There was a neon beer sign flickering in one window.
Inside, the store’s hardwood floors creaked. The air smelled of damp cardboard and nearly soured milk. Its four aisles were narrowed between shelves jammed with groceries. The cold case had beer, soft drinks, milk, eggs, yogurt, ice cream and butter. The deli counter had a display case with an array of meats, salads and pastries.
A slender Middle Eastern man in his early seventies stood behind the counter. A security camera was mounted on the wall above him, angled over the register and the door with an unobstructed view to the street and the pay phone.
This held promise, Gannon thought.
The old man’s droopy dark eyes took quick note of Gannon’s interest in his camera while he rang in the purchases of the three customers at the counter.
Gannon wanted to approach the clerk when he was alone and walked down an aisle to buy some time. There was a man wearing a Yankees cap at the newsstand flipping through
When the counter traffic cleared, Gannon approached the old man.
“Excuse me.” He placed his business card on the surface over the lottery-ticket case, opened his wallet to his press badge. “I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance and I was hoping you could help me.”
The man glanced at Gannon’s ID, then his card, without touching it. His impassive face bore a pencil mustache. Gannon continued.
“I’m trying to locate a man who called me from the pay phone out front and I thought maybe if we could view your security camera’s recordings it might help.”
The old man shrugged and shook his head.
“It’s important,” Gannon said. “I’d be willing to compensate you.”
The man shook his head. His eyes shifted to the younger man who’d come from the deli to the counter, likely the old man’s son.
“Who are you?” the younger man asked Gannon.
Gannon identified himself and started repeating his request before he was cut off by the old man, who issued a stream of what Gannon guessed was Arabic to the younger man.
As the two men talked, the old woman, wiping her hands on her apron, joined them in a heated three-way conversation. Gannon knew his request had hit on some deep-seated emotions. The younger man turned to him.
“We can’t help you.”
“It’s all right, I understand.”
“No, you don’t. After 9/11, our store was robbed. My father was beaten. Two years ago, we were robbed again and the scum dogs told him they had a right to his money because he supported al-Qaeda. They were ignorant racists. My parents are Americans. They’ve lived here for forty years. I was born here. We pay taxes, we vote and we mind our own business. He would like to help you, but he’s afraid there would be repercussions. Okay? So unless you’re going to buy something, I’m sorry, but we must ask you to leave.”
Gannon thanked them.
After he left, he headed for the check-cashing office across the street.
Eyeing the security camera over the counter, Gannon was satisfied that it was aimed at the door and the pay phone.
“May I help you?” asked an Asian woman in her twenties, wearing a blazer and a smile that weakened a bit as Gannon explained. When he finished, she said, “I’ll ask my boss,” and picked up a cell phone.
Gannon knew it was futile here.
He turned to the window and she relayed his request. While waiting for the predictable answer, his attention went across the street to the floral shop beside the deli mart. A shapely woman was tending to the flowers in the street display.
“I’m sorry,” the Asian woman said, and Gannon turned. “But my boss says you have to make your request to corporate security downtown.” She jotted down the number on a corner torn from the back page of the
The business next door was an electronics shop.
Gannon saw the shop’s security camera trained at the proper angle. He looked to the counter and the balding manager with an assortment of pens jutting from his pocket protector. An older woman was trying to understand his directions on how to program her cell phone.
“Be right with you, sir,” the manager said.
Gannon nodded, went to the side of the store and stood before the array of big-screen TVs, watching a replay of last night’s Yankees game.
At that moment, a second man entered the store. Gannon recognized him as the guy reading magazines in the deli mart, the Yankees cap.
“They sucked last night,” the ball cap guy said, joining him at the TVs.
He was about fifty, six feet with a potbelly straining a mustard-stained Mets T-shirt. The cuffs of his jeans were frayed and the guy needed a shave, a haircut and, judging from his greasy strands, maybe a shower.
“Yeah, that’s too bad.” Gannon moved to the display of laptops.
“I might be able to help you,” the ball cap guy said.
“Sorry?” Gannon turned back.
“I overheard you in the deli asking about security tape and I might be able to help you.”
Gannon doubted it.
“How can you help me?”
“I’m with a Community Watch program.” He nodded upward. “I live on the second floor above this store and I keep electronic surveillance of the street. I work closely with the NYPD.”
“Is that right?”
“Yup, and if we can reach an agreeable consulting fee, I could check my recordings for the dates you’re interested in.”
“And what fee would be agreeable?”
“Seeing how you work for a big news agency, let’s say one thousand.”
“Too high.” Gannon smiled. “I don’t even know if you have what I’m looking for, and if the quality is acceptable. I’ll give you fifty to check and another fifty if you have what I need.”
“Make it two hundred in total.”
“One-fifty, and only if you have what I need, in good quality. Agreed?”
The ball cap had to scratch his whiskers to decide.
“One-fifty, fine.”
“Let me get your name and ID first. Got a driver’s license?”
“Driver’s license? What do you need that for?”
“My personal security against getting ripped off.”
“Well, I’m not too sure about that.”
“That’s what I figured. Have a nice day.” Gannon started to turn.
“Hold on.” The ball cap guy reached for his wallet and handed Gannon his license. His name was Jerry Falco. He was fifty-three. Gannon took down all his information before Falco snatched his license back.
“Satisfied?” Falco asked.
Gannon presented him with a business card and his WPA ID.
Falco eyeballed him for several seconds then invited Gannon to follow him. They went outside to the door between the electronics shop and check-cashing office. Falco pressed buttons on the security keypad, opened the door for Gannon. The building reeked of cats. Gannon tried not to breathe deeply as Falco led him up a narrow wooden staircase.
There were two apartments with scuffed doors across from each other. The walls were webbed with cracked plaster. Neither door had a number or nameplate. Falco’s keys jingled as he inserted them into the lock and turned. Before opening the door, he hesitated.
“I need you to wait out here a bit while I go in and tidy up, all right?”
