by Sara Gran
We’d split up around five years before, during one of the other times I’d quit. It hadn’t stuck that time—quitting dope—but I’d done the right thing and left the person who got me started on it. Not because I held it against him or wished him any ill will or because I didn’t love him anymore, because none of that was true. Just because I had to. It was the only way.
“Monte.”
“Joe!” He smiled when he saw me, and stood up and hugged me. I hugged him back, feeling his shoulder blades and the bumps of his spine through his suit.
“Jesus, Monte, you’re a rail.”
He laughed and we both sat down on the bench. “I know, I’m a little thin,” he said. He looked at me. “You look good, Joe. You really do. I can tell you’re clean.”
“Yeah,” I said. “About two years now.”
Monte smiled. The teeth he had left were yellow and chipped, but it was still a good smile. He meant it. “I’m so happy, Joe. I mean, I never wanted—”
“I know,” I said. “I know. It’s my own fault, my own and no one else’s. How is everything? Life treating you good?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s okay. It’s not too bad. How about you? What are you doing now?”
I shrugged. “A little of this and a little of that. I hit Tiffany’s last week, did real good.”
“That’s great,” Monte said. “So you’re still up to your old tricks?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Good.”
“Hey. I saw Yonah the other day.”
“Oh yeah?” Monte asked. “How’s that old son of a bitch holding up?”
“Oh, he’s okay,” I answered. “He’s the same. Same old Yonah.”
“Hey, how’s Shelley doing? I saw her photograph in the paper this morning. An ad for soap or something like that.”
“She’s good,” I said. “She’s good.”
“She helping you out?” Monte asked. “Throwing a little money your way?”
“No,” I said. “Why would she?”
Monte shook his head. “If it wasn’t for you that kid would be dead. Dead a hundred times over. If it wasn’t for you—”
“All right,” I said. “All right. I know you don’t like her. You never did.”
Monte shrugged. “Nah, it ain’t that. I just think you did enough for her, that’s all. When’s she gonna do something for you?”
I stiffened. “What do you think, she’s making a million bucks modeling for the paper? She probably makes less than you. Besides, she doesn’t owe me anything.”
“Doesn’t owe—”
I stopped him. “All right,” I said again. “Enough.”
We didn’t say anything for a minute. Then Monte laughed. “It’s like we’re still married. Arguing about Shelley.”
I laughed, too. “Yeah. It is.”
We were quiet for another minute. Then I said, “Oh, I’ve got this new thing I’m working on. I’m looking for this girl. Her parents paid me to find her. I thought you might have seen her.”
“That sounds good,” Monte said. “You making some money?”
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
I showed him the picture of Nadine and McFall. He made a look on his face, a look like he’d just stepped in shit, that I was starting to recognize as McFall’s calling card.
“Sure, I know Jerry. A real piece of work.”
“Does he come around here?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” Monte answered. “Not often.”
“You know where he gets his stuff?” I asked.
Monte put his hand on my knee and we stopped talking for a second as a man in a neat gray suit walked by. You never knew who was the law. But you could tell he wasn’t one of us.
After the man passed Monte shrugged. “It’s funny—I don’t know where he gets it. I mean, he’s always got it, and as far as I know it’s not from any of the regular guys, not the guys in Brooklyn or Harlem or anyone I know. But it’s good.”
“You’ve bought from him?” I asked. Monte sold junk himself, usually. It was how he got by.
“Sure, when I was dry myself.”
“Well, how’d you get in touch with him? You got a phone number or something?”
“Nah.” He shrugged. “I just ran into him, that’s all.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him, anything at all?”
Monte thought for a minute. When he did that he tilted his head to the right a little, just like he always had, and for a minute there I could have sworn it was fifteen years ago and we were kids, coming to Bryant Park for the first time. “Sometimes he hangs around with a guy you know,” Monte said. “Skinny Harry. I think McFall’s got him running errands for him, making deliveries, that kind of thing.”
A big smile spread across my face.
“Jesus, Joe,” Monte said. “You look like the cat that just ate the canary.”
I felt like that cat, too. As far as I was concerned, the case was damn well over. The second thousand dollars was as good as mine.
“You know where I can find Harry?” I asked.
“Sure,” Monte said. “He’s at the Red Rooster down on Fourteenth just about every night. Hey, speaking of Harry, remember that time in Buffalo—” He started to laugh.
I laughed, too. “Oh, sure. That weasel really thought he’d gotten over on us. . . .”
That was all Monte had to say on the topic of Jerry McFall. And he had never seen Nadine before. We talked for a while more, trading old stories and adding in a few new ones. I pretended that he was the same old Monte and he, I guess, pretended that I was the same old Joe. We’d been together for close to ten years, which made it easy. Easy to pretend that Monte was young and strong and smart as a whip. That he still had all of his teeth and all of his brains and that his years on junk hadn’t hurt him at all. That he was sick of Bryant Park and all the junkies, that he was going to kick tomorrow—maybe not tomorrow, tomorrow was no good, but next week for sure. That this new method he had was really going to do the trick, he was going to taper off and he would hardly be sick at all. That he was going to get a job in a factory in Brooklyn, his cousin worked there, he’d set Monte up for sure. That this time was going to be different, that this time it was going to work.
And it was easy to pretend that I was still listening. I nodded my head when he talked about kicking. Sure, I believed him, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? I had never heard this before, not me. It wasn’t like I had said it all myself, a thousand times before. Because the thing is, when you meant it, you stopped talking about it. When I finally kicked I didn’t say a word. I just did it. It was like when you talked about it you got the whole idea out of your system, and you could forget about it for a while. Talking about kicking was just another stop in the long conversation, along with science and finance.
It wasn’t the drug itself that held him back, that made it all impossible. He could talk about withdrawal until the cows came home, but in the end, it wasn’t so bad. A week of hell wasn’t long. What made it impossible was the awful loneliness of going out there, alone. Here, with the other dope fiends, Monte had a place for himself. People knew who he was. He knew who he was. If Monte wasn’t an addict, he’d be just another poor schmuck from Hell’s Kitchen who never did a damn thing with his life. Just a guy who went to a dumb job every day and drank beer every night.
That’s why you start, and that’s why you stick with it, so you can finally be someone: a junkie.
When I left Monte I went around to all the newsstands in Times Square until I found the newspaper with the soap ad. It was a photo of Shelley, from the neck up, soap bubbles covering her shoulders. Here she was easier to recognize. She had a sly look on her face, like she was getting away with something, that I had seen a hundred times before. It’s not JUST a bubble bath, a fancy script spelled out beneath her picture. It’s also a BEAUTY TREATMENT!
At home I carefully cut out the picture and put it in Shelley’s scrapbook ne
xt to the ad for the dress Yonah had given me. I only gave myself a few minutes to flip through the scrapbook before I went to find Harry.
Chapter Twelve
Talk about a joint. No band. No food. The Red Rooster was a long narrow room on Fourteenth Street with a bar and a few tables. A jukebox played some tinny-sounding swing. The place was half full and it was a rough enough crowd: one or two women who looked like streetwalkers, a dozen men in frayed suits and just as many in shirtsleeves, and a handful of young thugs in dungarees and undershirts.
Right off I spotted Skinny Harry, sitting alone at a table in the back. Skinny Harry wasn’t really so skinny, now that he was reaching toward middle age. But he was still the same piece of trash he’d been since I first met him in 1939. His hair was thinning and slicked back from his head with grease, and he wore a shirt and slacks of no particular color and a red and black plaid hunting jacket. His beady little eyes were focused on a mug of beer. Harry’s face turned blank when he spotted me, and he looked around for the nearest exit, but before he could make a run for it I reached his table and put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.
I sat down next to him, keeping a hand tight on his shoulder. “Harry,” I said. The look on his face told me this would be easy.
“Listen, Joe, I know you think I tore you off that time in Buffalo—”
I cut him off. “Harry, I know you tore me off that time in Buffalo. I know you set me up, I know you owe me a wad of cash like you’re never gonna see again. And you know it, too. I heard you spent it all paying a girl to beat you with a whip. That’s disgusting, Harry. But that’s not why I’m here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “It’s not?”
“No, I just need a favor. We’re friends, aren’t we, Harry?”
“Sure, sure we are, Joe.” He looked ready to piss in his pants.
“And you can do me a favor, can’t you? Wouldn’t it be nice to get this Buffalo thing off your mind once and for all?”
“Of course, Joe, sure,” he said quickly. “Anything, I’m good for it.”
“Okay then. Jerry McFall. You know the guy?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Good. Where is he?”
Harry hesitated. I could tell from his eyes he was making up a lie, and I didn’t want to give him any time to work on it.
“Come on, Harry, you don’t have to think about it. You want us to be square, or you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”
He wrinkled up his brow. “This would really square us, once and for all?”
“Absolutely, Harry,” I lied. We’d never be square. “But you’ve got to tell me where he is, and it’s got to be good.”
“It’s just that he asked me, really made me promise not to tell anyone—”
“But he didn’t mean me, Harry, you know that. I don’t count. You wouldn’t be breaking your promise at all.”
Harry slumped in his chair. I gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“Yeah, okay,” he finally said. “The last I heard, he was staying at this place out in Sunset Park.”
“Sunset Park? Where the hell is that?”
“Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, in Brooklyn. All the way out there. I don’t remember the number but it’s a brick building, apartments, right on the corner.”
“You been there?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I been there. A few days ago. I went by just to say hi, to pal around, you know? And to bring him some clothes ’n’ stuff.”
“What’s the story?” I asked. “Why’s he laying so low?”
“What he told me was that someone thought he had ripped them off,” Harry said with a smirk. “You know, in a dope deal. Of course, he said he hadn’t done it, but he wanted to give everyone some time to cool off all the same.”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Who’d he rip off?”
Harry shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“But of course he didn’t do it, right?”
Harry smiled. “I don’t know, he said he didn’t.”
“How about a girl, Nadine? Is she with him?”
“Yeah, he’s got a girl with him. A cute little blonde, young, real pretty.” Harry’s eyes glazed over at the thought of Jerry’s cute little blonde. It was kind of disgusting.
I rolled my eyes. “All right,” I said. “This better be good.” I stood up to go.
“So this is it?” Harry said, looking up nervously. “I mean we’re okay now, right?”
“Go to hell, Harry,” I said. “We’ll never be okay.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jim lived on Fifth Avenue, north of Washington Square Park, in a fancy apartment building that had just been built last year. The whole front of the lobby was all glass and it looked like a fishbowl. Jim wouldn’t be there long. He moved two or three times a year, depending on what kind of work he was doing and what he could afford and what he felt like and who he wanted to be, or seem to be.
The doorman called upstairs by a house phone and told Jim with a straight face that a Miss Marlene Dietrich was here to see him. Jim said to send her on up. Naturally he took the time to put on a jacket and a hat before he answered the door.
He smiled when he saw who it was. He was in a good mood. That would help. “Hey Marlene. You wanna go get a drink or something?”
“No, thanks. But I was hoping you could do me a favor.” I figured I better ease into this slowly. Jim had a thing about his car.
“Anything, Joe. Come on in.” I followed Jim inside. His place was a good size and done up to the nines—sunken living room, new record player that played forty-fives, and all new furniture, streamlined like the sofa and the chairs were about to take flight. I sat down on a turquoise leather sofa while Jim fixed me a drink at the bar.
He joined me on the sofa with the drinks. The glasses had gold and turquoise seashells painted on them.
“Well,” I began, “I finally got a good lead on Nadine Nelson.”
“Great!” Jim smiled and clinked his glass against mine. He really seemed happy for me. “Where’d you track her down?”
I told him about Skinny Harry and our fun evening together. Jim knew Harry, and he laughed so hard he almost spit out his drink.
“So the thing is,” I said, “Harry tells me they’re in Brooklyn. Like way far out in Brooklyn. I’m not sure if the subway even goes out there.”
Jim stopped laughing.
“And I really need to get there as soon as possible.”
Jim stopped smiling.
“So I was hoping I could borrow your car for a while.”
He looked down at the floor and thought for a minute. “I could call you a cab,” he suggested. “I’ll even pay for it. A taxi’ll go out there, no problem.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you. But the thing is, a taxi would really stick out around there. I mean, I might have to watch the place for a while, wait until they come out. I don’t want to scare them off. I need to let the parents know where the girl is while she’s still there. If they split, I’m right back where I started. So I definitely don’t want them seeing a taxi out front waiting for them.”
“That’s true,” Jim said. “That’s true. But you know, the Rocket 88 would stand out, too. I mean, a new car. In a neighborhood like that.”
“Right,” I said. “But not really. Not so much.”
“You have a good record, right?” He was dead serious. He really loved that car.
“Perfect. Never even a ticket,” I lied.
“You’re sure?”
I took my license out of my purse and showed it to him. “Call Motor Vehicles,” I said. It was too late to call Motor Vehicles. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have said it.
Jim laughed. But he did glance at the phone. “Okay,” he finally said. “But you gotta go nice and slow—”
“I won’t speed,” I promised.
“And you gotta be careful when you park.”
“I won’
t park within ten feet of another car,” I said.
“And no drinks,” he said sternly. “No drinks, no food, cigarettes, nothing like that.”
“Jim,” I said, “I will treat your car like it was my newborn babe.”
“Okay, okay.” Jim let out a long breath and tried not to frown. “Warm it up first. And watch where you park. Try not to park it outside. And don’t forget to lock it up if you leave it. But don’t leave it, Joe. Don’t leave the car alone. Not unless you have to. And call me when you get back to the city. Just to let me know you’re all right.”
“You mean that the car’s all right,” I said.
“No,” Jim said. “That you’re all right.”
Jim insisted on taking me out to eat before I drove to Brooklyn. But I wanted to get going soon, and so even though Jim wanted to go to Le Bouche, which of course is the best place to eat late at night if you like French food like snails and liver, he settled for a hash house in Sheridan Square that was open all night. It wasn’t up to his usual standards. The coffee was awful and the waitress didn’t know Jim’s first name. Across the room a man was telling a story in a loud voice about the funny time he had with Rita Hayworth in Cannes.
“For Christ’s sake,” Jim said, scowling at his omelet. “Who the hell is this guy trying to impress?”
“I don’t know,” I said with my mouth full. “Just forget it.”
“I mean, who does he think he is?” Jim fumed. “Where does he think he is, for cryin’ out loud—the Stork Club?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” I said.
Jim craned his neck to give the man a dirty look. “Hey,” he said when he turned around. “Isn’t that Shelley?”
I looked over. The man who was telling the story was sitting at a table across the room. He was a middle-aged man in a black three-piece suit, overweight and half bald, with a big diamond pin on his tie and an even bigger diamond on his little finger. Sitting with him was Shelley.
At least I thought so. Then I looked again and I wasn’t sure. She hardly looked like Shelley at all. She looked more like the girl wearing the black dress in the ad Yonah had given me. Her hair was cut short and bleached platinum, and she was wearing a modest black dress with a tiny black hat over her white hair. She had on shiny red lipstick and a little bit of black makeup around her eyes. She laughed at the man’s story like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard and leaned toward him, keeping her back straight and her chest out.
