C H A P T E R • 11
I was able to catch up to Karl where he had stopped on the bar side of St. Nicholas Avenue to take the wide shot of the row of buildings on the other side of the street.
“You fools can’t see anything in the dark anyways,” the Kit Kat bartender called out to our backs for our benefit. Most of the crowd had stopped on the sidewalk in front of the bar, safely across the street. On that side were storefronts—a laundromat, a grocery, a Chinese takeout.
On the other side, where they have stood since 1888, was a group of seven adjoining houses that made a set, their carved facades a solid sandstone street wall. Viola owned one near the end of the row.
Part of the early development of the Heights named after Alexander Hamilton, who had a country home there, they had been built to stand against anything but the most vehement acts of God and neglect. And that was probably the combination that finally caused one wall to crumble beneath one mansard turreted roof. The building continued its sporadic rumbling.
The bartender was right. Those of us who had crossed the street couldn’t see much. But we could hear, and something was settling with a sporadic rumbling in the guts of one of the buildings.
When the firemen showed up, they didn’t go into the building. Instead, they sprayed beams of light from the sidewalk and from the alley next door and shepherded the crowd away, including everybody they could roust from the neighboring buildings.
“Why are you just standing there?” I asked one of the firemen.
“See that X? Someone in the department painted it to announce the floors wouldn’t hold the weight of a man.”
I took out my notebook and wrote that detail for my story. “If you knew it was derelict, it seems like it should have been supported. What’s the protocol for a fragile building? Do you get a lot of these uptown?”
“We get enough. But I’m not the one to ask about it. I need you to step back. This is too close.”
“Okay. And you be very careful.”
He looked at me and gave me a thumbs-up. “I always am.”
I let myself be shepherded away and kept my distance, satisfying myself with craning to follow the searching lights. Karl was the only one of the onlookers who needed to be discouraged as he moved close enough to take the pictures the newspaper was going to need to report the story.
The address seemed familiar and I doodled a box around the number before capturing the other details in my notebook. A couple of buildings away, a Keep the Power banner fluttered in front of what must have been a campaign field office for the incumbent in the last election.
Police arrived in a herd of blue and whites with lights flashing. And Obsidian unfolded from a sleek black sedan he parked in the no-parking zone in front of the Kit Kat. I watched him walk across the street.
“Pearl? For someone who doesn’t want to be here, you seem to be all over Manhattan North these days.”
“Obie.” I got a rush from seeing him and reverted back to his childhood nickname. “I heard it from across the street.”
“Mmmm.” His attention was on the building.
“And now you’re going to have another vacant lot,” I said.
“Not if we can help it.”
“We?”
“It’s city-owned. Therefore, we have some clout.”
“And some responsibility.”
“You place value on responsibility?” He turned back to me. “What about a citizen’s responsibility to turn over documents that could figure in a police investigation?”
“I told Karl to give you those pictures,” I said.
“I’m not talking about your pictures. You all have been calling some of everybody about the evidence Cecelia Miller collected about activity at the bank.”
“Send someone by the office tomorrow. What police investigation?”
“We’ll go to the office now.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. And you’re lucky I don’t arrest you for obstruction.”
“What police investigation?”
“I heard you the first time. No comment.”
“Is it just a hit and run or do you think maybe she was run over on purpose?”
“I don’t think real reporters pull together their stories with ifs and maybes.”
“Of course they do. Probably like real cops do.”
“I do know there’s a helluva lot more to being a cop than your movie version. Come on. There’s not much more to see here.”
He was right. New Yorkers have short attention spans. The group was breaking up. Except, in front of the building next door to the one still rumbling, as if on cue, there was more to see.
A man in overalls spattered with what looked like paint was arguing with two firemen and they attracted the attention of the police. I moved closer and stationed myself as witness with my notebook out in the ready-and-recording position to take the names and badge numbers if the argument escalated.
From there I heard the man, who was not much older than a kid, arguing that he needed to get back inside. His face was swollen and bandaged.
“You bitch ass motherfuckers,” he screamed at the policemen. Which seemed like a bad idea to me. But I wrote down the quote.
Sure enough, one of the cops moved behind him and snatched his wiry arms behind his back so his jehri curls swung.
“Who you calling a motherfucker?”
The policeman’s hat fell off to reveal a baby face. He looked like Tom Sawyer, but for the rage. The other cops were standing nearby, spectating. Except, one came to grab the kid on the other side and help rough-house him against the car. When he had finally been thrown against the door frame and pushed inside, the last thing we heard from the car was, “Kiss my mother fucking ass.”
Obsidian promised a rendezvous. “Wait for me at the Kat.”