Agnes Among the Gargoyles

by Patrick Flynn

  The Customs House was sold to Wegeman.

  Jessica introduces the Japanese gentlemen, Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te.

  "Can we get started?" she says. "Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te are going back to Tokyo tonight."

  Jessica makes a few opening remarks.

  "I think you should know," she says, "that the preservationist movement in New York has spawned similar groups all over the country. They are doing marvelous work."

  There is tepid applause. No one in the room really cares about the rest of the country. Who gives a shit about a few clapboard houses and Bullfinch city halls? New York is where the architectural action is.

  "We have won many battles," says Jessica. "But we must never grow complacent. The great structures are, for the most part, safe. But cities are not just collections of great structures. Cities are tapestries of the great, the near-great, the downright sickening. The ill-conceived, the grotesque, the mediocre—these are as much a part of our heritage as the Woolworth Building."

  Jessica Sanborne puts on her glasses. One of her hands is palsied; she thrusts it into her pocket. She scans the room, and finally her eye settles on Agnes.

  "The bad news that our heroic Miss Travertine delivered to you is quite correct," says Jessica. "The Anacosta is gone forever. Yes, it was a welfare hotel, but I happen to know that the residents were sensitive to its beauty. They appreciated the moldings and the carvings and the dumbwaiters. They loved the high ceilings. And they were heartened, if only subliminally, by the societal message that everything—old hotels and the poorest among us—is worth saving."

  She continues matter-of-factly: "The Anacosta was demolished in a midnight raid by the Czacki Corporation, recently acquired by, well, I can't say the man's name."

  Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te sip the tea that Isabel has brought them.

  Jessica says, "I submit for your approval a three-point plan for preservationist groups nationwide. One—the preserving of second-level structures to complement our already landmarked masterworks. Expect resistance from landlords and greedy speculators. Two—preservationist groups must act as watchdogs to prevent the alteration of protected structures. Hard economic times are coming; regulations will be ignored. One Grand Central is an outrage. Three—new and vibrant architecture within the classical traditions must be encouraged; this architecture must awe and inspire and quicken the pulse while taking the hand of the populace."

  Jessica Sanborne has lived an enviable life, thinks Agnes. Her husband, a rakish aviator from Brooklyn, died when they had been married barely a year, and thus she had what Agnes has always wanted—an early tragedy that absolved her from responsibility for anything she might do for the rest of her life. Jessica, faithful to her husband's memory, has never been even remotely associated with another man. She is aloof and alone. She is a monument. Agnes Travertine is aloof and alone and no one gives a shit.

  Jessica and her companions begin a slide show.

  The first slide is of the old Pennsylvania Station, 1910-1963, requiescat in pace. Mr. Li-te runs the projector; Jessica and Mr. Kamakura stand on either side of the screen.

  "Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te represent the Shoso-in syndicate," says Jessica. "Shoso-in has acquired some property that it would like to develop. The name of the syndicate is significant, isn't that so, Mr. Kamakura?"

  Mr. Kamakura speaks softly. "The Great Hall of the Shoso-in, near Kyoto, is said by many to resemble a phoenix with outstretched wings."

  "I beg to differ," says Malthus Grosvenor. He reluctantly stands up. Jessica shields her eyes to see him.

  "You might as well nail these things down correctly," says Grosvenor. "The hall that looks like a phoenix isn't the Shoso-in. It's the Byodo-in. The Shoso-in is in Nara."

  Mr. Kamakura looks confused. Grosvenor speaks to him in Japanese. Mr. Kamakura replies in Japanese. Mr. Li-te joins in. All three laugh in Japanese.

  Grosvenor explains. "Mr. Kamakura just said to me that, in their haste to embrace all things Western, the Japanese may also have embraced Western ignorance and carelessness."

  Mr. Kamakura's joke doesn't go over very well. There is a rumble of indignation.

  "That poor Oriental man," says Marty thickly. "They'll tear him apart. I must help him save face."

  Marty rises. "May I humbly suggest that our honored guest was actually speaking Chinese, and was misunderstood." He sits down. A foolish, drunken look of satisfaction brightens his face. His wife reels with embarrassment.

  The presentation eventually gets back on track.

  "Mr. Kamakura's syndicate is interested in developing our West Side waterfront," says Jessica. She waits for the appropriate slide. "This is the former site of the Cunard Line pier, from which I, as a young and foolish thing, set off on my first tour of Europe."

  Jessica married a war hero from Red Hook and mocked the opulence of her own wedding and won the hearts of the poor. Hannah Travertine has paid more attention to Jessica's life than to her own daughter's, or even to her own. If she saw a picture of Jessica at a banquet, Hannah would say to Agnes, "I don't envy her, having to eat that rich food all the time," and Agnes would point out that what Jessica ate was no doubt easier to digest than the tuna casserole the Travertines lived on.

  Agnes can't help but have a soft spot for Jessica Sanborne. Hannah's virtual obsession with the woman has made her a familiar, cozy figure to Agnes, almost like a distant relation. Agnes would love to tell Jessica that she wasn't trying to save the Great Man, that piece of vermin, but take him out of the picture for good.

  "The lack of a vibrant waterfront in our city is a disgrace," says Jessica. "Mr. Kamakura and his people have envisioned a shopping /dining / entertainment complex, but one with a difference, and one that should be of great interest to the membership of the Telamones Society. Imagine seeing a movie, having dinner, eating an ice cream cone, buying a shirt—all in the old Pennsylvania Station, one of the most beautiful structures ever to grace New York City."

  Joy erupts.

  There are confused questions. Did I hear correctly? The old station? But it doesn't exist anymore! Jessica and Mr. Kamakura outline the scheme. When Penn Station was demolished in 1963, the pieces were hauled out to New Jersey and dumped in the Meadowlands swamps. The cost of reclamation would be less than the cost of new materials. The plan has already been approved by the Shosoin board of directors; approval from the New Jersey Governor's office is pending. The station's original blueprints have been found, and what cannot be dug up and restored will be rebuilt. As if to demonstrate the legitimacy of the enterprise, Mr. Kamakura holds up a leather-bound prospectus.

  The society is delirious. Agnes gazes in rapture at the views of Pennsylvania Station that flash on the screen. The destruction of the station, which actually began the preservationist movement, has been called the worst act of civic vandalism in history. Agnes would love to see that grievous wrong righted. In one of the slides, a man drives a horsecar past the station, which is not yet finished—the clock has yet to be installed in the entablature. The man smiles at the camera, and waves, and leans forward as if to pat his horse's rump, seemingly unaware of the architectural masterpiece taking shape behind him.

  Isabel answers the doorbell. A man in a gorilla suit carrying a string of helium balloons rushes past her into the foyer. He turns on a tape recorder hanging from his waist. Jungle drums begin to play. The beast holds up an envelope marked GORILLAGRAM. Of course, thinks Agnes—Marty's birthday. His flinthearted wife actually came through for him. Agnes leads the gorilla over to Marty, who sits nearly passed out in a wing chair.

  "Marty, look," says Agnes.

  Marty says something that the gorilla doesn't understand. The gorilla shakes its head. Then the gorilla says something Agnes doesn't understand.

  "What? What?" says Agnes.

  The gorilla removes his head. "I hate to break character, but this shit happens all the time. It's hot in that head. I have a GorillaGram for Agnes Travertine."

  Agnes c
onfronts the gorilla. "Not Marty Zollner?"

  The gorilla is offended. "This is a shit job, lady, but I can read."

  Agnes takes the paper from him. He pounds his chest lethargically.

  "You think I could get a soda?" he asks Isabel.

  Agnes reads the message.

  I don't know if you're shy or what but don't you think you should come see me so I could thank you? The last time I saw you there were bullets nicking my windpipe.

  Ron W.

  Agnes leaves with the gorilla. His name is Alex. He lives right near her in Washington Heights. He would give her a lift home if he weren't on his way to a party in New Rochelle. He drives her to the train station. He tells her that when he's not in a gorilla suit he studies painting and acting.

  He lets her out in front of the desolate commuter station. She sits down on a bench. There is no sign of a train. She checks the schedule, then remembers with an awful feeling that she left her wallet and her keys on a table in the Zollners' foyer. No one else would think of it, so she took out money to tip the gorilla and...oh, what misery! There is nothing to do but walk the mile back to the Zollners'. It is all uphill.

  The Zollners' house is heart-sinkingly dark. Agnes creeps around to the rear to see if anyone is still in the kitchen. There is a light on in an upstairs bedroom. Someone is moving around. Agnes takes a step backward. Gravel crunches beneath her feet. Agnes resigns herself to ringing the bell. There doesn't seem to be all that much love in the Zollner marriage, she thinks. It's a shame. They seem bound together mainly by their finances, their family, their possessions. Of course, that's plenty. When Marty throws up the sash and vomits a mixture of red and white wine the color of rose, it isn't his wife that he hits.

  Chapter Eight

  Barnett's Steak House sits rather sadly in a corner of the theater district, its awning torn, the neon bled from the letters of its sign. The reviews mounted in the front window were written by dead writers for defunct newspapers. For what it's worth, the reviewer for the Brooklyn Eagle thought it was a heckuva place to strap on the feedbag.

  Barnett's has survived escalating rents by cutting back on quality and service and amenities. There is nothing left to skimp on. The steaks are pounded. The vegetables are frozen. The napkins, water glasses, silverware and ashtrays sit misaligned on the tabletops to cover all the holes in the tablecloths.

  "Everyone in Liverpool knew the Beatles," says a waiter to a table of four tourists. The waiter's name is John Bezel. He is a muscular man of perhaps sixty. He was once a prizefighter. He has a spotted bald head and a pronounced limp. He is missing the ring finger of his left hand. His Northern English accent thickens as the anecdote progresses. "They were neighborhood kids. I heard them in 1962 at the Cavern Club. I thought they were right bloody awful, thank you."

  The diners laugh it up. This is Bezel's last table of the night. He delivers the check and the punch line. "And it is that sort of astute judgment that has kept me a waiter for lo these many years."

  The two couples dicker over the bill. A calculator appears. Worn singles are counted out carefully. Bezel knows that he will be tipped poorly. He can't watch. He retreats to the kitchen. The cooks have that crazy Dominican music playing. Bezel goes out the back door, pulls up a lettuce crate, and lights a cigarette. He sits happily alone. He is glad that it is too cold for the kitchen staff to be outside. They're used to tropical weather.

  Bezel finishes his cigarette. Across the street they are building a high-rise. Now it is only a skeleton of girders. Strings of work lights hang on several floors. The effect is quite lovely. It starts him thinking about Christmas, about the Christmases of old Liverpool, when he'd come out of church in the middle of the night thinking of presents and hungry for currant cake.

  Suddenly, Father Christmas is before him. Bezel cries out with surprise. Red face, bushy white beard, lips like cherries, daft smile—no, it's not Father Christmas at all. It's the Frenchman.

  "Did I frighten you?" says the Frenchman hopefully.

  "Certainly not," says Bezel. "What are you skulking 'round the back way for?"

  The Frenchman grins like an idiot monkey. He knows that he has caught Bezel with his guard down, and it delights him. The Frenchman loves human frailty; let a burp escape unmuffled and he'll gloat for a week.

  Bezel returns to the dining room. His party left him a scant eight percent tip. He busses the table. He takes off his apron and jacket and gets ready to leave.

  The Frenchman is seated at the bar. He works as a hand on the cargo ships, when he can find work. Bezel has known him for years and years. The Frenchman watches greedily as Gary, the manager, pours him a Cognac. Gary is an amiable sort, a failed actor or something, tall and gaunt and silent. His moustache appears to sprout from inside his nostrils.

  Bezel hesitates at the corner of the bar. He wonders whether he should join the Frenchman.

  The Frenchman raises his glass.

  "Aqua vitae," says the Frenchman. "Fire of the gods. Spiritus Frumenti. The sweat of Jesus. Bezel, will you sit down with me?"

  Bezel says yes. "For one only."

  Gary pours him a Scotch. The Frenchman natters on about the attack on Ronald Wegeman's life. He once worked as a bodyguard somewhere in Canada, and considers himself an expert on these matters.

  "The way to take out a man like Wegeman is to find what we call the rent in the fabric," says the Frenchman. He gulps his drink. "What happened to the bodyguards? Did they die?"

  "One is recovering," says Gary. "One critical."

  The Frenchman smiles. "Sentries answer for their mistakes in heaven, eh? Now that women, the jujitsatrix—she was an incalculable."

  The Frenchman goes on and on. Bezel drinks contentedly. He hasn't touched alcohol in months, but now he can't imagine why not. There are times when you have to sample the cure to know for certain that you are ill. Gary fills his glass promptly. He's a good man, Gary. He doesn't drink anymore, but he doesn't judge those who do. His sad smile seems to say: drink on, my friends, and think of me; had I not abused the privilege I'd be right there with you.

  "The bullet missed Wegeman's heart by an inch," says Gary. "He's lucky that guy didn't get off another shot."

  The Frenchman raps his glass on the bar. "It wouldn't have mattered. They would have frozen the body until they could figure out what to do. The rich, they always have something up their sleeves."

  Bezel disagrees. If there's one thing he knows it's that there will never be a cure for a well-placed slug. The order of the universe depends on it.

  The Frenchman leaves the restaurant. Bezel hangs back and has a word with Gary.

  "He's in a bad way, you know," says Bezel.

  "The Frog?"

  "It's his mother, I'm afraid."

  Gary rolls his eyes. "I never think of him having a mother."

  "He won't for much longer."

  "Oh."

  "He's staying with me," says Bezel impulsively. "I'll need some time off."

  "Take it," says Gary.

  "It doesn't put you out terribly?"

  "No. It looks slow this week, anyway."

  Bezel catches up with the Frenchman. They turn onto 45th Street, which is jammed with people coming out of the theaters. Bezel and the Frenchman make their way through the crowd. The Frenchman is given a wide berth. Snatches of conversation ring in Bezel's ears. The street seems ablaze with good fellowship. By the time they reach Eighth Avenue, the Frenchman has lifted a wallet.

  "You shameless dog," says Bezel. "You contemptible bastard."

  "Yes, yes," says the Frenchman. "And the wallet of a child at that. Twelve sad little dollars. One picture—a baseball player. And look at this Medic Alert card. Our benefactor is a hemophiliac."

  "How could you?"

  The Frenchman tosses the wallet into a dumpster. He looks down at Bezel's feet.

  "Your shoelace is undone," he says merrily. "Come, Bezel. Let us drink until we can drink no more."

  Chapter Nine

&n
bsp; Agnes knows this place.

  On this spot once stood the Lexington Avenue Exhibition Rotunda. It had a marquee and looked no bigger than a neighborhood movie house. Agnes was amazed how large it was on the inside.

  Agnes's father, Johnny Travertine, was a union official: secretary-treasurer for Local 177, Special Officers & Guards, which provided security for Madison Square Garden, the ballparks, the Eastern Parkway Arena and Lexington Hall. Lexington Hall had the trade shows: the shoe show, the restaurant show, the boat show. Agnes loved nothing more than going to Lexington Hall with her father. She loved the way her voice echoed in the dreary backstage tunnels. There was in illicit quality to life in Lexington Hall, something of the carnival or the road show. Everybody seemed to want to see her father, to ask him for a favor, and they pressed dollar bills into Agnes's hand, as though she could exert some influence over him.