ERICA DRESSES WAY DOWN, WITH her unflattering floppy hat and large sunglasses in place, and walks across town to Lexington Avenue, where she ducks into the subway and catches the 4 train to its northern terminus in the Bronx—Woodlawn. As with Flushing and its Koreans, and Brighton Beach and its Russians, she finds herself in an insular ethnic enclave. The main shopping street, Katonah Avenue, is lined with pubs—Mulligan’s, Behan’s, Coachman’s Inn—that offer “rashers and Guinness.” A grocery store window displays pickled beetroot and “bread flown in from Dublin.” There are shamrocks everywhere, and a large mural painted on the side of a building features fiddlers and football players. Above the stores are small apartment buildings, and the side streets are lined with a mix of single-family houses and more small apartment houses. The faces Erica passes are, with rare exceptions, white and on the ruddy side.
Celtic Home Realty is a small, nondescript storefront. Erica walks in and a little bell rings. There are two desks, several filing cabinets, and a small seating area. A large map of Ireland is on one wall and a map of Woodlawn on another. A woman of around fifty—short, chunky, sour-faced, her hair dyed a garish red and styled into a series of tight undulating waves—is on the phone exchanging unpleasantries. When she sees Erica, she quickly ends the call and stands.
“You must be Erica Sparks.”
“And you’re Fiona Connor.”
They shake hands. Fiona has a handshake like a prizefighter, and under her smile Erica sees a set jaw and shrewd little eyes.
“I did a little poking around, and now I know who you are,” Fiona says, folding her arms over her chest. She’s dropped the thick-as-marmalade brogue.
“I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
“Hardly. We Irish love the green—and it sounds like you’ve got plenty.” She laughs mirthlessly. “So, have a seat and tell me what you’re looking for.”
“I’m suddenly making a fair amount of money, and my financial adviser says I should consider investing in real estate. He advised a stable neighborhood and something multiunit.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Woodlawn is as solid as you can get. Very few properties come up for public sale. We prefer to do things by word of mouth—it helps to preserve the . . . character of the neighborhood. Otherwise we’d be overrun.”
A young man walks into the office from the street. He’s skinny and jittery—his whole body seems to be quivering. Gray skin, greasy hair, desperate sunken eyes: Erica doesn’t need a blood test to spot a junkie. Fiona’s mouth turns down in annoyance.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Can’t you see I’m with a customer?” She turns and gives Erica an oily smile. “This is my boy, Desmond.”
Desmond’s darting eyes look over at Erica. “Hey there,” he says. “Listen, Ma, some creep sideswiped my side mirror. I need two hundred bucks for the repair.” His eyes are glassy with need.
Fiona shakes her head, and her tight little mouth gets tighter still. Clearly she’s been through this scene a hundred times before. If Erica wasn’t there, who knows how she would react. But she wants Desmond to disappear, so she opens her purse, withdraws two bank-fresh hundreds, and hands them to him.
“Hey, thanks, Ma, I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my paycheck. I swear it, I will.”
“I think a job comes before a paycheck.”
“You’re the best, Ma.” He lurches toward her and kisses her cheek. Then he turns and rushes out of the office.
Fiona looks after him in anger and disgust, then turns all business. “The building is eight units, the rent roll is 12K a month, the price is $750,000. Good return on investment, especially if you’re paying cash money. Would you like to go take a look at the property?”
They leave the office and set out along Katonah Avenue. Fiona has a peculiar heavy step, slightly bowlegged, almost a tromp. She nods to several people they pass, but Erica notices that the returned greetings are far from effusive. In fact, some people seem to shrink from her. They reach a handsome four-story redbrick building. Fiona unlocks the front door—the small lobby is freshly painted.
“All the apartments are identical one-bedrooms, two apartments a floor, no elevator. Good for the legs. There’s one vacant unit. Follow me.”
They climb to the second floor. The unit is also freshly painted, light and spacious, with a galley kitchen and original black-and-white tile bath.
“This place would easily rent for eighteen hundred a month. I’ll find you a nice tenant. Whenever you have a vacancy, you come to me. I fill it.”
Erica looks at her, incredulous. Fiona shrugs. “That’s how we do business around here. Like I said, we have to protect the character of the neighborhood.”
“Funny, Leonid Gorev didn’t mention anything about you finding the tenants.”
Fiona’s head jerks—she quickly catches herself, but now there’s a feral look in her eyes. “Leonid Gorev? Never heard the name before in my life.”
“That’s funny, he referred me to you. He said that the two of you do business together.”
Fiona purses her mouth, turns and runs her fingertip along a windowsill and then turns it over, checking for dirt. “I do business with a lot of people.”
“Do you?”
Fiona sucks on her teeth with exaggerated nonchalance. “I’m from Belfast. I left because of the Troubles. I don’t like trouble.”
“Who does?”
“Some people make trouble for themselves.”
“That’s true. They put themselves in the middle of things. And then they get squeezed from both sides. Just as an example, someone could have . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Leonid Gorev on one side. And on the other side . . .”
“You interested in the building or not?”
“I need a little more information.”
“You’re the curious type, aren’t you?”
Erica looks at Fiona’s hard-set, shrewd little face. She’s not going to get anything more out of her today. “Let me think about it. Thanks for your time.” She crosses to the front door. “I’ll show myself out.”