Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  “Was the girl’s name Jackie?” A last forlorn hope.

  Miller’s distress evaporated. She set her plate thoughtfully on Lester’s empty chair and leaned back, eyes closed. “No,” she finally said.

  Ted silently cursed his own stupidity. “Jacqueline? Jacqueline Clavette?”

  The woman repeated the pantomime of thinking hard. “She had very good diction.”

  Ted looked to Anora for help. She shrugged.

  “She had you sign some papers.” He was close and could feel it.

  “Hundreds,” Miller said. She was back. Clear. The lapses in her memory were no longer threatening.

  Paper always leaves a trail. “I’m going to pursue this, Miss Miller.” Another thought occurred to him. “I’m going to have Lester stop by again tomorrow with another paper for you to sign.”

  She looked at Lester. “Are you bringing cake?”

  He smiled. “If you like.”

  “Go to Andre’s this time,” she said.

  -17-

  Anora followed them out to the lobby. “You’re no nephew,” she said, making it a challenge.

  Ted understood the words perfectly.

  “No, you are right.” He was being reminded that he had first approached her employer under a pretense. Now he needed to build trust.

  “You wan’ sometin’,” she said.

  “I do,” he said. “I’m not doing anything out of my love of fellow man—or woman. But I’m going to help her. Someone worked her over for a lot of money. She’s going to get a chunk of it back.”

  “I can help you.”

  “Say that again,” Ted said.

  “She’ll not sign, not if I tell her no.”

  A shakedown. Ted had to admire her forthright approach. No sidling into it, just a straight-up holdup. “I assume you want something in return. How much? I’ll have Lester bring it tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “I wan’ a green card.”

  Well, at least she wasn’t a cheap blackmailer. “I wouldn’t know how to begin to get you a green card.”

  “You are a lawyer.”

  The accent and cadences of her speech were no longer indecipherable. “Not exactly. I could go to jail for practicing law. And I know nothing about immigration law. Zilch.” Actually, he reflected, he knew two things about immigration law: it was both complicated and capricious, and it got more so every year.

  “You know lawyers.”

  Ted’s landlord, Mr. Ortiz, was a storefront abogado. Ted could ask him to look into it, but he had strong doubts that anything would come of it. “I don’t know the right kind of lawyers,” he said.

  “Then she won’t sign.”

  “We can make this happen,” Lester said. Ted raised both eyebrows. Lester ignored him. “Not a problem. You prep Miss Miller and let us take care of the rest.”

  Anora, focused on Lester, had missed Ted’s reaction, but now she turned to him. “Dat woman, the one she talked aboot—she is not a good person.”

  “Do you know her name?” Ted asked. “Anything else you can tell me about her?”

  “She say she’s a lawyer. I know that.”

  “I could really use a name. Please think.”

  Shaking her head, she replied, “She very bossy.”

  A dead end. Anora wasn’t going to be much help with anything else. Ted wanted to get Lester out of there before he made any more unlikely promises.

  “Thanks for your help,” Ted said. “I’ll have Lester come by tomorrow.”

  They headed for the front door.

  “Bye now,” the bug-eyed girl at the desk called out. “Oh, wait. Mr. Willard. You need to sign out.” She waved a pen.

  “It’s Fillmore,” Lester said, signing out for both of them. “Eduard Fillmore of San Pedro.”

  Mohammed was waiting, engine running, at the curb. Ted stopped Lester before they got to the car. “I hope you have a plan for helping Anora get a green card. I don’t have much, but I do have my word, and I’m not too comfortable with people making impossible pledges in my name. Are we clear?”

  Lester looked him in the eye. “We’ll figure it out. But without that signature, you and I have nothing at all.”

  “If she gets us that signature, we are going to help that woman get her green card. Understood?”

  “I never said anything different,” Lester answered.

  “I want you on it as soon as you get that signature.”

  Lester nodded. “Can do.”

  Ted opened the car door and gestured for Lester to get in first.

  “And one other thing,” Lester said.

  “What’s that?” Ted asked.

  “She’s wrong. Miller, I mean. You go to Andre’s for pastry. Lulu’s for cake.”

  -18-

  Mohammed persuaded them that the fastest route to Jamaica was the Van Wyck. It wasn’t.

  “It never is,” Lester said.

  “Where can I drop you? I’ve got to get up to Flushing for a meeting,” Ted said.

  “Hillside. You can cut over and take Queens Boulevard. You’re on to something with this Miller and her lawyer. I saw it in your face back there.”

  “It’s the lawyer. She’s the connection.”

  “You know her?” Lester asked. “This Jackie Somebody? Where did that come from?”

  “Jacqueline Clavette. An old acquaintance. From a past life.” Ted didn’t want to say more until he was sure of his facts.

  “And?” Lester wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Her name was on the original file that Richie showed me.” Ted was positive that he’d seen it in that brief moment almost a week earlier, but he had not registered any other pertinent information—like whom she was representing. “And she was at the courthouse yesterday. I saw her just before we found that butchered file.”

  “Sounds like a stretch,” Lester said.

  Ted silently agreed. Was he trying to tie her to this case out of spite? Could it be that simple? Bitter, angry man accuses old rival of high crimes. “Tomorrow we’ve got the auctions—to meet these Corona Partners people. As soon as we’re done, I want you back to Miller with a one-page agreement that I’ll draw up tonight.” There wasn’t time to run it by his trusty landlord/lawyer/tax advisor, Israel. “Get a notary to go with you. Have Anora witness it, too, if the notary agrees. If Miller seems competent to the notary, we can get it by a judge. If not, we lose. But if we do nothing, we lose, so it’s worth the trip.”

  A yellow cab cut in front of them, filling a break in traffic the size of a Midtown parking space. Mohammed leaned on his horn, screamed something in Arabic in a way that sounded like he meant it, and flipped the cabbie a middle finger. Ted approved of this cultural assimilation.

  “What’s the document?” Lester asked. “Power of attorney?”

  “No. That would be too easy to challenge. It’s a simple agreement to allow me to pursue her interests in the abandoned funds.”

  For the briefest moment, the traffic looked ready to surge. Mohammed hit the gas and a second later slammed on the brake. Ted rocked forward and bounced back. Lester braced himself with his feet against the seat in front of him.

  “Okeydokey?” Mohammed called over his shoulder.

  “Fine and dandy,” Ted said. “You’re doing a great job, my friend. Just get us there.”

  Mohammed grinned at him in the mirror, hit the gas, and swerved into the left lane, gaining three car lengths on the yellow cab.

  “Mohammed,” Ted called to the back of the driver’s head, “how do I get hold of you if I ever need a ride?”

  “No problem,” he said, producing a business card with a magician’s flourish.

  Ted tucked it into his wallet and turned to Lester. “Once you have the signed document, I want you to run it to the courthouse.” If he gave it to Mr. Ortiz,
it would sit on his desk until Monday.

  “But suppose this other lawyer—the ‘girl’—has already filed,” Lester said.

  “I don’t think she has. Richie would have found it. Talk to the judge’s clerk, and try to get a read, but I think we may have an edge here.”

  “But if the ‘girl’ has a signed agreement, won’t that predate yours? As soon as she does file, she’ll blow your paper out of the water.”

  “New York is a race jurisdiction state.”

  “That doesn’t mean what it sounds like, right?”

  “Race—like footrace. First to file gets precedence.”

  “Ah. But the ‘girl’ must know that. Why hasn’t she filed already?”

  “That’s a very good question, Lester. It goes to intent. Suppose that keeping a secret was of greater importance than picking up an extra few bucks.”

  “A few bucks? We’re talking a million-two.”

  “Which makes it a very big secret, don’t you think?”

  -19-

  Cheryl Rubiano was sitting alone at a table for six at the Korean BBQ. She was sipping her way through a large club soda. Ted sat next to her and ordered an OB Lager.

  “Are we expecting a crowd?” he asked, indicating the empty seats.

  Cheryl’s hair had recently been styled and lacquered into a tall cone. The chorus to “Love Shack” ran through his head. She was wearing full war paint, from foundation to blush to liner. “I have a business dinner. We have half an hour before any of them arrive.”

  “That works for me,” he said. “I’ve got a ball game that starts in an hour.”

  It was early and the occupied tables all held families—extended families. Grandparents, infants, toddlers, pre- and current teens, smiling wives, and grim-faced husbands kept up an indecipherable background chorus, to the arrhythmic beat of clinking plates and water glasses. Waiters, most of whom looked old enough to be grandfathers themselves, were already harassed and overworked, and the place was still half-empty.

  Cheryl called for banchan and then waved the ancient waiter away. “So. Report.”

  There was a lot that Ted wasn’t ready to share, a lot that he didn’t know but suspected. “Before I start I have a question for you. That file you gave me. It was only cover pages. Richie had copies of the full court records. When I saw him last, that file was an inch thick.”

  “What? You think I’m holding out on you?”

  “No.” Though he thought it at least possible. “You said he gave you that file. Did he often do that?”

  “Never. He carried everything in that black backpack.”

  “So, why? Why this file?”

  “He told me to take the file to you and you’d know what to do. He called it his life insurance policy.”

  The waiter returned and placed three small bowls on the table. Cucumber kimchi, marinated lotus root, and dried squid.

  Ted had never been a fan of kimchi, and cucumber gave him heartburn. He tried the lotus. “And the originals? I mean, his copies. The full records.”

  “No idea. They must be in the backpack.”

  The lotus root was sweet enough to make his teeth hurt and so salty that he had to wash it down with half the beer. “The backpack is missing, I imagine.”

  “It’s not in my apartment, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And the cops never mentioned it?”

  “Not to me. Now, let’s hear it. Who killed Richie?”

  The change was abrupt. Not only the subject but also the tone. There was emotion in her voice. Ted was thrown for a moment. He continued cautiously. “I don’t know. If his death is connected to that file, I will find the connection. I have located the owner of those properties and think I can cut a deal.”

  “This is about the money?” Now she sounded bored.

  He didn’t answer immediately. He took a slug of beer and eyed the dried squid. “I’m trying to keep up here, Mrs. Rubiano. It’ll be easier for me if you simply tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Richie wanted me to have that money, and—don’t get me wrong—it would be very nice. When you get it, I will make it worth your while. But I am paying you to find out who killed him.”

  “Say the word and I will give you your thousand dollars back and go my way.” He took a bit of shredded squid and popped it in his mouth. A hint of salt. A nice crunch. He took another.

  “No. I want you to find who killed him.”

  “Then let me do it my way. Look, if this was some random thing—a mugging, let’s say, or one of his old marks taking revenge—I’m not going to find them. The cops might. They might not. But the chances of me coming up with a name are two ticks below nil.”

  She opened her mouth to lay into him, but he didn’t give her the chance.

  “However, if he was killed because he found out something about this surplus money, then I am already halfway there. There’s a cover-up going on. Right now I think someone tricked an old lady into letting those properties go. That someone might have had a very good reason for keeping Richie away from the truth.”

  “You said this case was . . . what? A lotto ticket? A super long shot? I think you were just trying to get rid of me. But suppose you was telling the truth? Right? Then why would anybody kill that man?”

  “I’m still looking into it. Richie believed in it. Maybe someone else did, too. I’ve found that a lot of people thought he was on to something.”

  She looked away and focused on a family of six at a nearby table. Ted couldn’t see the attraction. “So maybe he told the wrong person,” she said.

  “Look, I need to find his backpack, if I can. I tried to get the originals of the files at the courthouse, but someone sliced out the pages with a razor. They’re hiding something. And the only way to get to the bottom of this is to see the copies Richie made.”

  Without facing him she asked, “Where is this property?”

  He told her, referencing the LBC tower. “Without those plots, the whole Reisner project would have ground to a halt.”

  Her gaze remained fixed, but something cold and hard washed over her features.

  “Are you with me?” he asked. “You know the place I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Her eyes swung back to him slowly, but her mind was elsewhere. “Bring me a name.” Her flat delivery was chilling.

  The fire hadn’t abated. It was there but cloaked. Ted felt the ground shift beneath him. Was he being played? She had been married to a con man and came from a family of grifters. Was this some sudden zombie act, or was this the real Cheryl, all the darts, jabs, demands, and orders merely distractions?

  “And the property?” Ted asked. “The money? I swear there’s a connection.”

  “Forget about the money. Get me the name of the guy who killed Richie.”

  “I’ll do what I can. That’s all. But I’m telling you, the police will do a better job at this.”

  Ted wanted to continue to argue the point, but she had stopped listening. Cheryl’s eyes were focused over his shoulder. Ted turned to look. A party of five Asian men in dark suits had entered the restaurant and were standing by the hostess podium.

  “My business meeting,” Cheryl said. “Right on time. Call me tomorrow. Keep me posted.” The zombie was gone, hidden behind the efficient businesswoman.

  He took a last swallow of beer and wound his way through the now-packed restaurant. The hostess gestured toward Cheryl, and the men headed her way. Their path converged with his, and Ted almost bumped into the leading man, who zigged when Ted expected a zag.

  “Excuse me,” the man said with a politician’s big smile.

  Queens City Council Member Kevin Pak.

  -20-

  Ted loved watching Mets baseball in May. In the spring there was always hope. Late in the season—the last weeks of August—there might also be hope. But
that hope was always tinged with the anxiety of impending implosion. The curse of the Mets. They were there to break hearts.

  He marked the years with the fortunes of this team, the way that ancient peoples might have remembered the Year of the Late Snowfall or the Year of the Long Drought. He had turned five the second time they won the World Series, beating the Boston Red Sox. He had broken an arm riding a skateboard when he was ten; he remembered hammering the cast on the seat back in front of him while watching David Cone strike out three batters with nine pitches. He made dean’s list every semester in college save the first, having spent three weeks watching the playoffs, only to have the team lose the Subway Series in five soul-crushing games.

  Then there were the Willie Randolph Years. The first two were all about rebuilding and renewing hope. The team kept that hope alive until one could almost believe the curse didn’t exist and that baseball rewarded hard work, talent, heart, and good coaching. It did not. When they inevitably collapsed in the last three weeks of the third season, Ted was working long, late hours making his mark at HFB, and surreptitiously checking his iPhone during game times, right up until the last brutal loss. The owners—and the press—blamed Randolph. The fans knew better. This was what the Mets did—they broke hearts.

  But now it was May, a warm night, and he had a ticket. Jill was unavailable; he had a spare. He bought two beers and two of Nathan’s finest and used the empty seat beside him for a makeshift dinner table.

  It was a long first inning. St. Louis managed to load the bases with only one out but couldn’t get a man home. The Amazins drove the count on the Cardinals’ pitcher up to twenty-eight but never got a man to second base. The next five innings held more disappointment and not much else. Ted nursed the second beer until it was too flat to drink. He decided to beat the seventh inning rush and went to find a Bronx Pale Ale and a third Nathan’s.

  When he got back, the Amazins were loping onto the field, and the scoreboard still read 0–0. As he set about finishing his dinner, a shadow fell over him. He looked up and found a huge hulk of a man standing in the aisle. The man ignored Ted and took the spare seat next to him.