish get introduced into the pond. At first it was uncomfortable – catfish look way different than goldfish – but then the goldfish realized the catfish cleaned the bottom of the pond, eating discarded food, kissing moss off the stones, a job none of the goldfish liked to do. So the goldfish tolerated the catfish and allowed them the small fruits of their labor.
Sometime later, more fish were added to the pond. The usefulness of these new fish was not apparent. They didn’t clean, they used up oxygen meant for the goldfish, ate food that the goldfish had been the sole consumers of for years – until the catfish arrived – and they took up space. These fish, too, bore little resemblance to the original fish. When the goldfish looked for a meaning to this change, no meaning was to be found.
After many years of new fish moving into the pond, the goldfish realized they were no longer counted as the majority. Each day seemed to bring different-looking fish, less food, less oxygen. One day, the goldfish had a secret meeting and decided that their best – and possibly only – solution was to fight back against the other fish and the powers that put them in the pond.
‘We,’ this man with the foreign-made automatic weapon and the desire to speak told me, ‘are the goldfish.’
‘What does that make me?’ I asked, and was told that I, too, am a goldfish. ‘I don’t feel like a goldfish,’ I told him. I added that as a white person of Christian background, I’m not afraid of the others. I enjoy living in a diverse city.
‘That’s why you need people like me,’ he explained. ‘People like you are blind to the ways of the pond. You like to consider yourselves liberal, progressive, tolerant of others. We were like that, too, once.’
I asked him what had changed. ‘Too many others that don’t look or pray like us, that’s what changed. Our kids go to school and now there are days off for holidays we don’t celebrate and never even knew about before the others started sending their kids to our schools.’
When I suggested that diversity was a good thing, that it helps us and our children understand the other people we share the planet with, he scoffed. ‘I got nothing against other people,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want them pushing their beliefs on us, taking our jobs, marrying our women.’
If that sounds like White Supremacy, my goldfish will tell you it’s not. ‘It’s White Nationalist,’ he explained. ‘White Separatist. We’re not out there telling people we’re better than they are, just different. This nation was born of the White man, the Christian God. When’s the last time you heard of thousands of White Christians going to another country and making their homes there, and changing the whole country’s way of life? Lessening that country’s way of life? You don’t because it don’t happen.’
I pointed out that history and current events would argue with him.
‘Whose history?’ he asked. ‘Not mine. Not the history I grew up with. The history I grew up with tells me Christopher Columbus came here in 1492 and brought civilization with him. Those that accepted the new ways thrived; those that did not, perished.
‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘I understand not everyone can be white. I took biology. But if these people just accepted the rules of this great White Christian nation, we’d all be better off.’
I asked if he believes all men were created equal like it says in the Declaration of Independence, one of three documents – the others being the Constitution and the Bible – groups like his are known to adhere to.
‘Equal’s a funny word,’ he said. ‘What did the founding fathers mean by the word equal? I think they meant equal in your own country. Equal to the people you were born around. Once you choose to pick up and leave your birthplace, I don’t believe you have the right to ask for equality. You gave that up when you left your home. If I got up and moved my family to Africa tomorrow, I wouldn’t expect to be treated equally.’
Speaking of Africa, I said, what about those who were brought here against their will?
‘T
hey’re better off here,’ he explained. ‘You ever see the lives they had before we brought them here? They barely wore clothes, had to hunt for all their food, they didn’t own their own homes. I’m not sure they owned anything. They’re much better off than they were. We gave them work, steady food and shelter. When slavery ended – and not all Americans believed that it should have, by the way – look what happened to them. Unemployment that we have to pay for; homelessness that we have to pay for; crime rates going up, that we have to pay for. And now, the drug problem is as bad as it’s ever been. Who’s paying for that? We are.’
When I pointed out that the drug problem recognizes no color or religion or country of origin, he looked me in the eye and said, ‘Yeah, it does. It most surely does. It definitely knows all that. And, to make it worse, it knows your status in this world.
‘Just like all those other fish we never wanted in the pond,’ he concluded, ‘it just don’t care.’
Allison Rogers for New York Here and Now
‘They moved her, Ray.’
‘I just read that, Edgar. These guys are smart. And organized.’
‘And connected.’
That’s the part I didn’t want to think too much about. Smart, dangerous, and organized are bad enough, but if these guys were part of a bigger network – multi-state, say – we were looking at something that may be even out of my uncle’s league. And then, as if reading my mind, David Henderson, FBI, was calling in. ‘Let me get back to you, Edgar,’ I said. ‘I got Henderson on the other line.’
‘OK, Ray.’
‘David,’ I said, ‘how’d you get this number?’
‘I’m FBI, Ray,’ he began. ‘I know I shoulda called yesterday, but I was running down some leads on my end as soon as I heard what happened to your girlfriend.’
‘Allison Rogers.’
‘Yes. Allison.’
‘Did you find anything out?’ I asked.
‘I spent most of my time checking into Mr Biancotto,’ he said. ‘Our friend from the CCC over in Canarsie.’
‘And …?’
‘From what I could gather, he had no direct involvement in her abduction. But that doesn’t rule out any of his known associates. After what I read this morning on your … on Allison’s website, though, I don’t think he hangs with people this organized.’
I was impressed. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ve got a meeting with my Assistant Field Director in about an hour. I’m going to strongly request that, based on Allison’s latest posting, the FBI treat her case as a possible interstate kidnapping and a domestic terrorist incident.’
‘You think they’ll go for that?’
‘I think we’ve got the circumstantial evidence to support the motion and, quite frankly, after Maurice Joseph’s murder was solved, I’m back in the good graces of my immediate supervisor.’ He paused. ‘Thanks again for that, Ray.’
‘You can thank me by doing everything you just said you were going to do.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘OK. Obviously, call me when you know something and I’ll do the same.’
‘Roger that,’ he said and broke the connection.
I called Edgar back and told him the news.
‘Holy Hoover,’ he said. Edgar could sometimes sound like Robin from the old Batman TV show. ‘That’s great news, Ray.’
‘Let’s hope he can pull it off.’
We were silent for a while and then Edgar asked, ‘What are you going to do today? I gotta head out to Forest Hills and give an estimate for a job.’
I gave that some thought and as much as that helped distract me yesterday, I wasn’t sure it would do the job today. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna go for a walk to the river. Maybe over the bridge.’
‘You sure? We made a pretty good team yesterday.’
‘We did, man. I just need to be alone right now. Keep my head clear until something breaks, you know?’
‘I guess.’ He didn’t know and I didn’t have the mental energy to explain it all right now.
‘I’ll call you when I hear something, Edgar. Good luck on the estimate.’
‘Thanks, Ray.’
Less than an hour later, I was caffeinated, fed, and dressed for walking. I decided to skip the river and head straight to the Williamsburg Bridge. There were many places in the city I could go to clear my head and paradoxically, the Willy B – as the local kids and hipsters called it – was one of the main ones. This noisy, traffic-filled, smelly monument to the joining of Brooklyn to Manhattan served as my own personal white noise machine. I would walk to the halfway point – where I was now – stop, and look down at the rushing water of the East River as it made its way either north or south depending on the time of day. This particular spot was so personal to me I’d yet to bring Allison here. Now I found myself wishing I had.
There were tourist boats, tugboats, barges, recreational boats and wave runners; any type of water vessel was welcome. I’ve seen kayaks that go for under two hundred dollars and yachts that go for a few million. Along with the subway system, the rivers of New York City were true Commons.
I was doing a few stretches and realized I hadn’t been to Muscles’s gym in a while. I was in for a lecture the next time I did go back. I’d have to make sure I went with Allison; he was always easier on me when I was with her.
I looked over to my left, and along with the Hassidic moms pushing strollers, the morning joggers, cyclists, skaters, and folks just taking the bridge to work, I noticed a young man – college-aged? high school? – looking at me. He had blond hair, was dressed pretty much like me in walking clothes, but sported dark sunglasses. Normally, I would have pegged him for a tourist, but they usually travel in packs and have cameras. He was looking at me in a way designed to appear that he was not looking at me. He wasn’t very good at it. Maybe he thought he recognized me. Had my picture been in the papers again? I figured I’d give him a few more minutes to figure it out and went back to my stretches.
When I finished up, I looked over and the guy was gone. I guessed I wasn’t who he thought I was. I was about to ponder the philosophical nature of that when the phone went off. David Henderson. ‘David,’ I said.
‘Good news and not-so-good news, Ray.’
‘Hit me.’
‘My AFD went for it – possible interstate kidnapping, possible terrorist action – but she’s only giving me five agents at this point. It’s a bit too circumstantial right now.’
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘That’s five more agents than you had earlier, right?’
‘Glad you see it that way. I’m a glass-half-full guy myself.’
‘So what happens now?’
He went through a lot of stuff I already knew: how they’d be contacting all the local police precincts with photos of Allison, copies of her postings from the website, and questions about any local White Nationalist groups or activities in their areas. Then he went into some technical stuff about trying to track down where Allison had posted from that was way above my head but would have been right in Edgar’s wheelhouse.
‘How you holding up?’ he added.
‘About as well as can be expected.’
He must have heard the noise around me because his next question was, ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘The Williamsburg Bridge.’
After a brief pause, he said, ‘You sure you’re OK, Ray?’
I laughed. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘This is where I come to clear my head sometimes.’
‘Whatever you say, Ray.’ I heard a ringing in the background. ‘That’s my other line. I gotta go. I’ll call ya when I hear something.’
‘Thanks, David.’ He hung up.
I decided to clear my head a little more by walking all the way across the bridge. I found myself navigating between strollers, cyclists, joggers, and roller-bladers. There’s a little perch where you can stop before making the commitment of actually stepping onto the island of Manhattan, and I stood there looking down at Grand St
reet Park.
It was here – down in those tennis courts that were primarily used as skateboard parks now – that my former student, Douglas Lee, had been stabbed to death a few years ago. As tragic an event as that was, and as much as it still hurt, it was the incident that brought Allison Rogers back into my world. She was covering the story when she was still at the paper and wanted a teacher’s perspective on the case in hopes of keeping it from fading away like so many other murders of young black men in this city. I helped her with her piece, we started seeing each other, and we fell in love.
Life’s like that sometimes.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the hot dog guy and started the slow walk back across the East River. After five minutes or so, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being followed. It was probably just paranoia after what had happened to Allison, but I didn’t get strange feelings often, and when I did, I had learned to trust them. I stopped and casually turned around, half-expecting to see that touristy-looking kid who was watching me earlier. He wasn’t there. Just more folks on wheels, and joggers and a few walkers who were probably just that – walkers. There were two guys who almost looked out of place only because they were in long pants and long-sleeved shirts and what might have been hiking shoes, but this was New York and it’s really hard to look out of place here. One was wearing one of those bright orange knit caps that hunters and hipsters wear. When I stopped, they kept on walking and talking about maybe taking a fishing boat out of Sheepshead Bay.
I took a few more sips of water and the feeling passed. I was home a half-hour later and before going upstairs I went inside the Chinese place and ordered the Shrimp Lo Mein lunch special. I decided to wait the ten minutes for it on the outside bench. When I sat down, my eye caught some movement across the street. There was more traffic going between the two avenues than usual, and when it slowed down, I saw the kid in the blue T-shirt and shorts I’d seen earlier on the bridge. I stood up and he darted away like a track star. Even if my knees had been in shape and there hadn’t been traffic in my way, I couldn’t have caught up to him. I watched as he took the first right and disappeared.