Anzalones the night Garland was killed and telephone records would show he’d repeatedly called me earlier that same evening. I began to see how easy it was to put together a circumstantial case against someone if that’s what you wanted to do. And it scared the pants off me. If that was the way a straight-arrow woman from the suburbs felt, I could imagine how a kid like Jamal Harrington felt. Now I knew why he’d run.
Stancik hadn’t said another word. He didn’t have to.
Losing my temper would be unproductive. “So now I’m Fagin, orchestrating a team of youthful offenders, like the guy in
He wasn’t. “While I was waiting for you, I ran the plates on that tank idling by the fire hydrant. I hate when people do that,” he said, looking up from his notes. Over the top of his glasses, I could see his eyes were chocolate brown. I hadn’t noticed before. “What if there’s a fire? Anyway, the vehicle belongs to one Concetta Anzalone, wife of Guy Anzalone, who the police in Brooklyn are investigating on usury charges. You’ve been seen with them on numerous occasions, including one incident at the St. George Hotel, where you allegedly struck Mr. Anzalone with a suitcase. Doorman called it in.”
“This is preposterous. I’m getting out now. If you don’t have an actual question for me or a warrant for my arrest, thanks for the lift but I have to go to work. I suggest you do the same.”
“Honey, I am at work. I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re not in the burbs anymore. Some of these people are rougher than you may be used to. From what we’ve pieced together, it’s not impossible Jamal’s crew has been staging these Javits Curse mishaps at the convention center to deflect attention from their real crimes.”
“Has anyone questioned these protestors out here about the disturbances at the show?” I asked. Tight security had kept the antichemical, antifertilizer group under control except for one minor incident at the reception on Friday. The cops felt they were in the clear as far as the vandalism went. Management thought it was an inside job—a disgruntled employee or even one of the exhibitors. And the first incident happened before the sales vendors were admitted, so it could even have been one of the display gardeners.
“Right. Maybe it’s Mrs. Moffitt.”
“No. We checked her out. She’s been exhibiting at the Big Apple for a long time. We don’t think she’d sabotage the show. We think the first incident might have been staged to destroy some piece of evidence, but now the perpetrator is getting a kick out of being referred to as the Javits Curse. That says kids, not professionals.”
I wondered where he’d gotten his detailed show information, then it hit me. “I was unaware of Kristi Reynolds’s stint at the police academy.”
“Maybe she got there after you graduated. She’s a little younger.”
Someone once told me the worst wounds were self-inflicted. I hadn’t pulled the trigger on that one, but I’d certainly given Stancik the ammo.
“That came out wrong,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Forget it,” I said, hauling myself out of the car.
Just then two fire engines screeched to a halt in front of the Wagner Center. Stancik and I looked at each other.
“Now what?”
We hurried past the thin crowd of protesters, who parted for the emergency vehicles and workers and us as soon as Stancik flashed his badge. Inside the building, the sight of the abandoned security desk had us sprinting up the escalator to the second floor, which was the scene of much chaos and shrieking.
Fifty-two
I didn’t know how much water can come out of overhead sprinklers in ten or fifteen minutes, but it was enough to dash dreams and bankrupt a few businesses. By the time the downpour stopped, some hearts were broken. Others thanked their lucky stars that, like a capricious tornado, the deluge had miraculously skipped their aisles or booths and landed next door. All they’d suffered was a light misting, compared to devastated neighbors who’d been washed away in mini-mudslides.
Stancik ran off to find security and to make sure there wasn’t a real fire anywhere in the old building. I hurried to Primo’s booth and breathed easier when I saw his sculptures had gotten sprayed but were otherwise fine. David’s light fixtures had been spared, as had the sumptuous breakfast he’d brought for us. Nikki was less fortunate.
The wooden and wrought iron furniture and tools in her booth could be wiped down, but the dried flower arrangements looked like piles of refried beans, the vintage linens were ruined, and the sarcophagus was filled with water that had leaked through the decorative grate that served as the tabletop. It would be difficult to drain and would probably start to smell soon, since the water that had come out of the sprinklers was hardly Poland Spring.
All around, people wondered how to salvage the last day of the show, one that historically saw an increase in foot traffic from shoppers who knew bargains could be found when vendors were faced with the prospect of shipping home all the merchandise they hadn’t sold. This particular day there would be lots of bargains.
In a calm and determined voice (did nothing fluster the woman?) Kristi Reynolds announced that the show would open ninety minutes later than originally planned and that tubs and plastic garbage bags were being distributed by Wagner personnel to help people get rid of any debris. Fans and water extractors were available by calling the building’s maintenance number.
Very quickly, the atmosphere changed. Out of the chaos grew a spirit of camaraderie I hadn’t seen before at the show, as exhibitors helped one another clean up and improvise in those gardens and booths that had been most severely damaged. In a remarkable display of solidarity Mrs. Moffitt’s Jensen got the ball rolling by offering their award-winning specimen plants, window boxes, and container gardens to anyone whose display had been irreparably damaged. She had plenty of takers, and it inspired me to make the same offer for the temporary use of Primo’s remaining artwork. Selfishly, I also thought it might even help them sell if they were seen in situ.
Connie Anzalone’s Coney Island Garden was unscathed but, wanting to help, she called Guy and the Tumbled Stone King diverted a truckload of rocks and faux flagstone to the loading dock, where Fat Frank and Cookie handed them out like Romans flinging bread into the crowds at the Colosseum or, to use a more recent and perhaps more appropriate analogy, like old-time mobsters handing out turkeys during the holidays.
In some instances, exhibitors joined forces and created one decent display where previously there had been two or three bedraggled ones. As they worked, people shared stories about how their home gardens had survived sudden downpours and freak hailstorms. I was loving my gardening community. In fact, it was the first time I’d felt like part of a professional community in a long time and I was happy to pitch in to help. I called Lucy and left a message for her to come as soon as possible.
Through the frenzied last-minute activity before the opening bell, Stancik and Labidou were clustered around an ever-changing knot of uniformed cops, private security guards, and convention center employees not far from my booth. Periodically workers pointed to the ceiling at the sprinkler heads that had gone haywire and caused all the destruction. A maintenance worker came over with one of the rubber carts.
Five exhibitors asked to borrow small sculptures, so I loaded them onto flat carts and they were whisked away. As I walked the floor, I began to notice a pattern. Not the exhibits that had been ruined—the ones that had been spared. Among them were all Mrs. Moffitt’s entries; SlugFest; three major plant suppliers from the Northwest; and, as far as I could tell, any vendors and gardeners with electrical equipment. Perhaps the deluge hadn’t hit with the randomness of a tornado.
Like a good citizen I circled back to my booth to share my observation with John Stancik. I may not be have been as young as Kristi Reynolds, but as my mother would have said, I had a much better personality. I just needed a little lipstick. I swung by the ladies’ room before looking for John.
The smoke stung my eyes, and I wondered if there really had been a fire, but it was just Allegra Douglas, puffing away in the first stall. In an uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness, she tossed the butt when she heard me enter.
“I’m sorry,” she said, waving at the air. “I know I shouldn’t be smoking here. I’m just so frazzled. How is your booth? Is everything all right?”
Our previous conversations hadn’t been that much fun, so I nodded politely and got to the business of
