No price at all, of course, for that bronze urn on the shelf over the tiled fireplace, each tile alone – Dutch motif – now a red-hot item on the market. Engraved on the urn in florid script was Hendrick Jan Cornelius Witter—1857-1951, and in a tone that suggested he was removing a hat and holding it over his heart Kirwan said, “My grandfather’s remains. A remarkable man.”
“This was his home?”
“He built it. And furnished it. A remarkable man. A successful merchant, a brilliant scholar. Of history. Such qualities weren’t incompatible in that era, Mr. Milano.”
In the nick of time, Milano remembered he wasn’t supposed to know Witter history offhand. “Witter,” he said. “Witter Street.”
“Yes. The family was among the original estate holders in Flatbush here. You might say that his house represented its high water mark. Unfortunately, I represent the end of the line.”
“I see. And that apartment house next door—”
“Talking business again, Mr. Milano?”
“No, just talking out of curiosity. If you don’t mind.” Odds were the old man wouldn’t. He had been handed – honestly – the right reactions to the guided tour, the right knowing and admiring comments. No reason for him to pull up short now.
He didn’t. “That apartment building. Yes. Built in the early ’twenties, the very first of its kind on this block. It was regarded as a sound investment when it was built.”
“But now that the neighborhood’s changed—”
“Opened!” Kirwan’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Human beings are human beings, Mr. Milano, no matter their color. And an oppressed people trying to overcome a bitter and degrading past deserve more than the kind of contempt invested in that word ‘changed,’ the way you’re using it.”
Jesus.
Milano said, “Wrong, Mr. Kirwan. All I was getting at – no prejudice intended – was that since this neighborhood isn’t what it was a hundred years ago—”
“Or a dozen.”
“Or a dozen, what happens to this house in the long run?”
“You mean, of course, when I’m dead.”
“It comes to all of us,” said Milano.
“So it does. In any event, this house will remain exactly as you see it. A family foundation – the Hendrick Witter Foundation – has been richly funded to that end. So if you have any worry – or hope – that my estate may some day be reduced to job lots for the market, Mr. Milano, forget it.”
Sharp as the proverbial tack when he wanted to be. And in the mood for some kind of game-playing, too. It was there in the amused twist of those thin lips. Which brought up unfinished business.
Milano said, “If you knew me better, you’d know I’m the last one to want something like this reduced to job lots. What it comes to is, I see a lot of properties in my business but this is one I never imagined seeing in the city here. Everything about it—”
“Yes. Well, now that you have seen it—”
“That tower, for instance,” Milano interposed before this nudge could become a push. “Octagon inside as well as outside?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve wondered about that kind of interior design. If you could spare just a few more minutes—”
It was touch and go while the old man weighed this, but in the end, as Milano had calculated, it was like asking a doting parent to have his kid play just one more violin solo for the company. And it took better than just a few minutes for Kirwan to make it up those stairs, stopping for a breather every couple of steps. So, one might ask, why hadn’t he rigged up sleeping quarters on the ground floor, thus saving himself this misery at least a couple of times a day? Of course, it would spoil that decor downstairs, now frozen in time. And then grandpa’s spirit, peaceful in its urn over that marvelously tiled fireplace, might haunt the place. Although, come to think of it, it seemed to be doing a fair job of haunting right now.
The stairway mounted to a broad corridor, all doors along it closed, and at the end of the corridor was the tower room. A true octagon all right, larger in area than one would guess viewing it from the street. Four of its eight walls were windowed, between two of the windows was a closed cabinet and over it were open shelves containing odds and ends, a trio of plaster busts, some scrimshaw, two ship’s models, a fishing boat and an instantly recognizable New York ferry.
And binoculars.
Uncased. In open view. Well-worn, possibly army issue.
Milano looked once and turned away. So he had been right about Kirwan’s hobby; from the convenient location of the glasses it was an active hobby; and its exposure, Milano thought, meant that what we had here was not merely an eccentric old coot but a dirty old man.
Taking in the view all around the room – turn of the century furniture – big flat-topped oak desk, swivel chair, classic old iron safe with Witter & Son gilt-inscribed on it, Naval Observatory clock over the door, Milano drifted along the walls, which except for the cabinet section, were tightly packed bookshelves from floor to ceiling, until he stood at the window facing the apartment house next door. The shades were up here, the curtains were transparent enough to get a gauzy view through them of whatever was to be seen, and what was to be seen across the way were the windows of the Bailey apartment, exactly on the second-floor level of this room. The ladies’ bedroom window there was angled off a bit, but still, with shade drawn up, provided plenty of interior exposure.
And, unless Kirwan was some kind of fat-lady freak who’d get turned on by such as Ma Bailey, Lorena had to be the object of interest. In the nymphet class, she didn’t have much more to show than a starter set, but that would probably be enough for Father Time.
Christine.
The thought popped to the surface. It had been down below, tangled in the subconscious since that first flicker of binocular lenses glimpsed from the Bailey apartment. Now it was a queasy thought breaking the surface like a bubble in an oil slick. If Kirwan’s hobby dated back any time, it would have been Christine, not the weedy Lorena, who was its original inspiration. And Christine could have been just as careless about pulling down window-shades as her kid sister.
Or would it have been indifference, not carelessness, considering that naked view of herself she had lately presented onstage? Goddam irritating quality in a woman, too, not being able to predict her response if you told her the landlord used to enjoy a peepshow of her free of charge. Another woman would react with outrage, calculated or not. This one was just as likely to shrug it off and remark that, after all, what could you expect of the lascivious, exploiting white male of any age, any condition. The fact that in sexual terms Kirwan barely had strength enough to pick up those binoculars might even amuse her.
It didn’t amuse him.
Milano drifted away from the window. Kirwan had some points to score. Those books. The old man drew a couple of them a little way out of a shelf. “My works.” A shit-kicking tone, making light of his works. Hard to believe he really was, though. “History. But not much on architecture and interior decoration. More on the movers and shakers.”
He was plainly inviting close inspection of the works. Milano drew one from the shelf, a heavy number with a textbook look to it. Alva: Imperial Power and Politics In the Netherlands. The printed inscription on the reverse of the title page read For Hendrick Jan Cornelius Witter, Inspiration and Invaluable Source. Grandpa’s ghost rides again.
“A lot of work in this,” said Milano.
“Oh yes. Yes indeed. You’re Roman Catholic, I take it?”
This, coming out of left field, momentarily handcuffed Milano. “I suppose so. Although hardly a pillar of the Church.”
“Hardly an Alva.” The tone indicated that the game-playing was on again. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Yes.” You couldn’t go very deep into Flemish art without running into the Duke of Alva, the Spanish hatchetman sent to put the Dutch in their place. But what was this? Testing time? Put-down time?
Seemed to be. “And,” said Kir
wan, “of one of his most devoted henchmen, Guy Fawkes?”
“Vaguely. But he was English, wasn’t he? Not Spanish.”
“Oh yes.” Kirwan held up a bony forefinger and chanted, “‘Please to remember the Fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot. Guy Fawkes, Guy; hang him on high—’ A merry requiem for a bungling conspirator, Mr. Milano. Bungling is something no conspirator can really afford.”
“One of your favorite historical interests?”
“Bungling conspirators?” Kirwan seemed tickled by the question. “Lately, yes. In the past, no. But lately? Oh yes.”
From the sound of it, a private joke somewhere in there.
And from the sound of it, the goombah – Professor Peeping Tom – was laying it on the lowly paisan. Still with those dust-bunnies attached to the rear of those raggedy poor-mouth clothes.
While Lorena Bailey was out shopping for fifty dollars a pair designer jeans and ninety dollars a pair super joggers with whose money?
Who else than the professor’s?
It was now Milano’s turn to check the time. A little after one. Getaway time. A shame to break up whatever game the professor was playing, but there was other investigating to do. So, putting his best manners forward, he thanked Kirwan for the tour, remarked that there was no need to show him to the door, and left his host watching him from the head of the staircase as he trotted down. Getting into the car he glanced up and saw that the curtain of the second story tower window overlooking the street was now pulled aside. He couldn’t make out the old man’s face behind the window, but he didn’t have to see it to know it was there.
A few blocks away on Bedford he parked at a hydrant while he called Betty’s number at the Intercontinental Credit Bureau office on the car phone. Betty said, “I was wondering when you’d call. I mean, I’m not really clear about the weekend. About your plans for it.”
“Very iffy. I’m stuck in this big one and can’t seem to get unstuck. How are you making out?”
“Well, I’ve got a notice on the office bulletin board about sharing an apartment, and a couple of the girls told me the Village Voice had listings for that kind of thing. But it could take time. That’s what worries me.”
“Don’t let it.”
“Well, it does. And I’d feel a lot better if we could have this weekend together. Just be together. You know it’s really weird, Johnny. I woke up this morning, and I just couldn’t get myself together on where I was and what I was doing there. And making breakfast in that fantastic kitchen. And taking the Fifth Avenue bus down to work. All the same, I’m not used to being this much alone, you know what I mean?”
“I can guess. Hell or high water, baby, we’ll work out something for the weekend. Some part of the weekend at least. But right now I need a favor. Some dollars and cents input that can speed up this case I’m on. And I can use it by closing time today.”
“Is there a social security number?”
“No, but he’s a property owner and I have the address of the property, so there must be an employer’s I.D. to work from. Think you can make it before you lock up there?”
“I can try.”
Greater love hath no woman, thought Milano, since she must suspect that if Intercontinental ever caught on to these handouts, it could amount to felony, even though polite, white-collar felony. He gave her Kirwan’s full name and address and then the address of the apartment building. “Oh yes,” he added. “One more item. The Hendrick Witter Foundation. Probably incorporated in New York State, but you’d be programmed to foundations all over, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
‘Good. Then I can use whatever you get on it. The Hendrick Witter Foundation. I’ll phone you six o’clock at the hotel. Or is that too early?”
“No. And, Johnny, our weekend—”
“Top priority. I’ll have something worked out for us when I call.”
Never mind that some youthful locals of the female persuasion were now gathered on the sidewalk taking a giggling interest in his operation of the car phone. He called the Rammaert Gallery and got a pleasant jolt from the sound of that warm, husky, professional receptionist-type greeting. On the other hand, annoyingly, Christine Bailey didn’t even know yet who the hell was at the other end of her line. Did she have to sound that warmly inviting to every unknown?
“I was at your place last night,” Milano said. “Pretty late. You weren’t there.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I’d like to see you tonight. How about it?”
“I’m sorry, sir, From four to nine the gallery is holding a reception in advance of the Raoul Barquin opening tomorrow. Some critics will be here and some guests from a closed list.”
Of course. Stupid of him not to have picked up her signal at once. The boss, his wife, maybe Barquin himself must be cluttering up that space around her.
“I get it,” Milano said. “You’re not alone there right now, are you?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“You are? Then what’s this whole line of talk? This sir business?”
“My way, sir,” said Christine sweetly, “of handling the Milano accusatory. And exactly what am I being accused of? Going out with an old friend?”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was coming on like that.”
“Well, you were. Why were you at my place anyhow? Something turn up about Lorena?”
“No.”
Silence.
A long silence. Milano felt it humming in his ears as it went on and on.
Then Christine said in a changed voice, “It really was an old handshake friend, Johnny. And just some disco. That’s all.”
Offered gratuitous, mind you. Unsolicited. You’re arm-wrestling a toughie, your arm is going down under the pressure, suddenly there is no pressure. For the moment at least.
Milano found himself driven to seize the moment. “Baby,” he said sincerely, “I hope you had a perfectly lousy time.”
“Wasn’t much of a time. And you don’t call me, baby, man, and I won’t call you man, baby.”
“Chris.”
“That’ll do fine. But no use counting on tonight. After closing time here the Rammaerts are giving a very fancy dinner right upstairs. Catered. Champagne will flow and caviar will be supplied to all them who does like fish eggs. Very select company. And I’m supposed to be there so that I can be nice to some drunk critics.”
“How nice?”
“Oh, neckline down to here and skirt slit up to there, that’s about how nice. Now how about Lorena? Didn’t you turn up anything yet?”
Milano rerouted his thoughts. “I don’t know. I made pals today with your landlord. Your mother’s landlord. While shopping for properties to develop. He interests me.”
“Him? You’re wrong, Johnny. I think.”
“Maybe. But he’s some kind of case all right, only I’m not sure what kind. How about tomorrow for us?”
“Work day. The Barquin opening.” She sounded regretful about it, too.
“As it happens,” Milano said, “I’m crazy about his work. Can’t wait to see his latest. Any objection?”
“Not if you stick to Barquin while you’re here,” said Christine.
He put away the phone and waved goodbye to his sidewalk audience as he got the car into motion, Manhattan-bound. And along the way did some stock-taking of J. Milano. Suddenly jealous. Hypersensitive to nuances. Asking for trouble, because this Bailey woman – on the basis of race, age, condition, and temperament – certainly spelled trouble. As for himself – on the basis of an astonishing regression to moony high adolescence – he had the feeling that what he was moving toward was not intended by fate to be just another score. In a nutshell, he had it bad, and, as the song went, that ain’t good. But it felt very good.
Back home he turned the car over to the doorman and with the assurance that yes, sir, Mrs. MacFadden is right upstairs, he took the elevator to Gracie’s apartment. The Colonel Blimp, glassy-eyed and red
olent of juniperberry juice, let him in and told him that the lady was getting her treatment in her bedroom. And so she was, belly down in that polo-field-sized bed with an instrument panel like a jumbo jet’s in its headboard, while a Doctor Feelgood number inserted a murderous-looking needle into an exposed buttock. When the Feelgood and the Colonel Blimp were gone and Gracie arranged in queenly respectability against the pillows she deigned to take notice of her visitor. “Enjoy the show?” she asked him.
Milano shrugged. “I’m not into S and M.”
“Well, you look like the kind who should be.” She held up her arms and surveyed them with distaste. “‘Age cannot wither— ’,” she said. “Shit on that. It withers all right. If they ever peeled my skin off and smoothed it out, there’d be enough to carpet this goddam room. And why the visit, Mr. Milano, during what should be your working hours?”
“A favor. From me to you.”
“Some hot jewelry for sale? Going into that end of the business now?”
“Not yet. You setting up one of those weekend orgies tomorrow night?”
“No. I’m supposed to be stuck here in bed for awhile. Avoiding all sinfulness.”
“No objection to my bringing somebody up to meet you tomorrow evening?”
“Somebody is very vague language.”
“Well, it’s a kid I saw give a real hair-raising performance in a show down in the Village. The Birdbath Theater. Ever hear of it?”
“No, thank God. A female kid just possibly?”
“Definitely. With talent. Lights up the stage, as the saying goes.”
Gracie raised an eyebrow. “Now just how much wattage would it take to light up something called the Birdbath Theater? By any chance, you wouldn’t be making me your personal casting couch, would you, Johnny?”
Milano considered this. “No, I don’t think so. Not really.”
“No you don’t think so not really? Now you interest me. All right, we’ll make it tomorrow evening after dinner. Right now you’ll find a deck of cards and a rack of chips in that cabinet there. I’ll bank a few hands of blackjack. Ten dollar minimum, no limit.”
The Dark Fantastic Page 18
