He glanced up at Manhattan’s skyscrapers, but their flashy jewelry no longer interested him. Instead, he peered at the darker Brooklyn side: the abandoned factories, the Brooklyn Navy Yard devoid of workers, the swellings of trees below a starless sky. Back in the day, Richard remembered, a man with a willingness to sweat could find work along those piers, or in any number of factories.
But he’d been too late for all that.
Richard climbed up onto the parapet. With a grunt, he pulled himself up so that he stood on the edge of a beam, the traffic roaring below.
He dared himself to jump.
A braver man might have done it. Wasn’t that what bridges were for?
Sightseeing, and jumping. In the ’30s, one of the Brownsville boys’ fathers had thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge so his wife could collect aid from the state.
But he was too much of a coward.
Richard walked all the way to Flatbush Avenue with his soles aching, his graying hair in disarray. He continued past the flashing neon lights of Junior’s and the Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower, all the way to Grand Army Plaza with its mold-green Civil War heroes splattered with pigeon shit. Brooklyn belonged to the underworld: squeegee men waiting to ambush cars with mops, muggers sticking up pedestrians in broad daylight, perverts, pedophiles, flashers.
His head throbbed. He sat on the steps of the library, dreading his return home.
And then he remembered. A number he had memorized long ago. He hadn’t talked to Steeplechase in years, though sometimes he heard rumors about his shady deals. Jack, however, knew everyone in real estate across the five boroughs. He would surely have the answer.
Richard hurried over to a pay phone on Eastern Parkway. He began to shake so badly he nearly dropped the receiver. Then he heard laughter—a woman’s and a man’s, and a television set.
“Hello? Who’s this?”
“Richard—Richard from the Brownsville Boys Club,” he stuttered. “Jack?”
“Richie Wong? Wow, is this really Richie Wong?”
“It’s been a long time.” Richard swallowed, trying to remain calm. “How’s the family?”
“Well, Richie, it sure has been a while. The wife and I split. She took the kid. I got a girlfriend, Marla, she’s with me right now. Say,where you calling from? I live in Woodhaven, you should come over and have a beer.”
“I’m on a pay phone. Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, Richie. What can I help you with?”
“It’s a sale. A property sale.”
“You and Foo Foo moving out of East Flatbush?”
“No… I’m talking about the properties on Livonia I bought from Arnie.”
“Ooh, that’s bad, Rich,” Jack sighed. “You’re not gonna find a buyer for those. Just skip your property taxes and the city will take them from you.”
“I…” Richard closed his eyes. “I need to sell. I need the money, Jack, or I’m going to lose my house.”
“Oh boy, oh boy.” Jack cleared his throat. “Let me think.”
Richard sucked his teeth, waited, aware he had no backup plan.
“Actually, I know one… one firm. They might help you out. I’m going to give you a number, you got something to write with?”
He didn’t. He’d have to scratch it somewhere, like a vandal. He took his keys and etched the number on the metal of the phone booth door.
“Don’t ask them too many questions, all right?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. Just sign the papers. They won’t screw you, I give you my word.”
