by Mysti Parker
“I love you, Sailor Kingston.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, then shared a laugh. How could those words be so cheesy and so right at the same time?
“Is this a dream? I never thought something like this would ever happen to me,” Sailor said.
“Same here. But let’s get practical. We have the meeting in a few hours. Let’s get ready for that. Tonight, we’ll have even more to celebrate.”
With the stress of the lawsuits in the background, the weirdness of the two Chasidic bruisers in the barroom a constant reminder of the bar’s troubles, and the meeting with Chaim Rabinowicz coming up, both of their nervous systems were in excessively high gear. If Sailor brought her anxiety with her, things probably wouldn’t go well.
“Let’s go into the city first,” Sailor said. “We’ll spend a couple of hours in Manhattan before it’s time for the meeting. I know you haven’t been yet.”
Ace yawned, shifted. There was that little twist of pain in his face that she both loved, because it was part of him, and dreaded, because she didn’t want him to hurt anywhere. “Sure, sounds great, Sailor.”
“What do you want to see? The Empire State Building? I could get you a new suit, I know a place by there. We could go The Met and see the Egyptian temple.”
“You know, Sailor, actually… The place that’s really special to first responders is the 9/11 Memorial. Some of my brothers in arms back in Bowling Green came up to see it. I’ve been thinking about going.”
A few train changes later, and they got off the R at Cortland Street. The memorial was only two blocks away. Sailor walked him north on Church Street instead of taking the most direct route. There was something else she wanted to show him first. That early, the street was quiet, wet from an earlier rain. The natural ups and downs of the cobblestone streets blended with the looming dark glass buildings to create a strange geometry. The fumes from trucks blended with the distant stink of the harbor. Here and there a blue-jumpsuited Doe Fund street cleaner or umbrella-wielding businessman could be seen. The silvery 4 WTC tower hung on their left as she guided Ace toward the huge bird-winged street entrance to the Oculus.
“This is one of Manhattan’s newer attractions. It’s really a PATH train and subway station, but the architecture is breathtaking.”
After some walking along a shopping concourse – nothing was open yet – they came out into a massive atrium of curving overhead beams that looked like the rib cage of a giant creature. It was flooded with light.
“Santiago Calatrava is a great visionary,” Sailor told Ace.
“Who’s he?”
“The architect. This design reminds me in a lot of ways of Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I see the influence of Gaudi in the way he uses light.”
Ace looked at her and gave a slight smile. “I like the light.”
“I hope I wasn’t talking too much.”
“No, never.”
They went back out to the street and walked about two blocks. The roar of falling water soon masked all other sounds as they approached the Memorial.
Two massive man-made waterfalls, their sides lit in orange, poured clear water into a black bottom, at the center of which was another dark descent. The two giant pools, located just over the foundations of the Twin Towers, were only the distance of a small plaza apart. They stood together at the glass and steel barricade on the side of one of the pools. Sailor saw that Ace was clutching the metal railing. His chin was lowered to his chest.
Should she ask? Or try to comfort him? She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Not much that could be said in this situation. She had been a small child when 9/11 took place and didn’t remember much; he was six years older, a young teenager.
“Do you remember?” she asked him.
“We watched on TV. The whole family got together at Granny’s house in the evening and watched the news. I remember I said to my dad that I felt like I should have been there. We should have been there. We could have done something. We could have helped. People have to help each other.”
Sailor saw the pain in his eyes, reached to touch his cheek. “We do. I understand that. You’re so right. I wish my parents had raised me like that. All I got from them was lessons on self-preservation and trying to be better than other people.”
“But you…” He took her hand from his cheek and held it in his. “You’re nothing like that.”
“Well. I’m not, no. I don’t want to be. But I’m not like you, either. At least, I never was. But I want to be. You should be proud, I mean, not for what you have or what you accomplished, but how you treated other people.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ace let go her hand and propped himself on the railing. “And you try, and you try, and for everyone you help, there are more you couldn’t. And you live with that. You harbor it. You know you shouldn’t, but it stays with you.”
They watched the waterfall for a while, then headed for the main entrance to the museum. Sailor had already purchased and printed out their tickets, so after the security screening, they made for the escalators. A battered girder hung over the steep descent.
Ace’s grip on her hand tightened the further down they went.
Chapter Eleven
Solemn. That was the only thing Ace could think of to describe how this place felt. Other people were scattered here and there, voices hushed, looking at the last concrete column brought out of the rubble. Names and messages were scribbled all over it. One message was FDNY Ladder 3. Ace wondered if any of those men had survived. He knew how a survivor would feel if his brothers in uniform fell, leaving him still standing. It had happened to him a couple times.
They reached the Before 9/11 section in the Historical Exhibition. Models of the World Trade Center buildings sat inside glass boxes. Descriptions and pictures of it being constructed were nearby. Flyers announcing business conferences and dinner parties spoke of the excitement and energy that had once filled this place. That morning, a Tuesday, if he remembered correctly, those nearly three thousand people had boarded planes, gone to work and reported to duty not knowing that another ordinary day would be their last.
At the Events of the Day section, they stopped at the crushed Ladder 3 firetruck. Sailor read the description silently.
“They all died,” she whispered. “All eleven of them.”
Ace nodded. He couldn’t speak.
“They were so brave to go into those buildings. Like you are.”
His jaw tensed, and he swallowed hard. They still had a lot to see. He couldn’t let himself fall apart at the seams just yet. Not in front of Sailor.
Sailor squeezed his arm, looking up at him with a look of wonder and a tremulous smile, as though she hadn’t witnessed such emotion before. And then he realized she probably hadn’t.
Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke quietly, his gaze locked on the faces of the men lost, forever frozen in time. “That’s what you do as a first responder. You go toward the danger, knowing full well that you might not be walking back out.”
She interlaced her fingers with his and brought his hand to her lips, giving it a gentle kiss. There wasn’t anything left to be said.
They left notes of hope on the digital displays in Memorial Hall, which appeared above them on a huge screen that featured a world map. Ace wrote, “Gone but never forgotten.”
By the time they left, the anxiety had waned, replaced with a humble respect for those who had sacrificed so much for the people of this city.
"How about we grab a little snack and go somewhere less..." Sailor said, waving her hand around as though she couldn't find the right word.
"Sad?"
She nodded. "I know just the place."
A short subway ride later, they stood alongside the big bronze bull on Wall Street. The most notable thing about it, though, was a bronze statue of a little girl, hands on her hips, facing off with the bull. The bull himself looked as though he had just stopped short of colliding with her.
Ace smiled at Sailor. "She reminds me of you.
"
"Me? No, I'm not that brave."
"I beg to differ, ma'am," he said. "I don't know many women who are as determined to succeed as you are in the face of charging bulls, or drunks in your case."
Her neck flushed as she cast him a bashful smile and got out her cell phone. She asked a French tourist standing nearby if she'd take their photo.
"Of course," the woman said and took her phone.
Ace stood beside the bull, with his head down, arms and legs poised to charge. Sailor stood beside the little girl, hands on her hips, chin raised in defiance.
"Good, good,” the tourist said. She took a picture of Ace by the bull, then Sailor by the girl. When she lowered the phone, Sailor burst out laughing as Ace pointed his fingers on his head and 'charged'. He swept her up in his arms and spun around before setting her back on her feet. She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. Seeing her like this lifted away the somber mood of the 9/11 Museum. He'd become an addict to seeing her happy, but it was an addiction worth keeping.
"Thank you so much," Sailor said to the tourist, then returned the favor by taking a picture of her and her family - a husband and two kids - posing the same way by the statues.
"Come on," Sailor said, grabbing Ace's hand. "I want some ice cream."
They walked across the street and down the block to Carvel and got a couple soft serve cones. Then she led him back across the street to the small city park called - he read the sign and laughed - Bowling Green.
"Thought you'd like this," she said. "I bet it's not like the Bowling Green where you live."
"No, except for the grass and flowers and trees. Plenty of those down there."
"I'd love to see Kentucky sometime," she said as they settled on a bench, where she nestled herself up against him.
Ace wrapped his arm around her. "Maybe I can take you there."
"Maybe." She glanced at him with a smile and then focused on her ice cream. Kids laughed and tossed pennies in the big fountain in the center of the park. Flowers and tree branches swayed in the cool breeze.
Ace devoured his cone, wondering if she really meant that, or if she'd get tired of him and send him back to Bowling Green. A couple with a baby stroller approached. The woman smiled and waved at Sailor.
"Hey, Ellie," Sailor greeted. She scooted out from under Ace's arm and stood. "How's the baby?"
"Oh, he's just as ornery as his dad," Ellie said and smiled at the guy beside her, a dark-haired man with hair in a ponytail and a short-trimmed beard. Ace could tell she was from the South from her accent. She had pretty light brown hair held back with a pink headband.
The man shook his head and got the baby out of the stroller. "Yeah, yeah, at least I don't puke on you...often."
They all laughed at that.
"Luke, right?" Sailor asked. He nodded and bounced the baby gently in his arms. She turned to Ace. "This is Luke and Ellison Martelli. Ellie's from Lexington. She's a friend of Harper's."
"Went to UK together," Ellie added.
Ace stood, shaking hands with Ellie, then Luke. "Any friend of my cousin is a friend of mine," he said.
"Oh, you must be Ace! Harper told me about you and said we should meet up. Two country mice in the city, right?"
"Right," he said, laughing. He nodded toward Luke. "You look like a motorcycle guy."
He shrugged. "Cars, though I've worked on some nice bikes." The baby dropped a pacifier from his mouth. Luke caught it before it hit the ground and kissed the baby's cheek lovingly before handing him over to Ellie.
Ellie proudly showed him off to Sailor, then handed him to her. Sailor got an awkward hold on him, her face twisted in worry like she might break him. Then she looked down at his face and smiled so sweetly it melted Ace's heart. Would that be him and Sailor someday? With her childhood and lifestyle, he wondered if marriage and kids appealed to her at all. Then again, he couldn't think that far ahead just yet.
The guys talked about classic cars and bikes while the women shared funny stories about their guys. But like all good things, their fun day had to come to an end. It was time to meet with the Chaim Rabinowicz clan to get to the bottom of Sailor's trouble.
****
Ace dropped Sailor off at her place, then left for his apartment to clean up and change. He came back to pick her up soon after, dressed in business casual. They rode his motorcycle back to The Hole and switched to her car.
Slightly early – a parking space had incredibly opened up even in the crowded Williamsburg shopping area - they met Rabbi Pinchas Milikowsky on the street outside Shloimy’s. He didn’t shake Sailor’s hand when she offered. Sailor knew better; she shouldn’t have offered. It was a religious prohibition.
“A few blocks' walk, not a problem?” the rabbi asked after introductions.
“Naw, we’re in shape. We do hot yoga,” said Ace.
“I do hot pastrami,” said Milikowsky.
They walked a few blocks on the busy street, dodging mothers pushing strollers and delivery men pushing dollies of goods.
“My outfit, it is respectful?” Sailor asked the rabbi. She had bought a Ralph Lauren dark blue suit that was a little looser on her than most things she wore. The Chasidic women wore skirts not pants, but fuck it.
“Nu, I wouldn’t wear it to shul, but I think it will be all right for today.”
They came to an apartment house. The rabbi pushed a buzzer, had a brief discussion in Yiddish with a person at the door, and then led his two charges inside. The spare Chasidic man at the door led the three of them up a few flights of stairs. The door of an apartment was already open to receive them.
“Wait here,” the rabbi said in the hallway. He walked into a room on the side, and there was a quiet exchange in Yiddish. From another opening in the hallway, a boy with a solid black yarmulke and a long earlock peered at them curiously. A woman came up behind him and pulled him away. Some whining from the out-of-sight boy followed.
“Cute kid,” Ace said to the man who had guided them to the apartment.
“My nephew,” he answered. “Avi. He’s meshugena.” Meshugena meant 'crazy.'
Rabbi Milikowsky emerged and gestured to Sailor and Ace. “It’s time.”
Sailor entered the room to find a large dining table cluttered with papers at one end. In the center were an antique brass samovar and a tray of delicate teacups and saucers, along with a dish of disposable creamers and some spoons. A plate held a few rugelach and a lot of crumbs.
Seated at the head of the table was a burly, bearded man in a white shirt with black suspenders. He was mostly bald. His yarmulke was a little loose on his head, held in place by a clip. He didn’t rise when they entered. Behind him were several more Chasidic men and women, the men all in black suits and white shirts, the women in neutral-colored skirt suits with obvious dowdy wigs.
Milikowsky said, “Rav Chaim, here is Sailor Kingston, daughter of Roger, along with her security man, Mr. Ace Montgomery.”
Ace leaned in to shake the hand of the seated man.
“Ten thousand dollars,” said Chaim Rabinowicz without prelude, looking directly at Sailor’s eyes. “Ten thousand dollars, from each of these individuals standing behind me, given to your father for investment purposes. And you can guess what he promised. Find new investors, and you will receive a portion of their contribution, and a portion of the profits from the land that is developed. You understand?”
“I understand,” Sailor said. “My father was a big talker.”
“A swindler!” Rabinowicz burst out. “Big talk is one thing, but taking money from hard-working people with your big talk, that is another. These people behind me, they… go ahead, have one.”
Ace took a rugelach. “Thanks. These aren’t so common in Kentucky.”
“You should go there and open a bakery,” said Milikowsky. “I can find you a man with a yiddishe kop who knows all the recipes.”
Rabinowicz did not smile; Ace’s gambit had failed to break the tension. “I was saying, these people behind me
, they are working people, with stores and businesses. They pray. They care for their family. You understand. They didn’t come to me. That was their mistake. I would have seen your father for what he was. I would have warned them. You know what they call your father’s dirty business, right?”
“It sounds like a Ponzi scheme,” Sailor said. “Like Bernie Madoff went to jail for.”
“Yes, exactly. It sounds like a Ponzi scheme, because that is exactly what it was. Behind me you see loss of not only ten thousand dollars each, but a betrayal of trust, a shame in the community, a predatory act against working people of a community that must stand up for its own!”
“I’m ashamed of my father for doing it,” Sailor said. “But I wasn’t part of it. I didn’t know what he was doing. He never trusted me with any of his business details, and of course, he was too smart to keep written records of something like this. So when he died, I could only settle the debts his lawyer and accountant told me about.”
“Do you have their money?” Chaim Rabinowicz demanded. “Some secret bank account in Switzerland or the Virgin Islands, hmm?”
“My dad had some accounts like those. I cleaned them out to pay off his debts. He could have squirreled away some of their money there. But he owed a lot. I took my inheritance under the will, and my sister took hers, and we sold off all the property he had except the building I live in and the bar that I operate.”
Rabinowicz snorted. “You could be lying. If you are Roger Kingston’s daughter, and he was a liar, why would you be truthful?”
“She’s honest and good,” Ace said. “I’m a lawman, and I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Rabinowicz shifted his glare to Ace. “Yes, I heard about you. Someone brought me a copy of an article about you. Stabbed, left to bleed, with the strength to live. A hero of the Kentucky police force. A man of integrity, so it was said. A hero. Maybe true. But is that enough? Can I turn to these people behind me, men and women who look to me as a father, and say to them, a Kentucky policeman was stabbed, so now you have to forget that harm was done to you?”
“I’m not telling you that,” Ace said.