Cemetery Dance

Chapter 49

Marty Wartek folded his sweaty hands over the edges of the podium and looked out over the crowd assembled in the plaza before the New York City Housing Authority's Batchelder Building. It was his first press conference and it was an experience both daunting and, if truth be known, rather thrilling. To his left and right stood a few subordinates — whom he had hastily corralled for appearance's sake — and a couple of uniformed cops. The podium had been set up on the lower steps, wires duct — taped up its rear edge.

His eye slid over to the small group of protesters huddled in one corner of the plaza, held at bay by a scattering of cops. Their chanting had a diffident air that encouraged him to think they would stop as soon as he began to speak.

He cleared his throat, heard the reassuring amplification over the PA system. He looked around as the crowd quieted. "Good afternoon," he began. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I will read from a prepared statement."

He began to read, and as he did so even the protesters fell silent. The legal process, he explained, was in motion. Action would be taken if warranted against the Ville. Everyone's rights would be respected. Due process would be observed. Patience and calm were the order of the day.

His voice droned on, the platitudes having a soporific effect on the gaggle of press. It was a short statement, not more than a page, which had been written by committee and vetted by half a dozen lawyers. It had the virtue of saying nothing, conveying no information, making no promises, while at the same time giving the impression that everyone's agenda was being dealt with. At least, that was the idea.

Halfway through the page he heard a vulgar noise, conveyed by bullhorn, from the knot of protesters. He ploughed on, without hesitation, not even looking up. Another noise.

"What a load of crap!"

He raised his voice, riding over the shouting.

"What about the animals?"

"What about the killing of Smithback?"

"Stop the murderers!"

He continued in a slightly louder monotone, eyes on the page, his bald head bowed over the podium. "Talk, all talk! We want action!"

He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the boomed mikes and cameras swinging away from him toward the protesters. There were a few more shouts, arguing, a waving sign pushed aside by a cop. And that was it. The disturbance was contained; the protesters intimidated. There weren't enough of them to trigger mob mentality.

Wartek finished, folded the paper in half, and at last glanced up. "And now I will take questions."

The cameras and mikes were all back on him. The questions came slowly, desultorily. Disappointment seemed to hang in the air. The protesters remained in their corner, waving their signs and chanting, but their voices were now subdued and mostly drowned by the rush of traffic on Chambers Street.

The questions were predictable and he answered them all. Yes, they were bringing action against the Ville. No, it would not be tomorrow; the legal process would determine the schedule. Yes, he was aware of the allegations of homicide against the group; no, there was no proof, the investigation was proceeding, no one had been charged with a crime. Yes, it did appear that the Ville had no valid deed to the site; in fact, it was the opinion of city attorneys that they had not established a right of adverse possession.

The questions began to die, and he checked his watch: quarter to one. He nodded to his aides, raised his tufted head to the press one last time. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes this press conference."

This was greeted with a few more catcalls from the protesters:

All talk, no action! All talk, no action!

Feeling pleased with himself, Wartek slipped the paper back into his suit pocket and walked up the steps. It had gone just as he'd hoped. He could almost see the evening news: a few sound bites from his speech, a question or two answered, a few moments devoted to the protesters, and that would be it. He had covered all the bases, thrown a bone to every constituency, and displayed the sober, dull face of New York City officialdom. As New York protesters went, this had been a pretty anemic group. Clearly this was a sideshow to whatever else the main group was planning. He had heard of a second Ville protest in the works, much bigger than the first, but thank God it wouldn't be in his sandbox. As long as they didn't protest here, he didn't really care. If they ended up burning down the Ville — well, that would be a convenient solution to his problem.

He reached the top of the stairs and headed toward the revolving glass doors, two aides at his side. It was lunch hour, and streams of municipal office workers were leaving the large building and pouring down the stairs. It was like swimming against the tide.

As he and the aides worked their way upstream against the flow, Wartek felt a passerby strike him hard with his shoulder.

"Excuse me! " Wartek began to turn in irritation, when he felt the most surprising sensation in his side. He jerked back, instinctively clutching his midriff, and was even more astonished to feel — and observe — a very long knife being extracted from his body, right through his clutched hands. There was a sudden feeling of heat and ice at once; ice inside him, in the depths of his guts; heat rushing outside and down. He looked up and had a brief glimpse of a swollen, scabrous face; foul sticky hair; cracked lips drawing back over rotten teeth.

And then the figure was gone. Speechless, Wartek clutched his side, staggered forward. The crowd streaming past seemed to hesitate, bunch up, collide into one another.

A woman screamed in his ear.

Wartek, still unable to comprehend, his mind a blank, took a second staggering step. "Ouch," he said quietly, to no one in particular.

Another scream, and then a chorus of noise, a roar like Niagara Falls, filled the air. His legs began to buckle and he heard incoherent shouting, saw a rush of blue uniforms: policemen madly fighting their way through the crowd. There was another sudden explosion of chaos around him: people going this way and that, back and forth.

With a supreme effort he took another step and then folded; he was caught and eased to the ground by many hands. More confused shouting, with a few persistent words penetrating the hubbub: Ambulance! Doctor! Stabbed! Bleeding!

He wondered what all the confusion was about as he lay down to sleep. Marty Wartek was so very, very tired, and New York was such a noisy city.