Brooklyn Legacies

by Triss Stein

  I started to laugh, but he said, “This is how it works. Some networking needs to be done. Not a word until we get home. Not a word. But yes, not people I’d like for friends. However, he’s rebuilding half of Brooklyn Heights, including most of the block where your new friend lives.”

  I stopped laughing.

  “He’s too busy hosting to be useful tonight—I should have expected that—but there’s someone else you should meet.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Okay, don’t turn around, but in the corner is his old man, the first Prinzig tycoon. I’ve worked for him, too, and he’s a little less, say, diplomatic. With any luck, he’s been drinking, too. And he looks like he’d like some company.”

  He was an old man, bald, more like two generations from his son than one. He sat at his perch next to a small table, looking over the crowded room with a sharp eye. I had the immediate thought that he didn’t miss a thing. He had a half-empty bottle of rye on his table and a half-empty glass in his hand. It was a nice party, but he didn’t look as if he was having much fun.

  “Mr. Prinzig? How are you tonight? Joe Greenberg. We met…”

  “I remember you. The sugar factory conversion. Good work, tough negotiations.”

  Joe smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “And so it’s meant, as long as you are not negotiating opposite me. You worked on this place? For my idiot son? The guy who took the family name off the company. Hope you skinned him real good on your work.” His smile was oddly satisfied. “And his party-girl wife. I warned him about her, having some experiences in that type of relationship.” He took a long pull on his drink and then noticed me. “But I am being rude. Who is this young lady in the elegant high heels?”

  “This is Erica Donato. She is a good friend of mine who was anxious to meet you. Be nice to her; the shoes are painful.”

  “And why would that be? Meeting me, not the shoes? Though they are most becoming.”

  I sent a look to Joe that was meant to say, “What are we doing here?” Joe responded by hooking a reassuring hand around my elbow.

  “She is working on a story about Brooklyn Heights, and I knew you would be a great source.”

  “A reporter? I never talk to them. They’re always looking for the story that bleeds. Bloodsuckers.”

  “No, not at all.” I spoke up for myself. “I’m a historian, and I’m looking at…” I thought fast. I didn’t know yet what I wanted. “…I’m looking at some of what made the neighborhood what it is today. It’s come a long way from the downhill slide of the sixties, right?”

  Oh, yes, all true, but as vague as it could get. It would be true of many neighborhoods.

  “Come with me.” He threaded his way through the crowd, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, to the French doors and then out to the terrace.

  “Beautiful layout, beautiful view.” Joe, appraising professionally.

  “Nonsense. They’ll never use it, and the staggering cost could have been invested. Forget that. Look over there.”

  He pointed back up the hill that gave the Heights its name, toward a group of tall buildings along the border, just outside the landmarked district. “See those? I built them. You betcha, the neighborhood was going right downhill then. That was the beginning of the comeback. When people say renewal, young lady, you have to thank me, not these Johnny-come-latelies.” He named a few, including his son, and some of them had been around for a couple of decades already. Not so lately.

  “I could have done a lot more. All that growth that’s going on now? Those were my ideas! But we could only go so far then. There was a community of airheads and do-gooders who thought they had something to say.”

  I muffled my own thoughts and looked at Joe, whose eyes were sparking back at me.

  “Do you mean people like Louisa Gibbs?”

  “Not like her. I mean her, herself. A born rabble-rouser. Yeah, yeah, so they were educated rabble? So what? What a pain that woman was! And still is. I was tempted, plenty of times…” The hand that was holding the glass clenched into a fist so fiercely the glass shook. “Well, she’s getting what’s coming to her, and my son of all people is making it happen.”

  “Do tell me more.” I even tried to look enthusiastic. I was getting the hang of this conversation.

  “He’s picking off some of the smaller buildings the Witnesses are selling. That’s no secret. And they happen to surround that old house of hers.” He smiled and smacked his bottle down on the table. “Bam! Bam! Bam! By the time he is done renovating, she’ll be happy to sell him that old pile of stone for a couple of bucks.”

  What was he saying? And did he even know what he was talking about? I had so many questions, all indiscreet and inappropriate for this party, I did not know what to ask first. Joe stepped in.

  “Impressive. I hadn’t picked up on that plan.” He looked interested. “I only heard there was a small dispute over a property line.” He winked at me. “He wants it all? But the whole street is landmarked. What can he possibly do to her?”

  “Ah, children, you have no idea how construction can be drawn out. And you a contractor yourself.” He gave Joe a friendly punch on the arm. “You must be an honest one. Trust me, by the time the endless noise and traffic on that street lasts a year or so, and he’s also got a couple of lawsuits in the works, little old Louisa will be happy to give it up. And if she isn’t, he has other plans to discourage her. My son isn’t always the brightest bulb, but he’s got that idea nailed down.” He settled into the nearest chair and motioned to a waiter for another bottle. “Of course, he learned it all from me. See, I taught him there is always a way.” He took a long pull on the liquor. “And then there are other ways.”

  Another old man drifted up and shook his hand, and Joe said loudly, “Come on, honey, let’s get some refills,” and steered me safely toward the bar before I could tell the senior Mr. Prinzig what I thought of him.

  Out of his hearing, Joe whispered, “Time for Cinderella to get home and to bed.”

  “But I wanted to ask him more questions. How could he think he could get away with that? And is his son really planning it, or is he delusional? Is…”

  Joe looked amused, but he was not making it easy to return to that corner of the room. “It wasn’t a question. It’s time to go home. One, because I know this guy, and you don’t want to set him off at a social event. Where, by the way, I have many customers.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “And two, my lovely hothead, don’t you think you might want to come back to these jerks with more questions later?”

  I had to concede on that.

  “And three, because this is a fund-raiser, and they are auctioning art way beyond our price range.”

  Anything would be beyond my price range.

  “So let’s get out of here before it starts, OK?”

  “OK.” Suddenly I was very tired, at the end of a long, full day. And perhaps a little drunk. “I won’t burn any bridges tonight.” Another night, who knows?

  It took a while to work our way through the crowd. Joe knew so many people there, and they all seemed glad to see him. Handshakes were exchanged, information and gossip shared. He was very smooth, my Joe, and highly respected. I hadn’t seen him in this setting before. I was impressed.

  When I took one last glance back at the hosts, I was astonished to see Dr. Kingston standing in a secluded corner, deep in conversation with Mike Prinzig. Of all people, those were two I could never have imagined at the same party at all, yet there they were, talking away. Dr. Kingston said something Prinzig liked. He nodded, laughed, smiled. He lifted his glass to Dr. Kingston, who lifted his back.

  I leaned on Joe’s arm, nudging him in their direction.

  “I don’t get that. That’s Dr. Kingston. I told you about him. They should be natural enemies. They’d disagree about ev
ery single thing.”

  “Think, sweetie. It’s politics. You fight it out on one thing, but maybe the next, you could be allies. I’m guessing that this Kingston always needs money for his civic causes, right?”

  I nodded. That was likely.

  “And I know Mike is desperate to be respected, to be considered someone.”

  “A contender?”

  Joe got the reference and smiled. “Exactly. So what’s the shortcut in our great city?”

  “Ah. Now I get it. Give big to good causes. Make a name that way.”

  I never got back to talk to him. The elevator doors opened for us, and out came a stocky woman whose hair looked as if she cut it herself. Her all-black outfit was barely a notch above blue jeans. Not stylish jeans, working jeans.

  Joe said, “Nancy! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “You got that right. Not really my kind of party. I was persuaded I should show up for a hot minute or two.”

  “You worked here, too? We never stumbled over each other.”

  “Not here, but one of the hotels he bought.”

  “That was you? I was too busy to bid on that job.” Joe introduced us and added, “Nancy is one of the top restoration experts around here. In fact—do I have this right?” He turned to her. “You worked on that McWilliams-Gibbs mansion?”

  “Sure did. Me and Louisa go back so far, one winter her work was all that kept me going.”

  That got my attention.

  “I visited her the other day. The house is amazing, really special.”

  She nodded. “I don’t take every job these days, only if I like the people a lot or the house is special.”

  “And with Mrs. Gibbs?’

  “Oh, both!” She laughed. “Both. Always an interesting and complex problem to make the building stable but keep it pretty. And I get such a charge out of Louisa.” She stopped for a moment. “She’s like the eccentric old aunt I should have had. So I keep going back, in spite of the location.”

  Soon she went off to, as she said, shake hands and be visible, and we caught the elevator door next time it opened.

  I fell asleep on the short cab ride home. Upstairs in a fog, bed in a T-shirt, restless dreams of construction noises and printed words repeating “location—location—location,” until I fell into a dream of arms around me.

  Chapter Five

  In the morning I still had no idea about how to proceed with my kid or how to make the best use of the people I had met at that party, but I had a desk full of work. I would need to set Brooklyn Heights aside for now.

  Someone up there was laughing when I said that to myself, but I didn’t know it then. At that moment I did shove the Heights to the back of my mind like an old artifact in a storeroom and spent the day dealing with real artifacts in real storerooms.

  Hours later, exploring the storeroom had produced some intriguing pieces that did not seem to have any identifying information. I started from the assumption that that was impossible and got to work in the relevant record systems. It kept me busy all afternoon.

  That night a sound woke me out of a deep sleep. A phone was ringing. House? Cell? It was dark, predawn dark. I squinted, groped, found the offending gadget. Could not read the calling number.

  “Hello” came out as “Huh?” It was not Chris, who was at home. Better be at home and in bed. Not Joe, who was at his own place tonight. Not Dad. A wavering voice. “Please help. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hello? Who?” That was the best I could do until my eyes stayed open.

  More firmly. “It is Louisa. I am sorry to call so late, but…but…I could not reach Sierra. Or a neighbor. Anyone.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So many are gone now. My neighbors. Dead. Or moved to Florida.” Then she came back with, “Your card was right there. You seemed to be a quite capable young woman. I need. I need some help. The police…”

  That shocked me into consciousness. “Now? At this hour?”

  “No, not now. It’s the middle of the night. I talked to them earlier. They had questions. And now I cannot sleep no matter what I do.”

  “Mrs. Gibbs. What in the world?”

  “Ah. I see I am not explaining. They had questions for me.” There was a long pause, so long my eyes started to close. “I am getting these letters.”

  “What letters?” I tried to wake up my brain. “About your property line?”

  “No. No. That would be bad enough, but no. These are, well, they are personal. Angry. They threaten.”

  “I see.” Did I? No. Not at all. “What are you saying? What kind of threats?”

  “Vague, but someone doesn’t like me.” She gave a completely phony laugh. “Really doesn’t like me. And tells me so.”

  “And you talked to the police about it?” It was finally sinking in.

  “I am to go in to see them. Tomorrow. No, now it’s today.” There was a long pause. “I am so sorry, Ms. Donato. I mean Dr. Donato. I don’t know what I was thinking to call you like this. I, well, I was all right earlier, but I woke up confused in the night. Do you ever have that, middle-of-the-night panic?”

  “I did. I do. I understand.” I would not tell her how well I understood. “It’s all right. Are you better now?”

  “Yes, I believe I am. Again, I am sorry.” She sounded firmer. Sleepy but clear. “It all seems different in the dawn, doesn’t it? I’ll manage. Thank you for your time, dear. Good night.”

  A soft click of the phone and she was gone. She sounded reassured just from saying it all out loud. I certainly had not said anything useful. And now I was fully wide awake at 4:00 a.m. A mug of warm milk with a shot of whiskey added would put me back to sleep. Maybe. And then would I be able to get up for work? I decided to settle for cocoa and a slice of toast.

  It made me feel better, but it did not stop the questions from tumbling through my mind. I was well and truly awake.

  As excited as I had been to meet the great Louisa Gibbs, I didn’t know much about her. Not really. Her public life, but not who she was. Maybe some answers would turn my mind to Off and let me catch a few more hours of sleep.

  I moved around as quietly as I could and went to my desk. Lights off. Only the screen was on, but it was enough.

  I already knew about Mrs. Gibbs’s great-grandfather, who had made the first fortune, but now I learned about a grandfather who added to it with real estate development as Brooklyn grew and grew.

  Her own father, inheriting two fortunes, had done not much of anything, it seemed. He was described as a sportsman and clubman, whatever that meant. Did he spend his life playing?

  He married a woman with a Dutch name who was indeed a descendent of the early Dutch settlers and had danced with young Franklin Roosevelt, that most famous Dutch descendent, at society balls.

  And along came little Louisa, who insisted on being called Louie and refused to be a proper young deb. She had lobbied for Vassar until she wore her parents down, then spent her twenties on a suitable marriage that went bad in a few years. There was another, most unsuitable one, which also went bad. She never had children. And then her devotion to her home and neighborhood and to many causes in addition to preservation. She certainly had an interesting life.

  And I was still not asleep. I crawled back to bed, thinking with some satisfaction that I had another source for Brooklyn stories, my own confidential informant. It was time for a call to my friend Leary. In the morning.

  I was sure that strange phone call would keep me up anyway, but next thing I knew, it was daylight, and I’d slept through the alarm. I sprang into action before I was fully functioning, splashed water in my face, and grabbed my work clothes from the day before. I’d get coffee at work and tough out no breakfast, unless I got lucky and found a street cart with doughnuts at the museum parking lot. No time to walk over today. It’s a long walk and longer two-bus ride, but a five
-minute drive.

  I found Chris in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Joe this morning?”

  “He stayed at his own place because of an early appointment.”

  “What? No one to make me breakfast?” Her grin was full of mischief.

  “You can have dry cereal and raisins.” It’s true; Joe is a better cook than I am. “You are quite capable of making that yourself.”

  “I know, I know.” She gave me a quick hug. “But I’m getting to depend on his egg sandwiches. Remember, I’m a growing girl.”

  I thought about her words even as I hustled to my car on the street and wove through the morning traffic. She seemed to have adjusted to Joe’s regular presence pretty well. Very well. She doesn’t remember her father at all. I often thought Joe filled that space for her all along, even though I had always assured her that we were a perfect team of two.

  As my relationship with Joe grew from long friendship to something more intense, I had worried about it. There was a lot of tiptoeing around it, sneaking around it, too, to tell the truth.

  When it was finally time to let Chris see that Joe spent some nights, I was so nervous I could not sleep. When Joe joined us for breakfast in pajamas, Chris barely blinked. Later, turning red, I’m sure, I said, “So now you know Joe and I have a—a romantic relationship.”

  She gave me one of those scornful looks teenagers do so expertly. “Well, I’ve heard of sex. What took you so long to admit it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She said it out loud, slowly. “Mom, I am not an idiot. I knew it all along. Even before you did.” Then she returned to her texting. As simple as that. A minefield safely crossed. That’s how I felt.

  I didn’t remember the middle-of-the-night call until I was pulling into the museum parking lot. Damn. Not shaping up to be a good day.

  As soon as I had a free minute, I called Leary. He was a grouchy retired reporter who had been on the Brooklyn beat for many decades, until his drinking and diabetes caught up with him. To hear him tell it, if there was something about Brooklyn he didn’t know, it wasn’t worth knowing. That might even be true.