He hadn’t been there for some time. Only eleven years old, the stadium was already aging, and not gracefully. He’d read about how the Mets’ ownership was cutting corners everywhere—the team sure played like it—and everything looked like it could use a touch-up—the grass, the seats, the scoreboard. But even all beaten up, it was still Shea Stadium, and the memories overwhelmed him, more vividly than he would have thought possible. He saw the Beatles there, August 23, 1966, and still had the ticket stub. Six days later in San Francisco they played live in concert for the last time. Then his mind drifted back to the year before that—he must have walked to Shea once a week, when he’d dated this girl who loved baseball. And to the old days when he went with his father whenever the Dodgers were in town. Jason never met a friend of his father’s who wasn’t a Dodgers fan, and even though leaving the City in ’fifty-seven was an unspeakable infidelity, they couldn’t stop rooting for the team. Jason and his friends took more quickly to the hand-me-down Mets.
“Hey. What the fuck?” It was Bill.
“Can you believe these guys played in the World Series two years ago?” Jason said amiably. “Now it’s like some Roman ruins.” He pointed at the tarp. “Looks like they expect more rain. Better than losing, I guess.”
Bill wasn’t interested. “I told you never to leave the helicopter.”
“You told me to leave it running. It’s running.” Jason didn’t much like being told what to do, anyway. “Hey, you look like shit. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just don’t screw around like that. You know what’s in those cases. You shouldn’t, but you do.”
“Come on, we’ve got a stadium full of empty on our hands, nobody around for miles—”
“You never know what can happen,” Bill said, with a fresh urgency in his voice.
Jason wasn’t buying it. “I never know anything.”
They walked back through the empty parking lot. Bill was holding another sealed, oversized manila envelope. They got back in the helicopter.
“Back to the City?” Jason ask rhetorically, looking at Bill for confirmation.
“No. Gotta make an extra stop today. Staten Island.”
“Staten Island? It’s gonna take every drop of gas.”
“Gotta go,” Bill said, looking forward.
“All right, but that’s it. We may have to glide back.”
17
Down on the streets below, Adam was making his way to the Waldorf Astoria hotel, hoping, as always, to kill two birds with one stone. It was taking him a while to get there because he had become convinced that someone was following him. Not that he’d seen anybody in particular, but the feeling was overwhelming. So when he got off the train at 51st Street, instead of heading to Park Avenue he overshot and walked down Fifth, ducking in and out of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in a way that would cause problems for anyone who might be trying to shadow him inconspicuously. Then, in an inspired move, he hopped aboard a bus that was idling with its doors open, waiting for the traffic to clear. He dropped a token in the box and wandered about halfway back, working his way to the center pole. Three more people got on after him, but one was a little old lady, and she was probably okay. Adam watched the driver closely until he sensed that he was getting ready to close up, and popped out the side door just in time. No one else got out of the bus as it came to life and fought its way into the street. Probably nothing, but fifty cents wasn’t much of an investment for a little peace of mind.
Two avenue blocks later he was at the Waldorf, where there were scores of teenagers milling around. Some were camped out, and most were looking up, shading their eyes with their hands in a group salute—they could have been a scout troop led by Timothy Leary. Word must have leaked out, probably by the band’s press agent, that The Impossible were staying there. They had rented out the entire forty-second floor and invited the press to come by for a couple of hours. A pretty good police presence was half-watching the crowd, and they had set up a few blue sawhorse barriers to keep things contained. But the cops weren’t looking for trouble, and left it to hotel security to stop anyone who looked like they didn’t have a room. Adam had to show his press pass to get in.
The Impossible were being hyped as the next big thing, and they were kicking off their first arena tour as headliners, with three sold-out dates at the Garden. They weren’t that bad, but, even though they didn’t know it, they were staring at some pretty big hurdles. They’d made it big too fast, so their first huge tour was going to support their second album, which would probably have been a hurried and disappointing slice of vinyl under the best of circumstances. Worse, they desperately wanted to be the Rolling Stones, which not only suggested a serious lack of self-awareness, since musically speaking they were much closer to the Allman Brothers, but it also required expending tremendous energy to play the part, and begged for unflattering comparisons.
Adam stepped out of the elevator and found everything exactly as it would have been described in the hard rock handbook. Music from multiple sources, drinks everywhere, a disproportionate number of very beautiful, very young women, and long tables of food visited only by reporters and the most distant hangers-on. A few uniformed cops stood around doing nothing much—they were probably there at the hotel’s insistence. They were mostly scarecrows posted to make sure things didn’t get really out of hand, as well as some in plain clothes mixed in unobtrusively, who were probably involved with security while the band was in town.
Adam knew he had to talk to the lead singer and the guitarist, especially if he planned to do a TV spot on the concert—the camera would accept no substitute for something along the lines of “Mik Jett told me before the show that this was the album they always wanted to make.” But he also knew that if he wanted to learn more about the band, he’d have to talk to the bass player. That was a trick he learned from Jason, who said he got it from Sammy.
He made the rounds with the band members, elbowing his way into the middle of the crowd around Mik—“We’re not the second coming of anything, we’re the first coming of us”; and then the smaller one surrounding Stu—“Mik’s into the whole rock star thing, I’m just the guitar player,” which would have had more credibility if he wasn’t wearing designer sunglasses and alligator boots.
With those chores behind him, Adam was able to track down Drew Baker, who had successfully warded off those few members of the media who sought him out with monosyllabic responses. Drew had a long Beatle haircut, and the bangs went all the way down to his eyebrows, so if he tilted his head slightly downwards a curtain of hair fell over his eyes—and that was good enough to discourage conversation. But when Adam introduced himself Drew actually said, “Hey, man, I loved your book,” and pushed his hair back from his face in a V. He agreed with Adam’s position on the Allman Brothers. There was a guy who knew how to guarantee great press coverage. Bright fellow, that bass player. He was going to make it, whatever happened to The Impossible.
Adam caught the eye of one of the plainclothes cops, and then headed down the hallway into one of the quieter suites, and from there into an empty bedroom. He turned on the TV and flipped it to a soap opera, and as it droned on he studied the room and the bathroom. This was actually his first time at the Waldorf, though he knew a hundred people who claimed to be there in ’68 the night that Keith Moon got The Who banned for life. Jason was keen to hear about the place—legend had it that FDR used a secret passage and elevator that would take him from Grand Central Station to the Waldorf’s Presidential Suite without going outside.
The door opened quietly and the plainclothes cop walked into the room. He was in his late thirties, with a thick moustache, and deep lines cut into his gaunt face.
“How did you get stuck baby-sitting these guys?” Adam asked, shaking his hand.
“They got death threats.”
“The Impossible? Somebody wants to kill them? I don’t think so. Twenty says the manager made it up.”
“It’s a pretty easy gig. Fifty tho
usand assaults this year, I’ll take the working vacation.” He looked incredulously at the soap opera on the TV.
“So,” Adam asked cautiously, “what do you got?”
“A whole lot of nothing.”
“Then why did you signal for a meeting?”
“It’s too big a change—there’s been a lot of cash around the station for a couple of months. Now, all of a sudden, its dry, very dry.”
“That’s it?” Adam said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“Look, I’m a cop, not a reporter. If I was undercover, and the cash flow changed, I’d watch my back. If it stopped coming, I’d know I was made, and get the hell out of there.”
“Okay, okay,” Adam said apologetically, “but what do I do with it?”
“I don’t know. You want something concrete, I’ve still got that guy who wants to talk about evidence tampering in the Bronx. He says it goes all the way to the District Attorney. Says what he’s got is gold.”
“Ah, evidence tampering—half the time they’re guilty anyway. Unless that DA is covering for the Mayor…?”
The cop shook his head. “Whatever. Give me a call if you want it, I think its solid.” He glanced at his watch. “I should get back. Wait a couple of minutes before you go, some of those uniforms might not be as dumb as they look.”
“Sure. Hey, thanks, man, I really appreciate you reaching out to me. I know it isn’t—”
“No problem.”
———
Two miles downtown, Alison was starting to get comfortable in her new office. She’d gotten all her books on the shelves, hundreds of big, dusty, obscure history tracts that she’d accumulated over the years, traveling the Midwest scouring used bookstores, library sales, and even picking through the bones of a few estates. She liked having them, even though it was pathetically materialistic, but a saving grace was that they weren’t worth much and would be of interest only to other seriously geeky historians. And as a bonus, having all those books floor to ceiling also made the office look like it belonged to a pipe-smoking full professor, and that foundation gave her the confidence not to hold back with the plants.
Progress was visible on all fronts. Her nameplate was affixed, mailbox properly alphabetized, and there was even a guy on a ladder taking a stab at the overhead light, but that had the makings of a long-term project. Maybe she was better off without it; something about the way he turned his screwdriver was interfering with her train of thought, and she was trying to put the finishing touches on a lecture.
There was a knock at the door, and two men entered the office and purposefully walked right up to the desk, reminding Alison of the benefits of chair-desk-chair. They wore cheap suits, and one was tall and one was fat—they could have passed for body doubles in a movie called Abbot and Costello Join the IRS. But there wasn’t a hint of comedy about them—if anything, in place of the dead stare of civil servants, Alison thought she could see a flicker of malice behind their eyes.
“We’re with the Office of Public Integrity,” the taller one mumbled, flashing an ID.
“Office of what? Could I get a closer look at that?”
“Sure.”
“And yours?” Alison asked the second man, who was holding his hat in one hand and studying her books.
She looked at both IDs carefully, more carefully than she needed to, but she wanted to make a point. “Thank you, Mr. Yeager, Mr. Ackerman,” she said, returning them.
Yeager looked at the ceiling. “Would you excuse us for a moment,” he instructed the handyman.
Ackerman escorted him to the door, and closed it. Fitting his hat back on, he adjusted his jacket as well.
“As I said,” Yeager continued, “we’re with the Office of Public Integrity, and we’d like to know what you were looking for in the government depository on—”
“Why do you ask?” she interrupted.
“Frankly, there are some very sensitive documents held there, and we keep careful track of them. Fact is, there’s a major corruption case we’re working on right now, and the walls have ears. If the wrong people thought that we were looking at them, or anybody was, well, let’s just say we like to keep an eye on these things.” He looked at her, waiting for an answer.
“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.”
“Look, Miss Monroe—”
“Professor Monroe.”
“Professor of what, botany?” Ackerman chimed in. He had left the books and been touring the plants.
“History,” she said evenly.
“We also understand,” Yeager added, “that there were a couple of other people with you. Some associates perhaps?”
“That’s why I was there. I was training graduate students in how to work with primary source material. That’s what we historians do. As for the documents, they were chosen at random.”
“And the students? Also chosen at random?”
“No. They were chosen by me.”
“Do they have names?”
“They were there under my supervision, and my authority.” Alison felt her heart pounding in her chest, but she knew that as far as anyone could tell, she was a rock. “If you’re looking for anyone, you’re looking for me. I won’t have my teaching interfered with.”
“It’s just procedure,” Yeager said casually, his eyes making a quick survey of the items on Alison’s desk.
“It doesn’t matter,” Alison said definitively, “I won’t make a list of my students, for any reason.” She wondered if they understood the meaning behind the phrase “won’t make a list,” but it reinforced her courage in any event. “If there was a court order,” she added, raising her eyebrows, “I might consider it.” By which she meant to say she wouldn’t. She shuffled some papers on her desk, removing them from Yeager’s gaze and inviting them to wrap up.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Professor,” Yeager said, and turned to leave. “One more thing. I don’t suppose you need to be reminded that even though you can use those records for your research, it would be against the law to share that information with anybody else, say like your sister, or a reporter.”
Alison met his stare and watched them while they left. “Leave it open, please,” she called out as Ackerman grabbed the doorknob on his way out. He pulled it closed.
Alison counted to twenty before grabbing the phone book and scanning it for the Office of Public Integrity under the City of New York listing. As she suspected, there was no such listing. But closing the book back up, she noticed that it was from 1973. Tracing her finger under the date, she tapped the last digit twice, shaking loose a half-formed thought. She picked up the phone and dialed for information. Turned out there was such an office, but it was just a couple of years old. She gave them a call, and it took only two transfers to reach someone helpful.
“Yes,” she asked, “I’m looking for two of your inspectors, Yeager and Ackerman. I do have the correct agency, do I not?”
“Oh yes,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “But they’re out on a call just now. Would you like to leave a message?”
Alison stared at the phone.
“Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and hung up.
18
Jason and Bill continued on their flight to Staten Island. Jason was still thinking about Shea Stadium and counting how many specific memories he could associate with it. There could easily have been more, but he didn’t really get out much during the ’sixty-nine season, when men walked on the moon and the miracle Mets won the World Series. He’d seen a few games in ’seventy-three, the year they came out of nowhere and won the pennant. But ’seventy-three wasn’t ’sixty-nine, and there was no sense in pretending that it was. He looked over at Bill, whose face was tight.
“You get out to Shea much? I mean, you know, when it’s open for business?” Jason added with a little smile.
“No, I was never much for baseball.”
“Huh. I kind of had you p
egged as a die-hard Dodgers fan.”
“My father.”
“Mine too.”
That was about as much sharing as Bill seemed to be in the mood for. He shifted his weight a bit and switched hands with the attaché case he was holding, looking down at it as if it was unfamiliar. His grip seemed very tight, but Jason couldn’t remember how much white he’d seen on his knuckles in the past. They sat silently.
“That old man looked familiar,” Jason finally said.
Bill looked at Jason, his eyes hinting at something, but it was only a hint, and Jason wasn’t getting it.
“Didn’t you say you lived around here?”
“Couple of miles.”
“He’s from around here, too. You’ve probably seen him. He takes an interest in local affairs.”
“He looked pretty concerned,” Jason offered.
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one from Queens. Sometimes he worries about me.”
“How long have you lived in Queens?” Jason asked, half for sport and half because he was still sticking with his Brooklyn theory.
Bill again turned his head and looked out the side window, ending the conversation. He looked at his watch.
“How much longer you figure?”
“Seven minutes. Unless we run out of gas, then it’s probably five. You a good swimmer?”
No response. Bill was like a closed fist, and it was getting tighter. But Jason had some things to talk about, and besides, part of him was enjoying the challenge.
“You see the papers?” Jason asked. “Those four dead guys? I think one of them attacked that woman the other day. Maybe it was all four of ’em. Shot in the head.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Some people attract trouble, I guess.”
“Fuck ’em,” Bill said defiantly. “Sometimes the system works, you know?” He looked at his watch again.
“You sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Something’s always wrong.”
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