Sacrifice Fly (31 page)

“Was what me?”

“Never mind.”

I closed my eyes and pictured how I wanted this to happen. Spray the pick, slip it
into the lock, turn, and open the door. Step inside, punch in the four numbers on
the keypad, and shut the door when the alarm was deactivated. Use my mini-flashlight
to find what Ape and Suit had dropped off, reset the alarm, and slip back outside
and into Edgar’s car. Sounded good to me. It’d be all over so quick. Like I didn’t
do a thing.

I held the lock pick about two feet away from my face and sprayed it. I returned the
lubricant to my pants pocket, turned on the flashlight, placed it in my mouth, and
aimed it at the lock. Then I slipped the pick into the lock and turned both the pick
and the door’s latch at the same time.

Technically, that was the “breaking” part. Now all I had to do was push open the door
and go inside to complete the “entering.” I wondered whether anyone in the history
of criminal justice had ever gotten popped just breaking and whether or not it mattered.
I forced the thought out of my head, took one more deep breath, and pushed open the
door.

I heard a beeping, went over to the keypad, and pressed five, six, four, three. The
beeping stopped, and I allowed myself to breathe again. I shut the door, and I was
in.

On the other side.

“I’m in,” I mumbled.

“Starting the clock,” Edgar replied.

I took the flashlight out of my mouth and went over to Roberts’s desk. I rolled the
chair back and sat down, as much to get my breathing under control as to get at the
drawers. All of which were locked. The thought of going at them with the pick crossed
my mind, but I wanted to cause as little damage as possible and decided to save that
for later, if I had the time. The top of the desk was about as minimalist as could
be. A phone, a legal pad attached to a clipboard, and a pencil holder containing one
sharpened pencil and three pens.

There was a safe to my right, next to three moving boxes stacked on top of one another
and marked “Office.” If Ape and Suit had put their night’s work in the safe, that
was the end of that. Breaking and entering, anyone could do. Safecracking was for
the pros. I swept the walls with my light. Nothing much beyond travel posters and
an empty bulletin board. I stood and walked over to the file cabinet. It was small,
about chest-high, with four drawers that opened easily but held nothing more than
empty hanging folders and a huge plastic jar of beer pretzels.

“Two minutes, Ray.”

Shit. It felt like thirty seconds. “Thanks, Edgar. I think I’m almost done.”

“You find anything?”

“Not yet. Let me know when I hit the four-minute mark.”

“Copy that.”

I leaned against the file cabinet and placed my arm on top. My heart and breathing
rates were still faster than normal, but I was getting over the initial anxiety of
my crime. I thought about making a run through the front area. Another clue would
be nice. Make this B and E worth the time and effort. Maybe I should just take the
pretzels and go. As I removed my arm from the top of the file cabinet, my hand brushed
across the top, which felt uneven. I shone the flashlight on it and, sure enough,
the top of the cabinet was dented in. I redirected the light to the ceiling and saw
old fireproof tiles, two-by-twos, probably made of asbestos. The one directly above
the file cabinet looked slightly out of place.

I rolled the desk chair over and carefully got myself into a sitting position on top
of the cabinet. It wasn’t easy or painless, but I was able to get myself onto my knees
and stretch up enough to touch the tile. I pushed up gently, raised the tile, and
was able to turn it enough so it could be removed. I was high enough to stick my arm
in where the tile had been and reach around. After a few seconds, I hit something
solid. I spun it around until I found a handle and removed a briefcase. I lowered
myself into a less painful sitting position, my legs dangling over the side, with
the case resting on my lap.

“That’s four minutes, Ray.”

“Copy,” I said.

I placed my thumbs on the left and right latches of the briefcase and pushed. The
case snapped open. Of course it did. It’s not like Ape and Suit were expecting anyone
to open it before Roberts in the morning. I popped the lid and found some cash, a
few envelopes, and a small spiral notebook. I flipped open the notebook and leafed
through a few pages. I recognized a few of the addresses Ape and Suit had visited
earlier, and other numbers I’d try to figure out later.

“Ray?”

“Coming, Edgar.” I closed the case and replaced the tile. I slid off the file cabinet
and pushed the chair back to the desk.

“Patrol car just swung by.”

Shit. Maybe Roberts did have a secondary alarm. “They make you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Just count to twenty and come a—”

“Shit. They pulled a huey. Coming back.”

Damn it. “Just relax, Edgar.” I went over and reset the alarm.

“Nothing, officer.” Edgar talking to the cops. “Engine seized up on me coming off
the bridge. Wanted to let it rest before getting back on the BQE.”

I went out the back door into the alley, shutting the door to Roberts’s behind me.
Not knowing which side of the building Edgar and the cops were on, I crouched down
against the wall, making myself as invisible as possible.

“Thanks for checking,” Edgar said. “It’ll be fine.” Pause. “You, too.”

I waited about thirty seconds. “Edgar?”

“They’re gone, Ray. What’s your twenty?”

“Meet me on the corner across from where we parked. Drive around the block once, though,
okay?”

“That’s a copy.”

Two minutes later I got in Edgar’s car, and he pulled away slowly.

“That was exciting,” he said.

“Nice job, Edgar.”

He looked at the case on my lap and said, “What’s that?”

“Something that’s going to piss off a few people when they find out it’s not there
in the morning, I hope.” I placed my hands on top of the case and said, “Let’s go
home.”

“Copy that,” my partner said.

Chapter 26

“YO, MR D! WE HEARD YOU WAS DEAD
.”

I waited until he walked past me and into the classroom before I answered.

“Greatly exaggerated rumors, Eric.”

“The lunch ladies said you were in the hospital,” Annie said, genuine concern on her
face. “Said you got stabbed.”

“Nah,” Eric said. “They said you got mugged.”

I spread my arms out and did a three-sixty.

“Do I look like I got stabbed? Or mugged?”

The two kids took their time assessing me. Angel, Julio, and Dougie strolled in, looking
like they weren’t quite sure they’d ever see me again either. After a while, Annie
said, “No.”

“But you don’t look too good, though,” added Eric. “Maybe you should go back home
for another week or something.”

“I’m going to look even worse,” I said as I stepped over to my desk and opened my
attendance book, “if you have to see me during summer school.”

“Ooooh,” the others chimed in, daring Eric to risk a comeback.

Eric gave that some thought, managed a big grin. “That’s a good one, Mr. D.” After
a pause, he added, “You kidding, right?”

“Of course. You know I don’t teach summer school, E.”

“Ahhhh.”

“Okay, guys and girls! Let’s get going. It’s been … a few days.” It seemed more like
a few weeks. I came in early to get myself up to speed, and I had to open all the
windows because the room smelled … I don’t know … closed off. Stale and unused. The
teachers who had covered my classes had taken my kids elsewhere. “We have a lot of
catching up to do.” I waited until the moans and mumbling wore down and added, “I
am fine, and yes, I missed you all, too. Math books. Page two-forty-five.”

I walked around the room for the next thirty minutes, checking the work. Half of them
were getting it—the usual ones—and the other half weren’t. If we didn’t review this
stuff over and over, work it, and practice it again and again, it didn’t stick all
that long. Like rehabbing your knees. I looked at my watch. We’d have to come back
to this later. I hated doing math with them twice in the same day, but I didn’t see
another option.

“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got gym next, then library. Anybody gives Ms. Walsh a hard
time, I’ll hear about it.” I looked at Angel, and he knew why. “After lunch, we’ll
get back on that ferry with Mr. Whitman.” The bell rang. I pointed to the door. “You
may go!” And they did.

*   *   *

“Just tell me what you’re looking at.”

“That’s why I’m calling you,” I said, flipping through the pages. “I don’t know.”

I was on the phone in the copy room with Rich, the one ex-boyfriend of Rachel’s I
could actually stand. Rich was an investigator for the district attorney’s office
in Manhattan and the first person I thought to call after going over the papers I
had taken from the travel agency. “Well,” Rich said, “where’d you get them?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Or who you got them from, I guess.”

“No.”

“Glad you called, Ray.”

“Can I fax them to you?”

“You got a fax?”

“My boss does.”

“Yeah.” He gave me his fax number. “And this is school-related?”

“A class project.”

“Can I point out what a pain in the ass this is turning into?”

“Absolutely. While you’re drinking all the beers I am going to buy you if you make
any kind of sense out of this stuff.”

“That, my friend, is a deal. Maybe you can invite Rachel. What time is your day over?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Nice schedule, Ray. No wonder you guys need the whole summer off.” He paused for
a few seconds. “Call me at three thirty and I’ll tell ya what I can tell ya.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“Thank me later, Ray.”

*   *   *

“See?” I asked. “Whitman’s asking how much time has passed—‘how long is the distance’—between
when he’s writing these words and you’re reading them.”

“Not long enough,” Eric mumbled.

I ignored him.

“What’s he talking about?” Angel wanted to know. “‘Brooklyn of ample hills’? Ain’t
no ample hills around here. This guy smoking something when he wrote this?”

After the laughter died down, I spoke. “Back in the day,” I said, “you could look
south or southwest from the ferry as you were crossing the East River to Manhattan
and see the hills of Brooklyn clearly. Before all the buildings went up and the highways
and bridges were built, you had a clear view of Brooklyn Heights.”

“That’s why they called ’em ‘Heights,’ genius,” Eric said.

“Yeah,” Angel said. “Like you knew that before Mr. D said something.”

“What about the next part?” I asked before they could go on.

“He talking about taking a bath in the river?”

“Swimming. You could do that back then. Before all the factories and ships and polluters
came along, people swam in the East River. And the Hudson.”

“Damn,” Dougie said. “I’ve seen some kids jump off the old piers by the bridge and
come up gagging.”

“And those white boys with their wave runners? They run you over and not look back.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that these days, but back then, they didn’t
have public pools—or wave runners—they had the river.”

“My uncle eats the fish he catches outta there,” Angel said.

“Your uncle’s a Porta Rican,” Eric said. “He’d eat anything that’s free.”

Angel let that sit for a bit and said, “Tell your moms not to give it away no more
then.”

“All right!” I yelled. “I don’t think Walt would appreciate this kind of discussion.
I know your mothers wouldn’t, so quit it.”

The room grew silent and stayed that way until Annie raised her hand.

“Yes, Annie,” I said. “Please.”

“That part right before that,” she said. “Where he says, ‘others who look back on
me because I look’d forward to them’?”

“Yes?”

“First time I read that, I thought that he was talking about the people on the boat
with him, but … he’s talking about us, ain’t he?” She had the whole class’s attention
now and seemed a bit embarrassed. “Like he’s writing to us and … we’re reading him,
so in a way, we’re looking back at him. Right?”

“You,” I said, “just made my day, Annie.” I turned to Angel and Eric. “When you stop
messing around and pay attention, you can pick up on stuff like that. Mr. Whitman
hoped that, one day, people would be reading his words. He was sending them a message:
I looked at the same sun reflecting off the same water as you and had the same worries,
the same thoughts.”

“So that ferry he was on,” Dougie said, sitting up straighter now, “they been running
for all these years?”

“No. In fact, the bridges—the Brooklyn and the Williamsburg—put the ferries out of
business for a while. People could walk to Manhattan, take the train or a horse and
carriage.”

“My grandfather…” Angel said and then looked at Eric, waiting for a smart comment.
When none came, he went on. “He said his dad and them used to call the Willy B ‘The
Jew Bridge’ back in the day.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Not so politically correct, but the Williamsburg Bridge was the biggest
reason the Jews from the Lower East Side crossed the river to live in Brooklyn. They
could live here and work in Manhattan.”

“You mean, without the bridge we wouldn’t have all these Hasseedics around?”

“Taking up all our housing?” Angel added, trying to sound political.

“Remember, before the Jews it was the Germans, and the Irish, and the Italians. Most
of your folks”—I looked out at the eight nonwhite faces looking back at me—“came after
they did. Every immigrant group has its stories to tell. Some of them are happy, some
unhappy. Life’s like that.” The bell rang, ending that thought and reminding me how
quickly a period can go by.

“All right. Tonight, finish reading the poem and jot down at least five words from
it you don’t know. You know what the math work is. Both should take a total of less
than an hour, so no excuses. Get your stuff together and…”—they waited for it—“you
may go.”