Connections (18 page)

Yolanda fanned herself on the fire escape. The backs of her thighs stuck to the vinyl of the folding chair, and she shifted her buttocks to pry herself off carefully, like peeling a Band-Aid from sore skin. She tugged her shorts down. Four stories above the sidewalk she had a box seat view of 187
^th
Street. The stoops in both directions were colored with women in bright shirts and pull-on pants, gossiping on the steps. Near the corner bodega, a group of older men kibitzed over three checker games, the players teamed against each other across wooden crates. An open fire hydrant gushed over children in bathing suits; a little kid held his hand over the valve, and they squealed as the water squirted in all directions. Teenage boys played ball in the street and girls, pretending an interest in the score, cheered them on, combing their hair and massaging their lips to spread the gloss. Then they turned to take selfies with the boys behind them. Toward the avenue, some tough guys leaned on the cyclone fence surrounding an empty lot, leather vests flapping on their bare chests as they strutted in front of one another, smoking and cursing.

“Please, Mama, please,” Elena’s voice whined from inside. “No.”

“But why not?”

“
Porque
.”

“Because, why?”

“
Porque
. Because I said.”

“But, Mama—”

“
Suficiente!
” Yolanda slapped her hands on her thighs. When she stood the sweat dribbled down to her knees. She raised her leg to climb back inside the window. Straddling the sill, she yelled, “Go downstairs and play, you wanna do something. Or take the twins outside and watch them.”

“But I wanted to ta-alk.” Elena’s voice broke the word into two syllables.

“Then go talk to Señora Sanchez. I’ll let you go over there.”

“Ma, that’s not the same. I see her every day. That’s no fun.”

“Fun? Poor Elena. Life is not supposed to be fun.” Yolanda stepped into the living room and opened her arms to her daughter. Of course life should be fun for a nine-year-old. God knows, she’d have a long enough time of hard work and responsibility. “Okay, you can call her. It’s just I don’t want to bother Ms. Sidway. She’s been very good to us, you hear? We don’t want to be a pain. And just ’cause Ricky got us a new phone don’t mean it’s for talking.”

“What else is a phone for, Mama?” Elena giggled.

“You know what I mean. It’s for important talking. And emergencies. Not for…I can’t think of the word in English. Just don’t annoy her, okay?”

“I won’t, Ma. She said I could call her whenever I wanted to.”

“Maybe she didn’t mean on a Sunday night. G’won, before I change my mind.” Yolanda slapped the girl’s behind affectionately.

Sabrina had been with Jason through his roughest and happiest years—his loneliness, his courtship, his adjustment to living with someone, passing his fiftieth birthday, taking the plunge to open a business, moving to the West Side. There were many times he considered leaving Chris or severing their relationship, fearing that his lover was a temporary pleasure in his life, knowing Sabrina was a permanent fixture. He didn’t think about it often but when he did, there was no question in Jason’s mind how much Sabrina meant to him. How much he needed her. Probably more than she needed him. There were periods in his life when her acceptance of him was the only thing preventing him from total self-destruction, when her love saved him from drowning in the dark depressions into which he sometimes sank. He would do anything in his power for her, so it would not have occurred to him not to pay the ransom—it was not one of his choices. Even when Chris tried to convince Jason to call the police, he didn’t suggest not paying, because Chris loved Sabrina too. Still, Chris thought they should try to catch the culprit. And save the money. Jason would not consider it.

“I still think Nettie Pedersen had something to do with it,” Chris said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

Jason re-counted the bills. “Nah. Too obvious. She’d be the first suspect; she’d have to realize that. Anti-gay, anti-animal, and no doubt anti-Semite. Probably why she at least nods to you.”

“Uh-uh. Guilt by association. She hates me as much as she hates you.”

“Well, I’m glad she doesn’t play favorites.”

Chris put his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Please let me go with you.”

“No, I can’t risk anything happening to her. The note is very clear. Somebody will be watching. The minute they see me with another person, it’s all over.”

“But the chances of them actually dognapping her are—”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna risk it.” Jason stopped counting the bills, having lost count. He stacked them together to start again, saying, “Wait a minute…why couldn’t you be there ahead of me? Watch what goes on? Then I leave, and you wait for them to show up. Maybe then we could get them.”

“I’ll do it,” Chris agreed. “I’d like to get my hands on the bastard. Twist his balls off. Slowly.”

“Unless he doesn’t have any.” Jason mouthed the numbers as he counted the hundreds, dealing them to the table.

“Come on…you don’t think it’s a woman, do you? If it’s not that bitch upstairs, I wouldn’t believe it. A woman isn’t capable of being so vicious.”

“Eighty-seven, eighty-eight,” Jason said out loud to keep his pace.

“And that Pedersen, I swear, Jase, she does have ’em. Only they’re brass.”

“I can’t imagine anyone with such a sick mind, threatening to do such a thing.”

Chris watched him put the 10,000 dollars in an envelope, make a new fold in the flap to stretch over the thickness, and tape it down. His love for Jason suddenly wrenched his heart; his respect for Jason’s determination tugged at his loins.

Dr. Pomalee’s crepe soles cushioned his footsteps. When he spoke, Laurie jumped and squealed in fright. “You scared me,” she said, leaning into the computer, blocking his view.

He shook his head as he read the papers in his hand. “Don’t you ever get tired of sitting at that damned computer?”

“I love it. You will too when you see everything it can do. When will you be ready for your demonstration?”

“Not now. Too busy. But I will. Promise.”

“How’d the tooth extraction go?”

Dr. Pomalee had to stoop his six-foot-four frame to lean on his hands on the back of her chair. “Patient’s fine. Mistress is a wreck. She’ll probably ask about getting a set of false teeth. Canine Caps—that’d be a good business name.”

Laurie laughed, and he swatted her with his folder. “Be back later if you need me for anything.”

She nodded. Once Dr. Pomalee was gone, she turned back to the computer screen to continue what she’d been reading:

“The roughly 78 million dogs in the country produce about 10 million tons of poop. One and a half million pets live in the city of New York.”

Laurie reached for her calculator to figure out how much waste that would be.

If I need him for anything?
she thought suddenly, and
she felt her cheeks burn.

“Slightly more than half are licensed.”

Boy, he would blush too if he knew what I was thinking!

And what I need him for.

They produce about seventy-five tons of waste per day.

I’d love to tell him.

Twenty-five thousand to thirty thousand tons a year.

Someday, I will.

A lot of shit. She smiled.

A strand of Rosa’s long gray hair fell on her shoulder. She deftly wound it around her finger, took an oversized hairpin out of her bun, and used it to work it back inside and smooth it down. The salesman waited for her to finish and return her attention to the showcase.

“Now this camera has both the automatic focus and automatic exposure. You don’t have to do anything. It thinks for you.”

“Still so confusing. I don’t know. Don’t you have—”

“And the beauty of it is”—he bounced it in his palm—“it weighs practically nothing. Here—feel.”

“Nah. Don’t they still make those simple ones? You know? That’s all I need.”

“Simple? Can’t get more simple than this. All you gotta do it aim and shoot. And look at this.” He unscrewed the lens. “You don’t want thirty-five millimeter, although that’s your most popular. You want close-ups; we put in a different lens—one, two, three.”

“Uh-uh. Really. How much is it anyway?”

“It lists for $379, but I tell you what—you’re such a nice lady, I’m going to give it to you for $299 if you buy it now. And I’ll throw in a leather case. How’s that?”

“What?” Rosa didn’t try to hide her surprise. “No, no, I only want a little thing, I don’t wanna spend more than twenty or twenty-five dollars. Oh, no, sorry.” She bent over and scooped up Princess. “Three hundred dollars! You crazy. No way.” She hurried toward the door, afraid to look back at him, at all the cameras that had to be replaced in their plastic bags and refit into the boxes. On her way out, she knew the foreign jabber behind her was the salesman complaining about her.
They don’t look like they have anything to do anyway,
she thought,
always lounging against the counters.
You could see them through the windows as you walked by. “It’s his own fault,” Rosa told Princess when they got out to the street. “I tell him I want a Brownie when I walk in.”

Eileen moved the bud vase with the silk rose off the mahogany drop-leaf table, turned the rag bond paper at the proper angle for writing, and placed her fountain pen, reserved for important signatures, next to it. The stage was set. A ballpoint on the kitchen table was good enough for paying bills, for keeping her ledger up-to-date, for correspondence, but solemn documents required a ceremonial ritual. Sitting at the old-fashioned secretary gave the sense of formality and dignity that her letter needed to make it official. The old piece of furniture, which had been her mother’s, her grandfather’s, and her great-grandfather’s, added a feeling of continuity, a connection to her past generations, a family authorization to whatever she wrote while sitting there.

I, Eileen Hargan, wish to add the following to my Last Will and Testament. If I should die before my beloved pet, Fibber McGee, I want him to live with my good friend and neighbor, Rosa Bassetti, 335 East 83rd Street, New York, NY 10028. In order for her to provide for him comfortably, I leave her the sum of…

She twisted the cap around on the back of the pen while she considered the amount. If she made it too much, Charlene would probably drag Danny into court to contest it. If it wasn’t enough…if it wasn’t enough, Rosa would take good care of him anyway. As good as Eileen did. Well, almost as good.

Now that they had vowed to do this for each other, Eileen was very happy, relieved to have such a great weight of worry lifted. If they had been any more serious—or drunk—she was sure they would have cut their wrists and mingled their blood in an oath. As it was, she was as giddy as a teenager about having a new friend. Somebody she could really talk to and share secrets with. They should spend more time with each other to give their dogs a chance to get used to them, just in case. She would suggest that. Maybe when she helped Rosa write
her
letter, because her English wasn’t so good. Rosa didn’t think she needed a letter. She had no money to leave, and nobody who would want her Princess. Still, as Eileen told her, it’s always best to put everything in writing.

Ken Hollis ordered fish and a draft beer. Bernie Petris’s thick eyebrows arched into question marks; he asked for a steak, closed the menu, and handed it back to the waiter. “What’s with you? On a diet?”

“No. Just trying to cut down on the bad stuff.” He stroked his chest. “All the animal fat, cholesterol, you know—things like that. Me? No, I’m not worried about my weight.”

“You’re lucky. You don’t have to be,” Bernie pushed back from the table to demonstrate his paunch. “That’s what I oughta be doing. My wife’s always after me. And now my kids’re nagging me to quit.” He patted the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. “So where are we?”

“Nowhere. Well, I shouldn’t say nowhere. A little closer than we were before. Talk, talk, talk, but to get these guys—your office included; your office
especially
—to
do
anything is like pulling teeth.”

“I know. But having the mayor admit there’s a problem and that we’re the ones who need to solve it, having him discuss it with the commissioner, actually call a meeting—”

“It would help a lot more if he
attended
the meeting.”

“I know, but look—do you have any idea what’s going on right now in the city? The threatened transit walkout, the highest crime rate we’ve ever had, Sanitation’s contract coming up, the Planning Commission scandal, and—”

“Whaddya think? I live on Mars? Of course I know.” Ken sucked the head off his beer. “Listen, know when they’ll do something? When somebody’s grandfather gets murdered on the way to his doctor’s office, or a poor old lady gets killed on her way to the incinerator with her garbage.”

“You’re probably right,” Bernie admitted, “but in a city like this, it’s hard enough taking care of the shit we have, much less finding the manpower—and the money—for shit before it even happens. Speaking of little old ladies, whatever happened with that woman in the bank? You know who I mean? The teller who called my office about the old lady making a large withdrawal?”

Ken watched the waiter put the steak, still sizzling in a metal platter, in front of Bernie. “Ah, that looks good.” He bent his head and took an audible sniff of his own lunch. “This, on the other hand, does not.” After tasting it, he said, “Healthy? Yes. Satisfying? Definitely not. Yes, Miss Hargan. A sweet old lady. Retired teacher. Typical spinster type. Very prim.”

“There’s an old-fashioned word.”

“Prim? Or Spinster? Yeah, but they’re just the right words to describe her. Old-fashioned. A real schoolmarm. And so…so sweet. Even while she was upset, you know, she offered me tea. She seemed so fragile. A tiny person. Prettiest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. You can tell she was beautiful when she was young. Girl in the bank was right.” Ken Hollis put his fork down and tried to grasp the fine bone stuck between his front teeth.

“Old scam? ‘We found this money on the street; you put up some of yours to show good faith, so we can share it!’”

“Um-um,” he mumbled. “Worse, much worse. She’s got a dog. Damn.” He gave up on the bone. “I’m never ordering fish again. I hate it anyway. No, it was extortion of the worst kind. Threatened to steal the dog. Kill it. You can tell she lives frugally, probably saved every penny she ever earned; neat apartment. She has to pay 10,000 dollars. She loves that dog. It’s her whole life. Ugly little thing, if you ask me. One of those Boston Bulldogs or Terriers or whatever you call them. Looks almost as old as she does. So what can she do? She’s scared to death. And while she’s trying to make up her mind if she should give her life’s savings, the bastards send her an ear. No, no, not her dog’s but somebody else’s dog’s. With a warning that if there’s any more delay, they’ll mutilate it. So of course she pays up.”

“Pricks!”

“The thing is, she did pay.” Ken moved his plate back and crumbled his napkin on top of it. “It was easy. You think they’re going to retire? On 10,000 dollars? Uh-uh. They’re going to do it again. And when they find out how many little old ladies who love their pets live in New York, how many elderly people on Social Security who never touch their real money because they’re afraid to…shit, there’s an inexhaustible supply of victims for them. Know what makes it even harder?” Ken stopped talking while the waiter cleared the table. “That we’ll never know. Who are they going to report it to? The local precinct? You said it yourself—the crime rate is higher than ever. The drug problem. So a senior citizen calls and says that she just got a letter asking for money. On a scale of one to ten, how do you think they’re going to prioritize it?” He looked at the waiter. “Just coffee, please. Decaf.”

Bernie grimaced at Ken. “You’re so good. I have to cut down on the caffeine too. But I’m not starting today. I’ll have regular,” he told the waiter. “You know, this might be a case for the NYPD, instead of some powerless committee about the elderly,” Bernie continued. “Starting last January, the ASPCA closed its investigative unit, and the police department now responds to all animal cruelty complaints. Luckily, Bill Bratton is an animal lover and since he took over the department, there’s been a 160-percent increase in animal rescues and arrests. ’Course the ASPCA still assists them in forensic investigation, field assistance, and training. Stuff like that.”

Ken tore open a packet of Sweet ’N Low, waiting for his coffee. “Don’t know if it’s animal cruelty or people cruelty. I was reading a dog magazine, and they had an article about this kind of swindle. In the Midwest, mostly. People put ads in the paper about their lost dogs. They get a call from somebody in the next state or somewhere saying they found the dog. Wire money so they can ship it back or escort it on a plane. But that’s small potatoes and, besides, the dog is already gone. It takes real New Yorkers to think up a variation like this.”

“What d’ya think we can do? Quickly? Without funds?” Bernie pushed back to make room for the waiter to place his coffee.

“What’s going on. It wouldn’t have to cost a lot of money. Just give lectures at community centers, neighborhood places where old people go, those small freebie newspapers.”

“Trouble is, Ken, the kind of old people they prey on don’t go anywhere. You post signs for a meeting, a lecture, you know how many show up?”

“I guess so. But it would be a start. Nothing’s foolproof. Nothing is going to reach everybody.”

“Tell you what.” Bernie shifted to get his wallet out of his pants pocket. He held up his hand, indicating that he was paying. “Why don’t you write up a proposal, nothing elaborate, maybe even an informal letter to me. Something I can show the Comish.” Bernie raised his credit card to call the waiter back with the check. “You don’t even have a dog. Since when you reading magazines about them?”

“Since I have a friend with a dog.” Ken put his hand in front of his mouth to cough and cover his grin.