“He called yesterday.”
“And?”
“Second-rate. They’re small, worth pennies. And too much attention.”
“What kind of attention?”
“The tenants had a rally, called in the press. They still have a case going in court.”
Richard’s chest tightened.
The old man chuckled. “I thought Tuchman liked Brownsville.”
Another pause.
“What about Abe?”
“Abe will sign if you want him to.”
“And that kid. That kid who did Southern Boulevard?”
“No sign of him.”
Richard struggled to decipher the meaning of these last exchanges, but then the doorknob turned. Richard grabbed the newspaper on the adjacent chair and held it to his face.
The two men stood in the doorway—a younger man wearing shades, with thin lips and a chin smooth as marble, and an older one, short and rotund, with small, kindly eyes swallowed in the wrinkles of his forehead. Richard got to his feet to shake their hands, but the young man sidestepped him, slipping into a chair in the corner of the office.
Richard eagerly seized the older man’s hand.
“Sir, it’s a pleasure.”
“Call me Rich, Mr. Wong.”
“Rich? Well, look at that—I’m Rich too! Richard Wong!”
“Oh?”
They both sat down, Richard in front of the mahogany desk and the old man behind it, while the younger man looked on from the corner, his arms folded in front of him.
“And your ribbon,” Richard continued, pointing to the air force accolade on the wall. “I was a man of the navy myself. Trained down at Key West.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“And yours, sir. The air force—that’s swell. You might know a few of the fellows I grew up with. I was a member of the Brownsville Boys Club.”
“Richard.” Mr. Leviathan cleared his throat. “My apologies, but let me save you some time. I don’t think we’re interested in your properties…”
“Really, I’ll take any price!” Richard interrupted, raising his voice, ready to beg now. He leaned his elbow on the old man’s desk. “Honestly, sir, I got myself in a bad situation. I lost my job. I’m looking to keep a roof over my wife’s head. I took a bad loan, and my house is on the line. I just need to pay back this guy—I’m not looking to benefit.”
Mr. Leviathan sat with his hands in his lap and something like pity in his face. Richard could still see the young man out of the corner of his eye, but he tried his best to ignore him. Something about that youngster in his black shades made Richard’s neck itch.
“Sounds like a difficult situation, Mr. Wong,” said Mr. Leviathan.
“Any price, any conditions,” Richard repeated, and then, embarrassed, he leaned back and tried to make a joke out of it. “Tough times, this economy, right? We’re all down on our luck—even the Mets. I don’t know if you’re a fan?”
“You really are quite the Brooklyn boy, Mr. Wong.”
Richard laughed, wiping the perspiration off his forehead. He had never fallen so low. His pants were too short, he realized now; he could see the dry skin above his ankle socks.
