Текст книги "The Exquisite"

Автор книги: Laird Hunt

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

TWENTY-FIVE

The rising sun was dribbling rivulets of light into the troughs of the crosstown streets when I left the little room behind the tattoo parlor on Orchard and made my way back to The Fidelity. Mr. Mancini was asleep with his head in his arms on the front desk when I came in, which was a shame because I was in the mood to crow a little about my night. In fact, I was so eager to let Mr. Mancini know what I had gotten myself up to after leaving Grand Central – without providing details of course – in Tulip’s arms as we lay on the AeroBed on the floor in the corner next to the low shelf with the burning ylang-ylang candle, and, spurred on by contextually vast expanses of exposed skin and numerous murderous propositions, created friction, that I stood a minute in front of him, doing a little bit of a shue and spin dance on the cracked tiles of the entryway and staring at the swirly roots of the thick dark hair covering the top of his cinder-block-sized head. However, when thoughts of crowing a little – who’s the shitface now that I scored with Tulip? – gave way to – wouldn’t it be nice to maybe knock this guy on his ugly egg with a phone book and see if he wakes up smiling? – I decided I should probably skip the Mr. Mancini interlude, which would just end badly anyway, and go up to my room.

I woke coughing a few hours later. The air had been all but replaced by a noxious mix of tar, motor oil, and old chewing gum, which meant that one of the hot dog vendors who kept his cart in the storefront attached to The Fidelity had forgotten to extinguish his coals, and the fumes had come up the air shaft. Since the guy who leased to the hot dog vendors was Mr. Mancini’s brother-in-law, the only thing to do about it was get dressed, listen to a wide-awake Mr. Mancini snarl preemptive disclaimers through the nasty smile that was already, even at 8:30 in the morning, plastered onto his face, and get out.

So I hit the streets a little more blearily than I might have liked, and this bleariness contributed, I have very little doubt, to the gradual nosedive my spirits took over the course of the morning. It wasn’t, at least not at first, that I no longer felt pretty fabulous about my late evening exertions with Tulip: I did. It’s just that part of my pleasure in contemplating the proceedings on Tulip’s AeroBed, proceedings that had lasted beyond any reasonable expectation, was mitigated by a sense of disbelief that gained ground as I sipped coffee on the bench outside Porto Rico on St. Mark’s Place, chewed a bagel I got on B, and read part of a Wolverine comic book I retrieved from a trash can on Seventh, and that was confirmed when I stood in front of a mirror in the men’s room in a café on Third and A.

Wait a minute, uck, there is no way Tulip did that voluntarily, is what I thought.

Now, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t made an effort since I had gotten into murders, despite the challenges presented by living at a dump like The Fidelity, to keep myself more or less presentable and to acquire some new clothing. In fact, at that very moment, I had on my favorite green rooster T-shirt, a pair of fairly clean, nicely rumpled linen pants, and some acceptable leather on my feet. But the truth was, even if it was possible that I was heading toward brighter days and a better look, I hadn’t gotten there yet. Not even close. I tried to imagine lasciviously sidling up to myself, failed, and had to splash water on my face. Fortunately, splashing water on my face made me think of Mr. Kindt and thinking of him, especially in this context, helped. Tulip did, after all, spend a tremendous amount of time around our benefactor, who, despite the odd feature or two, was, let’s face it, despite those special aspects, no gorgeous picture himself. I might, I thought, actually be just exactly what the doctor ordered for Tulip, just the perfect soup, the loveliest piece of pickled fish, the most extraordinary, because so unusually textured, chunk of baguette. I had, after all, enjoyed the company of a girlfriend who had loved me, or put up with me, for a very long time, and she had been far from some kind of kook or tasteless slouch. True, I had been in much better shape in those days, at least until that period at the end when it all collapsed, when it all came crashing down on me. Until that time I had without a doubt been what she once referred to, while we ate steak frites – my treat – at Belmondo, a “most satisfactory companion,” but still.

There were other things from the previous night to think about as I walked around that morning, little things – to do with Cornelius, and Mr. Kindt, and the nature of Tulip’s relationship to them – that, as you will see when I discuss the night of the murder later on, further problematized this question of the authenticity of Tulip’s regard for my physical person, and I did kick them around some, but mostly I considered, and mostly, in the end, fought off, doubts of a principally aesthetic nature.

Then I got hungry. The morning had closed up shop so I opted for a slice. Two Boots was, happily, just across the street when my stomach started grumbling. I sidestepped between a couple of parked Toyotas, let a few cabs shark their way by, and made for its welcoming doors.

Two Boots on Avenue A is one of those terrific spots that purists – partisans of Ray’s this and Ray’s that – turn their noses up at, but after too many years of getting burnt by the too-often mediocre results of tradition I had come to love it. At Two Boots, you can have your so-called plain slice with just the right amount of marinara and not too much cheese, or you can put your money down, as I like to, on one of the many slices with unusual names: The Night Tripper, Mel Cooley, Mr. Pink, Mrs. Peel, Big Maybelle, and so on. I had in mind a slice of Bayou Beast (shrimp, crawfish, andouille, jalapeño, and mozzarella), one of The Newman (Soppressata, sweet Italian sausage, ricotta, and mozzarella), a few shakes each of Parmesan, oregano, and hot pepper, a large, well-iced fountain Diet Pepsi, and a seat at the back booth by the john. I saw all of this as I crossed Avenue A, then felt and smelled and tasted it – for some reason the icy imagined Diet Pepsi coming up under my top lip as I sipped between imagined bites was particularly vivid – and, in short, worked myself into the kind of minor frenzy I began experiencing during my rougher days in the city whenever low blood sugar or whatever had kicked in and, money in pocket, I was minutes away from food.

Gratification was put off by a beleaguered-looking couple making the classic big production of getting out the front door with a stroller. I sort of theatrically stepped aside and swept my arm out to let them know that I wouldn’t be interfering, in any way whatsoever, with their forward baby-propelling propagation, and they both said thanks so simultaneously that I couldn’t help blurting “jinx.” This made the woman laugh and the guy smile. The baby, who had a lot of blond hair for such a shrimpy customer, let out a squawk, and they were off.

I only mention this because as I stood at the counter surveying the Pinks and Beasts and Big Maybelles, thinking that they ought to add a Mr. Kindt to their lineup, a kind of prestige slice with cracker crumbs and pickled herring on a white pie, two people said “I got it” at the same time, and a third voice, older, gravelly, accented, familiar, said “jinx.” Given that I never say “jinx” and that I haven’t heard it said in years, I turned to see who had spoken. But just then my order was taken and, because I occasionally frequented Two Boots and knew some of the guys there, a little chitchat was indicated, and by the time my slices were up and I had taken a spot not in the back, but in one of the big booths on Avenue, the “jinx” thing had slipped my mind. It came back to me though when the two “I got it” guys burst into conversation in the booth behind me about some book one of them was reading called Stranger Things Happen. Deep into the baked aquatic mysteries of my first bite of Bayou Beast, I half expected – in that bleary mind-fried way – the one who was reading it to start talking about Mr. Kindt or maybe the contortionists. Instead he went into a detailed description of a story about a ghost who can’t remember his name, which elicited a few too many guffaws from his companion for me to relax and enjoy my slices, so I moved to the table by the front door where, even though you have to stand and the foot traffic is pretty steady, the experience would be relatively untainted by over-easy joke-trued book talk.

As I was standing there an old guy wearing a fedora and a wife beater came over with a slice of Mel Cooley, slapped a Miller down on the table, and, in that vaguely familiar voice, asked me to slide over the oregano.

Jinx, I said.

He looked blankly at me for a second then laughed.

This time of the day you can usually count on eating and maybe conversing in some peace here but not today, no sir, they’re even talking at the same time as each other, he said.

Amen, I said.

Mel the Hat, he said.

It took me a moment to realize I had just been told what I should call him. I nodded and said my own name.

I used to know a Henry, years back. We used to do business together. Small stuff. Good times. You ever do any business?

He looked at me with the kind of misty gray eyes that only the very old or very beautiful have. I wasn’t sure about the latter, but there was no doubt about the former. I figured he had to have at least fifteen years on Mr. Kindt. Maybe twenty.

No comment, I said.

He clapped his hands, let out a laugh, and said, I knew it. I could tell. I could have told you, this guy is doing business.

I took a sip of my drink. He lifted his Mel Cooley and sunk what had to be false teeth into a clot of ricotta and roasted pepper. His voice, which was high-pitched and Dominican-inflected, definitely sounded like something I had rattling around somewhere in my head.

I’m sorry, no offense, but what I said was, no comment.

Sure, he said. And much better that way too. You have to forgive me – I’m out now. I’m done. They got a box paid up and waiting for me up at Plascencia’s and some green space to go with it and all my scores are settled. I spot individuals and sometimes I talk to them. I’m too old now to matter, so generally they don’t care. I don’t usually ask specific questions. But I do got one for you.

I raised my eyebrow, bit into some Italian sausage, and nodded.

How’s your back?

My back? I said through the flecks of demolished crust, cayenne, and oregano scattered around my mouth like delicious storm debris.

You got any issues? Bad knees? You look pretty good.

The tassel of his fedora kept flipping back and forth as he spoke. He seemed to be hopping from leg to leg. He was old but the engine wasn’t sputtering yet. I said that my back and knees were fine.

He clapped his hands. I thought so. You look like you got highly functioning shoulders. You want to help me out?

I shrugged. I told him I was fairly busy. I asked him what he meant.

Just boxes, he said. My sister has some boxes up in the closet and she wants them down. I was thinking maybe you could come help me out.

We left via the video store attached to the pizza parlor. The Hat, as he said people called him for short, had gotten started on movies as we finished our slices, and movies for him meant vehicles for showcasing Steve McQueen. He listened to me talk a little about the movies I had watched with my old girlfriend at the Pioneer Theater, right around the corner, then said, that’s great, that’s great, but what about Bullitt?What about The Great Escape?

I told him I hadn’t seen much Steve McQueen, but that I’d no doubt get around to it soon.

Soon? How about now? That was always my philosophy: fuck “soon,” let’s do it now. I got a player at home. You help me with the boxes and then we can watch some of the maestro. I got some Bud in the fridge. I live nearby.

Despite my protests, offered up more out of fatigue than anything, that I really didn’t have time, The Hat made a beeline for the Steve McQueen section and selected a couple of fistfuls worth of tapes so that we could have “a choice for our viewing pleasure.” He talked Steve McQueen exploits most of the way to his place, which was, indeed, nearby. He lived on Second Street, across from the Marble Cemetery.

Lupe, he said. It’s me, open the door.

Lupe didn’t come to the door this time, so he handed me the tapes and dug around in the pockets of his baggy old-guy pants until, about three minutes later, he came up with a key.

Now listen, he said. My sister’s batteries upstairs are running down but she’s all right. She’s a good person. You allergic to cats?

I shook my head.

O.K., let’s go in.

I know what I was expecting – some kind of East Village Lupe-haunted spider hole filled with the malodorous accumulation of decades stacked in every available space and threatening to breach the proverbial rafters – but that’s not what I walked into. What I walked into was so clean and brightly lit and uncluttered that the shift my mind was forced to make from the clogged-toilet imagery it had been preparing itself for was unsettling.

It’s nice, huh?

The Hat’s fedora shone in a dazzling blend of natural and electric light and his eyes twinkled. The cats I’d seen before came sauntering out from under a row of chairs, flicked their tails a couple of times, and brushed themselves against our legs.

Lupe, The Hat said. We’re going to get your fucking boxes. I got someone to help.

You want a beer?

I said I was fine but The Hat got me one anyway.

Lupe, he said again. We’re going to get your boxes.

Lupe was in the closet. With the door closed. When The Hat pulled it open she walked out and past us without saying a word. When she got to the middle of the room she stopped and turned and stood looking in our direction. The cats came back from wherever they had swooshed off to and sat on either side of her. She had on the same filthy housedress she had been wearing before and I got hit with dj vu so hard I felt like I needed to sit down. Instead I took a long swig of beer and wiped my forehead.

She likes that dress, she won’t take it off, will you, Lupe?

Lupe didn’t say anything.

She’s got a whole fucking drawer full of dresses and she won’t take that one off, The Hat said.

I wiped my forehead again.

The Hat asked me if I was all right, if I needed to take a break and maybe watch some Steve McQueen first before I got the boxes down. I told him it had been a late night and that I was under some job-related stress, but that I was perfectly fine.

Well, I know it would make Lupe happy if you could get them for her. She won’t come out of the closet anymore.

I got the boxes down. There were three of them, good-sized, wedged hard onto the shelf above the coatrack. The Hat had me take them into the back bedroom, presumably Lupe’s, which looked so spotless that but for the slightly warped floor and walls it could have belonged to a hotel. I set the boxes next to each other on the bed.

The Hat looked at them and shook his head. The tassel shook with it. It’s just some of her old stuff. Stuff she picked up and had as a kid. She’s been in that closet for a week. You want to sit down?

We went back into the living room. As soon as we had gotten there Lupe seemed to come alive. She beamed at her brother, then went to the bedroom and shut the door. The Hat sighed.

You got family?

No. Not anymore.

My kid sister. Used to be a beauty. Or anyway, not too bad. Once upon a time I had to crack some heads. Guys came sniffing. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but I used to be able to crack a head when I had to.

I told The Hat I needed to leave.

You don’t want to watch The Great Escape?We can skip to the fence-jumping scene. It’s got real tragedy, this one. I choke up every time.

I told him I was busy. I stifled a yawn, pressed my beer against the side of my face. My bed at The Fidelity was calling me. Fumes or no fumes. I told him maybe some other time.

Some other timeis like soon,I know what that means. You don’t get to be my age with a heart still beating without knowing some things. But, still, I’m grateful. Not everyone helps. I got a building full of yo-yos here. Won’t even stop to answer you in the hallways. Next door I got nuts.

I thought of the nuts next door. Then I thought of the couple leaving Two Boots with the stroller, wondered what they were like, wondered if, through some fluke, or some serious upgrade in my customers, I’d be paying them a visit soon. The woman had been good-looking, exceptional, even, like some Greek movie star. The guy had been tall and beefy. Not bad-looking, but nothing like the woman. Cute kid too. I let myself flash for exactly one ridiculous second on me and Tulip pushing a stroller, maybe stopping for pizza, buying diapers for the baby, laughing, heading home, unloading groceries, giving the baby a bath. I then gave the scenario a quick run-through with the knockout, handsomely stomping her way down the avenues, in place of Tulip, then the contortionists, pushing the stroller with their feet, and almost laughed out loud.

Come here, Henry, I want to show you something, The Hat said.

He was standing next to what looked a little like a medicine cabinet sunk into the side wall. I raised my eyebrow, went over, and he opened it. There was a peephole there that looked out – at his insistence I bent over and put my eye to it – on the hallway. The Hat left my side, went around the corner, and reappeared in my line of sight. He took off his fedora and did a bow. Then he came back in.

You can’t see it from the outside, he said. I got that from the old days. Some of us got them put in special. In the old days you didn’t want to be inspecting your visitors through the balsa wood they got for doors in these places.

I guess not, I said.

Now it’s just a convenience. Now if for example some guy, like you, Henry, comes and knocks at my neighbors’, then stands and has some words with my sister, who has seen better days and can’t answer right, I can see who it is.

Yeah? I said.

I don’t mean I care, he said, not one way or the other, but with this thing and with my old habits I can keep my eyes open. Then I can think about the sounds I heard coming out of my neighbors’ and put it together with things I’ve been hearing about jobs getting pulled in the neighborhood.

Jobs? I said.

You’re pulling jobs, he said.

They’re fake, it’s a service, I said.

Sure, he said. But fake is funny, don’t you think? Fake is like Steve McQueen and the movies – there’s always a little real there too. Fake is never 100 percent. And sometimes fake is real.

He looked up at me for what felt like a long time, then he said, Kindt’s working you good, huh?

I set my beer down on top of the peephole cabinet and told him it had been nice talking to him.

He’s tough, huh, Aris Kindt? I never met him, not even in the old days, but I’ve been hearing things for years. Independent. Ran funny jobs. Always an angle, that one. Always smart. He’ll fool you. He’ll take care of you. He took care of a guy not too long ago. Guy who kept his books. Some accountant. That’s what they say and that’s what I heard. I heard you don’t ever mess with him if you’re smart.

We’re friends, I said. It’s not really business. He’s retired. Someone else is running it. It’s all fake.

Friends, said The Hat, and grinned. Like my good friends across the hall and in this building and in this neighborhood. I got so many friends I’m going to have a heart attack. What I also got is my sister, in there, looking through some boxes of junk, and a peephole in my wall so I can see who comes around and who is getting up to what exactly in this fucking city. I can look through this hole and see straight through the building. I can see you hitting yo-yos with salad bowls and getting yourself tattooed without knowing what was getting put on you and sleeping on the street and getting hit by trucks and running into blonds you got no idea about and meeting friendly Mr. Kindt. I can see that when you say you’re busy, you mean you’re going to go back to a flop and take a nap. I can see you pulling jobs and saying some quiet bullshit to my sister who can’t answer you and I can see you looking at my hat now and saying, check out this old clown. Check out this old motherfucker who likes Steve McQueen. You want another beer? You want another beer, punk?

The Hat took a step toward me. I had the distinct feeling that he was going to produce a gun and put it in my face and pull the trigger and that there wouldn’t be anything fake about it.

I’ve really got to go now, I said. I’m sorry for the trouble.

So go, Henry. I’m going to watch a movie. I’m going to watch Steve rock it on his bike. You should see the look on your face. You should go show it to your “friend.” Go show it to Mr. Aris Kindt and see what he says. See what he says and leave this old clown with his hat and his sister in fucking peace.