by Norman Green
Maybe that’s not exactly true anymore, she thought.
Maybe it never was.
Cadman Plaza was a wide street, two lanes in each direction, an empty park on one side, a broad, brick-paved walkway on the other. The streetlights of Cadman Plaza and the light coming out of the buildings on Henry Street, one block over, kept the darkness at bay. Her apartment was directly across from the subway stairs, where Pineapple Street ended at Henry. Alessandra turned her back, slowly walked the three blocks down Cadman to the beginning of Henry Street, then turned and headed up Henry.
It was odd how the neighborhood people seemed to step out around her. Brooklyn Heights was mostly middle and upper-middle class, but in New York City, the less fortunate are not always content in the spaces reserved for them, and some of them make their presences felt whenever and wherever they’ve a mind to. The suited gentry on their ways home gave her a generous berth, their eyes averted. They must have accepted me before, she thought. They must have thought I was one of them. How come I couldn’t tell? I always felt like the kid outside the window, with her nose pressed up against the glass, staring in at all the things she couldn’t have. And it was almost funny, if her heart hadn’t been halfway up her throat she’d have laughed, because homeless loony wasn’t the effect she’d been going for. You should have asked Anthony to go with you, she thought, he’d have known what you should wear. And he’d have been happy to help.
She walked past the intersection of Pineapple and Henry, stood on the sidewalk on the far side of Henry Street and stared down Pineapple, past the entrance to her building. She felt curiously disconnected, alien, she couldn’t find that sensation of home in this place either. You have to let this place go, she thought. All you had here was a one-room rat hole with your name on it. And now anytime anybody’s looking for you, all they have to do is camp out here and wait for you to show up. You can’t come back here again.
Her stomach turned over, and she felt a wave of sadness wash over her. At least it was my rat hole, she thought. Finally got the rent paid up, even had a couple months’ cushion . . . The place was mine, I wasn’t there on anyone else’s sufferance. But she’d lost it. Maybe she’d already known that, but the impact of the realization hit her as she stood on the sidewalk. She shrugged herself deeper into the canvas jacket, pulled the collar high up around her ears. You’re really doing great, Martillo, she told herself. No home, lousy job you’re barely hanging onto, and you got your ass kicked. Hell of a week.
The Brooklyn Union Gas truck was gone, of course. Cars were parked down one side of Pineapple Street, complying with New York City’s complex, arcane, and profitable alternate side of the street parking code. Traffic crawled slowly past her on Henry Street, creeping up to the light on the next block. A few big drops of rain spattered down out of the night sky. They hit her, the sidewalk, and the cars parked on Henry Street, contributing a hollow metallic mutter to the background noise.
Terrific, she told herself. Now it’s gonna rain, too. What else can go wrong? She stepped off the curb, stood between two parked cars and looked across the street at the St. George Hotel. There was a subway stop down under the building. You went through street-level doors into an arcade just inside where there were some tiny shops and an elevator that took you down underground to the Clark Street station. You can go in there, she told herself. You can go hang with all of the other tragic figures who, whether through birth or misadventure, no longer possess either the resources or the intestinal fortitude to provide for themselves . . .
There was a guy sitting behind the wheel of the car she stood in front of. He had a phone to his ear. He stared at her and she stared at him, and a second later her self-pity was gone, replaced by that white-hot rage that had been her downfall so many times. She wanted to drag the guy out of his car and bounce his head off the hood. “What are you looking at?” She shouted it, louder than she needed to, and the guy broke eye contact, pretended to fiddle with his car radio while he continued talking on the phone. Al clamped her teeth shut, steaming. Knock it off, she told herself. The shape you’re in, this guy could kick your ass. Hell, his grandmother could probably kick your ass right about now. A panel truck came to a stop in front of her, and she stepped out, walked around behind the truck and crossed the street.
She could feel the guy’s eyes on her. She glanced back when she reached the opposite sidewalk. The panel truck had crept forward, and the guy’s face stood out white in the driver’s side window of his car. Screw him, she thought, why do you care what he thinks? But she walked past the entrance to the subway arcade, continued up to the corner, and turned right. There was another entrance to the subway arcade just up ahead, out of the guy’s line of sight, and she went in there.
The arcade was a large, L-shaped corridor. The air was heavy with that old-building smell, musty and damp, with a faint touch of ozone from the subway mixed with the essence of too many humans in too small a space. A Korean guy stood outside the flower kiosk and stared at her as she walked by, as did the Indian guy behind the newsstand counter. She knew why, she understood how hard they worked for what they took home, how much every bit of stolen merchandise impacted their lives, but it was hard not to hate them for their careful watchfulness. You get sick of it, this idea people have that they know something about you just from looking at you. She went all the way through, back around to the Henry Street entrance, the one she’d passed by, stood just inside the doors and looked out. The guy she’d yelled at was out of his car, standing on the street. He was still yakking on the phone, a little more animated now, gesticulating at whoever he was talking to, but then he snapped the phone shut, shook his head disgustedly, crossed the street, and headed in the direction Al had taken.
Whoever he’d been talking to must have told him to shake his butt, Al thought.
Oh, shit. They had someone waiting to see if you’d come back.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
She opened the arcade door, stuck her head out, looked up the street in time to see him turn the corner, just as she had.
Get out now, she told herself, go, get lost. She stood still for an extra moment, though. You better be smart about this, she told herself. They put on the full-court press last time you were here, so they might have the exits covered. That means you should forget about the subway. And taxis don’t spend a lot of time cruising the Brooklyn streets—the money is all in Manhattan. You could try to walk out of here, she thought, but you’d really be rolling the dice.
Go to ground, she told herself. Find a place to hide. But Brooklyn Heights wasn’t that kind of neighborhood. There were no empty buildings, no dark and fragrant barrooms, every available storefront housed a boutique or an expensive wine shop or a chichi little restaurant, places she’d be lucky to get into, where she’d stand out even if she did get past the front door. And the only empty lot was the one right next door to her building. It was hemmed in by brick walls on each side, and by tall fences front and back. Weeds and sumac bushes grew high there, obscuring de cades’ worth of accumulated trash. It’d be stupid to try to hide in there, she thought, it’s too close and too obvious.
But she was out of time. She took one glance back over her shoulder and headed on out.
You couldn’t get into the empty lot by way of Pineapple Street, the fence was too high and too tight. If you went down the alley behind the deli on Henry Street, though, you could squeeze through a gap in the fence. Alessandra could feel her heart accelerate as she went down the alley. Every step takes you farther out of sight, she thought, farther from public view. There won’t be any passersby to save you, not this time. And the way you’re feeling right now, a schoolgirl could beat you to death with her bookbag. But it was too late to reconsider, too late for a plan B. Her hand shook as she reached for the metal post where the metal links of the fence were pulled back. She had to stoop down and twist herself sideways to get through the opening, and the pain took her breath away. She gritted her teeth, blinked the tear
s back. Suck it up, Martillo, she told herself. You’re in too far to back out now. You have to do this.
Once through, she was in a clump of sumac bushes. She found a spot on the ground to sit down, gathering the folds of green corduroy beneath her. It’s only dirt, she told herself, and you don’t care about this dress, anyhow. But it was hard, just then, being afraid, being hurt, being alone. Sixty seconds, she told herself. You’ve got one minute to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. She waited as long as she dared, until the pain in her side abated enough to allow movement once again. She got up, then, carefully, rolling over onto her hands and knees, rocking back on her feet, rising slowly.
She looked up. She could make out the roofline of her building in the dark night sky overhead, black on black, five stories above. We were about in the center of the roof, she thought, right about in the middle when that guy’s phone went over the edge. It was a Nextel phone, one of the tough ones they made for blue-collar guys. It just might have survived the fall, if she were lucky it might have landed in the weeds and not on any of the junk littering the empty lot. She made her way to the center of the lot, looking up to judge her progress, feeling her way in the dark.
She heard them back at the fence. One of them made too much noise, grunted as he got through the opening. Probably the head guy, Al thought, either old or fat. There was some whispering, then, and footsteps moving, fanning out. They’re gonna make a line, she thought, work their way across the lot, see if they can turn me up.
Something crashed in the bushes then, behind her and off to the far side of the lot. “This way!” someone shouted, and her pursuers converged noisily on the sounds. Al ignored her reflexes, held her ground and listened as hard as she could.
“Ah, shit!” came a second voice. Then someone screamed. It was a high, thin scream, quavery, an old person’s scream.
“Shut up,” someone said, but the screaming went on. Al heard the unmistakable sound of a slap then, the sharp crack of a hand against skin, and then another one, but that didn’t stop the screamer, it just aroused them further.
“Police! Police! Help! Help!” Whoever it was, they went on for another thirty seconds or so, but seemed to lose their intensity then, and faded off to nothing.
“Forget it,” one of the voices said. “We’re wasting our time here.”
“Sammy said he seen her.”
“We’re wasting our time,” the voice repeated. “Who knows what Sam really saw. We’re out of here.”
“Jesus. You mean we can go home? I thought Jerry T said—”
“Tomasino said to give it a shot, he didn’t say we had to camp out here for a week. I’ve had enough. Come on, let’s go.”
Al listened to them make their way back to the fence and out of the lot. She didn’t quite believe they were leaving, though. That last bit of conversation might have been for my benefit, she thought. They followed me in here, they’re probably waiting for me to come back out. She settled down in the brush, arranged her skirt beneath her in the dirt. She concentrated on slowing her breath, waited for her heart rate to come back down to something like normal, focused on the noises around her. Whoever the screamer had been, they were still on the far side of the lot, maybe thirty feet away, but Al could hear sounds of cautious movement in the brush. She sat still in the dark as the sounds got closer and closer. Then they stopped, and she smelled a sharp feral stink. “Did they hurt you?” she said, keeping her voice down to a whisper. “I heard the slaps.”
“Wasn’t nothing,” a voice whispered back, startlingly close. Al looked for the speaker, but it was too dark for her to make out anything. She couldn’t even tell if the speaker was male or female. Old, though, with the whisper of missing teeth. Al decided to assume the voice was female. “Just a couple love taps. Was it you they was after?”
“Yeah,” Al said.
“I know you. You live in the building next door. Never seen you in a dress before, though.”
She hasn’t decided to trust you yet, Al thought. “They came the other night,” Al said. “That was the first time. They took me up on the roof. They said they were going to throw me off, but they didn’t. They just threw my phone instead.” She waited, listening intently, heard nothing. “It’s not worth any money,” she said. “It’s only a telephone.”
“You come here to look for it?”
“No,” Al said. “I just wanted to go home.” Stupid, she thought. What were you thinking? “They were waiting for me.”
“I got the phone.”
Alessandra could feel the sweat on her forehead. You’re running hot, she told herself. You probably do belong in bed. If you catch something out here, Rachel’s going to have a fit next time she sees you. “Can I . . . um, can I buy it from you? I could use the numbers in it.”
She was silent then, and Al wondered if she had insulted the woman by offering to pay for the phone. You never knew, with crazy people, what would set them off.
“You let me into the building once, last winter, when it was snowing.”
She couldn’t remember doing it. “Cold, in the winter.”
“I don’t mind cold. Cold’s fine, long’s I stay dry. It’s the snow that’s bad, ’cause it melts inside my shoes, and then it freezes my feet.”
“I been on the street,” Al said. “I know how it is.”
“Did you ast too many questions?”
“What’s that? Did I what?”
“Ast too many questions. You get too nosy, they’ll come after you. That’s why I’m here. I know things. They find me, they’ll lock me away.”
“Who will?”
“Guvmint,” she said. “CIA. They don’t like people that astses too many questions.”
“I think you must be right,” Al whispered. “I probably did ask too many questions.”
“You got to lay low, like me.” The other voice was still quiet, but harsh, as if from too many cigarettes. “They can’t see you, they can’t get you. I tried suin’ ’em, you know, the CIA, LBJ, the city, the welfare people, tried to sue the police for harassment, I took ’em all to court, but that don’t work no more. You got to hide, that’s the only way to get by.”
“That’s good advice. I’ll try to be quiet for a while.” She found herself wishing she could go to sleep. You have to get back, she thought, you have to get back before you pass out.
The rustling in the bushes started up again, farther away, then very close. She felt something pressed into her hand, solid, rectangular, cold. A telephone. “Thank you,” she said, overwhelmed with fatigue. “Thank you. You want my coat?”
“Summertime. Don’t need a coat. If I last ’till winter, though, you might come look for me.”
“I promise.”
“Just chuck it over the fence. No need to come inside.”
“All right. I’m going to go, in a minute. When I do, I’ll leave twenty bucks on the ground here, right where I’m sitting.” There was no answer to that. Maybe she is insulted, Al thought. But she’ll pick up the twenty.
It was all she could do to start moving again. She made her way back out through the fence and down the alley. She stood, unsteady, on Henry Street. No one looked at her twice, no one made eye contact. This is my impression of a homeless bag lady, she thought, but nobody laughed. She waited, she didn’t have the juice for anything else. A yellow taxi passed her by, but about a half hour later, a gypsy cab pulled over at her signal. She gave the guy Anthony’s address, and he took off. He was an island guy, spoke Spanish with a Dominican accent. He told her he had been a doctor back in his country, told her she looked like shit. He had to wake her when they got there.
Eighteen
“Jesus Christ, Martillo, are you all right?” It was Gearoid O’Hagan. Al had been half asleep, even though it was almost noon. She was still recovering from her exertions of the previous night. The phone had startled her awake, and she’d answered it out of reflex.
“I’m fine,” she said, and she exhaled, sagged back down into her p
illows.
“T’ain’t what I heard,” O’Hagan said. “I heard you was damn near killed. I heard—”
“Relax, Gro. I’m fine.”
“It’s a lie, then? You weren’t set upon outside of your apartment? You didn’t get beat half to death? And why don’t you answer your goddamn phone? I been half out of my mind, worrying about you.”
“That’s very nice of you,” she said. “I got knocked around a little bit, but I’ll be all right in a couple of days. Where did you hear about all this?”
“Himself told me. Al, why don’t you lay low for a while? It’s plain you’ve gone and kicked over the hornet’s nest. First there was that t’ing up in the Bronx, and now this. Nothing you’re doing can be worth this. It ain’t worth getting killed over.”
“Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know,” he said. “But does the why of it really matter? There’ll be other opportunities for you, Al. There’s other t’ings coming your way. Where are you, anyway? You have a safe place to stay?”
She was still half asleep, and she answered without thinking. “I’m home, Gro.”
“Are you out of yer feckin’ mind?” His voice went high and tight. “They’re bound to be watchin’ after you there! Listen to me, I’m gonna get in me car right now, you pack up whatever stuff you need for the next week or so, and—”
“Gro, relax. I’m in a safe place.”
“Hah.” He was clearly exasperated. “You ain’t at home, then.”
She looked around. She was in the bed in Anthony’s spare bedroom. This isn’t where I live, not anymore. I don’t belong here, not with Tio Bobby gone.
She reproached herself. He’s not gone yet. Not that you know of, anyhow. “I’m at my girlfriend’s house,” she told O’Hagan, and she hoped Anthony had not heard her say it. “I’m gonna stay here for a few more days. When I start feeling a little better, I’ll be back at it.”
“You know, you are one hardheaded woman. Listen to me. I can get you some money. Maybe about ten K, I’ll take it out of one of Caughlan’s slush funds. Call it severance, why don’t you? You can use it to buy time for yourself to find something better for yourself. Don’t be so goddamned proud about this.”