“Most of the doors are locked from the outside,” she said.
Only one door in each hall was open, so the overnight security guard could go in and out, punching his code into the alarm system to report to an off-site company that everything was copasetic.
“Alarm Central’s not even in New York. Probably in Indiana somewhere. But they’re wired into the local precinct.”
I was surprised the center had such a sophisticated system for the flower show, but maybe it had been installed pre-Javits, when the building had been used for shows with more valuable merchandise.
After three beers and nothing in my stomach but a mini-pierogi from four hours earlier I was light-headed. After three tall rum and Cokes, light on the ice, Rolanda was unchanged. “Anthony is on tonight. I’ll text him so he knows we’re here and doesn’t shoot us.”
“There’s an armed guard at the flower show?”
“Only for the orchids. Chill out, I’m kidding. Of course he’s not armed, but why scare the man?” Rolanda’s fingers flew over her keypad and two passages of electronic Caribbean music told me first that her message had been sent and then that a reply had been received. She smiled. “He says we owe him a bottle of Rémy and he’s looking forward to meeting the woman in red.”
I pulled my jacket closed and folded my arms over my chest.
The open doors weren’t difficult to find, as an eerie whitish-blue light emanated from one rectangle every thirty feet or so. The glow came from the exit signs and the off-hours lighting on the beams, which backlit some of the pigeons still perched in the rafters.
Without the people, the lights, and the buzz, the deserted flower show was like a fairy-tale jungle, albeit a cold one. We didn’t need to worry about snakes or tarantulas, just the occasional fluttering of a bird we’d disturbed. And all the vegetation was perfect. No slugs, no deer, no bunnies.
We reached my booth quickly and found the show directory in one of the nearly empty boxes where I’d stashed the box cutters, markers, and double-stick tape I’d used to set up.
“This was where I put the bag.”
I fanned through the book. No note.
“Try again. Maybe the pages are stuck together. It’s humid in here.”
Still nothing, but this time I noticed a dog-eared page. I have a congenital inability to dog-ear pages. I’m a bookmark gal, even if I use a magazine renewal card or a dollar bill.
“I didn’t do this. It must have been Bleimeister.”
There wasn’t enough light to read by, so we took the book and headed for the nearest exit. Two halls down from where we emerged, shadows waved and we heard a sound as if someone had bumped into a trash can. The person uttered a curse I hadn’t heard since I was a little girl back in Brooklyn and for which I had never gotten an accurate translation except that it had something to do with going to Naples. Rolanda texted Anthony to see if it was him. It wasn’t, but he’d seen the movement, too.
“He says the cleaning staff should all be gone by now,” she whispered. I pulled on her arm and dragged her underneath a nearby staircase. Two slim figures made their way to the fire exit, and the heavy door closed behind them with a sucking sound. We exhaled.
“I think I know who they were. Fat Frank and Cookie.”
“First it was drinking straight from the bottle. Now you know two guys named Fat Frank and Cookie? Girl, I owe you an apology,” she said, “I have got the wrong idea about women from Connecticut.”
“They’re two men who work for Guy Anzalone, Connie’s husband,” I whispered.
The Caribbean music started up again and Rolanda fumbled in her pocket for the phone to silence it in case Fat Frank had heard and decided to come back to investigate. “Shoot, I’ve got to lose that music if I’m really going into this line of work.”
It was Anthony again. His text message read:
Someone is in Hall A. Stay away until I know it’s safe.
She closed her phone. “He’s a tough old bird,” she said.
“Older than Otis?”
There was no discussion. I kicked off Lucy’s stilettos and we ran to Hall A.
Thirty-six
In the fake twilight of the convention center we couldn’t see the men’s faces. They barely moved, but we heard the murmur of voices, though it was impossible to tell the nature of the exchange. Was this a friendly chat or was all hell about to break loose? Rolanda took charge.
“Whoever you are,” she yelled, “you know you’re not supposed to be here at this hour. Show’s closed.” It was a cheerful admonishment meant to announce our presence and lighten the mood. We padded on the cold concrete floor to where the men stood. As we drew closer, Rolanda saw Anthony talking to a younger man I recognized as Jamal Harrington.
“We’re okay, Ro. But, I’ll ask you again, sonny, what are you doing here? It’s a simple question.” Anthony might have been in his seventies, but he was the type of septuagenarian who probably still did one-armed push-ups. He’d have no problem subduing a kid, either physically or through personal authority, if it came to that. But none of us wanted to see that happen.
“Hi, Jamal. Those pilgrim tablecloths worked great.” Rolanda and Anthony looked at me like I was crazy, but I wanted everyone to relax and I didn’t mind sounding ridiculous if that was what it took. We knew Anthony didn’t have a gun, but the jury was still out on Jamal. He must have known what we were thinking, or perhaps he’d had to do it before in another situation, but he held his arms out, carefully opening his hoodie and turning around. It was telling that the action came to him so naturally.
“I was looking for the other guy,” Jamal said.
“That’s pretty vague, young fella,” Anthony said.
“Black dude. The one who was here Wednesday night. Something funny about his right eye. Really big hands like maybe he played sports before he got so old.”
“That dude and I were friends for forty-three years. Nothing funny about his eye. He was a veteran. He lost it in a machine shop accident in the army. We worked construction together when this building went up. Still got one of the bricks in the locker room—use it as a doorstop. He played basketball up at the City College courts. Played with Cazzie Russell once. Before we got so old. His name was Mr. Otis Cleveland Randolph.”
The impromptu eulogy was a tough act to follow. We stood there for what seemed like minutes but was probably just seconds. My shoeless feet were freezing and the rest of me was catching up.
“Maybe we should take this outside,” I said. “It’s warmer in the hallway and we’ll be able to see better.” Plus it seemed less confrontational than this standoff in the cold blue light of an empty, hangar-sized room.
We filed outside and, as I suspected, the stress level of the conversation lessened simply by walking into the light. Anthony stuck around until he made sure we were all right. We assured him that we would be. If Lauryn Peete trusted Jamal, I did, too. Besides, if we had to, Rolanda and I could probably take him.
“I’ll be poking out of each of these opened doors every five or ten minutes, punching in, so if you ladies need me, I won’t be far. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be here.” He and Jamal understood each other.
“We’ll be okay.”
“By the way, miss, that’s a fine party dress you got on.”
(Note to self: permanently borrow red dress from Lucy. I will never be lonely as long as I’m wearing this. How did I get to be this age without knowing that every woman needs a red dress?)
Anthony resumed his rounds. Jamal, Rolanda, and I sat outside the exhibit floor on chairs that only hours before had been occupied by rich old men in tuxedos and woman who, like Connie Anzalone, had agonized over what dress to wear.