Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “To see if I called Murcer?”

  “And to see how you’re doing. Maybe make plans to get together again?”

  “Try me in the afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call Murcer in the morning. As for getting together again, I never know what my schedule for the week’s going to be. The life of a reporter and all that. We did have our chance last night, though.”

  “Okay, I get your point.” We stopped at the entrance to the subway, and I realized I had no idea where Allison lived. I saved that for another time. “You okay on your own from here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think I can make it home.”

  We put our arms around each other and hugged. The hug turned into a kiss. We stopped when a guy behind us cleared his throat. After he passed, Allison looked at me. “That was nice.” She gave me one more kiss on the cheek and headed down to the train.

  “Tomorrow,” I repeated, watching as she disappeared underground.

  There was an unfamiliar feeling in my gut. It took me a while to recognize it. It was that feeling you get at the beginning of something you think might turn out really good. A new job, a trip someplace you’ve never been. I didn’t recognize it at first, because it was mixed with that other feeling in my stomach.

  The one caused by loss.

  *

  “This is sweet,” Edgar said, examining the walkie-talkie I had taken from Dougie’s desk. We were sitting at The LineUp a few hours after I’d said good-bye to Allison, sharing a couple of after-dinner beers. “My uncle’s got one. Goes for a hundred and a half easily. Why’d your boy have this?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, surprised at the price. “But one’s no good without a second one, right? There must be a match out there?”

  “Oh, yeah. You just gotta find it.”

  “And how would I go about that, Edgar?”

  Edgar leaned back and closed his eyes, relishing the idea of me asking for his assistance. I looked up at the TV, which was tuned to the Weather Channel, longing again for some baseball. Edgar kept his eyes closed as he said, “Could run a search, see which stores sell this particular model in the metropolitan area, and track down the purchaser that way. Of course, that wouldn’t help if your boy wasn’t the purchaser or if it was a cash transaction.”

  “Or…?”

  “Or you could hang out around your boy’s known—”

  “His name was Dougie, Edgar.”

  “—Dougie’s known hangouts, tune to all the channels, and see who picks up.”

  “Sounds time-consuming,” I said, thinking of all the places Dougie might have hung around.

  “It can be. Or maybe you get lucky.” He moved his eyebrows up and down. “You know … lucky.”

  “Something on your mind, Edgar?”

  He leaned into me and lowered his voice. “Mikey told me you had a date last night. Here.”

  “Yes, Edgar. I did. That’s what grown-ups do sometimes.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I couldn’t help myself from adding, “You seeing anyone special?”

  That shut him up, but it also made him pout. I might have pushed a sore spot this time.

  “Thanks for your help, Edgar. Maybe I will check out Dougie’s hangouts.”

  “Should probably start with his school first,” he said, recovering quickly. He slid his laptop over. “Where’d you say he went?”

  “Upper West Academy. Manhattan.”

  Edgar ran his fingers over his keyboard. “Here it is,” he said. “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “It’s right off Central Park West. In the seventies.”

  “So?”

  “That’s a real popular spot for bird-watching. The Ramble, inside the park.”

  “I really don’t think Dougie was into bird-watching, Edgar.”

  “I think there’s even a birding walkie channel in the park. I can check with my uncle. He’s up there all the time. That’s why he’s got one of these.”

  “Bird channel?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Uncle Bob spots a red-headed woodpecker, and the rest of the crew come running before the bird flies off.”

  I looked at Edgar. “Your whole family nerds?”

  “We have varied interests, Raymond. No need to judge.” He shifted his body. “You find yourself up that way, take the walkie-talkie with you. Hit the park, go through the channels. Maybe you’ll luck out, and someone’ll pick up who knew Dougie.”

  “What’re the odds of that happening?”

  He shrugged. “Better than if you don’t.”

  “Good point. Thanks, Edgar. I wouldn’t have come up with this line of … this idea without your help.”

  “Your friendly neighborhood nerd.” He tipped an imaginary hat to me.

  Chapter 10

  MONDAY MORNING. THERE WAS a thin layer of snow on the steps leading up to the school. I stepped carefully and headed to the main office. It was surprisingly quiet this morning. No parents waiting to see me. No teachers milling about, killing time. I took some papers out of my mailbox, gave a quick wave to Mary, who was on the phone, and stepped back into the hallway. I was almost to the staircase when someone called out my name. Ron Thomas, Principal. He was speed walking toward me, holding a rolled-up newspaper.

  “You see the paper this morning, Mr. Donne?” he asked, practically choking the one he had in his hand.

  “Not yet, Ron.” It occurred to me I always called him by his first name, and he always referred to me as Mr. Donne. I could live with that.

  He unrolled the paper and held it so I could see the front page. The headline read, NOT SO SAFETY, OFFICER! Underneath was a blurry picture of a man standing over someone lying on the ground. The man standing seemed to have his fist in the face of the other person.

  “Okay,” I said. “So…?”

  “So read closely, Mr. Donne.” He ran his finger along the text below the picture and handed me the paper.

  “‘School Safety Officer Angel Rosario’—shit—‘standing over victim of alleged assault.’ What the hell happened, Ron?”

  “Seems your kid’s dad tried to get Angel’s iPod back from this guy,” he said, pointing at the blur on the ground, “and ended up assaulting him. As luck would have it, one of the guy’s friends recorded the whole thing from his cell phone.” Ron opened the paper to the story on page three. “And … the article mentions the school that his son attends. Our school. Is that what Rosario was here about the other day? What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t tell him to assault anyone, if that’s what you mean. I told him to get the cops involved, maybe his boss.” I looked at the article. “When did this happen?”

  “Friday afternoon,” Ron said. “It took the kid with the video a while to realize he had something worth some money. It hit some Internet sites yesterday, and the papers picked up on it today.”

  Shit. “Did you call the home?”

  “And say what?” Ron said. “‘Way to go, Slugger’?”

  “Check out how Angel’s doing,” I said, and realized Ron didn’t know which Angel I was talking about. “The son, Ron. Our student.”

  Ron thought about that. “No, I didn’t. Maybe you could do that, huh? You guys seemed to be all chummy the other day.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He looked at the paper in my hand and scowled. “You can keep that.”

  I went up to my office to call the Rosario home. I found the dad’s cell number on my clipboard.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Rosario,” I said. “Raymond Donne, from the school.”

  “Oh, hey,” he said. “I guess you heard.”

  “Just. My boss showed me the paper.”

  “Guess we got something in common now, huh?” He paused. “I saw you in the paper on Saturday. Sorry about that kid.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’re you and Angel doing?”

  He though
t about that before answering. “Not too good, y’know? Had to disconnect the landline, all the papers and TV calling. What the fuck? Nothing else happening in the world, they gotta make this front-page news? Woulda been a nothing story except for that knucklehead taking the video.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “Sometimes the story doesn’t matter, just as long as they got it on video. What about Angel?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he coming to school today?”

  More silence. “I don’t know, Mr. Donne. I don’t want him catching shit for what his old man did.”

  “What exactly did you do?,” I asked. “What happened?”

  I could hear him as he let out a deep breath. This was not the first time he had retold the story. “I clocked out early on Friday,” he began. “To go meet up with Angel at the bus stop. I thought maybe I could talk to these guys who are hassling him, y’know? Man-to-man. Tell ’em I’ve been there, grew up on these streets, and did my share of hustling. But this is my boy, and I’m in a uniform, so how about cutting him some slack?”

  “I’m guessing that didn’t work?”

  “Guys were there. Angel wasn’t five steps off the bus before they started in on him. I’d been standing there for a few minutes before the bus came, watching the bunch of ’em hanging around, but kept quiet. Didn’t know if they were the same guys or what.” Another deep breath. “They were. Soon as they started in on Angel, I stepped in and told them who I was.”

  “And?”

  “They didn’t give a shit. Looked at my uniform and called me a rent-a-cop. Nothing I ain’t heard before. I work in a high school, y’know? I figured I’d get Angel outta there and take your advice. Talk to my sergeant, maybe call the cops.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t get the chance,” he said. “The chief knucklehead—the guy Angel told me later took his iPod—stepped in front of me. Grabbed Angel by his book bag and…”

  I waited for him to finish. When he didn’t, I said, “And what?”

  “This motherfucker,” he began, “this piece of shit … grabbed Angel, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, ‘Why don’t you go home and get your momma, boy?’” He was fighting back tears now. “Before I could react, Angel kicked the guy. Right below the knee.” I sensed a little bit of pride in that last part. “Fucker took Angel by the shoulder and threw him down. Next thing I know, I got him by the neck, and I drop him. That’s when the cops showed up. Every fucking time my boy’s getting hassled, nothing. But the one time I mix it up with some punk-ass, and there they are.”

  “Did you explain the situation?”

  “I tried, but … Shit, it didn’t exactly look good. And the guy who assaulted Angel…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Three weeks away from his eighteenth birthday. Twenty-one days later, and we ain’t having this conversation, Mr. Donne. But because I ‘assaulted a juvenile’—who’s got about three inches on me—I get taken in and charged, while my boy has to wait around the precinct.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Rosario agreed. “Shit. I’m just lucky they let me go with a DAT.”

  Desk Appearance Ticket. I guessed the judge didn’t consider Mr. Rosario a genuine threat. He did catch a break there. Get some judge in a bad mood, or one who doesn’t like school safety officers, and you’re spending the weekend behind bars.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “I’m on suspension,” he said. “Without pay. That’s the first thing what happens now. I gotta meet with my union rep and one of their lawyers tomorrow. I don’t wanna go with the union’s lawyer, but how the hell am I gonna pay for one on my own?”

  “That’s what we pay dues for,” I said, going for a little brotherhood-of-union-guys thing. “All right. Keep Angel home today, but walk him in tomorrow. He misses too much school, and you’re just making a bad situation a little bit worse.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right. And thanks for calling. For checking up on Angel. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem. Good luck tomorrow.”

  “I’m gonna need all the luck I can get, Mr. Donne.”

  *

  Uneventful days are few and far between in my new line of work as the school’s dean. This Monday was one of them. Maybe it was the snow falling or the temperatures dropping, but the school was subdued all day. No kids running the halls, no small parties in the bathrooms, and not one teacher sent an unruly student to my office. I was able to catch up on the paperwork from last week’s incidents and accidents, make a couple of phone calls to homes of kids we hadn’t seen for three consecutive days, and drop by Elaine Stiles’s office to see if our school counselor had any kids she needed me to touch base with. She didn’t, so we had coffee as I filled her in on Angel’s situation.

  “Suspended without pay?” she asked.

  “That’s what he told me. I think normally they would’ve just reassigned him, away from any kids, but with the video all over the place now, they had no choice.”

  “Damn.” She took a sip of coffee. “Maybe we should take up a collection. Help them get through the next few weeks.”

  “I’m not sure how Mr. Rosario would respond to charity. He seems like the proud, self-reliant type.”

  Elaine nodded. “We’ll have Lizzie handle it,” she said. “No one says no to her.”

  I smiled as I thought of Elizabeth Medina, our parent coordinator. She was everything a job like that in a neighborhood like this needed: a college-educated Latina with two public school kids of her own and who took shit from no one. I reached into my pocket and pulled out two twenties.

  “You can start off with that,” I said, handing Elaine the forty bucks.

  “Thanks.” She opened the drawer to her desk and put the money inside an envelope she labeled ANGEL’S FUND. “How was it at Dougie’s house yesterday?”

  “Not bad.” I told her all about it, including details about Allison and the walkie-talkie I’d found in Dougie’s desk and brought with me to school today.

  “You took a date?” Elaine asked. “To a memorial service?”

  “It wasn’t a date, Elaine. She asked to come, and I said yes.”

  Elaine gave me a look as if she didn’t quite believe me. “Whatever,” she said, sounding more like one of our kids than I’m sure she wanted to. “What are you going to do with the walkie-talkie?”

  I told her Edgar’s idea. “In fact,” I added, looking at my watch, “if I leave now, I can get up there by three thirty.”

  “Be careful,” Elaine said.

  “Of what? I’m just taking a little trip uptown.”

  “Your little trips sometimes lead you to places you don’t want to go, Raymond.”

  Even though I’d never told Elaine the full story of how I had helped Frankie get home a year and a half ago—how deeply involved I’d let myself get and the laws I’d broken to get there—I think she knew I was holding something back.

  “I’ll be fine, Elaine. Thanks. And thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Have an uneventful afternoon, Ray.”

  Chapter 11

  IF YOU LOOK AT THE NEW YORK City subway map, you’ll see that if you want to get from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, to the Upper West Side of Manhattan, all you have to do is jump on the L train, transfer at Eighth Avenue to the C, and you’ll be there in only forty-five minutes. Maybe less. Five miles. Geographically.

  Demographically, the Upper West Side might as well be on the other side of the world. It is an area where real estate is valued by the square foot, not by how many people you can squeeze into a two-bedroom apartment. Doctors and lawyers are your neighbors, not professionals you go to on really bad days. In this part of the city, the first sign of spring is not robins, but women on cell phones suddenly walking alongside their own babies’ strollers, as women whose skin is a few shades darker push their children for them.

  As I made my way around pockets of tourists an
d a school group outside the Museum of Natural History, I remembered the field trips we used to take to the museum when I was in school. How we had traveled by yellow bus all the way from Long Island to see dinosaurs, gemstones, and mannequins depicting early America. I didn’t appreciate it back then. Even when I was working in the classroom and took my own students, I was too busy keeping an eye on them to fully enjoy the museum.

  I headed south toward Dougie’s school, Central Park on my left. Looking over at the snow-covered trees in the park, I could almost understand why people spend so much of their hard-earned money to live here. Almost.

  I took Dougie’s walkie-talkie out of my bag and turned it on. I tuned to the first channel and got static. As I got closer to the school, I flipped through the channels every half block or so, getting nothing but white noise. When I got to the corner of the block where Upper West Academy was, the static changed to silence. I pressed the button to talk. “Hello?” No response. “Hello?” Nothing. I was about to try again, when a kid on a skateboard rode by about a foot in front of me.

  “Gotta watch yourself, mister,” he said, as he raced over the curb and into the traffic of Central Park West. He looked back from the street and showed me his middle finger. He then skillfully skated between two parked cars, jumped the opposite curb, and disappeared into the park. Young, invincible, and stupid. We all were at that age.

  I was about to turn the corner toward the school, when a voice came over the walkie-talkie. “I said ten-five.”

  Cop talk. Whoever it was wanted me to repeat my message. I hoped I hadn’t gotten the police frequency. I maintained radio silence, hoping the speaker would say something else. I thought he sounded too young to be a cop.

  “Ten-five,” the voice said again. Definitely a kid. Good. “What’s your twenty?”

  I pressed the TALK button and stated my location.

  “Ten-four,” he said. “Cross over to the park side, and I’ll meet you there. Over.”

  I waited for the light to change and did as instructed. The sidewalk on the park side was busy with people, many taking pictures. A few folks were holding out peanuts, trying to get a squirrel to come in for a close-up. I figured them for Europeans. They didn’t have squirrels over there and, unlike New Yorkers, found them to be quite photogenic. I looked up and down the sidewalk and saw no one carrying a walkie-talkie. I took off my book bag and was about to lean against the stone, waist-high wall that separated the park from the sidewalk, when a voice behind me said, “Who’re you?”