The Havana Room

by Colin Harrison

  She stopped, gave me a devilish smile.

  "Go on," I said. "I can take it."

  "Oh, Bill, you don't want a woman like me."

  "How do you know?"

  "You just don't. I do terrible things. I even flirt with strange men in meat lockers." She pushed at the spoon in front of her. "I really am very, very bad, you know. Fickle and irresponsible and manipulative."

  "I doubt it." And I did.

  "Maybe you'll find out sometime."

  "Maybe. God help me if I do. Go on with the story. You decided to—?"

  "Yes. I got up early, picked out a good dress, and got down there a little early, trying to match his time of arrival. And I did! He looked up when I came in and gave me a smile. That was it. I mean I said hi or something. But I sat down feeling victorious! It's silly, but okay. Then I turned around and asked if I could borrow some of his paper. He said yes and handed it to me. And I said something like it seemed like he was starting to be a regular. Something stupid like that, totally obvious. And he said he'd just been eating there because he had meetings in the neighborhood. But soon would be done. I basically panicked and told him I ran a steakhouse downtown and would love for him to try the place as my guest."

  "Very subtle."

  "I didn't have a choice! I gave him my card and said please, puhl-ease call me ahead of time and—"

  "You didn't say it like that."

  "No, but almost. I said I'd see that he got a good table. He looked at the card and said that was great and introduced himself and we shook hands and it was all I could do not to put his thumb in my mouth." Allison smiled. "Isn't that awful?"

  "Tell me the rest, even though I know what it is."

  "Well, he came into the restaurant two days later— he called first and I practically had a heart attack—"

  "Did I see him?"

  "You weren't in that night."

  "And?"

  "Well, once I had him in the restaurant, I had him." She nodded to herself in satisfaction, and I was touched by her need and vulnerability. Then she saw something in my face. "Come on, I'm not your type. You like good women. Virtuous, dependable women."

  "You should've met my ex-wife."

  "I wish I had."

  "You would've liked her."

  "Would she have liked me?"

  I thought about this. "No."

  "Why not?"

  Too confident. But I didn't say this aloud. "So, did you see this guy again?"

  "Yup," Allison said, "you could say that."

  "All the other pretenders are gone, then?"

  "Yes." She nodded and recrossed her legs the other way. "Banished."

  * * *

  An hour later I was at Table 17 when I looked up to see the owner, Lipper, in his wheelchair and accompanied by his nurse, an older black woman. He frowned as he passed me and paddled his feet on the floor to stop. "You work for me?"

  I shook my head. "Just a loyal customer."

  "Ah, good, very good. You like steak?"

  "Your hanger steak, especially."

  "Good." Lipper edged closer. Hair whirlpooled in his ears, his bottom eyelids sagged forward pinkly. "People still like steak."

  "Always will, I think."

  He threw a bony finger at me. "I know you. Heard you were a friend of Allison's. Talk with her on my time, too. You're a lawyer, is that it?"

  "I suppose."

  He showed a lot of old horse teeth at this. "Last I heard, lawyers worked in law offices, but okay. Allison likes to keep her men nearby so she can keep an eye on them, heh! I've seen her over the years… she's got all the moves, let me tell—" He looked around the room, as if hearing someone suddenly call his name. "Yeah, anybody can serve a steak! You burn some cow meat and put it on a plate. Plus the city has a bunch of great steakhouses, right? There's Smith and Wollensky, and Keen's— what a beauty that place is— and Peter Luger's in Brooklyn. These places make a damn fine steak. But we're a little different, a little special. Sinatra owned this place for a while, back in the sixties. You know that? Lot of girls. Revolving pussy, I always called it. Pussy coming, pussy going." I saw in Lipper the happy mouth-energy of the old, in which all thoughts rise to the surface unrestrained by propriety or forethought. "We went out together a few times, me and Frank. Yeah, he saw this place, said he just had to have a place like that. I guess he might have sung here a few times—" Lipper poked at his testicles excitedly, as if trying to balance one on top of the other. "I was a young man. We never advertise this place, see. Don't have to. We got it just right. Allison's very good. Of course her little room is illegal, her little show in there, I mean. She's very careful, never had a problem. She told you about it, right? She explains the whole story, gets them intrigued. I'm too old but I'd do it, too, if I were younger. Just to experience it. I know it's illegal. Who cares? Half the best part of life is illegal! Sue me, I always say. You going to arrest an old man in a wheelchair? Lock me away? You tell men you got a special room down there and it's like honey to the bees, guy— oh, she doesn't want me to talk about it. What was your name, Rogers? I had a doctor named Rogers, fixed my toes. Wait, I got to take a pill— I got this beeper thing that tells me—"

  A black female hand appeared over his shoulder, graceful as a falling leaf, the tiny red pill floating on a soft, milk-chocolate palm. He plucked it up and clapped it into his mouth, where a thick tongue came down and swept it inward like the crushing device in the back of a garbage truck. "I can swallow them dry. Okay, where was— honey and bees… Sinatra, oh. Allison knows this. She knows more about men, studied them, I mean we got good selections, good cuts, heh. Lots of men. She's had a lot of them, too." He leaned forward, dropped a knuckled paw on my arm and spoke conspiratorially. "Let me give you some advice, son, because I see her paying attention to you. I see what's going on. You got a nice way about you, that's why I'm telling you this. I'm an old man, better listen to me. Don't fall for her. Right? I mean, don't give in, don't make a fool of yourself. She wants you to. She'll play with you, she'll find your weakness. Let her stew, let her get frustrated and emotional— that's when you put in the sword! Right? It's the guys who aren't interested who excite her. I've seen it over and over! The guys that come out and declare themselves, she can't stand them! Plays with them, tortures them! She's got some moves on her most men never heard of!" His eyes brightened wickedly and for a moment I glimpsed the charming younger man he'd once been. "I had a rich guy suicidal for her once! I tell him, you can buy all the pussy you want, what's the big deal? He took my advice, went to the islands for few weeks with a bunch of little blond fluffy-muffies, heh! Allison, she never blinked. What does she care? I guess he got over it. What's your name again? Woodrow? Never mind, I'll forget, anyway… So that's the kind of place I run, simple as that. It's a special. I tell you Sinatra owned this place? Back in the sixties, in fact. Yeah, I bought this place back in the seventies, when you couldn't give it away! That's when I stepped in. Yes, stepped in and stepped up. I don't do any of the work anymore, just come and watch my babies eat and drink and have a good time. We had a lot of the greats in here, let me tell you. Wilt Chamberlain when he was in town, he had them lining up, they'd never seen someone like him before, Sonny and Cher, Joe Frazier— the boxer, Clint Eastwood, Redford, Billy Crystal, politicians, we had everybody, that guy Puffy Brush, whoever, heh. I just watch now. I don't need the money. I was a good businessman in my time. I did my deals, I signed in ink, baby. Not many people like that left these days! Everybody wants the cushion under their asses. Not me. I worked! I'm a fossil. Made of stone, heh. Parts of me still are. Don't look surprised. It still works! Two hundred milligrams of this new stuff they got and watch out. Once a month's all I need. I have a friend. She's very understanding, comes around my apartment. She's a certain age, okay? We like each other. She takes her time. Happy to lie down or just drink jizz." Again the horse teeth, the squinting, amused eyes. "We don't comment too much on human nature here, see. Accept human frailty— that's my philosophy
. Shouldn't shock you. You'll be the same, I guarantee. I didn't age gracefully, and that's fine with me. My secret is the omega-three oils. Only the best, made from the littlest fishies! The big ones, tuna and swordfish, too much mercury." He patted my arm urgently. "I know you like Allison, they all do, I can see it in your face, I've seen you in here, fella. You hang on to your mustard, that's my advice. She's smarter than both of us put together. Back in the day I myself could've given her a—"

  His old nurse bent close to him and whispered.

  "Don't say that to me! You work for me, you—"

  Without a word, she rolled Lipper away, and like a child in a stroller he accepted her judgment passively, not bothering to say goodbye, instead eager for his next encounter.

  I might have found good reasons to worry in Lipper's monologue— his vague references to the illegality of the Havana Room, to Allison's romantic manipulations— but I didn't, and not just because his words seemed the harmless and even touching ramblings of an old restaurateur edging toward senility. After all, much as I liked Allison, I was not actually involved with her. Having been around awhile, she and I both knew that the other had at least the usual biographical complications. Sure, I was jealous that she'd found a new guy, but I was also just glad to see her each day, satisfied to watch her from a distance as she adjusted her glasses or slipped a bit of hair behind her ear, any of the lovely little things that women do, and if I had been asked if I was getting to know Allison at least passably well, I'd now have answered yes. Moreover, my hours at the steakhouse proved such a pleasant distraction from the rest of my time— in my horrid apartment, feeling guilty about Wilson Doan, missing my son, listening to my similarly doomed neighbors scrape up and down the stairs— that I had no reason to dwell on Lipper's egomaniacal rant.

  But that began to change one cold night in late February, long after I'd finished my dinner, when Allison came over to Table 17.

  "Going already?" she asked, standing before me, heels together, her voice a little nervy.

  "In a minute, maybe."

  She looked at her watch. The time was nearly eleven. "Any chance you could stay a while?"

  "Stay?"

  She smiled. "I'll ply you with coffee or drinks or desserts and anything else we serve."

  I told her I was full. "What do you need?"

  Allison took a breath. "Remember I told you I met that guy?"

  "Sure. You wanted to put his thumb in your mouth."

  "Anyway, his name is Jay Rainey, and he called me a few minutes ago, and he needs a lawyer."

  "The phone book is full of lawyers, Allison."

  She shook her head. "No, no, Bill, he needs one tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "He needs one now."

  "Why? Did he get arrested?"

  She sat down at my table, which was unusual, considering the restaurant was full. "It's something to do with— well, Jay's been trying to buy this building downtown and the seller is sort of this jerk, I guess, who's been really hard to deal with, and anyway, now the seller says they have to have a finished sale by midnight tonight or the deal's off."

  I shook my head. "That's a bluff."

  "That's what I thought, too, but Jay says the seller is telling the truth. It's a tax situation or something and—"

  "Doesn't Jay have a lawyer?"

  "That's the thing. Jay was planning to use his regular lawyer when the papers were ready, but not until then and then this evening the seller just presents him with the contract."

  "What's the selling amount?"

  Her eyes widened. "It's three million dollars, I think."

  Not much. A tiny amount by Manhattan standards. "They've got some kind of deal worked out already?"

  "I guess."

  "Jay shouldn't sign it, not under this kind of pressure."

  "I thought that, too," Allison said, nobody's fool.

  "But he wants the building badly, right?"

  "Guess so. Also I think the seller is insisting Jay have a lawyer look over the contract."

  I tasted my coffee, feeling strangely miserable. "The lawyer's giving Jay no time to have the contract looked over and yet is insisting it be looked over?"

  "I know, it's crazy. But will you do it?"

  "I can't."

  "Why?"

  "Lot of reasons. He needs a title search and a survey. Usually there's a tax adjustment to be made. Some of these larger co-op buildings have very complicated tax situations, too. Abatements, escrowed reserve funds, all kinds of stuff. I haven't talked with the seller's lawyer, I haven't seen a title report, I don't have time to do any of the calculations, I don't have a legal secretary to file documents— c'mon, it's crazy."

  "Would you at least look at the documents?"

  "I can look at them, but that doesn't mean anything, Allison."

  She started to stand up. "But you'll look?"

  "I repeat. This is crazy."

  "I'll set you up in the Havana Room."

  I wasn't expecting this. "The room you didn't tell me about?"

  "Yes."

  "It's going to be open tonight?"

  "Ha says he's ready."

  "For what?"

  She shook her head. She wasn't telling me. Not yet, anyway.

  "You better watch out, I might like it in there."

  "Yes, you might," Allison said. "Most do."

  * * *

  A few minutes later I followed Allison through the door with the brass plate and yellowed card down a curved marble stairwell— nineteen steps by my count— and was not disappointed when I reached the bottom and entered a long, dark space lit by yellowy sconces. Groups of men sat quietly at the mahogany bar and in booths. The decor hadn't changed much in a hundred years or so. They'd left the old hat racks, the brass spittoon filled with lost umbrellas, the chipped black-and-white tile floor. Allison set me up at one of the end booths, most private of all, and told the waiter to bring whatever I liked.

  "Back in a bit," she said.

  Now I eagerly inspected the space. True to the room's name, the far wall was shelved with hundreds of small boxes of quality cigars— Cohiba, Montecristo, Bolivar— and under the pressed-tin ceiling each booth was graced with a painting of prerevolutionary Cuba, below which stood a small lamp, in case an item needed close inspection. A supply of pens, pads of paper, and ashtrays, each embossed with the steakhouse's gold script, was provided as well. The napkins, however, were imprinted HAVANA ROOM in small blue letters. The booths were less comfortable than the bar yet superior, for there were only eight of them, each so high-backed that you couldn't overhear adjacent conversation. Well, that's not quite true. I did catch a few lines of dialogue next to me that involved $200 million worth of new Malaysian bonds and how, tonight, guys, right here, right now, their credit rating was going to be improved. And I spotted two large fiftyish men in beautiful suits who sat examining the X ray of someone's knee with great interest. One of the men wore a huge championship ring on his hand.

  Meanwhile, shuffling through the smoky gloom, came the waiter, ancient and aloof, who passed my order to the barman, himself a tired, unimpeachable fellow who worked without comment or, it seemed, awareness of the enormous, black-eyed nude stretched out behind him. You could not help but stare at the painting; imprisoned within her heavy gilt frame, the naked woman appeared both demure and illicit in her expression, beckoning in brush-stroked stillness across time and fleshly impossibility to all comers— a one-hundred-and-fifty-year selection of souls that now included me. I know what you want, her eyes said, and I felt embarrassed to be staring at her, so I stood and examined the dusty bookshelf that ran along the wall opposite the bar; on it sat a complete copy of the 1966 New York State Legal Code, a small volume of Irish poetry, a birds of North America reference work, a heavily marked environmental impact study commissioned prior to the creation of a coastal resort village in Florida, several of Teddy Roosevelt's naval histories, a King James Bible, tidal charts for New York Harbor for the years 1936–41,
an owner's manual for a 1967 Corvette, and a series of pornographic novels set in 1970s Hong Kong involving a British banker. These random, brittle-paged leavings confirmed the impression that the room was so crowded with the shards and shadows of lost lives that one was rendered anonymous there; but for an occasional mop over the cigar butts and dead flies, it appeared no one cared what went on, so long as you paid your bill and remained civil. The men's room at the back was a surprisingly ill-kept green coffin, bordering on foul.

  Yet all this obvious inattention seemed to appeal to the clientele, for the world has too many clean well-lit places to do business, including the conference room, the golf course, and the hotel suite. Each has its advantages. But there are certain deals that are harmed by sunlight, a printed agenda, and juice and muffins on the buffet. Like insect colonies and creeping plants, these intrigues need a bit of moisture and darkness to thrive. The men in the Havana Room, I noticed, generally only made eye contact with the others in their own party, and didn't display the occupational gregariousness of salesmen and deal makers. Instead they hunched and glared, rotating their heads toward passersby with furtive irritation. I didn't see a phone or laptop in use, and if these items were not expressly prohibited, then I supposed that they were looked upon with disdain. The room's ascendant technologies, I guessed, were the bluff, the grimace, and the long silence. In a man's shrug, millions might appear, or a lifetime's labor turn to ash.