The Sea Beach Line (34 page)

“What the fuck is this?” she asked. “Does he owe you money too?” She took out a pouch of tobacco and began to roll herself a cigarette. “I can't help you with that.” Romania was gone from her voice, replaced with the South Bronx.

“No, he doesn't owe me anything. He's my father. But I found a picture of you—several pictures, actually—in his sketchbook, and I wanted to see how you knew him.”

“A picture of me? You mean those nudie pictures of me he loved to draw. Christ. He loved my body. But you're a little pervert, ain't you? No wonder you wanted to hold my hand when you came in here.” She licked the edge of the rolling paper.

“No, I didn't. I'm not. I just want to know how you know him?”

“I lay on the bed and let him draw my naked body. So how do you think I knew him?”

“You were his girlfriend, you mean?”

“Ha. Sure. I guess you could call it that.” She lit the completed cigarette and took a deep drag. “The funny thing is, I was actually dating his best buddy, Simon.”

“Simon?”

“Yeah, a painter. Russian dude.”

“Oh. Semyon? Goldov?”

“Yeah. I called him Semen. Ha!” She slapped the table. “He didn't like that, made me call him Simon. But then he brought Al around.” Yet another reason for Goldov to hold a grudge against Al. “Biggest mistake he ever made. Because the minute I met Al, man. What a man. I'd do anything he told me to. Just anything. So when he told me to forget about him, I did that too.” She took another drag on the cigarette, exhaled in my direction. “He's missing. Or dead. He's dead.”

“He is?” My heart started beating faster. Was this the truth? Or just the same rumor continuing to circulate? “How do you know he's dead?”

“I'm a fucking psychic. And not for nothing.” She laughed. “No, I don't know what the hell ever happened to that asshole.” So there was nothing to her words. “But it seems like you don't either, or you wouldn't be here asking me questions. He's dead to
me
, either way.”

“Oh. Well, I just haven't seen him for a long time. And no one seems to know where he is. So when I recognized your picture on your flyer, I thought maybe you had an idea about where he'd gone.”

“I wish I could tell you something about that. But at the same time, I also really don't care. He was just a con man who turned my head with his pretty muscles and sweet words. And believe me, he wasn't the first or the last to pull that trick.” Everywhere I looked, people
were tearing Al down. I didn't know how he'd look to me when I finally found him. “Oh, don't look so sad, puppy dog.
Mira
, I never knew nothing about my own daddy. He left my mother and went back down to Puerto Rico when I was two years old. I never saw him again. No problem. I didn't go looking. Matter of fact, you can leave, and I'll never have to see you again either.”

“Before I go, I was hoping I could ask you about this other sketch, of another of Al's friends . . .” I had brought along the photocopied picture of the dead Israeli soldier in my pocket, in the hopes that one character from the sketchbook could lead me to the next.

“Sorry. Your time's up. Now let me get the twenty-five you owe for the reading.”

“The sign says fifteen. And you said ten.”

“The past costs more than the future.” I paid the woman her money and left. I hated to admit it, but part of me wished I had listened to Rayna and not visited this woman. Al seemed to be retreating farther from me, not moving closer.

16

“
DID YOU LEARN ANYTHING
from the fortune-teller?” Rayna asked me when I returned to the storage space that evening. She was trying her best to express interest, to make up for keeping the flyer from me. I wasn't mad at her.

“The fortune-teller is a former girlfriend of Al's. But they broke up a long time ago. She doesn't know anything.”

“I see.”

“But this man Goldov, his name keeps coming up. You said he looked familiar in the sketchbook, when you looked before. Can you look again?” Instead of responding or acknowledging the question, she went over to the other side of the storage space, and started taking out some new books and the book cleaning supplies.

“Please, Rayna?” After a moment, she sighed and put down the rubbing alcohol and paper towels. I took out the book featuring Goldov and the Galuth Museum most heavily, though I avoided opening to the study of Rayna's face.

“This man, here.” I pointed him out. She studied him for several minutes.

“Yes. I'm pretty sure he has been to see my father. Quite sure. But I don't know anything else. You have to understand, my father is very respected. Many, many people come to see him. Every day they come, for advice, or for a blessing. Or for permission to do things.”

“Your father is an important man,” I asked, “a rabbi?” She nodded.

“Yes. A rebbe.” Her insistence on that term implied that he was a Hasidic leader, not just a regular rabbi. “People respect him so much. He is a great man. But there are . . . hypocrisies. He sees things as they are supposed to be. To be around him . . . is to have a weight upon me.”

She slammed the book shut, and pushed it away from her with both hands. When she turned toward me I saw that she was silently crying. I took the sketchbook from her, and put it back in the box. I scooted next to her, and put my arm around her.

“It's okay,” I said. “We don't have to look anymore.” She didn't say anything. “I know you came to the city to get away from your father and his world, Rayna. And I don't want to make you think about that if you don't want to. It's just, I came down here to find my father. It's been two months, and I'm not any closer.”

“I know you miss your father, Isaac,” she said, slowly. She held on to my hand. “But talking about my father won't help. Nothing good will come of that. We have to draw lines between us and the world. Let things be as they are. Please.”

“I'm sorry, Rayna. Forget about the sketchbooks. Let's get something to eat.” She wiped the tears from her face with a handkerchief.

Hours later, Rayna was reading aloud to me from one of the Yiddish poetry books we'd gotten from Armando. I didn't understand the language, but I liked hearing Rayna say the words.

Her voice was interrupted by a ringing.

“What is that sound?” Rayna asked nervously.

“It's just the cell phone,” I said.

“I didn't know you had a telephone in here.”

“It belongs to the people who lease this space for us. My father's friends. I keep it charged in case they need to talk to me.” I hadn't
pointed Roman and Timur out in the sketchbook, because Rayna didn't need to know anything about criminal activity.

“Oh,” she said. “The ones you helped so early in the morning. The day of the fire.” So Rayna was more observant than I gave her credit for.

By the time I got the lantern turned on and found the phone, it had stopped ringing. The phone beeped again, and a text on the display said, “Call Roman ASAP.” I climbed over to the business side of the storage unit and pressed the call button.

“Isaac,” Roman said. “I appreciate you calling me back at such a late hour.”

“No problem.”

“We also appreciated the favor you did for us a few weeks ago.”

“Don't mention it.” I spoke casually, though I'd obsessed about the arson, and its possible repercussions, for days afterward.

“Very good advice. Remember that yourself. In any case, we have something else going on tomorrow night, and we are man down, due to an unfortunate turn of events. Normally I would turn to the Edel in such a situation. As he is not available, it occurred to us that you could step in. I should add that this is not a favor, this is paying job. You will be well compensated.”

“Absolutely,” I said. The opportunity to step directly into my father's shoes was more of an incentive than the money. Whatever was happening was illegal, but I had already crossed that line with the arson. In for a penny, in for a pound. And to tell the truth, it had been exciting when the newsstand burst into flames. “Tell me where and when.” Roman gave me the details, and we said good night.

After I hung up, Rayna gave me an inquisitive look.

“Is everything all right, Isaac? Do they need us out of this space?” She looked frightened at that thought.

“No, no, nothing like that. My father's friends just need some help with something else tomorrow night,” I told her. “Nothing is wrong. It's just business.”

“Don't go,” she said. “Please. I don't want you to go.” I didn't want to upset Rayna any more than I already had. But I wasn't ever going
to punk out again, like I had when I was a kid. More importantly, I wasn't going to pass up on a chance to follow deeper into Al's world. This was a job he would have done. I had to do this.

Roman had said that he would pick me up the next night at nine p.m. in a white Honda Civic. I waited on the corner of Varick Street, and when he pulled up, I got in without a word. He just nodded at me, then zoomed down Varick toward Canal Street. We went straight across town on Canal, then back up to Delancey and over the Williamsburg Bridge.

On the bridge, Roman turned to me and spoke. “This is a real hoot for me, you riding there in the passenger seat. I think of the times Al has rode with me. And now I have Edel Junior here.”

“He's ridden with you a lot?”

“From time to time.” I hoped Roman would offer a story or two, but he didn't.

“But I mean, it seems like he's worked with you guys often.”

“Certainly. He has been someone we can rely on. The man who was supposed to be coming on the job tonight is not so reliable. He got into argument at a club last night. Some drunken nonsense over a woman. He slashed other man's face pretty badly with a broken glass, and called me from Brooklyn House of Detention.

“Timur did not want to postpone the job, and we discussed who could be brought in as a last-minute replacement.” Evidently, Timur going out on a job himself was not an option. He was the don; he didn't get his hands dirty. “Like I said on telephone, I wished I could call Al, but since I couldn't we call you. You have proven reliable enough. So far.” So all the favors I'd done for them had led to something. I had shown that I could be trusted.

“Well, I'm glad you called,” I said. Roman just grunted in response.

After a while, he said, “You are wondering where we are going.”

“I am,” I admitted.

“But you did not think you should ask?”

“No.”

“You were correct.” I grinned, but Roman did not.

“The former Brooklyn Navy Yard is now devoted to private commercial facilities. One of these facilities consists of warehouses, climate and humidity controlled for preservation of artwork. Collectors, galleries, and even museums store art there. Some of these pieces of art are quite valuable.” He turned down a side street. “Another reason I called you: Timur remembered you saying you have some knowledge of art. Not every hooligan can be trusted with something as delicate as a painting.” I was glad to hear this. I was afraid that my continued contact with Roman didn't get me closer to Timur, and any higher-level information. It was good to know that Timur was thinking of me, and that I was performing a task he valued.

“First stop.” We pulled into an open warehouse in deep South Williamsburg. Two men were waiting for us. Roman greeted them without making any introductions. They both had Jamaican—or some type of Caribbean—accents. They wore well-used work clothes, and I got the feeling from their tired faces and rough hands that they were actual workers, not gangsters.

Roman and I changed into new Dickies coveralls that he took from the trunk of the Civic. Roman still looked like a gangster. God knows what I looked like.

“You guys clear on the plan?” Roman asked the men.

“Plan, chief?” the older one asked, playing dumb.

“The plan. Nu? What is your understanding of what is happening tonight?”

“The plan, chief, is that my partner and I go in, and we do our job. Which is strictly HVAC. Make sure everything is in order with the system. This is a routine check, as is done every month.”

“And?”

“And I am telling you, by way of a heads-up, that for safety reasons I will have to cut the electricity for the area exactly eight minutes after we enter, and that the electricity will stay off for exactly fifteen minutes. This includes the electricity for the lights and the security cameras. Who knows what goes on in the dark? I only see the section of vent in front of my flashlight. Same goes for my partner here. We are very focused when we work.”

“That is the right way to work,” said Roman, nodding.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“You will do as you are told.”

We all climbed into the Jamaicans' HVAC truck, them in the front and Roman and me in the back. The guy in the passenger seat put on a Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir CD, and no one talked after that. A few minutes later, we pulled up to the front gate of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Our driver showed a work order and ID to the lone guard, and we were waved in without any scrutiny. I thought about the Con Edison truck on Sixth Avenue. For that matter, I thought about myself and all of Zoya's Russian girls pushing our carts, and the construction worker who delivered my cell phone. Timur understood that workers, especially immigrant workers, were invisible in New York City, and that he could dispatch them to take care of his illicit business without anyone ever noticing.