In This Rain (15 page)

And Ford was impressed. He always was, here; and in cathedrals, concert halls, museums, and endowed universities. Impressed with the power of buildings to speak, in a language as clear as words: My grandeur surrounds the grand. My beauty houses the beautiful. My wealth shelters the wealthy. My importance contains the important. And Ford was impressed by what was said, also, by the paint-flaking walls of public schools, the dingy stairwells of subway stations, the urine-scented entryways beyond housing projects’ broken doors.

Who mattered and who didn’t. What the world thought about you. What your place was: you learned that young from the language of the buildings you lived in, walked through, and saw in the distance.

*

Upstairs, they were shown into the mayor’s private conference room by a self-possessed black woman whose name Ford couldn’t quite bring to mind. The mayor stood when they entered. He shook their hands, saying, “Ford, good to see you again. And Reverend Holdsclaw. A surprise, but always a pleasure.”

Ray spread his gleaming smile. “You’re welcome at Tree of Life anytime, Mayor.”

Charlie Barr grinned back. “Seems to me my presence takes your parishioners’ minds from the sacred straight to the profane.”

“The world offers faith many challenges.”

“Hear that, Don? I’m a challenge to faith. Come on, folks, sit down. Ford, I know it’s tea for you. Reverend, you want some coffee?”

Carafes of coffee, both high-test and decaf, and hot water sat among tea bags, sugar, sweeteners, milk pitchers, and two plates of cookies on a sideboard. Ford fixed himself mint tea in a mug with the New York City seal on the side. He took a couple of cookies, too, on a china dish. The mayor always had good cookies.

With mugs and plates they arranged themselves around the table. The mayor’s mug, Ford noticed, was no different from the others. Charlie Barr, man of the people.

“Okay,” the mayor said. “So what can I do for you two? Do we want to have minutes, by the way? Should I ask Lena to come in?”

Leaving it up to them whether this meeting was on the record; nice touch. Ford smiled. “Personally, I have a very good memory.”

That didn’t mean there’d be no record of what they said here. Ford didn’t know it for a fact but he always assumed that above a certain level all public officials taped their meetings. He hadn’t practiced law as such except for the two years right after Harvard, a decade and a half ago; but if he were advising the City of New York, that would be his advice.

But keeping the meeting off the official record was a way for Ford to let the mayor know that they valued candor and they trusted him to keep any verbal promises he made.

Or at least, to let him know it was important to them that he think so.

“Whatever you want.” The mayor sipped his coffee. “I can’t remember what day it is, myself, but that’s why Don’s here.”

Zalensky scowled and, as always, said nothing.

“We’ll get right to the point, Mayor,” Ford said. “I appreciate your seeing us and I don’t want to waste your time.”

“We’ve had our differences, Ford, but you’ve never wasted my time. What’s up?”

Ford reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a pile of spiral-bound booklets and handed them around. The mayor and deputy mayor glanced at the covers, with their map of Harlem, a half-block rectangle in the center colored red. Zalensky opened the booklet and thumbed through it, but Charlie Barr looked up at Ford.

“This is about Block A.”

“Are you surprised?”

“No. But we’re not ready to make decisions on that site yet. It’s too early. Housing tells me two of the buildings aren’t even emptied.”

“You can make decisions at any time.”

“Real Property won’t even start the final legal steps for a month or two. Then there’s the Community Board, all the rest.”

“You can make decisions at any time,” Ford repeated. “All we’re talking about is an informal commitment. From the mayor’s office. Once we have that, we can wait on the Community Board and the other pro forma steps.”

“Pro forma? The Community Board wouldn’t like that.”

“I won’t tell them.”

The mayor smiled. “Well, we’ll be happy to hear what you have to say. You’re representing the Garden Project?”

“Among others.”

“And you want to make sure you’re included? You want space in the development that ends up there?”

“No,” Ford said. “We want the site.”

The mayor stared.

Ray grinned, shaking his head. “Ford, son, I believe you’ve nonplussed the Mayor of the City of New York.”

Charlie Barr said, “You sure as hell have. What do you mean, you want the site? Who does?”

“Garden Walls. It’s all in there.” Ford pointed to the booklet. “Our prospectus. ‘Garden Walls’ is the name of our consortium. Our members are a number of community groups and churches, and we have the support of a variety of other churches, faith-based groups, cultural institutions, social-service organizations— ”

“Financial support?”

Charlie Barr, cutting to the chase.

“We have a group of investors prepared to purchase the site from the city, and also to finance the project outlined in the prospectus.”

“Who are they, your investors?”

“We have bank commitments, and the commitments of three equity investors for the first phase.”

“The first phase?”

“It’s in the prospectus. The first phase will be one hundred and ten units of housing and some commercial property.”

The mayor still made no move to open the booklet in his hands. “And the other phases?”

“More housing, low-and mid-rise. An arts center with a museum, studios, a theater. Athletic facilities. A school. A rooftop park.”

“Rooftop park,” the mayor echoed. “You have plans for all this? You have an architect on board already?”

“An architect, yes. And preliminary plans.”

“Who would head this project?”

“Hilda Daniels. From Second Federal Bank.”

Charlie Barr nodded. “She was on that Business Initiative Review Commission we set up three years ago. Very impressive. But unless I’m wrong, she’s not a developer?”

“She’s a banker. In Second Federal’s mortgage and lending unit. In that capacity she’s worked on a number of large projects.”

“Is Second Federal behind this?”

“They’ve given us a commitment.”

“But this isn’t a project of the bank’s?”

“No.”

“Has Ms. Daniels ever developed a project this size on her own?”

“On her own, no.”

“Are any of your consortium members developers?”

“One. Cruz Brothers. They’d be the builders.”

“I know Cruz. Ramon and Paquito,” the mayor said, and nodded. “Have they successfully completed anything this size?”

“Their projects are all financially successful and very well liked by their residents.”

“But none of them are this big.”

“Not yet.”

“Ford,” Charlie Barr said, “we’ll read your proposal, but I can tell you, I don’t think this is likely to happen. I can’t see that site going to an inexperienced developer.”

“The Garden Project would take a lead role,” said Ford. “We’ve been successfully developing city properties for sixteen years.”

“All of them renovations, though. Small buildings and parts of buildings. Nothing the size of Block A. Unless I’m missing something?” The mayor looked to Don Zalensky, who shook his head.

“No, that’s true,” Ford said. “Those are what we’ve been offered.”

“They’re what you’ve proposed on.”

“We’ve proposed on whatever we’ve been invited to.”

“And I haven’t noticed you’ve been invited on this. Come on, Ford, be realistic. This property’s huge. Projects this size are tough enough. The city’s job is to boost the chances of success as high as possible by at least picking a developer who’s done this kind of thing before.”

“This kind of thing?” Ford lifted the booklet.

“What do you mean?”

“What Garden Walls is proposing for Block A is far different from what the city’s thinking seems to be. With all due respect, Mayor, that nonsense in the paper was an insult to Harlem.” He spread the booklet open, swiveling it so the Times rendering faced Charlie Barr.

The mayor glanced down and up again. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s about yesterday! It tells the children of Harlem their glory days are behind them, the best they can do is go backwards. Do you know how offensive that is? And it’s destructive. What we need to be talking about is the future!” Ford flipped to the next page. “Harlem needs buildings that look like tomorrow. That let in the light and the air and say they’re part of the world. And that the people in them are welcome to be part of the world. Not part of someone’s nostalgic daydream of what Harlem used to be!”

“Contextual design. Isn’t that what they call it?” Charlie Barr looked to Don Zalensky, got a nod, and looked back at Ford. “Appropriate to the neighborhood. Same materials, same heights, same basic shapes. They tell me that’s what we’re supposed to do now. Evoke the surroundings. Blend in. ‘Reknit the urban fabric,’ an architect said that to me. Landmarks likes it. The Art Commission likes it.”

“If it’s too early for a decision,” Ford asked, sitting back, “why have you been to Landmarks and the Art Commission already?”

“Oh, Ford, relax! No one’s trying to put anything over on you. Those guys read the Times just like you do. They like it. They haven’t reviewed it. I promise you, Block A will go through the usual approval processes.” Charlie Barr tapped the blank white back of the Times rendering. “But chances are what gets built on Block A will be along these general lines. And it will be built by an experienced commercial developer.”

“A commercial developer may not have the best interests of the Harlem community at heart.”

“The city will require the developer to provide both residential and commercial property on the site and to guarantee commercial tenants for the first two years. I can’t see how new housing, new jobs, and an increase in tourism and the tax base wouldn’t be in Harlem’s best interests.”

“Mr. Mayor, Harlem’s not for sale!” For the first time since they’d sat down, Ray’s voice thundered. “Harlem is a community. Harlem is people’s home. It’s filled with poor folks who struggled and are struggling and now they’re being displaced and replaced by rich folks from downtown who’ve suddenly discovered our beautiful buildings. Buildings that are only still standing because no one’s spent any money in the last fifty years to wipe ’em away. And now you’re proposing to build more just like ’em, so those rich folks can have bow windows and back gardens! Block A”— slapping a brochure down on the table— “is the last city-owned developable site in Harlem and Harlem wants it! Housing and jobs and a new tax base are wonderful things. But who lives in the housing? Who works at the jobs and who pays the taxes? People who’ve gone without decent apartments, gone without heat, and gone without jobs for years in the community where they were born? Or people who need a map to go to Rucker Park? And tourists? Harlem loves tourists! Harlem welcomes tourists! But to Harlem. Harlem, Mr. Mayor! Not Harlemland, USA!”

The mayor sipped his coffee. “You deliver that sermon yesterday, Reverend?”

Ray smiled. “I’ve been preaching on these lines for years, Mayor.” His smile dropped away. “Years. Long before another black person was killed in a construction accident in a black neighborhood on a white developer’s site.”

The mayor shot a glance at the deputy mayor. “Okay, you brought up Mott Haven. Point made. If you bring up Dolan Construction, I’ll throw you out of the room.”

“There’s a clear parallel,” said Ray.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s not anything you can use to leverage this.”

“Mayor,” said Ford, “you’d rack up a lot of moral points in Harlem if a black-run community group were chosen to develop Block A.”

“And moral points vote, is that what you’re saying?”

“People watch what you do, Mayor. Word on the street is, you’re thinking of running for governor.”

“That so? I’m also thinking of retiring to Tahiti.”

“Well, Harlem’s got some great travel agents. I could hook you up with one. All I meant, Mayor, is that people appreciate being treated with respect. They give consideration to folks who treat them that way.”

“So do I, Ford. And Harlem’s not the only thing that’s not for sale.”

“Touché. If I’ve offended I apologize. We’re just trying to make our position clear.”

“It’s clear.” The mayor wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Listen, folks. Whatever developer’s chosen for Block A will be required to involve the community in whatever they do. As usual in these projects. A percentage of the housing will be set aside for local residents at both affordable and market rates. As usual. And community groups will get space. I think you people ought to be coming up with proposals to get yourselves a piece of the pie. Instead of pipe dreams.”

“Edgar Westermann’s behind us,” Ford said.

The mayor raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding me. You went to Edgar?”

“In the interests of Harlem, yes, we did.”

“He knows you’re behind this and he still supports it?”

“He can see it’s the right thing for Harlem.”

“Edgar Westermann and Ford Corrington shoulder to shoulder, now that’s front-page news.”

“He’d hoped to be able to join us this morning— ”

“But you told him hell’d freeze over first.” The mayor glanced over as Don shifted in his chair. “I think Don’s telling me not to run Edgar down to you. But my opinion of Edgar’s no secret. I didn’t think yours was, either.”

“In this case Edgar and I are both putting Harlem’s interests before our own.”

“You’ll excuse a little political cynicism, Ford, but it seems to me that getting your hands on a project this size would be very much in the Garden Project’s interests.” The mayor shrugged. “Well, Edgar has a right to his opinion. It doesn’t change mine.” He lifted the booklet on his palm and moved it up and down as though weighing it. “Look, I’ll read this. I’ll have Real Property take a look. But I don’t think it’s going to happen and I’d hate to see you lose out by putting all your eggs in this basket. The Garden Project’s a valuable resource. I’ve been assuming you’d want a piece of Block A and I’ve been assuming the city would be favorably disposed toward your proposal. My advice would be, don’t bite off more than you can chew.”