Brooklyn Wars

by Triss Stein

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I’d been to a few funerals in my life. My young husband, killed by a drunk driver when we were just getting started. My mother who died of cancer in middle age. My dad’s best friend who planned his own wild memorial, with jazz music and whiskey flowing freely.

  This was my first memorial service in a dramatic space usually used for weddings and other joyful parties. Milestone anniversaries, perhaps. Didn’t this kind of event belong in a funeral home or a place of worship or an organization that was meaningful to the deceased?

  I had no idea what to expect and was still unsure about why I had been invited.

  I presented my invitation to be admitted through the studio’s large gate. It was a vast modern building, the largest film studio outside of California. I would have loved to look around but I was directed to an elevator and whisked up to a rooftop set of rooms and an open terrace with a mind-blowing view of the harbor and the Manhattan skyline. Even my blasé, native Brooklyn mind was blown. On a bright sunny day or breezy moonlit night, this would be magical.

  Today was not that day. It was late fall, chilly and overcast. Those gentle breezes off the water were biting through my wool jacket.

  Simple white folding chairs had been set up in rows in a large, simple space. I slipped into a seat in the back and watched the rows fill up. Lots of older white men, some very old, in suits. A flock of stylish younger women were there, hugging and kissing Nicole as she greeted them. Some middle-aged couples, the men also in dark suits, the women in what even I knew were expensive dresses and fur coats, hugging and kissing Jennifer, chatting in subdued fashion and holding her hands with theirs. The men kissed her sedately and stood to the side.

  And when they turned away, some had a sly grin, and there was some excited conversation behind her back. A few furtive looks toward the cops. They all knew.

  Against the back wall, I spotted several men in less elegant suits. Cops, for sure. Lieutenant Ramos quietly directing them. None of this surprised me.

  I jumped when someone put a hand on my shoulder. It was Jennifer, leaning over and whispering “Thank you.” She shot a nervous glance to the cops. She looked haggard, under her expert makeup. “You’re one of the few people here I don’t have to play the grieving widow to. Boo-hoo.”

  “Why is it here, instead of a church?”

  “Mike swore he’d never set foot in one again when he couldn’t get a divorce. He wrote it into his funeral plans.” She pointed across the room. “And there’s another one who isn’t mourning.”

  It was Mrs. Pastore, alone, and walking slowly toward me. She wore a black wool coat and a matching hat, over a black dress. She did look strangely like a mourner. Jennifer’s attention was taken by another perfectly dressed, perfectly blond middle-aged woman. Mrs. Pastore was closing in on me.

  I whispered, “Are you here alone?”

  “Sal’s not so good. I made him stay home and rest.” She shook her head. “I took a car service.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I’ll drive you home.”

  “To tell the truth I never thought of you being here.”

  “And I didn’t call you for the same reason.” I looked right at her. “I see you dressed like a mourner, but I know how you really feel.”

  “I got to be appropriate for the occasion, but…” She leaned over and lowered her voice a little more, “I came to make sure the s.o.b. is dead.” She winked. “Not that there’s a coffin here but this makes it for real. Ya know what I mean?”

  And I did.

  “And maybe Annabelle would like a friend today. We’ll see. There she is for now.”

  The long divorced-wife sat in the front row between her daughter and the current wife. They held hands. None of them were crying.

  They had meant what they said about sitting together.

  A couple of official-looking men were standing at the front, and the softly humming room went silent.

  I could not be rude enough to take notes, but I wanted to, and I was able to stealthily turn on the recorder in my phone.

  The first speaker talked about Conti’s long career serving the Port of New York. He actually was a Port of New York official at some time. Then another, older man talked about Conti’s early years at the Navy Yard. And there was a third.

  Funny. No one said they would miss him. They talked about his skills, his energy, his intelligence. Not one person said he would be missed. It was not funny, of course.

  As the last speaker assured us he was concluding his remarks, a shout cut through the room.

  “This is all bullshit! The guy was a complete son of a bitch, a crook, and a liar. He was a destroyer, not a public servant. He destroyed whatever he touched. Jobs. Marriages. Lives.”

  As the voice ripped through the sedate crowd, most of the startled audience turned to see who it was. I did myself, thinking, How did he get in, whoever it is?

  The cops were in motion, unruffled but very fast, moving toward the man as the rest of the room seemed to move away from him.

  I got a quick look at him, the only person in the room dressed in rumpled working clothes. Gray hair and a dark knitted cap. And, dear Lord, a gun.

  I grabbed Mrs. Pastore and pulled her to the floor as everyone near us did the same.

  He was still shouting, cursing Michael Conti. I popped up and saw him now holding the gun in a shooter’s stance, as the policemen stopped and regrouped.

  “I will shoot,” he shouted. “Nothing left to lose but I can take a few damn hypocrites with me. Which one of you…which one doesn’t know who he really was?”

  He swung the gun from side to side. I heard sobbing behind me, and a whispered muffling.

  I peeked again and got a look at his face this time. I knew him. Dear Lord. He was the man who begged in front of the coffee shop. And he was the man who had loitered on our block. Sure he was. And even in the fear of the moment, I thought he had told the truth that night. He wasn’t looking for Chris. He had other people on his mind.

  Did Ramos know? I tried to see him and, yes, he was there, cool as ice, directing his men. They all had guns. I didn’t know if that made this less frightening or more.

  “He made promises. He promised and promised and then he sold out his union brothers. He lied and helped shut down the Yard. More than our jobs. Lives. Lives, you stupid fat cats. Destroyed lives.” He sounded weepy, but he still had the gun up and pointing.

  “Mom!” Nicole screamed it out as her mother stood up.

  Annabelle stood, listening, looking at the man.

  “I know you, don’t I? From the old days. I know you.” She stood still, talking softly. “Is it…Tom? And you are right about Michael. Of course you are, but it’s not right to say things like that about the dead. Isn’t that what we learned in the old days?” She shook her head. “You’re Tom Doyle, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re Annabelle. You’re as much of a hypocrite as any of them. You married him and put up with him.”

  “Yes, I did. Remember ’til death do us part? But I made a life without him, maybe the only brave thing I ever did.”

  He looked at her, hard. “I been trying to find you for a long time. I saw you on the street a few times, and hung around, trying to make out where you lived.”

  “So how have you been, Tommy? It’s been a long time.”

  “Rotten.” He muttered it and then his voice rose. “You know. He took my job away and then my life went down the sewer. Maybe he would have left my wife alone if you’d have been a better one. She despised me ’cause I was broke and he was going up and up. But you? You still have a nice life but I squat in one of the old houses at the Yard.’

  “Oh, Tommy.” She said it softly

  “Last place I was ever happy, so why not go back? But it’s getting cold to be out there.”

  He waved the gun around
.

  “I’ll dance on his grave, I will, happy and proud to know that I put him there. Yes, dumb pathetic Tommy won in the end. I got to tell that to Mary Pat too. Before…before…” He started to sob.

  I leaned back in shock, Mrs. Pastore still clutching my hand. Yes, he was the right size, right shape, right hair. He was the man that night.

  I heard a sob from Nicole’s direction.

  “Probably you don’t seriously want to hurt anyone else, do you?”

  “If you’d have been a better wife, he would have left mine alone.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. You want me? Well, I’m right here, but think about it. I get that you hated Michael, and you have reason to, but more death won’t fix anything now, will it?”

  Through the chair legs, I had an odd angle but perfect view of what was happening. His gun was shaking in his hand, and behind him, some cops were moving in.

  “Come on, Tom.” She moved toward him, hand out. I was holding my breath. Living without Michael was the only brave thing she ever did? Not true now. “Let’s go find a quiet spot, you and me, and talk about how much we hated him. Wouldn’t that be better? Remember what the priests taught us all those years ago? You wouldn’t get off with ten Hail Marys for this.”

  The gun shook. He let out a strangled sob and a shot rang out before the cops wrestled him to the floor. Annabelle had already fallen, bleeding.

  Then it was all noise and confusion. People stood up, there was shouting and screaming and sobbing. Cops and men in suits were trying to calm everyone, contain the hysteria, make sure the hysterical group of people did not make the situation worse. Help Annabelle. Mrs. Pastore finally let go of my hand, where her tight grip had left red nail shapes in a row across my palm.

  I stood, pulling her with me, and watched a whole team of men pull Tom Doyle across the floor and out, and Nicole rush to her collapsed mother. I could feel Mrs. Pastore shaking as she leaned on my arm, but she looked across the room and muttered, “Who knew? Sweet little Annabelle finally grew a steel backbone.” She looked up at me. “Should we go shake her hand?” Then she answered her own question. “She’s hurt. We should leave her to her daughter.” She shook her head. “Could we go home now?”

  I put an arm around her and then helped her out of her chair. “Soon. Very soon. I don’t think they’re letting us leave yet.” And I didn’t want to. I wanted to know how this would end. “Can you wait here for a couple of minutes? Would you like some water?”

  “I would like a shot of grappa. And I do think there was a bar set up over there.”

  It was out in the reception area, and already full of people. There were refreshments too. I wove my way through the crowd, one of the rare instances when being small is a plus, and came back with a plate of snacks and two full shot glasses.

  “No grappa. I got you rye.”

  The plate went on Mrs. Pastore’s lap and she lifted her glass to mine.

  “Salut, Annabelle.” I was happy to drink to that.

  Annabelle was gone, whisked away by an ambulance crew and some cops. They made a group along with Nicole and—yes—Jennifer, too, supporting each other.

  Ramos was everywhere, the man in charge. I would have loved to talk to him, but this was obviously not the time. Maybe someday, in broad daylight, in his office with colleagues all around. Not over dinner. For now, I watched and drew my own conclusions.

  He conferred with a man in stylish clothes and spiky gelled hair, who handed him a clipboard. Ramos spoke to an underling. Next thing I knew, the crowd was being organized and an announcement was made by the man with the hair. Apologies for the incident, invitations to help themselves to the buffet table and bar, apologies again. Ramos stepped up and said he had the names of all attendees; everyone was free to go, and be aware they might be contacted as witnesses.

  How many phones were out, recording it all? A lot. There was a camera, too, manned by someone who had also been taking notes. Was a paper or local television news covering this funeral? Yes, there was Lisa looking serious and extremely psyched. She had somehow fallen into her best story of the year.

  The crowd was thinning out, some with a glass of wine or whiskey still in hand. Lots of pale, shocked faces.

  Mrs. Pastore, red in the cheeks after her whiskey, stood up. “I have to get back to Sal. I don’t like to leave him too long.”

  She’d said that before but this time I listened. “Is he all right?”

  “Not so good. Silly old man, doesn’t like to see doctors. But I’m taking good care of him.”

  I took her out. There was nothing to see now. As we passed Ramos, he gave me a little salute, finger to forehead. I waved back.

  My mind was so stuck on the scene we had just lived through I almost caused an accident on the drive home. Twice.

  The fact was, the amazing fact was, the murder of Michael Conti had been solved. The murder of Mary Pat as well. He must have been keeping tabs on his ex-wife through the years. And he’d been there all along, hiding in plain sight. It wasn’t Jennifer. It wasn’t Annabelle. It wasn’t any of Conti’s many political enemies.

  It was, after all, his past catching up with him. I glued myself to my desk that night, reading everything I had collected about the closing of the Navy Yard. I still didn’t quite understand Conti’s role in that but he somehow went from leading one of the big unions there to having an administrative job with the Navy after it closed. And his career went on and on, ever upward, with more money with each jump, while his former friends struggled. Some of their lives spiraled down and further down with no relief.

  I went to bed very late. I knew I could finish my chapter on Michael Conti now. The end would be more dramatic than I had expected.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  In the aftermath of that shocking day, I astonished both myself and Dr. Adams. I finished the Navy Yard chapter in one intense day of work. Chris tiptoed in to my office and left without a word. The phone rang many times. Chris grabbed them all and gave me the messages the next morning. Joe’s said, “Bravo. Call me when you emerge.” Sometime deep in the night, I hit Save, and then Send. I was done with this story.

  Then I rashly promised Dr. Adams she would have the first draft of my conclusion chapter before her deadline. Conclusion chapters have to be totally excellent. Strong. Thoroughly supported. Logical. Conclusive. Definitely conclusive. Having said it, I had to follow through.

  Was I escaping my frightening experiences by immersing myself into work? No doubt, but there was more.

  The universe seemed to be sending me a message. Normally I would have mocked without mercy anyone who said such a ridiculous thing. Normally I don’t believe in the universe or its messages or any part of the whole meditative/crystals/ third eye nonsense. I am a scholar. Give me the damn facts.

  Nevertheless. There was a message coming at me from all directions. It said “Wake up. Time to break out of that cozy trap. You can’t stay in a cocoon forever.” Dr. Adams said it despotically. My dad said it, nagging. Darcy and Joe had both said it, gently, as friends. Even Phyllis, of all people. My old job was ending. My academic department was pushing me out. Yet somehow I couldn’t hear it until I became entangled with Michael Conti’s life.

  Sweet Mrs. Conti had stayed in a bad marriage for too long, because she lacked the courage to leave. Jennifer Conti, with far more choices available in her life, had stayed too. Tom Doyle wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his old cocoon, the only job he’d ever had, and the wife who didn’t love him.

  I will always maintain I would never have become the graduate student who stays forever. Hear that, Dr. Adams? Or a low-level museum employee, either. I did have goals, fuzzy though they might be. But it was true that I was not at all eager to stretch one more time into yet another new life.

  But there was the universe, shouting, “If not now, when? ”

  When I got my
date for the dissertation defense, my heart stopped beating, just for a second or two. That meant Dr. Adams and the rest of the committee had signed off on my final version.

  On the day, I dressed in my best, all armored up with lipstick and hose. I reminded myself I knew my subject cold, right down to my bones. There was no reason whatever, I told myself, for the butterflies in my stomach. I ordered them to fly in formation or get lost. All I had to do that day was answer questions and sound smart. At the end, the defense panel asked me to step out for a moment. I stood in the hall, invisibly shaking, until the chair opened the door and said, “Come on in, Dr. Donato.”

  Joe took me out for an uproarious meal with much drinking. Chris had declined to join us, giggling, and I was so excited I didn’t wonder what she was up to. I returned to a large box of fancy chocolates with a card signed, “Chris and Jared.” I celebrated for a week, at work, at home, with friends. Even Dr. Adams sent a congratulatory message.

  When the week ended, I had to return to real life and that pesky ongoing problem of making a living. That whole spring would stay forever in my memory as a blur of late nights. After dissertation work, museum work, housework, at midnight I would be scanning the journals and websites, sending out letters, re-creating my resumé for each application. Some nights it left me so wired I could not fall asleep, no matter how exhausted I was.

  I got a nibble from one of New York’s lesser universities, but in the end they were too disorganized to actually get the position funded. I applied for a terrific job that would have meant two hours commuting each way, four days a week. I was desperate enough to take that on but it went to one of their own employees. I suspected that was their plan all along.

  I sent many unanswered letters. I met some interesting people at places that had no openings at all. “It’s all networking,” Darcy said, and more than once. I didn’t believe her.

  Just at the point where I was calculating how Chris and I could afford to eat on unemployment benefits, looking into good public high schools, and wondering if I could pick up a few extra dollars doing child care, the phone rang.