In This Rain (18 page)

Ford sipped his tea. “I didn’t expect that, no.”

“Good, good. You always were a smart fella. Wrongheaded half the time, but smart, can’t deny it. So what’s your next move?”

“To wait. He’s reading our prospectus.”

“Your prospectus?”

“He said he’d read it and get back to us.”

“You really think Charlie’s going to read it?”

“He said Real Property and Planning would look at it, too.”

“Ford, Ford, Ford. Charlie Barr’s not about to waste his time like that. He has plans for Block A and you ain’t in ’em. He doesn’t care what’s in your prospectus.”

“Maybe not. But I have to give him the chance to do what he said he would before I take the next step.”

“Which would be what?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Was I you, I’d hold a press conference.”

“I know you would. And I might, but not yet.”

“That’s a mistake. You gotta put some pressure on ol’ Charlie, use the power of public opinion. Get the people on your side now, before Hizzoner dazzles ’em with that pie in the sky.”

Ford had to admit to himself Westermann’s point was a good one. Once the mayor started talking about tax revenue and jobs— and once white folks started hearing, in the subtext, that Harlem’s well-located, once-elegant streets weren’t going to be scary and unwelcoming anymore— Garden Walls would be shouting into the wind.

Had to admit it to himself, but not to Westermann. Westermann’s points were often good. The Borough President had been fighting this fight much longer than Ford. The cynicism of his aims and his tactics might, Ford suspected on bad days, reflect reality better than Ford’s own optimistic approach.

“I’ll think about it, Edgar. Just wanted to bring you up to speed. And to thank you for your support.”

“No need to thank me! That’s my job, do what I can for the community! You and me, we don’t always see eye to eye, but I know we both want the best for Harlem. After all, I was born here, and you been living here, what, fifteen years now?”

“Sixteen. But I get your point.”

“You just keep it up. And you need any help from me on this project of yours, you let me know. LaTasha has standing instructions to put Ford Corrington through anytime.”

“I appreciate that, Edgar. I’ll talk to you later.”

Ford dropped the receiver in the cradle and leaned back. He wondered why, though Westermann had gone to the trouble of pointing out which of them was the native here and which the carpetbagger, and though the Borough President was in the habit of taking credit for every beam of sunshine that fell on Harlem, he nevertheless referred to the Garden Walls project as “yours.”

Heart’s Content

Joe heard the phone ringing as he jumped down from the truck. Heart pounding, he fumbled with the cabin key. This might be someone trying to sell him satellite TV. But it might be Ellie, calling about Janet; it might be something bad.

He threw the door open and grabbed for the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Not Ellie’s voice. His pulse slowed, though under the relief he felt a small, surprising stab of loneliness. But “me”? Who the hell was “me”?

Oh. “Ann?”

“God, Joe, you make it sound like it’s been months. I’m beginning to think it really is Rip Van Winkleville up there. I was there yesterday, remember?”

“I just

” Joe tossed the keys on the counter, flicked on the kitchen light. Sink, table, mug in the dish drainer, everything the same. The same as yesterday. The same as the day before yesterday, and the day before that. “I

Ann, why are you calling?”

“Look at the roof bricks yet?”

“No.”

“I have news.”

News. “I just got off work, Ann. I’m sweaty and tired. The light’s going and I have things to do in the garden.”

“That all of your excuses, or you have more? I’ll wait.”

“Ann, what do you want?”

Silence. Ann, with no answer? Especially to that question?

“Ann?”

“Joe, listen to me: Sonny O’Doul works for Three Star.”

Outside the window a wide triangle of honey light lay on the grass; the rest was shadow.

“Joe? You still there?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Three Star hired Sonny O’Doul as an assistant site super for Mott Haven a little over a month ago. Logistics, deliveries, scheduling. O’Doul’s keeping a low profile but I’m willing to bet he’s in charge of graft and corruption.”

Phone propped on his shoulder, Joe spooned grounds into the coffee filter. He ran water in the pot, poured it through, reached for a mug, all without putting the phone down, but also without a word to Ann.

“Ha! Like old times,” Ann said.

Joe remembered those times: Ann on the phone, passing along something she’d come up with. Something he’d hear, assess, evaluate, all in silence, while Ann waited. For his question. His comment. His suggested course of action.

But not now. Not now.

Sonny O’Doul. Joe wished the man were dead. He wanted him in hell, writhing in flames, screaming for mercy.

But more than he wanted that, he wanted to be out in his garden in the afternoon sunlight, pulling up rogue roses of Sharon before they took hold and became almost impossible to remove.

“They hired him because he knows the ropes,” Ann said. “He’s laying kickbacks on suppliers and cash on union reps. I don’t have him yet for paying off anyone in the city, but it’s got to be.”

“Then go get him.”

“Oh, I will. But he’s got to have enemies, Joe. You can’t be the only person O’Doul ever screwed. Maybe they’re behind the accidents.”

Behind the accidents. Why did she still think people were behind things, that things happened as people planned them? “No. It’s too oblique. Especially if he’s doing logistics and deliveries. You want to mess up the guy who does that, you slash the tires on a Teamster truck.” And why, oh why, was he talking at all?

“Okay, so maybe he’s causing the accidents himself.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! Maybe he’s being paid by someone. Or maybe he’s trying extortion. If Three Star doesn’t pay, the accidents go on and their schedule’s blown.”

“That’s a dangerous game for an ex-con.” As anything is. He gazed through the glass between him and the garden.

“Also,” Ann hurried on, “there’s another thing. Word is Three Star’s losing money on Mott Haven and they’re only doing it because there’s something else they want. Pulling this off is the price of getting it. And it’s something big, Joe. Another site, maybe. And maybe someone doesn’t want them to have it.”

“What site? Who?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t know, Joe, but please? Look at the paperwork on the bricks. Tell me it wasn’t an accident. With Sonny O’Doul there, it can’t be coincidence. This is our chance, Joe.”

Saying nothing, Joe drank coffee. The triangle of sun had narrowed to a long sliver, pointing to the creek.

“I’m going to go up and talk to him,” Ann said. “But I want to know what’s going on before I do.”

What’s going on. Always, always what drove Ann: as though what was going on could be known. As though knowing what was going on would do you any good.

“Joe?”

“Ann.” If he went outside right now, he could still get in a few hours’ work before the light was gone. “I’ll call you,” he told her, and hung up the phone.

Harlem: State Office Building

Edgar Westermann hung up the phone, creaked his desk chair way back, and sighed at the ceiling. This must be his day for talking to fools. At least it was easier to get rid of them on the phone than if they were here in all their physical flesh. He checked his watch. He’d been planning to head down to the Centre Street office for the rest of the afternoon. Showing his face in the corridors of power a couple of times a week was something he’d made sure to do since he’d been a Council member and had to find excuses. Now he went downtown just often enough to remind everyone that if they had anything to say to him they’d find him up in Harlem.

But if this particular fool he’d just called was correct, he’d best stay up in Harlem and call a press conference. Well, that was all right. He enjoyed press conferences. This one would irritate that other fool, Ford Corrington, but that couldn’t be helped. He buzzed LaTasha, telling her to get out her press list. If they were quick enough, the trucks and microphones could be set up by five. He could be outraged but succinct, the press would have time for some quick Q and A, and he could still make the six o’clock news.

City Hall

The mayor watched the six o’clock news and thought, Oh, shit.

He was dressing for dinner, some black-tie function at a temple in Brooklyn— synagogue, you called this one a synagogue, though what the difference was, Charlie was never sure— and he had the news on in the background out of habit. Buttoning his shirt, he saw Edgar Westermann’s indignant face on the teaser and shook his head, wondering what poor chump was Edgar’s target today. Tying his tie, he heard the anchor announce the segment so he turned to find out. Fastening his cuff links, he discovered it was him.

Harlem: Frederick Douglass Boulevard

Ford Corrington didn’t watch the six o’clock news because he was still in the office. TVs were banned from the Garden Project Building. Kids spent too much time in front of the screen; it was one of the things they preached on hard, here, that getting out and doing was better than sitting back and watching. Radio, though, was different. Music— live and broadcast, rap, hip-hop, reggae and ska, but also Afro-pop, world beat, jazz, and even the classical music of all those dead white European men— was everywhere. It competed with the percussion in the wood and metal shops and wailed above the basketball court, wove through the gardening class, and was the very point of the orchestra, choir, and chorus.

In Ford’s own office, end-of-the-day catching up went better with WBGO, the jazz station out of Newark. It was on their six o’clock newscast that Ford heard Edgar Westermann screwing things up for him again.

City Hall

Charlie was shrugging into his tux jacket when Louise strolled through his office door. She looked stunning in something blue and slithery.

“You’re gorgeous, Mrs. Barr.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Mayor. Ready to go? Limo’s waiting.”

“It’s a UJA dinner. Jewish events always start late. I have to make two quick calls.”

“Do you have your speech?”

Charlie touched his pocket to make sure, though he was sure. Before he could answer, his cell phone rang. He checked the readout. “Walter,” he said. Louise raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to answer, as though there were no possibility of just letting it ring. He sighed; there probably wasn’t. He flipped the phone open and said, “Walter.”

“Charlie. Now really, was that necessary?”

“If you mean Westermann’s press conference, give me a break. Obviously I’m as surprised as you are.” Charlie exchanged glances with Louise, then perched on the edge of his desk.

“And no doubt even more dismayed,” Glybenhall said. “Did you have any idea he was going to go public like that?”

“I think I’d have mentioned it to you if I had. Until this morning, I didn’t even know there was a consortium put together up there to go after that site.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Your intelligence apparatus is clearly faulty.”

“My apparatus? You have to be kidding. I’m the mayor, not the Homeland Security Director. You think I have spies in the Borough President’s offices?”

“Don’t you? You should.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe you should have served a term in business rather than going directly into government, Charlie. You’d have a better sense of how it does work. Now, this consortium: Have you any idea who its members are?”

“Yes, and if you think you’re unhappy now, wait until you hear this: it’s Ford Corrington.”

“Oh, my Lord! Not seriously.”

“Of course seriously.”

“That bastard. He knows it’s me. He knows I want it— ”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! No, of course he doesn’t know. Come on, Walter, it’s his neighborhood. Except that they seem to have actually put together a viable financing and development package, there’s nothing surprising in this. You and I had talked about Corrington wanting a piece of Block A.”

“A piece. Which, for the sake of community relations and at your insistence, I was planning to hold my nose and give him. But for God’s sake, Ford Corrington’s not competent to develop a project that large.”

“That large? You don’t even know what he’s proposing.”

“What he’s— Does that matter? Do you think I’d feel more charitably inclined if I did?”

“I doubt it.”

“He must know. He must have found out what I’m planning— ”

“Of course he knows what you’re planning, it was in the paper! What he doesn’t know is that it’s you. He would’ve said something when we met, you can bank on it.”

“When did you meet?”

“Like I said: this morning.”

“Why?”

“What kind of question is that? He’s a powerful constituent and he wanted a meeting. We must have sat down together twenty times over the years.”

“You didn’t tell me this last night. That you planned to meet with Corrington today.”

“I didn’t know what the agenda was. The fact that he was coming in to talk to me, no, I didn’t tell you that. There was no reason to.”

“It didn’t occur to you the agenda might have been my site?”

“Walter, I’m sure this comes as a surprise to you, but unlike the press and your own PR people, I don’t automatically assume everything that happens in this city is about you.”

“Your sarcasm is unnecessary.”

“So’s your wounded innocence. We got sandbagged: shit happens.”

“Not in my world. I keep a close eye on what’s going on around me and I arrange things as I prefer them. So tell me, what did Corrington want when you met with him? For you to just hand the site over? No review process, nothing?”

“He wanted a promise that when the smoke clears Block A will be his. You know: sort of like what you have.”