Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  Late in the game fans often came down to fill in the empty seats closer to the field. If there was plenty of room, security tended to look the other way unless someone made a strong objection. What was odd was that there were multitudes of available seats in much better locations all over the stadium. And the fact that in this sea of total strangers, Ted recognized this man.

  This was Cheryl’s giant. And this was no accidental meeting. In all likelihood, this was also the man whom Jill had caught spying on them the night before. Ted had never been stalked before and was surprised to find that his initial reaction was amusement rather than anxiety or fear. He decided that the best way to play this game was to wait. Eventually, the hulk would deliver his message or otherwise announce his purpose.

  Though well-dressed in a blue blazer, button-down shirt, and grey flannel slacks, he was not attractive. The guy had a head like a basketball if anyone had ever wanted to carve such a thing out of granite. Tiny ears and mouth, hairless except for a pair of handleless push brooms that were stuck over each beady eye, and as grim looking as the Gowanus Canal. Where one would usually expect to find a neck, there was merely a tattooed indentation. The rest of him was in proportion: a trunk like a double-door refrigerator and upper arms like bowling balls. Ted doubted that the man could go bowling; those fingers would never fit in the holes. On the other hand, with hands that big, why would he need to use the holes?

  Ted smiled and tried for eye contact, having once read that such a tactic connotes trust and openness, leading to positive communication. The guy might not have read the same article.

  They watched in silence as the Cardinals went down hitless. Ted could not read the guy at all. It was like sitting next to a black hole. Ted was, therefore, surprised when the man leaned into him as everyone was standing during the stretch.

  The guy spoke softly in a high-pitched whisper. Steroids. “I want you to do something for me.”

  Ted was sure he had heard correctly. He stalled. “Sorry. What was that?”

  “You heard me. You’re Eddie Molloy.”

  “Ted Molloy. We have a mutual acquaintance, I believe.”

  “You’re working on a thing for Cheryl,” the giant said. “You should hurry up and make it right.”

  The man shifted his stance, and Ted, looking up at him, was momentarily blinded by the floodlights above, which reminded him of his first sighting of this gargantuan thug through the window at Gallagher’s. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to tell me you want me to find your Velma?”

  The guy’s eyes almost crossed as he tried to make sense of that. “Who’s Velma? I don’t get it.” It hadn’t worked. He looked confused and might not have liked feeling that way.

  “Robert Mitchum? Charlotte Rampling? Farewell, My Lovely? No? How about Dick Powell, 1944?” Confusion was doing a cross-fade to anger. “I gather you don’t watch Turner Classic Movies.” How had this troll found his way to Ted’s spare seat? Who knew Ted was coming to the game? Lester. And Cheryl. Ted knew which way he’d bet on that hand. He had mentioned it to her at the restaurant.

  Ted was enjoying himself. Feigning innocence, he asked, “Have you been following me?”

  The guy swung a hand in front of his face as if he were pushing aside spiderwebs. “So what’s the holdup on getting Cheryl her money?”

  “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” segued into “Lazy Mary.”

  “You two should get your priorities straight. I saw her a couple of hours ago, and she told me to drop the money thing.” Something made him stop there and not mention her insistence on finding Richie’s killer.

  “That’s not right. She wouldn’t do that,” the man said. The high-pitched rasp of his voice was more evident the longer he spoke, as though he might have been out of practice.

  “I’ll call her tomorrow and straighten it out. Okay, friend?” Ted thought about leaving, but he would have to squeeze by this giant. It wasn’t going to work.

  “What do you know you’re not saying?” the guy prodded.

  “I’m trying to be polite about this. I don’t know you, and it would be unethical for me to share information regarding a client without that client’s express permission.” The Cardinals took the field, and the fans around them began to take their seats.

  “You got some set to be talking about ethics.”

  “Yo! Siddown, big guy.” The voice came from two rows behind. Ted realized that most people in the section were already seated. The relief pitcher was warming up. Ted sat.

  The big guy did not. He turned and faced the man who’d yelled. “Would you like to rephrase that, asshole?”

  The fan was sitting with friends. He was a regular. Season ticket holder. If something got started, there was a good chance the troll would be fighting half the section. “Yeah. I meant to say, ‘Sit the fuck down, big guy.’”

  The chant started. Four Mets fans were pointing at the big guy and yelling, “Asshole!” in unison. It spread quickly. By the fifth “Asshole,” there were two dozen others who had joined in.

  A blaze of rage erupted on the man’s face, but it turned to stone immediately. He bent down, his bulk looming over Ted, obscuring the field, fans, and everything but that massive face. “You take care of Cheryl. She is owed big-time. Half a mil, Eddie. She’s waiting. Get it. If not, you’ll never see me coming.”

  “Asshole! Asshole!” The whole section had joined in, everyone pointing and jeering.

  Ted raised his hands in surrender but said nothing. If this guy did come chasing after him, he was sure he’d feel the ground shaking.

  The big man pushed his way to the aisle and stomped up the steps, followed by a chorus of boos. Ted stayed where he was.

  -21-

  Ted couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had been invaded. This man, or other persons unknown, had gone to a lot of trouble—possibly even followed him on previous occasions—to impress on him the idea that he should be frightened. Well, it had worked.

  That night, he couldn’t sleep. The giant’s voice continued to whisper, like a cold wind through a cracked window. Ted’s brain, both exhausted and energized, would not stop. Old movies didn’t help. Ted needed the reassurance that there was some structure in the universe, some standard of continuity, something he could rely on. He needed a Law & Order all-night marathon.

  “Objection. Leading the witness. You should have called that one, McCoy. You’re slipping,” he said, providing his own legal commentary.

  It was coming up on one in the morning. He was to meet Lester at the courthouse in a few hours for the foreclosure auctions. Showing up red-eyed and dopey wasn’t going to cut it.

  The jury came in with a guilty verdict. Surprise. McCoy won. McCoy may have been a semicloseted liberal, but the show’s true bias was always evident. The credits rolled at super speed, and the next episode began.

  A pair of young lovers walked a lonely street in the West Village. They laughed together. Kissed. There was the sound of a moan from behind a dumpster. The girl screamed. Ted hit the mute button. He had watched the same episode the week before.

  Ted reached for his cell phone. “Hey, Siri. Call Jill.”

  The phone rang four times, and he was surprised when it was Jill who answered and not her voice mail.

  “You’re up,” he said.

  “You too.”

  “What are you watching?”

  “Something with Olivia de Havilland. I came in in the middle. It’s good. I think. You?”

  “My hero.”

  “Jack McCoy. You must have had a hard day.”

  “Is Jackie back?” Part of him wanted to blurt out all of his growing suspicions. Hey, Jill, I think your wife is scamming some old lady out of her property. And helping those jerks build that ugly skyscraper in Corona. He filed the urge under Old Resentments with all the other poisons. They were more likely to kill him than to lead
to any greater understanding of what was really going on.

  “You know she doesn’t like that name.” Jill didn’t put any energy behind it. “She’s pissed at me.” If there was any part of her that felt sad or troubled, she didn’t let it show.

  “And me,” Ted said, though he could not remember a time when Jacqueline Clavette had not been angry with him. She had resented his early success when they both worked for the family firm, she resented his prehistory with her wife, and she resented his friendship with Jill now.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill said, surprising him.

  “No, my fault entirely. I shouldn’t have put you in the middle.” He let her have a moment for that to soak in. “Hey. Do you remember that guy you thought was following us the other night? The big guy at the game.”

  “What?”

  “A big, ugly, bald-headed guy. You tried to point him out to me.”

  “I did?”

  He could hear the television on her end. The Dark Mirror. Late forties. De Havilland played twins. “You don’t remember?”

  “Is it important?” She must have heard some urgency in his voice, because her voice became more animated, more engaged.

  It was late. “It’s all right. Forget it.”

  “What are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I have some things on my mind.” If he continued with this case, he was going to have to tell her at some point. And he was going to continue.

  “How was the game?”

  “You didn’t watch?”

  “I cooked.”

  “You didn’t miss much.” What would he tell her? That a double-door refrigerator in a suit had shown up and made threats? Or that he suspected Jackie was a candidate for disbarment, if not prison?

  He couldn’t tell her. Not tonight. Maybe he was wrong. Being wrong would be good.

  “Jacqueline’s away again next Thursday,” she said.

  “Mets are on the road. Pittsburgh and then out west.”

  “I’ll check the schedule. We’ll find a night.” Her voice softened with concern. “Get some sleep. You sound . . .”

  “Stressed?”

  “Worried.”

  “I’m good. Good night, Jill.”

  And as his thumb came down on the big red dot, Ted thought he heard her whisper, “Love you.”

  -22-

  The group of protestors in front of the courthouse had grown. There were now more than two dozen men and women holding signs, chanting slogans, and buttonholing uninterested passersby. Ted wouldn’t have minded seeing the redhead who’d accosted him a couple days before—under other circumstances. As it was, he backtracked and took the long way around the block.

  He met Lester on the courthouse steps. His brown suit was pressed, and he was wearing a new white shirt. He was sipping coffee from a Kennedy Fried Chicken cup.

  “You’re looking good,” Ted said. “I haven’t missed anything, have I?”

  “No, team Corona’s still inside. You clean up real good yourself.”

  Grey chalk stripe from Kozinn. Custom shirt and shoes. Remnants of an earlier version of Ted Molloy. “Old habits. If you dress like a million . . .”

  “Only this is Sutphin Boulevard,” Lester said.

  Maybe the Mimi Fong tie was a touch over the top, but Jill had given it to him, and it was his favorite. Lester had a point. Auction bidders were filing in, mostly men but some women, in everything from donated coats to tracksuits and high-tops to silk sports jackets. The lawyers all wore the identical uniform of shiny blue suit, white shirt, red tie, and scuffed black oxfords. The women wore pumps.

  “I want these guys to know we are serious people,” Ted said. “Money. Power. Influence.”

  Lester nodded. “Yeah, well, you’re all that and more. The Corona boys were near the front of the line. Two guys. I got somebody to point them out to me, introduced myself, and told them you want to chat when they’re done. I told them you’re a big buyer. An investor. It got their interest.”

  “I’ll try to play the part.”

  “They’ve got three properties to bid on. They were almost first to go into the courtroom. If we’re lucky, they’ll be out soon.”

  “Can we go in and talk to them?”

  Lester shook his head, and Ted thought of an old workhorse. “I told you. If you want to get inside for the auctions, you have to show up before nine—and bring certified checks.”

  Ted raised hands in mock surrender. “I know. I’m impatient, that’s all.”

  “The court also takes cash,” Lester said with a grin.

  “That’s interesting.” Ted thought for a moment. “Somebody could launder money that way.”

  “Yeah? How would that work?”

  “You put down cash at the auction, right?” He warmed to the subject. It was the kind of crime he could almost admire. Simple. Effective. Victimless. “You pay full price. There’s a deed, but there’s no need to report the transaction to any government body except the county clerk. Then, when you sell it, you get paid by check—which you can deposit anywhere. As long as you pay capital gains on the sale, who’s going to care? It’s only illegal if your intent is to launder money.”

  “You have a criminal mind,” Lester said. “I would not be surprised to learn that Corona Partners uses cash rather than certified checks.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wait till you meet these guys.”

  The first wave of lunch seekers had left the building before Lester nudged him. “Here they come.”

  Corona Partners was represented by two hard-looking men in their early thirties, clean-shaven, one with cropped hair, the other bald. Both wore tight designer jeans, white silk T-shirts, and thigh-length black leather jackets. The one with hair had the unreadable face of a poker champion. The other was taller and had the flattened nose and scarred eyebrows of a boxer. They both looked like hired muscle. Ted thought he might have overreached. They probably had methods of negotiation that he lacked.

  The two were looking for Lester in the crowd. He hailed them with a raised hand. The taller one carried an oversized legal briefcase with a thick wire leash that ran up his sleeve.

  Lester gave them a big fake grin. “Thanks for agreeing to see us. My boss has a few questions for you guys, if you don’t mind. This is Ted Molloy.”

  The two heads swung, and they both examined Ted, as though committing his features to memory.

  “You are cop?” the stone-faced one said. The accent could have been Russian. Eastern European, certainly.

  Ted tried a laugh. It sounded like a cough. “Do I look like a cop?”

  The man let his eyes inventory Ted’s clothing: suit, shirt, shoes, and tie. “You look like cop on the take.”

  So much for dressing to impress. “I used to practice law.”

  “Cop. Lawyer. Same, same. All crooked.”

  Ted had suffered through his share of bad lawyer jokes and a few good ones. But being called crooked by the poster child for the Russian mob was a new low. He shook it off. “Can I buy you a coffee? Lunch? A drink? Or we can chat right here.”

  “What we chat?”

  And there it was. Ted took a deep breath and dove in. “I might be interested in buying, if you’re selling.”

  “We buy and sell. All the time.”

  The role of high roller did not sit well on Ted’s shoulders. He felt naked in front of these two. He decided to take his chances with a direct approach. “Your firm flipped some properties the other side of Flushing Meadows Park. I’m trying to get a handle on what went on. Corona Partners doesn’t usually get involved in deals this big.”

  “What deal?”

  “I’ve got the block and lot or the address. Which do you want? This was a group of properties that came up for auction as a package.”

  “Why do you care about this? They a
re sold. We don’t own these.”

  The guy knew exactly what properties Ted was asking about. “I want to buy in that neighborhood. I’m looking into this transaction.”

  “You should forget this one.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Leaning in to Ted, the man spoke in an exaggerated whisper, as though bestowing a great confidence. “No. Be sure. Forget this one.”

  “Records show that LBC bought the properties, but you guys were not the sellers. So county records must not be updated yet. Does Corona Partners also do business under another name?”

  “Hey, Ted. You no listen. You are too busy making questions.”

  The sounds of traffic, the protestors, and the gabble of voices from the constant flow of lawyers and petitioners had receded, as though the Russians traveled in a soundproof bubble. Each word spoken inside the bubble was magnified and possessed a clarity that was almost painful. Outside the bubble did not exist.

  Ted persevered. “The seller is listed as One-Hundred-Fourteenth-Street LLC, which really tells me nothing. You see what I’m saying?” He was practically stumbling over his words in his haste to get his questions out. “So, can you give me any leads on who you sold to?”

  The other Russian closed in on Ted. Even with one arm encumbered by the briefcase, he looked like he would have little trouble creating a lot of damage.

  “Persistence without wisdom is pointless. Foolish. I do not think you are a foolish man, Ted. Why act the fool?” His accent was as strong as his partner’s, but his command of English was much greater. The sense of menace was a push.

  Ted’s hands and face tingled with adrenaline—or soaring blood pressure. The double threat from these two thugs had ionized the air around them. But he also felt the constraint of being in such a public place. Nothing bad could happen on the courthouse grounds, steps from police officers, surrounded by witnesses. He could not see how this false sense of security would ultimately betray him, so he blundered on blindly. “If you can’t answer me, then tell me who can. I know I’m annoying—it’s that lawyer thing kicking in. I can’t help myself. Just give me a name and a phone number, and I’ll go away.”