"The contents of the apartment of someone named Kate Beaver... Not good enough. Who brought it here? When?"
"Rammy's Trucking Co., eleven days ago."
"That's better. A cleanup job, eh? I think, maybe, if you give me what you're holding in your hand, I might remember."
I held out the money. His thick, strong fingers folded it quickly and stuffed it into one of his pockets. From another pocket he pulled out a folded piece of paper, opened it out and gave it a lengthy look. "It's in section Q-16."
"Thanks, ah...what's your name?"
"John."
"Thanks, John. I'll be going now..."
"Just a minute!" He blocked my path. "The money was for the information. If you want in, you'll have to give me another look at that Hamilton fellow."
Sighing, I pulled out another bill.
"Don't be in such a hurry to hand it over," he stopped me. "I still didn't say I'd let you in. Now tell me, punk, how do I know you're not gonna swipe something?"
"Believe me, I'm not."
"Forget it."Even in the darkness I could see the glint of his white teeth as his lips parted in a grin.
I checked out my options for an escape route. Who knows? I could see a narrow path between the crates behind him, ending in open space reflecting the light of the moon - the river. If I have to, I thought, I can get at least as far as the edge of the pier.
"Clap your hands every two seconds." He raised his gigantic hands and demonstrated for me. "Two, three, clap...two, three, clap...got it?" The noise he made sounded like rhythmic gun shots. "As long as I can hear you clapping, I know your hands aren't busy with something else. I stop hearing them, and you don't get out of here alive. Got it?" While he was talking, his hands kept up the beat: clap, two, three...clap, two, three...clap...
I nodded. The thundering noise ceased abruptly. He reached out, took the second bill from my hand, and unlocked the door of the warehouse. The light inside was dim, like a night light parents leave on for a sleeping baby, but it was good enough for my purposes.
Clap, two, three, clap, two, three…my hands beat rhythmically as I walked through the vast building, divided into squares like a gigantic road map, searching for section Q-16. Clap, two, three, clap, two, three… I felt quite stupid. Like in a children’s song -Clap your hands, one, two, three, rock your feet, one, two, three. I was quietly singing the song to myself without really being willing. Songs don't always ask for my permission to show up. Neat piles of micro ovens...clap, clap… crates screaming, "Fragile! Do Not Touch!" in bright red...clap, clap… television sets in every size and brand...clap, clap… Q-16, my destination, here you are… clap, clap!
I kept up the beat of my clapping as I looked over the crates. My hand started to hurt. They were getting numb, and for a minute I almost let them fall – clap, two, three...clap, two, three...Kate hadn't told me a lot about what she had in her house. Or maybe she had and I'd forgotten. Just the photocopier in an antique Chippendale cabinet. The crates looked like they'd been tossed in there in a hurry. It wasn't hard to see what was inside while my hands kept up the idiotic birthday ditty. An old rose living room set. Clap, clap, clap, a dining table in pale pine...clap, clap, clap… a bookcase in the same wood...clap, two, three… a low double bed...clap, two, three… one half-opened crate that looked like it held a dresser. I peered inside. It wasn't just any dresser. It was a Chippendale cabinet with a large photocopier inside, its lid standing open.
It was made of light walnut with pink carving to go with the rest of the furniture. It stood on four curved legs. Beneath the copying table was a row of buttons, and below that a storage space with two doors, like a place for spare paper, except that these doors didn't have handles. I had to get the doors open. After ten long days of tripping in New York, I was finally very close to what I was looking for. Clap, two, three...clap, two, three...I nearly forgot to clap my hands, and that would ruin any chance of this new discovery ever leading me to Kate. I sat down on a nearby crate, clapping my hands and trying to get the cabinet open with the tip of my shoe. No luck. For a minute I felt as if someone up there was playing games with me, but the next minute my foot landed on one of the buttons and the doors swung open. I didn't feel ridiculous anymore. Inside was a thick briefcase, the type attorneys bring with them to an important trial. It was dark brown and it was open. Inside, hundreds of neatly arranged blue sheets stood ready for review.
So here it was. I'd found something. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew for sure that this briefcase been valuable. It could bring Kate back to me if I made the right moves. Clap, two, three...clap, two, three...I was losing all feeling in my hands. The uproar of my clapping was making me dizzy. I had to see what was in the briefcase.
Then everything happened at once. I tried to reach out, to slide a sheet of paper out of the briefcase and onto the floor so I could see what it was all about. The briefcase fell over and its contents spilled out. In less than a split second, I reached a decision. I kneeled down, stuffing the papers with lightning speed back into the briefcase. I managed to see the seal of the American eagle on the top of one sheet. The top left hand corner was embellished with a diagonal red stripe.
I had to get out, and fast. I'd already missed two beats. With the briefcase under my arm I couldn't keep up the clapping, and I didn't see much point in it anyway. John was probably already on his way, baseball bat at the ready.
I made my way back to the door, keeping as close as possible to the walls, taking advantage of the long shadows thrown by the large crates on the floor. The single bulb lighting the building was on the wall, not the ceiling, so there were a lot of shadows to hide in. This time I couldn't jump over the piles of cloth bolts and pots as I'd done on my way in. I couldn't risk losing my footing or making too much noise when I landed. I hurried, trying to be as silent as a cat and thanking God for having had the sense to put on sneakers. I bumped into a crate of copper pots, sending it flying off its shelf with the sound of a tank division on the move. I didn't stop, of course. I kept making sneakily for the door. I was getting close. I could see it clearly in the dim light. The moon lit up the area outside. The distance to the door was getting smaller and smaller. Suddenly I had to stop in my tracks. My free hand seemed to come up of its own accord to shade my eyes from the blinding glare. Huge fixtures on the ceiling had come on all at once, flooding the building in blazing light.
I pressed myself to the wall, taking up position behind a long row of oversized American refrigerators. A few seconds later, after what seemed like an eternity, my eyes grew accustomed to the light and I could see the security guard looking around in an effort to catch a glimpse of me. His hand held the heavy baseball bat, ready to strike. I waited for him to move away from the door so I could make my escape. He stayed put. He spoke a few words into a telephone. I had to think quickly. If I tossed something into the opposite corner, he'd move in that direction, but now, of all times, I couldn't find a single thing within reach that I could throw. Earlier I'd seen screws and boards scattered all over the place, but now that I needed something small and noisy, there was nothing there. I reached toward the carton in front of me, calling on extraordinary powers of restraint as my nails tried to cut through the tape. Finally, I made a hole big enough to stick my hand in. Slowly and cautiously I pulled out my pickings - the plastic head of Bozo the Clown. I wanted to kiss him, but the bastard was about to give me away. I watched as the mechanical mouth began to open. I had no idea what kind of sound it would make. Without waiting to find out, I threw it as far as I could. A brief crash, followed by Bozo's jolly laugh.
The guard looked in the direction of the noise, took one step, and stopped. His body wasn't blocking the exit anymore, but he was still very close to my only escape route. I couldn't wait any longer. I crept silently toward the moonlight. He was still looking the other way. Two steps from freedom, I stood up and ran out. Our bodies almost rubbed up against each other. I'd made it.
He spun around toward me with
his bat, but my legs were racing at an unprecedented speed.
"Stop, you sonofo bitch, stop!" he roared.
I didn't. I knew exactly where I was going - that path between the crates that I'd seen when I'd been negotiating with him to let me in. I sped, as light-footed as a gazelle - and then squeezed in between the crates. I knew the crack was too small for him to get through. I prayed it was wide enough for me. The artificial tunnel grew progressively narrower. Toward the end, I had to pull in my stomach and hold my breath - but I made it. I managed to stick to the briefcase and pull it through with me. A minute after I had shot out of the warehouse, I reached the edge of the pier by the river. John must have given up the attempt to force himself through the way I had come. I heard few gun shots, but kept speeding away from the pier, running in zigzags. I didn't even stop on Ninth Ave, my heart pounding like a drum. I managed to make my way between the peddlers' carts and the pedestrians, the phone booths and the beggars lying on the black sidewalk. The briefcase was crushed and battered, but it was still clutched tightly under my arm. I knew I had to do something with it; I couldn't keep it with me, but I couldn't lose it either. And I couldn't keep running like this. I had to find someplace quiet where I could catch my breath and think.
On the corner of 59th St. there was a public building, gray, square and deserted. The sign under the roof read: City University of New York, John Jay College. I stopped in front of the gate, trying to steady my breathing, and went in.
The African American security guard at the door, drowning in fat and double chins, raised bored eyes to me and then went back to his paper. Hi, colleague, I greeted him in my head. I glanced at the signs on the wall suggesting to turn left, and then straight down the corridor to the library.
I could see the entrance to the reading room ahead of me, when I noticed the sign "Men" on a door to my left. I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. Safely inside one of the stalls that reeked of a combination of urine and air freshener, I opened the case. All the documents bore the letterhead of the Department of Defense and in bold letters at the bottom TOP SECRET - SENSITIVE. The briefcase was burning my fingers. I closed it quickly.
An elderly librarian with a forbidding expression stopped me as I entered the reading room. "You have to check that here!" she commanded, pointing to the briefcase. I hushed the sigh of relief. I couldn't have dreamed of a better solution. The stub she handed me bore the information: "The library closes at 10 p.m. Items not collected will be kept for 48 hours and then donated to charity." So the college didn't believe in long-term checking, but forty-eight hours wasn't bad. I went in, pulled a book off the nearest shelf, and sat down with a sigh of relief at a heavy wooden desk in the back.
Slowly, I felt my tension lifting. I was looking around at the other readers in the hall, when the formidable, potbellied, double-chinned security guard appeared in the doorway. This time he was wearing an officer-like cap, which clearly increased his sense of duty. He strode at a brisk pace through the aisles, scrutinizing the anxious puzzled faces of everyone there. He was looking for me. Either my hasty entrance had aroused his suspicions, or someone had called him. The grumpy elderly woman I'd left the briefcase with?
I glanced along the desk I was sitting at. Four seats to my right there was a young black lady with surprisingly light blue eyes and high cheekbones. She caught me looking at her, responded with the trace of a smile, and quickly lowered her eyes again.
I shrugged off my leather jacket, took a NY Knicks cap out of the pocket, and stuck it on my head. Smoothly, I got up and moved to the seat beside my dark-skinned companion. "Pardon me," I said in the most courteous manner I could muster, "Do you know anything about criminology?"
She stared at me in a mixture of surprise and apprehension, and then noticed the guard examining the faces of the people at the desk in the row before us.
"Trying to steal a book?" she asked, amusement replacing her concern. She could easily give me away, or simply ignore me and thereby mark me for the guard's attention.
"No, nothing like that," I answered, trying to sound offended and convincing.
"Hiding from someone?" she asked, a trace of sympathy creeping into her voice.
"Who could I be hiding from?"
" Quid quid id est, time odanaos et donaferentes."
"Excuse me?"
"Quidquid id est, time odanaos et donaferentes," she repeated. One of us wasn't quite with it. The guard was only a couple of yards away and didn't seem to show any interest in the whispering couple.
"Whatever it is, I fear Greeks even when they bring gifts. The words of Laocoon, the high priest of Troy, when he was asked for his opinion of the big horse the Greeks delivered to Troy," she explained. The shine in her eyes and her warm smile mollified my fears. "Don't you know Latin?"
"Not a word."
"That's funny, because the book you're holding is in Latin. Institutions, by Gaius, the Roman jurist."
I grinned apologetically. I actually knew of Gaius from law school, but we had studied his expositions in English. The security guard turned and began plodding back to the door.
"I owe you a debt of gratitude," I said.
"And an explanation. Who are you running from?"
"It's a long story, but I'm the good guy."
"Are you?" she laughed. "If you're one of the good guys, you have nothing to worry about here. This is the school of criminology. We've got the greatest concentration of law enforcement officers in all of New York - cops, investigators, detectives, as well as firemen, federal agents, insurance investigators, and IRS agents. They're all here if you want them. There's even a course for prison guards and probation officers, so relax. No one's going to hurt you here."
She had a captivating smile. She didn't seem too concerned that I might be one of the bad guys. I was exhausted and scared, not the ideal state for a friendly chat, but I knew this was better than being alone and hunted.
"Which one of those are you?"
"Social worker," she said, with obvious pride. "It's a hard job. You need a strong stomach, but it's a mission! I'm going back to the Bronx soon, to the neighborhood where I was born. It's a terrible place, but someday we'll turn it around. Wait and see."
There was an intimacy in her voice that filled me with a pleasant sense of security and trust. I wondered if it was a technique they taught social workers in college, but what difference did it make? The woman gave off incredible charm and warmth. Her name was Fay, and she shared an apartment with a girlfriend near the college. What was my name? What was I doing there?
"Let's get some coffee," I suggested in lieu of an answer.
In the cafeteria, she told me she'd gotten out of the Bronx at an early age when they discovered she did very well on IQ tests. "But we have to go back to the Bronx," she repeated emphatically. "I got out because I was lucky, but not everyone's so lucky. The situation there is awful. We can't let it go on."
"Who did you get these beautiful blue eyes from?" I couldn't resist asking.
"Contact lenses," she laughed. "Just to fool innocent people like you!"
At the end of the semester she had to do in-service training, and she was planning to go out of state for that, to gain new experiences.
"Who's after you?" she asked again with the same warm smile. Her voice was soft and comforting, and I stopped staring anxiously at everyone who entered the cafeteria.
"It's complicated, hard to explain."
"Sometimes it takes someone from outside to listen and make sense of things."
"Oh, no...the problem is there are too many outsiders and they all understand what's going on only too well. I'm the only one who doesn't."
"Helping people is my job. Try me."
It was good to talk to her, and I didn't want to have to end the conversation and start running again. I never thought I could trust someone after knowing them for only ten minutes, but she had gotten me out of a fix and she seemed trustworthy enough. And maybe there was some way she really could he
lp. Anyway, I didn't have any place to go.
"Well…" I tried to explain, "a lady I met and was very much in love with disappeared. Among her things I found a briefcase with top secret documents that look very important. I've got to find her and get the documents back to the right people." Suddenly it all seemed very simple.
"Who are the right people?"
"That's where I'm stuck. Everyone involved talks about security and national interest and tells me not to ask questions, but I do ask and I don't get any answers."
"Where's the briefcase?"
I held her eyes. "It's better for you not to know."
"Where are you going to go?"
"In the meantime, nowhere. I think I'm close to finding her. Maybe I can get her back in exchange her for the papers."
"Who will you make the exchange with?"
"I don't know."
"Who gave them to you?"
"I took them from a bonding warehouse." She gave me a quick probing look, and I was glad she didn't ask me how I'd taken them.
"Who put them in the warehouse? Who paid for their storage?"
Good question. If I knew the answer to that one, I'd be very close to figuring it all out. I knew I couldn't take the briefcase with me. I couldn't rely on the people at Motti Pizza, and I didn't want to put them in danger. I couldn't keep the checkroom stub either, or send it to myself. I glanced at the clock. I still had forty-six hours until they carted it away. The library had already been closed, and wouldn't open until the next day, in another eleven hours. Fay seemed like a very intelligent person. Maybe with all the cops and agents she met at college, the idea of running into a "case" on the other side of the law appealed to her. Maybe it reminded her of her old home in the Bronx. Her smile was still warm and her blue eyes were sparkling. I felt I could trust her. But even if I was wrong, I wasn't jeopardizing anything. Even in regard to the documents, I still had enough time to make my move.