“Well, why not? I thought out of town and under five minutes doesn’t count. But that’s right, you never do it under five minutes.”
“Here I am, telling you I was good.”
“A funny way to tell me. Do you think I want to hear about your escapades?”
“The ones I didn’t have. That was the point.”
“The ones that you thought of having. How could you resist micro-mini bikinis?”
“I wasn’t even tempted. Come on. It’s been a long time. I’ve just come back from a dangerous mission. I got sunburned. Is this the greeting I get?”
“I did miss you,” she said. “When I wasn’t mad at you. Did you miss me?”
We looked at each other and it wasn’t there. But we tried. Because it was supposed to be. Our emotion tracks were on tapes so tired that entire chunks had flaked off, big glitches in the melody and irregular gaps in the rhythm. She would lapse, I would lapse, an alternating pattern. My biggest blank was while I waited for her to put in her diaphragm and the strange slush that goes with it. We managed.
I was under five minutes. She was out of town. Did it count?
“I made an appointment to see a lawyer,” she said while I surreptitiously dried my postcoital penis on the sheets.
“About what?”
“Buying our apartment. I have the contracts for her to go over.”
We had our first full-time bookkeeper, Naomi Pellegrino. Sam Bleer had found her. “A nice Jewish lady,” is how Sam described her, “who married a bum, an amateur wise guy. Who, thank God, left her a widow. She can keep books, type and keep her mouth shut. Plus she worked at a private nuthouse on Long Island, so she can cope with you and your partner.” Naomi had white hair. Glenda would be happy.
Joey was irritable. Which he’d been a lot lately. It was worrisome and annoying. He had been waiting for me to get back so he could go to St. Louis for Snake Silverman. Something he had promised he would do, personally, before he went on his continually postponed vacation. He showed me where the dog food was. And the doggie treats. The flea collars and the doggie shampoo. Mario and I drove him to the airport. I commented on how tired and even ill he looked. He agreed. A vacation. He needed a vacation.
I got back from the airport in time to meet with Miles Vandercour, who finally, after more than two months of digging, had an interim report. He was a pale, lumpy sort of man in his late fifties or early sixties. He dressed in a manner that I could only call natty and spread classical references and allusions over his speech like oleomargarine on rye.
Miles had a rosebud in his lapel. He had a map of the Bronx. And of Manhattan. And of Brooklyn. All carefully marked up.
The maps cross-referenced to three books of records, each four inches thick, of deeds, title searches, and property records.
“What the hell does all of it mean?” I asked him.
“We are in Plato’s cave,” Miles said, stroking his map of the Bronx. “See here, these are but the shadows of men. Or are men but the shadow of this, their maps, their charts? Charcoal scratchings on the wall of the cave.”
“Oh,” I said. “Um. Uh. Is there anything in particular that I should pay attention to? In these shadows and scratchings?”
“The Bronx map is the most interesting,” he said, pointing out several of the notes he’d penned directly on it. “Notice how many holdings were in places where there are no longer places. How many people do you think live, these days, in the center lane of the Cross Bronx Expressway? These”—he pointed at another spot—“are now a low-income housing project. Some people do very well with property that lies in the way of government plans. Perhaps Gunderson was born under a lucky star. Said star guided him to those real properties. You might look at that.
“Also note, if note you will, this sort of trill, in Morrisania. This I really don’t understand,” he said. There were five properties marked with numbers. “The numbers are the number of times Gunderson owned those properties. This one three times, that four, and so on. I suspect there is a much larger pattern there. It took two weeks merely to find the first series, however. Even then I only found it by accident.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. But it’s unusual. Property values are not that volatile. They almost never go up and down like the stock market. So it’s rare for someone to buy, then sell, then buy back, then resell, then do it again, with one piece of property.
“As time goes by,” he said, “I think I will find more of these.”
“What does it mean?” I asked again.
“You tell me,” Miles said. “In any case, I have my current bill to submit.”
I introduced him to Naomi. I told him to give the bill to her. She smiled at him, brightly.
With a cough and some confusion, Miles unpinned his rosebud from his burnt-sienna jacket and presented it, gallantly, to Naomi. “I am charmed,” he said.
“I’m the new bookkeeper,” Naomi simpered. She blushed to the white roots of her hair.
I met Glenda at the end of the day so we could meet the real estate lawyer, Pauline Felder. By the time we got together, Guido had had a long talk with my mother, who had a long talk with Glenda. It was like a game of Telephone, except that it was the attitude about the story that changed. Guido thought I was a hero. Mother thought I was crazy. Glenda was livid. And grievously insulted that I hadn’t told her every detail.
“There was nothing to tell—”
“You were almost killed. You killed someone.”
“ … that wouldn’t have upset you.”
“Don’t you have any reaction? Don’t you feel something? How can you not tell me?”
“I don’t tell you because I don’t need this shit.”
“What am I to you?” she said. “Somebody to keep you company when you can’t find anything else to do?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” I said.
“You haven’t thought about our relationship?”
“I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about what happened in Freeport. And I don’t want to think about it. It was out of town. It was under five minutes. It really was. It doesn’t count.”
“You have to face these things. Oh, Tony, what are you doing with yourself?”
“Oh-h, Ton-n-ny,” I mimicked her. “This is why I don’t talk to you. Because I don’t like going around and around. … It’s garbage. Just garbage.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“To you? To you? I’m doing it for you. Like any good semihusband should. I’m bustin’ my hump, risking life and limb to bring home the bacon or beans or whatever it is it takes to own a condo these days. You wanted success? You wanted bread? I got bread. That’s why we can go talk to your lady lawyer. And buy the condo without scrimping and saving and eating ricey leftovers to do it. And keep Wayne in camp and private school—”
“Which my ex—”
“Which your ex sometimes pays for, but not entirely, either. So I ain’t doing squat to you. I’m doin’ for you.”
“Then how come it doesn’t feel good?” she asked.
“Good fuckin’ question.”
We went to the lawyer’s office. We looked over the deal. The deal was sound. Our attorney would contact Wirtman’s attorney and set a date for the closing. Our attorney charged only $150 an hour.
I couldn’t find anyone to walk and water the mutt, so I had to take Mario upstate with us. He and Guido got along well. They both liked automobile rides. They didn’t have to drive.
The motel was a motel. Dinner was greasy. Breakfast was worse. Mario was happy with the leftovers. After we ate, I drove Guido, in his uniform blacks, to the prison gates. Then I waited.
I put on the radio low and made myself relax. Just drift. Just think about $100,000 in a Swiss bank. The Olympics were coming. Time magazine said America was going for the Gold. Right on. Me too. And a Cadillac. With all the options: AM-FM/tape deck/quad, sun roof, whitewalls, cruise control, respect and admirati
on. America. We have the dollar, and our dollar has muscle.
I would feel better about me. Glenda would feel better about me. Admitted, she was a good person, who didn’t want to judge people by income. In particular the man she lived with. But she was human. And a woman. So, of course, she did.
I had two thousand cash in my pants pocket. Packed thick and warm. With my eyes closed, I felt the money grow around me, releasing me from old illusions. Allowing me to embrace new ones. Back to the Bahamas. In February. With a large-breasted companion who I could dislike because she was only with me because I had money. Like Kimberly. Or. Rita plus Caroline plus Annette the Mouseketeer. I would buy a borsalino and make guest appearances on Johnny Carson and Miami Vice. When my ship came in.
Guido came shuffling down from the prison gates. Mario barked a greeting. I got out and stretched.
“He lied,” Guido said. “He lied to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not going to talk. We kept our part of the bargain. He’s not keeping his.”
28.
Conversion
WHEN I GOT HOME, I did major mea culpas. I begged forgiveness. I took out my needle and thread and sewed big patches on my relationship with Glenda. After we sent Wayne off to camp, we even took a couple of days just for ourselves. We stayed at a bed-and-breakfast near New Paltz, where we got semisweet. It was called the Nieuw Olde Haus, a restored seventeenth-century Dutch stone building. We even managed, by taking a vow of silence, to perform two reasonably exciting and satisfying acts of intercourse.
Which was nice. Since we would soon be owning property together.
When I got back to the office, I had to face the fact that every real lead was dead. Except, perhaps, for the abstract that Miles Vandercour had seen. Turning it into something useful was going to be a tedious, frustrating, slow, boring business. Cop work. Which was who we had working for us, ex-cops. The best of the lot were “Fast Frankie” Farrell, Eddie Mazzolli, and Billy DeVito. I’d made the mistake of paying DeVito everything we owed him, so he’d taken off for Atlantic City and wouldn’t be back until he’d lost it.
So that’s what we did. Farrell, Mazzolli, and myself. Going back to those neighborhoods. Talking to people. Who didn’t know anything. But who might know someone who did. Then finding that we couldn’t find the next person in the line.
New York is not America, and from Manhattan, the Bronx is a foreign country. So was the Brooklyn I grew up in. It’s realer. The problem with reality is that it’s ugly, smelly, and ominous. Reality is garbage, and the hotter it gets, the more aromatic it is. The kids squall louder. The diapers have more reek. In the center of the city there are more people on the street, but they’re going somewhere. In the slums and ghettos, they’re standing still. Waiting. Maybe Ron in his TV-land White House thinks that white cops don’t still go to the neighborhoods and hand out beatings to blacks who act bad. If he does, he’s wrong.
Malevolent eyes stalked me. And Farrell and Mazzolli. Who came back talking “nigger” this and “spic” that. To keep my own mind from being infected with racial fears and contempts, I had to keep telling myself that a black walking through the white zones of Howard Beach and Ozone Park would get the same. Still, I felt more comfortable carrying a gun. Or having Mario with me.
Joey came back from St. Louis. He reached me by leaving a message with Naomi. I was in the Bronx. The number was the pay phone at Snake Silverman’s.
“How was Saint Lou?”
“Piece a shit. Guy ain’t there. Where’s Mario?”
“Win a few, lose a few. The mutt’s with me. Actually, except for that he sheds, he’s a pretty good partner.”
“Better ’an me, prob’bly,” he said.
“Farrell’s got Mazzolli. I got a dropout Alsatian.”
“I ain’t even been to the office. Everything OK? We making money?”
“Yeah, we making money. Naomi’s got a check for you. July fourth bonus or something.”
“Yeah, well, you hold it for me. Unnerstand? Me, you know what? I ain’t even go near there, or a phone. I’m going home, snatch a bathing suit, and no one’s gonna hear from me—two weeks, a month, even. That’s if I can trust you to take care of something as simple as a dog.”
“Dog’ll be all right. You just lay off the booze. Lay around. Maybe even get yourself another checkup.”
“Nah, I’m sounder ’an a dollar. … ”
“You go to the supermarket, fuckin’ dollar’s more like a peso these days.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
“That’s when I first realized I was getting old,” I said. “First time I said to myself, ‘I can remember when the dollar was worth a dollar.’ ”
“What I’m gonna do is get my stuff, go straight to the airport.”
“Hey, partner, where you going?”
“You know what? I’m not gonna tell you. I tell you, you’re gonna be all the time pestering me, to tell you how to do your job. Which you don’t need no help to do, ’cause you can do it. As good or better than anyone. You remember that. And don’t get into trouble. And don’t let that go to your head. Me, I’m gonna go and fish a little. Also drop by and visit my wife for a couple of minutes, to remind myself that I don’t like her.”
“How about I drive you to the airport? Which one you leaving from?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“Please deposit another five cents for five more minutes,” a machine said.
“Take good care that dog. Or I’ll have your ass,” he said, and hung up.
Two days later, Jerry Wirtman and I and Glenda and his attorney and our attorney met. We’d accepted Jerry’s offer to finance the deal. There was still a $25,000 down payment, plus a $1,000 check for Pauline the lawyer. I didn’t believe that she had that many billable hours on the job, and I thought we were being victimized by sisterhood. I wisely kept my mouth shut about it. Signatures were signed. Papers were witnessed, notarized, and sealed. Glenda seemed to hold her breath through the entire business. Everyone shook hands and congratulated.
Finally, when we were downstairs and out of the building, she breathed. She took my arm. “Oh, Tony, isn’t it wonderful. I feel so much better. Our own place.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it’s great. Lemme take you out, someplace nice, to celebrate. A nice dinner.”
“But we just spent all that money,” she said. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t add another dollar to that. I feel like, I don’t know, happy, but I have to live up to it. Why don’t we go home and I’ll cook something special.”
“I’ll buy the champagne,” I said. “Good stuff. Real French label.”
“Wonderful,” she said, hugging me closer.
I spent sixty-two dollars on a bottle. Over Glenda’s protests. But what the hell, I was a guy who could afford conversion. A big shot.
“I feel so differently about it,” she said when we walked into the apartment. She moved through it, looking at the walls, fixtures, furniture. A paint job and rebuilt kitchen were coming for certain. And more. It grew smaller and tighter around me. I knew what I was going to do. When night came, in the darkness, I would write a note and explain it all.
But I couldn’t even wait that long. “I’ll keep up the payments,” I said. “I will. But I can’t stay. I promise I’ll keep up the payments.”
She wanted to talk. Her first thought was that it was another woman. Would that it were. Her second, that it was a joke.
No marital separation since I broke the story that Mary Pickford, America’s sweetheart, was leaving Douglas Fairbanks had the effect of the parting of the Reagans. … Jane and Ronnie have always stood for so much that is right in Hollywood … that’s why this hurts so much. That’s why we are fighting so hard to make them realize that what seems to have come between them is not important enough to make their break final.
LOUELLA PARSONS, Photoplay, April 1948
“Call it temporary, if you want. Yeah,” I said, “call it t
emporary. To get used to the idea that my feet are nailed to the floor. That I’m set in concrete.”
“If you’re that crazy, we’ll sell it,” she said, tears streaming down her face. Mascara tracks. Why don’t women wash before they weep?
“Just a couple of days or weeks or something. You know. I gotta take care of the dog.”
“We’ll sell it.”
“No we won’t,” I said, pushing her arms off me. “We keep it. You keep it. I have to leave.”
“Why? Why? Why?”
29.
Letter to the Times
PEACE FLOODED THROUGH ME.
Even when the inner dialogues began—was I right? was she wrong? am I bad? what else could I have done?—they halted of their own accord. A weight I hadn’t known I carried, gone.
Maybe it would never have happened if Joey had not been away at the same time that the signing took place. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t bought the apartment.
I did talk to Glenda the next day. I did one of those “just need my space for a little while, there’s nothing wrong but I have to sort out my feelings” raps that women do so well. Since they do it, they believe in it. It’s like selling to a salesman. When you’re really sure you’re insulting their intelligence, they’re sold. What was I going to do? Tell the truth? The truth: We had met when I was down. Then, to stand up, I built a scaffold around you and Wayne. Then I put my hands on a crossbar and held myself up. I closed my nose to keep from snorting. That took a couple years. Then I thought I didn’t need the support. I stepped out. Watch out for that first step; it’s a killer. And I stepped right off the edge. So back I crawled. You still had the scaffold. You almost forgave. You never forgot, and that kept your center a little dryer than it used to be. Your tongue a little sharper. Your nerves more raw.
Reread the story. There’s one line missing: “I fell in love.” Cared. Liked. Respected. Owed. Needed. Used. Gave. Took. Lots of things. But not that one thing—delirium? delusion? decision?—that transforms the rest, the daily days, the quarreling idiocies, the turned-down possibilities, into one long double helix of endearment.
You Get What You Pay For (The Tony Cassella Mysteries) Page 25
