11. Maddie
Chapter eleven
Maddie
I run into Nemesis as I exit The Intelligencer building on my way to interview the deputy commissioners. Their building is around the corner on Broadway. I move to pass her, but the sidewalk space is narrow here because of the scaffolding.
She stops me and asks, “Where are you going?”
“I’m interviewing the deputy commissioners for my Meet the City Agencies series idea.”
“Everyone will be buying copies to read that,” she says sarcastically. “You must have some other angle.”
“Looking to poach my idea again?”
“I didn’t poach it,” she says.
“What do you call following me to discover my source and then beating me to the interview because I had a sprained ankle last year?” I ask.
“Ideas don’t have a copyright,” she says.
“No,” I say, wishing I had some snappy comeback. “But it helps to have your own.”
“I don’t need your ideas. I’m off to meet my dad, the editor of The Big Apple , and I’ll probably see your deputy commissioners at The Big Apple event this evening.” She tosses her hair and leaves.
As if I could forget who her dad was.
The scaffolding provides some shelter from the cold wind as I hurry down the street.
My phone beeps with another friend texting me about the photo of Nick and me, saying that we look so cute.
The photos of Nick and me in the Variety article came out better than I expected.
I look like I’m in love with him. So that’s good for our fake-dating charade.
Last night’s conversation during our walk home made me like him even more.
That’s not good. I didn’t know all that stuff about his mom not supporting his career.
It feels like he’s trusting me more and opening up more, and our relationship is shifting.
But that could also just be what I want to believe.
I’m going to end up with a broken heart.
I know I told Iris that I could do this and protect my heart, but not when he shares stories about growing up and introduces me to his best friends.
And his look was so very male when Luca hugged me, as if the hug bothered him. But maybe that was his big brother nature emerging. I shake my head. It definitely wasn’t. His look had been intense, and his green eyes had darkened. I shiver at the memory.
And yesterday when I stuck my head into the crook of his neck, he smelled so good.
I wanted to touch my lips to his skin. And the way he swallowed then, and his Adam’s apple moved…
Remember clause eleven of our contract. No physical contact.
Nick seemed completely distracted, or he really was worn out from dancing.
He put up so little fight when we were practicing jujitsu.
The bright brass doors of the Ted Weiss Federal Office Building gleam in today’s sun.
Around the corner, large white columns frame the windows of the city building that houses the offices of the deputy commissioners.
An old green clock with The Sun in white letters protrudes from the facade.
The Sun was a newspaper published from 1833 to 1950 that had the famous editorial, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” This is newspaper history right here.
The columns remind me of court buildings and give me renewed inspiration to pursue justice.
Infrastructure Department is etched in gold on the glass doors.
I clear security and take the elevator up to their offices, giving my name to the assistant. She gestures to take a seat.
I cross my legs while waiting in this small reception area.
My boss was clear that Commissioner Johnson had a reputation for being committed to cleaning up corruption and had worked in city government his entire career without so much of a whisper of impropriety.
She seems to doubt that he or the deputy commissioners can be involved in this.
But I have to come to my own conclusion.
Commissioner Johnson finally comes out to meet me, and we retreat into his office, where he provides me with a department overview.
He explains that all the deputy commissioners have buildings assigned to them and are responsible for the day-to-day details, such as repairs.
Deputy Commissioner Galliano is responsible for the area that includes the two buildings with kickbacks that I’ve identified.
But that would be too easy. It’s like the rule that you don’t date your roommate.
So much for that rule, now that I’m fake dating my next-door neighbor.
Next, I meet Deputy Commissioner Ward . He’s in his fifties, with a round, pleasant face, thin brown hair, and a slightly heavy build.
His desk is covered in stacks of paper, but he offers me a drink as I take a seat.
The walls are covered with framed old maps of the city.
As he pours me a cup of tea, I admire his collection of miniature New York street scenes that fill his bookcase.
“These are amazing. This looks like the bodega around the corner from me,” I say. “And it even has a miniature bodega cat.”
“I made it.”
Wow. I look at the details he caught—the way the space is filled to the brim in true bodega style. It must have taken hours to make all the products to stock the shelves. Could an artist with this kind of eye for detail be the corrupt commissioner who is fine with shoddy work for families?
“The cat looks so realistic,” I say. “I’ve always been impressed by the patience it must take to add the fur. I make felted cats as a hobby, but it’s nothing like this.”
“I should clarify that I bought the cat at a miniature show. I made the diorama.”
“It’s amazing,” I say.
“I like to capture these scenes of New York before they disappear,” he says.
“I think that desire to capture places as memories is one reason why miniatures remain such a beloved hobby,” I say.
He nods. “It certainly gives me great satisfaction. I feel like I’m back in touch with my inner kid. It’s a great stress reliever.”
He shows me a scene of a former club on the Lower East Side.
It reminds me of Nick’s last album cover, with its photograph of Pickles.
It made me so happy that Nick had someone looking out for him, sort of like my teacher who “adopted” me.
I shake my head. I need to focus on this interview, not replay my conversation with Nick.
“You really capture New York,” I say. “Are you working on anything now?”
“An alleyway.” He gestures for me to take a seat. “With a dumpster and graffiti. It’s coming along nicely.”
I take out my pad and ask him a bunch of general questions to set him at ease. He’s worked at the Infrastructure Department his whole career, while Commissioner Johnson moved here from the Department of Transportation to be “anointed” the commissioner. I finally turn to my more relevant questions.
“So obviously one area that might be of concern to our readers is repairs,” I say. “What happens when an apartment in a city housing complex needs repairs—like maybe the electrical wiring needs to be repaired, or someone needs a new refrigerator?”
“Well, they can log a complaint via the 311 system, but it’s now handled at the building level, so they can also speak directly to the property manager.”
I know that a property manager is basically the equivalent of a landlord for private housing.
“Is that recent?”
“Yes, as of a few years ago,” Ward says.
“And what does that mean—that it’s handled at the building level?”
“Each property manager of a building decides upon the contractors for contracts under $10,000. They know the contractors and what’s needed by the tenants. There’s less bureaucracy then.”
“Do you have oversight still?”
“Sure. But it’s the same old story. We have limited resources.
We still have all the major renovations on our plate.
I was initially opposed. I thought it was more efficient to centralize it, but reluctantly, I’ve become a supporter of it.
The project managers should have that kind of autonomy.
And this building stock is old. It helps to have a contractor who’s familiar with each building and its idiosyncrasies. ”
I ask him how he exercises oversight. He explains that he checks the repair complaint system and often talks to the property managers, who must submit a report of authorized repairs and status.
I ask a few more questions, but nothing in his responses strikes me as suspicious.
I ask him if he’d be willing to sign my history book about the first Infrastructure Department, and he does.
We chat for a few minutes about our passion for making miniatures.
I ask him if I can include this interest in his profile, and he seems pleased.
He agrees to my taking a photo of his bodega scene. He stands and groans.
“Age. I’m getting stiff,” he says. He escorts me to Deputy Commissioner Galliano’s office, murmuring to me that I should be sure to ask Pommer about playgrounds.
As I take the seat offered in Deputy Commissioner Galliano’s office, I take a quick look around.
A happy family photo is on his desk, and the young woman in the picture is Ophelia.
I checked out her Spotify page. Galliano has sandy brown hair, smiling brown eyes, and a similar body build to Ward.
I can see a family resemblance between him and Ophelia.
He comes across as personable and charming—he’s nicknamed Gallant Galliano for a reason—and if Ophelia is anything like him, that will help her when she has to entertain a crowd.
Deputy Commissioner Galliano also seems passionate about working in government.
His shelf is filled with public service awards.
He’s the one mainly in charge of licensing and permitting.
I ask him about how that works and then fight to keep my eyes open while he delves deep into the intricacies of permitting. Definitely no story material here.
“Why did you decide to work in city government?” I ask.