There was a knock at the door, and Harry walked in.
“You all right, kid?”
“Yeah, it looks worse than it is.”
“Good, ’cause you look like shit,”
“How did you know I was here?” Jason asked.
“The helicopter. Those big WNYS-TV letters on the side were a dead giveaway,” he added. “And they didn’t know who else to call.”
“How is it doing?”
“The helicopter? Better than you—it’s already back on the roof, good to go.”
There was another knock at the door, and a nurse entered. She was young and pretty, with brownish red hair and a nice figure. Jason was disappointed she wasn’t wearing one of those little white hats nurses wore in World War II movies, and wondered if she had the overnight shift.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but, I think the Mayor is here to see Mr. Sims.”
“Me? Are you sure?” Jason pushed back against the raised bed. He had appreciated the incline, but now it seemed confining. You couldn’t roll out of a hospital bed.
“Yes, I think so, definitely.”
Jason stared blankly, and the silence filled the room.
“Well, ask him in,” Harry blurted out.
The nurse left and Jason and Harry waited for the door to open again. Jason scanned the room as if double-checking for an emergency exit. Harry looked at his hands, and tugged at his left shirtsleeve so that it peeked out from his jacket, matching the right. It took longer than they thought for the Mayor to appear. And Alfred Cohen was more than the Mayor of New York. He was New York. First as a day laborer, then as a pipe-fitter, Al Cohen had worked his way up through the union ranks during the Depression and became the youngest President of a major city chapter. He resigned in ’forty-one to volunteer for the Army, fought in the some of the fiercest battles of the Italian campaign, and came back with two medals that he never talked about. After the war he swiftly rose to the top of the City’s Democratic Party, and for more than fifteen years, he ran the Party, and the City, as its chairman. Mayors, council speakers, even congressmen would come and go, but Cohen was always there, both king-maker and king. National leaders sought his private counsel, and they liked to be seen in public with him too. Then in 1964 the impossible happened—a charismatic Republican was able to parlay low turnout, a sluggish economy, and tired-looking incumbent into the mayoralty. Cohen took it personally, and on top of that he didn’t like being out in the cold. So he finally gave in and put himself before the people for a vote, and won the next two Mayor’s races, the first by a landslide, the second by almost as much.
He came into the room without knocking. Jason knew from experience that all rock stars looked smaller in person. But Cohen filled the room, with big strides and broad shoulders that seemed to block out the light as he walked over to the bed and extended his hand.
“How you doing, Jason?” he asked in a way that made you feel a little better just by the tone of his voice.
“Just fine, sir.”
“More than just fine, I’d say.” He smiled warmly, then looked over and took notice of Harry, and squinted. “Harry Ross? Used to cover the city desk for The Herald?”
Harry was surprised and impressed.
“Yes sir. That was some time ago.”
“Was a hell of a paper, though. That stuff you guys did on the housing authority in ’fifty-nine—without The Herald there wouldn’t ever have been a Franks Commission.”
Harry shuffled his feet, which Jason had never seen him do before. “I don’t recall that you were much fond of the Franks Commission at the time.”
The Mayor, who had been mostly looking at Jason, turned to Harry. “I thought you boys in the trade understood that sometimes a person like me has to say one thing in public, even if he knows something else.”
“Of course.” Harry didn’t so much concede the point as he chose not to debate it with the Mayor.
“There was a time when the papers made this town,” the Mayor said, talking again at Jason. “Used to be there were seven papers and three TV stations.”
“Now it’s just the opposite,” Harry offered in agreement. “I don’t know how they fill all that air.”
Jason watched in silence, and had no interest in throwing in his two cents. He was glad Harry was there.
“I wonder, Harry, could you give me a moment with Jason? Couple of things I want to ask him.”
“Of course. An honor to see you, sir.” Harry shook the Mayor’s hand and left. As the door closed, Cohen sat down at the foot of the bed and leaned in a bit, like they knew each other pretty well.
“Sorry to bust in on you like this, son, but I’m just doing my job—if that’s okay with you.”
“Sir?”
“Taking care of the City.”
Jason wasn’t quite following. And for whatever reason, being that close to Cohen was making him uncomfortable. He stole a glance at the call button resting about four inches from his right hand and wondered if his fingers could slip over unnoticed and ring for the nurse.
The mayor stared right at him, with penetrating, alert eyes. “You know the most important thing about taking care of this city? New York City?”
“Crime?” Jason offered. It was the first thing that popped into his mind, and in retrospect seemed like a good answer.
“Nope. It’s not crime, or taxes, and it sure as hell isn’t traffic.” He paused for effect. “It’s making sure people get up in the morning and say ‘I live in New York, goddamit! Capital of the world! What I do matters.’ ” He held up his hands when he said it, and looked triumphantly at Jason, like he’d pulled off the sheet and revealed a brand new car to a game show contestant.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Last couple of years, been kind of tough on the City. Hell, I don’t have to tell you that. There’s a lot of people heading out, lot of people giving up. Most of ’em nowadays see a crime, they turn away, maybe even count themselves lucky. You…you didn’t turn away.”
“I guess not.”
“No,” he said with a smile, “you dove right in. A genuine New York hero.” He said he-ro like it was two words. “Just like your father.”
“You knew my father?”
“I didn’t know him so much as know of him. You know, them printers and us old pipe fitters, our paths didn’t cross that much. But we both worked our way up the union ladder, and this City ain’t nearly as big as people think.”
There was a knock at the door, and an aide to the Mayor poked his head in.
“Excuse me sir, but everybody’s here. Are we ready?”
“Give us another minute, Paul.”
Paul disappeared, and the Mayor stood up.
“Which would bring us to the main reason for my little visit. After all, what’s the point of having a genuine New York hero.…” He paused again. Jason wondered if he practiced the pauses or if they came naturally. “…if nobody knows about him.”
Jason didn’t like the sound of that, and quickly realized who “everybody” was. He’d noticed from working at the station that people reacted to TV cameras in one of two ways. Most people, for reasons he never understood, jumped up and down and waved at the camera. The rest turned away. He was definitely in the latter group.
The room seemed too small for cameras, very small, and Jason felt the dull ache of his injuries more now than before. His elbow was bruised worse than he had realized.
“Listen, I can’t imagine that people really want to—”
“Of course they do!” The Mayor interjected. “This is exactly what they want to see.”
Jason glanced around the room, sensing the inevitable. His eyes rested on the window, and he had a vision of tying bed sheets together and rappelling safely down the side of the building to the ground below. He looked back at the phone—932—probably not enough sheets.
“What’s more important, a few minutes of peace and quiet or making eight million people feel good about themselves?�
�
Jason didn’t answer.
“If you’ll just press that little nurse button right there, we can get this over with in no time.”
Moments later the room was packed with reporters and photographers. The Mayor stood alongside the bed, and for some reason the nurse was positioned next to him. A silver lining to this circus act was that she was bound to be impressed by all the attention. Paul and two other aides stood by the wall, creating a space between the foot of the bed and the reporters and cameramen that seemed to be understood as a buffer zone. The mayor orchestrated.
“Everybody set? Thanks for coming. I’ve come here this evening to present the City’s Badge of Valor to Jason Sims. On a routine maintenance flight of his traffic helicopter, he showed how New Yorkers can rise to any occasion.”
There was some laughter from the crowd, and photos were taken as the Mayor shook hands and handed a small medallion to Jason. The reporters began to call out questions, and, especially with the lights that now filled the room, it was hard to tell who was asking what.
“How’s your head, Jason?”
“They say it’s okay.”
“What were you thinking about when you came down so low?”
“I don’t know. Not crashing, I guess.”
Jason wasn’t trying to be funny, but the answer brought laughter and the room buzzed with chatter. There was a brief gap in the questioning.
“Mr. Mayor, can you possibly avoid declaring bankruptcy now that the President has abandoned the City?”
A silence fell over the room. Paul stepped forward. “Gus, you know this isn’t the appropriate time for—”
“That’s all right, Paul,” the Mayor interceded. “Normally, I wouldn’t take a political question in a hospital room,” he said, effortlessly seizing the high ground while inhibiting aggressive questions that might have followed, “but I know some of you younger fellows are a little eager.”
Everyone’s attention was redirected and several microphones were placed more prominently.
“Let me tell you something about this City. Forty-four years ago I stood on the steps of the Capitol, Washington, D.C. Union reps from all the big cities were staging a sit-in. We camped out, swapped stories—I still remember this one rep, skinny kid like me—”
This generated some laughter from the reporters.
“Oh, believe me, I was skinny as a rail back then. So was this other kid, he was with the printers.” He gave Jason a knowing look as he said it. “Musta looked like a good wind would blow us both away. Anyway, after a few days, I guess the President had seen enough. Ordered federal marshals to clear the steps. Things got pretty ugly, six men were killed. Good men. Family men. Unarmed, asking for nothing more than the chance to work hard, with dignity. Looking to have their voices heard.”
The Mayor held the room, and he again paused, and pointed his finger.
“So let me tell you something. I’ve been told to drop dead by the feds before, by guys way tougher than Ford. But we’re still here. We’ll see how long this fella is around.”
There was another round of laughter that faded to chatter as the Mayor leaned back with satisfaction, while more photos were taken.
“I guarantee you this city will not go bankrupt while I am mayor.”
9
Adam picked Jason up at the hospital the next day, and they took the subway downtown. The train rocked rhythmically and the lights blinked on and off, but it was relatively clean and making good time. They stood, even though there were a few seats available. Adam didn’t hold onto anything, as if it was a point of honor. Jason had a big manila envelope full of his hospital paperwork under one arm and leaned against a door with the other for support.
“She didn’t say why?” Adam asked.
“No. She just insisted that I bring you down. She was very mysterious,” Jason said, with just enough inflection in his voice to amuse himself.
“Really. You get over on her?”
“Jeez, no. I just saw her Tuesday night. She’s from Wisconsin, for Christ sake.” Looking out, he set his gaze on the rhythmic pattern of girders, lights, and recessed shelters in the tunnel as they whooshed by. The train was an express, and rushed through the Fiftieth Street station, changing the lighting in the car. It lurched a bit and Adam stuck his hand against the door for a moment to steady himself.
“What’s the matter with you? What do you think they do in Wisconsin? It’s nothing but beer and cheese. No woman can resist that combination.”
“Well, I’m just a simple city boy, okay?”
“A simple city chicken,” Adam said without missing a beat. “You know, it’s a good idea to try and get laid at least once a President.”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t wait till you went to the bathroom to get her number.”
“You were on a roll, I didn’t want to interrupt you—”
“Fuck you,” Jason said with a smile, and turned slightly, towards the interior of the car.
“Fuck me?” Adam responded, with exaggerated innocence.
Jason’s smile slipped slowly from his face. “Oh, man,” he whispered, gesturing with his head towards the middle of the car, where an older man in a tweed jacket and dark fedora hat was reading the New York Daily News. The headline HELICOPTER HERO commanded the front page, which featured a stock footage photo of some random helicopter. Jason bolted and walked to the end of the car, opened the door and headed for the next car. Adam followed and grabbed Jason’s arm. Between the cars, the lights flashed more violently. The noise was deafening, and the chains on either side of them danced frantically up and down.
“What do you think?” Adam shouted over the noise. “They don’t have papers in that one?”
Jason pushed his way through into the relative quiet and looked around. The coast looked clear, and he found a good spot to lean and looked out the window. They rode silently for a minute.
Adam looked around, scanning the passengers. He nudged Jason with his shoulder.
“You know that guy over there—glasses, tan coat, gold watch, manicured nails?”
Jason looked toward the window, which mirrored the car against the darkness of the tunnel, and carefully checked the guy out in the reflection.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Jason turned slowly away from the door. “This makes me regret that we never drove cross-country like we always talked about.”
Adam smiled, pleased with himself.
“You really think he knew your old man?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said, thinking it through. “He could have. But you think my dad would’ve mentioned it at some point.”
“What about that other stuff—that Washington rap, steps of the Capitol,” Adam said derisively. “You think that really happened?”
“Oh yeah, that happened. My uncle told me about it. My dad only mentioned it once, when we were having this huge fight about LBJ. Gave me this big speech about how he protested when it mattered, not because it was fun. He didn’t mention Cohen, though. I remember it really well—it was in ’sixty-seven, right before he stopped talking to me.”
“I thought you guys stopped talking in ’sixty-eight.”
“Yeah, I stopped talking to him in ’sixty-eight. But he stopped talking to me in ’sixty-seven, you know, except for regular talking.”
“Well, I don’t care if he did the right thing a million years ago. I say Cohen is a crooked bum.”
“Maybe,” Jason said, even though he had little doubt that all politicians were crooks, one way or another. “But he definitely had a…presence.”
The train slowed and then came to a stop. The doors shuffled open without incident, although Jason ritually ignored the PLEASE KEEP HANDS OFF THE DOORS admonition. If you knew where you were, you could have deciphered the conductor’s announcement: “West Fourth Street, New York University.” Adam took the stairs two at a time with Jason following, and they cut through Washington Square Park on their way to the
NYU Library. Jason was going back over everything with Bill, still trying to make sense of it all.
“I don’t know, he had much more on his mind than someone who didn’t want to get caught in violation of city air-traffic code.”
“You don’t like cops much either. Never did report that time you were mugged after the Knicks game, did you?”
Jason walked a step ahead of Adam. “Take a good look around, will you—those two guys over there, got to be selling drugs, hard drugs. Those three over there, hookers for sure. And that guy on the bench—I don’t even want to know what he’s doing.”
Adam didn’t argue with the survey, and Jason continued, still with a bounce in his step.
“Eleanor Roosevelt saved this park—they wanted to let Fifth Avenue run right through it. But if she lived here today, she’d be afraid to set foot in this dump.” He paused, realizing he’d drifted off topic. “My point being—some chick gets raped couple of blocks from a police station, and you want me to ask them to get my twenty bucks back?”
“Man, three blocks!” Adam still found it hard to believe. “There weren’t any cops around at all?”
They climbed the steps of the library, and entered through the revolving doors. The large entry room was buzzing with people, but they continued their conversation in hushed tones.
“And the money. It sure looked like a lot.”
“How much did he give you?”
“Must be a thousand dollars.” Jason opened his coat slightly with his left hand and Adam could see the tips of the bills sticking out of the pocket. “Look at that,” he hissed. “That’s my blood. Blood money!”
He started to get angry. “A thousand dollars. Like I was going to say something. I can take a lot of bullshit, but—”
“Hey. Isn’t that Alison?” Adam asked with a nudge of his elbow, squinting like he was trying to tell if the left fielder had been replaced.
It was Alison. She was waving at them from across the large room, and Adam waved back, wiggling his fingers in a way that Jason found suspiciously uncharacteristic.
Urban Flight Page 6