Free Brooklyn Bones by Triss Stein Page A

parents were celebrating the departure to camp of all three children. Darcy was packing for her Maine vacation. I don’t have a lot of other social friends, hanging out friends. One, because I am too busy to make them. Two, because my too-adult responsibilities cut me off from my classmates. Three, because my academic responsibilities and changed life cut me off from my old neighborhood friends. Usually I am too busy merely getting through my days to care. This day was most definitely not the usual.
    I did have cousins but we saw each other rarely, at family occasions. I did have a mother-in-law but she lived with her married daughter in Buffalo and she would never understand the whole idea of camp anyway. In her day, Italian kids didn’t go away to camp. That was only one of the many things about my life she did not understand, but she was the only grandmother left. It was a tie I would never break, but no, not today.
    My house was a mess, no place in it seemed comfortable, the unread Sunday paper was bound to have disturbing news, and even my garden was too hot to hold any appeal.
    I finally got fed up with my own mood. Since I couldn’t face housework, I headed to my desk to tackle professional work to keep my brain occupied for a few hours. My e-mail had a note from the helpful librarian at Leary’s old paper .
    “I did it! I found someone here who’s been around as long as I have. Pete Miller. He said to call him at home any time.” I thought, why not?
    A friendly man’s voice said, “What do you want to talk to Leary for? I’m a lot more fun.”
    So I explained, yet again, and he said, “I’d give a lot to hear that conversation!” I had the disconcerting impression he was laughing. “Look. Leary doesn’t like talking to many people—we were drinking buddies for a couple of decades and I still never know if he’ll speak to me—but, on the other hand, the guy does have an ego. Always did. There’s a chance he will be flattered. What the hell. Your name and number checked out at the museum.”
    “You checked up on me?”
    “Sure. I was a reporter. I’m paid to be suspicious. I’ll give you his phone number. He never answers his phone anyway, so leave a message. And let me know how it goes.” I was sure he was chuckling as he said good-bye.
    In a few seconds, a cigarette-roughened voice was saying, “Leary here. If you’re selling or soliciting, hang up now. If you’re offering money, leave a message.”
    I managed to blurt out, “I’m looking for Brendan Leary, who used to be a well-known reporter in New York. I’m with the Brooklyn History Museum and I’d like to interview him. If this is the right number, please…”
    The voice broke in. “This is Leary. How the hell did you find me? And what the hell do you want?”
    “Uh, Mr. Leary, I’m Erica Donato. We’re doing an exhibit at the History Museum on tenant-landlord issues over the years, and you covered that extensively, back then.”
    “So what?”
    “I was hoping I could talk to you about it, use you as a source for the project?”
    “Why would I want to do that?”
    OK, I sighed. A curmudgeon. I answered, as sweetly as I could. “Most people enjoy sharing their expertise, and we would be so grateful if we could….”
    “Grateful doesn’t pay my rent. And it was a hell of a long time ago. Different life, different me. Who needs to go back?”
    I could have come right back at him, but I doubted it would be productive. I smiled and hoped the smile would get into my voice. “Well, we do. That’s our job. What would be an inducement for you?
    “Money talks.”
    “Mr. Leary,” I said gently, “you must know we’re a nonprofit. Money is the one thing we don’t have, but I could probably take you for a nice lunch to say thanks.” On my deeply stressed credit card, if it had to come to that. “And wouldn’t you like to have your name and picture up in the exhibit? Have people remember you?”
    “Couldn’t care less. My