Agnes Among the Gargoyles

by Patrick Flynn

  "So to speak," says Syker.

  Sallies of this sort are not helping to dissipate the cloud of tension hovering over the table of four at Palestrina. Mrs. Syker was promised lunch with her son and Agnes; she got that and, in the person of Syker, a lot more.

  "We've got our whole lives ahead of us now," says Syker, buttering his cilantro bread.

  Mrs. Syker, in a peacock blue jacket with matching pillbox, pearls and nets, the works, struggles to find something appropriate to say. Agnes's heart goes out to her. In breaking the momentous news about his own sexuality, Robert made no compromises. He announced his homosexuality before the salads with walnut vinaigrette were on the table.

  "You don't seem happy for us," he says to her.

  "It's not that. It's just a shock."

  "It shouldn't be. We're out there, Mother."

  "I see that."

  Robert starts talking about his and Wayne's impending trip to Curacao. Wayne has friends with a house there; he and Robert will be gone a month.

  "What about your job?" asks Mrs. Syker.

  "Hmmph. Why do you think I'm going? Things are in an absolute mess."

  "Your boss needs you."

  "What he needs is a good criminal lawyer. They're going to charge him with about a thousand counts of reckless endangerment and acting the depraved indifference and violating building codes and conspiracy to defraud his investors. All his licenses are bound to be pulled, just watch. The banks are already running away. It's a mess."

  "A month is a long time," says Mrs. Syker. "I'll miss you."

  "We'll write every day," says Wayne. "That's what you do there—sit on the veranda and write long, florid letters about nothing. It's marvelous. Do you know St. Anna Bay, Mrs. Syker?"

  "No," she says to Wayne. "I'm sure it's lovely. Please do write me. And don't sign his name if he doesn't contribute anything."

  "I don't know if I told you," says Wayne. "My first boyfriend in New York was one of your floorwalkers. In better rainwear."

  "What was his name?"

  "Charles Shea."

  She thinks for a moment. "A tall man, with glasses?"

  "Yes."

  "I do remember him. He always reminded me of—now what sort of bird was that?"

  "A crane," says Wayne. "Everyone said that."

  "Oh, he was such a nice man," says Mrs. Syker. "We used to move him up to Santa's Village at Christmas because he was so good with the children."

  In the ladies room, Agnes says, "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, dear. The shock is already wearing off."

  "It's not what you wanted, is it?"

  "Not by a country mile. But as you get older you get used to disappointment. Nothing turns out as you want it to. Life just gets worse and worse. Look at poor Wayne. He used to be with Charles Shea. Now he's with my son."

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Bezel and Spock and Mr. Parker and Faure go over their plan one final time. The timings are set, or as set as they can possibly be. Bezel has to explain to the kid how split-second timing in enterprises of this sort is a myth; life is sometimes early and sometimes late, and criminal activities, if they are not to be detected, must be woven into the fabric of life. "Our biggest enemy is coffee," says Bezel, and tells of previous schemes of his thwarted by a security guard or bank teller's satisfying of a caffeine craving at an unexpected time. You can't plan for that sort of thing, says Bezel. Fortunately, not too many people smoke anymore, so unscheduled cigarette breaks aren't really a problem.

  The four conspirators sit in Spock's house. It is late afternoon. A cheerful fire burns in the grate.

  "One of the things I have learned from painful experience," says Bezel, "is that people worry too much about fingerprints. Gloves are mandatory, too be sure, but there are hundreds of ways for a man to be identified. We can think of ourselves as nothing more than collections of distinguishing characteristics."

  "You sound like the Frenchman," moans the kid.

  Bezel ignores him. "I must take precautions, for example, to hide my missing finger."

  He stands up. He throws the notes and sketches and blueprints—everything they have reviewed that evening—into the fireplace.

  "The four of us have something in common," he says. "We can be identified by our voices. I, of course, am English, and even after what seems like a lifetime in this country my origins are apparent. Faure here is obviously Quebecois. My friend Mr. Parker, thoroughly American though he is, speaks the identifiable patios of the New York black man. And as for my young Martian friend here, the removal of his larynx has fucked up his speech beyond belief."

  The burning blueprints sizzle and pop.

  "Tomorrow is the big night. I recommend strongly that no one speak during the operation," says Bezel. "To get myself into the proper frame of mind, I plan to stop talking as of right now." He checks his watch. "Five-fifty PM."

  "Really, Bezel," says the kid.

  Bezel is as good as his word. He says nothing for the rest of the night. He maintains his silence all the next morning and afternoon, throughout the final preparations. The kid tries to goad him into speaking. Bezel refuses. The kid tries everything in his adolescent arsenal of annoying behaviors. Bezel would like to break his silence to lecture the kid on the importance of self-discipline, but that in itself would be a surrender, and Bezel doesn't like to lose, particularly to kids.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Agnes's gown for No Diamonds Please takes Tommy's breath away. There is a bustier arrangement that cinches and elevates her breasts; the dress is slit to the thigh. The dress conforms to her awkwardnesses and physical imperfections, and she almost forgets that she has it on. Her movements are stylish and graceful.

  It should be quite an evening. Many luminaries will be there. What, Agnes wonders, will she say to them? She imagines herself alone in the bathroom with Liz Taylor: "Did you worry about having kissed Rock Hudson in The Mirror Cracked?" An aside to Martina Navratilova: "I'm not gay, but if I were I'd go for you. I think you're the cutest thing." The Secretary General of the U.N. is scheduled to attend. "I sort of lost track of the U.N. after U Thant. Whatever happened to old U?"

  Tommy emerges from Agnes's bathroom in tails.

  "That's beautiful, Tommy. Just the right casual touch."

  "There was no tie in the bag," he explains.

  "You don't need one. You can carry it off. Wear a cardigan."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Don't panic."

  Agnes picks up the telephone and dials directory assistance. She gets the number of Schuyler Formalwear, on Lexington Avenue and 125th Street. They're open and they have white ties.

  "It's getting late," Agnes points out. "By the time we get downtown, everything will be closed. So we'd better take care of this up here."

  She loves nothing better than showing off her urban resourcefulness.

  She has nothing to wear over her dress. She puts on a baseball jacket that Sarah left behind, and hopes what she always hopes when she looks odd, that she looks hip.

  The expedition to Schuyler's is a success. They get there not a moment too soon: in five days, Schuyler's will close its doors permanently.

  Tommy hasn't been on the subway in years. He rides like a tourist. He commits the boner of wanting to sit in the corner seats, which have been ceded to the homeless. He cranes his neck to see the name of every stop.

  The train empties as they move downtown. Agnes puts her head on Tommy's shoulder. She certainly was lucky to have found him. How lonely most New Yorkers seem. She dozes off, and when she wakes up the train is sitting in the City Hall station—the last stop.

  Agnes jumps to her feet. "Come on."

  "What?"

  "This is it."

  The doors close in their faces.

  "I thought you said the name of the stop was Brooklyn Bridge," says Tommy. "The columns say City Hall."

  "They changed it," says Agnes. "I forgot."

  "So what happens now? A
tour of the railroad yards? I wouldn't mind," he says, embracing her from behind. "We could bag this party and make out."

  "No such luck, my dear. There's a turnaround loop."

  The train pulls into the tunnel and executes a screeching turn. It moves slowly, slowly, then stops suddenly. Agnes and Tommy look out the window at the eerie sight of what looks like a ghost station.

  "What is that?" he asks.

  "City Hall," says Agnes. "The original station. First one in the subway system. It's too small to be used now, but trains pass through it every day. God, isn't it beautiful?"

  With its barrel vaults and faded mosaics, it is a fascinating bit of frozen history. It looks like no other subway stop Agnes has ever seen. It seems to have been built on a smaller, more delicate scale.

  "I've always wanted to see this," says Agnes. "I need a better look."

  Tommy follows as Agnes slips between cars. She cranes her neck to see as much of the platform as she can. Tommy disconnects the safety chains strung between the cars, and they step out onto the platform.

  Agnes giggles with excitement. "Are we allowed?"

  "You forget that I'm the law."

  The basketwoven vaults give the station a Moorish feel. Purple light enters from the glass windows in the roof; Agnes knows the windows to be embedded in the grass of City Hall Park.

  "It's stunning," she says.

  "You don't have to whisper," Tommy teases her. "We're not in church."

  In his formal dress, Tommy looks as though he just stepped out of a turn-ofthe-century postcard.

  The train pulls out of the station.

  Agnes doesn't care. She doesn't care if she misses No Diamonds Please. She doesn't care if she ever gets out of the City Hall station. With the modern train— and its garish fluorescent glow—gone, the experience is complete.

  Agnes examines some carvings, and comes upon a half-opened steel door. She peeks inside. There are three workmen crouched around an opening in the wall. Agnes notices a suitcase and gym bag. The workmen all wear blue denim shirts.

  "Excuse me?" says Agnes. "Is there an emergency exit?"

  One wheels around. He is wearing a stocking mask. Agnes thinks of every possible explanation, from the chilly air in these old tunnels to the need for protection from asbestos fibers. She only arrives at the correct hypothesis when a long pistol is taken out and pointed at her.

  Not a word is spoken for a long time.

  Another man in a blue shirt and stocking mask enters the passageway. He doesn't see Agnes at first. When he nearly knocks her over he lets out a started cry.

  His four-fingered hand flies to his chest.

  "Blimey!" he cries.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Mr. Parker leads away the man and woman who have stumbled into them. When they are gone, Spock slaps Bezel on the shoulder.

  "You and your vow of silence," says the kid. "I should have known."

  "I lost my head," Bezel admits.

  "Why do I listen to you?"

  Bezel squats down beside Faure. "What's the matter?"

  "I can only push this panel in a crack," says Faure. "Something's blocking it."

  Bezel turns to the kid.

  The kid shrugs. "There was a flood here in the Sixties. Probably lots of water damage. The TA might not have had the money for a complete repair. They probably put up a false wall."

  "Do we need to blast?" Bezel asks Faure.

  "We should drill first."

  "Okay," says Bezel nervously. "We're running late. Fifteen minutes of drilling, the we blast."

  Faure looks at the ceiling. "I'm afraid of a cave-in."

  "Are you kidding?" says the kid, indignant. "These stations are stronger than that. Cave-in? I ought to kick your ass for saying that."

  "What time is it?" says Bezel.

  "Seven-oh-four."

  "In three hours we'll be rich," says Bezel. "In four we'll be safe. In six we'll be asleep."

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Instead of drinking champagne at No Diamonds Please, Agnes finds herself in the hands of thugs, lying on the cold tiles in a dark corner of the station, tied so tightly that it hurts, with what must be a whole roll of tape wrapped around her mouth and eyes.

  She knows that she will die.

  Hours pass. Trains continue to roll through the turnaround loop.

  Eventually there is quiet. Agnes writhes on the station floor. She grunts at Tommy, who grunts back. The tape is loose from her eyes; Agnes can peer down her cheeks and see the dim station and the heap that is Tommy. The thought of freedom has reasserted itself in her mind. She thinks that perhaps they will be spared.

  Tommy struggles to his feet. He's loose, thank God.

  He unwraps the tape from around Agnes's ankles. He pushes her legs apart and pulls down her underwear and fucks her. He really does fuck her, full penetration and everything. Agnes tries to tell him to stop, but she can't make herself understood. He doesn't seem to be listening anyway.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  On the evening of September 10th, in a daring strike on the Herald Building on Park Row, four—or perhaps five—men in identical stocking masks and denim shirts descended on a set of fifth floor offices and stole 2.4 million dollars worth of jewelry from a vault being used by the jewelry firm of Oscar Heyman & Brothers. The jewelry was on loan for that evening's No Diamonds Please affair. Security in and around the building was heavy, but that was of no concern to the gang, who bypassed it all. entering and leaving via a staircase whose existence no one else was aware of.

  "It's hidden behind a wall, at the southeast corner of the building," explains J.B. Barry, the maintenance chief, after the heist. "It's narrow and steep, like stairs going up to an attic. None of the ducts or plumbing or wiring are near it, so no one ever ran across it. The oddest thing is that it's not even on the original blueprints."

  The answer to that puzzle comes from Irving Koenitz, the August V. Heckscher Professor of History at the State University of New York at Stony Brook. "James Bennett Jr., who built the Herald Building in 1875, considered selling it twenty years later. To get a better price, he did some quiet renovations. He put in elevators, and sealed off the stairway in question, which had never been used much anyway. He changed as many documents as he could so the building would appear to have been constructed in 1880. He even had the blueprints redrawn. In those days, you could get away with that sort of thing."

  The mechanics of the robbery were simplicity itself. After ascending the hidden staircase and emerging on the fifth floor, two gang members wearing the uniforms of the Excelsior Security Company appeared at the offices being used by Oscar Heyman & Brothers a little before six o'clock, when a relief crew was due to arrive. Once inside, they waited for the genuine relief men. It took no more than ten minutes for the robbers to handcuff everyone, sweep up the jewels, and vanish.

  "They had an easy time of it," says Mr. Barry. "Those fellows didn't break a sweat."

  And how did the gang reach the hidden staircase in the first place? Through a passage connecting with the old City Hall subway station, no longer in use. Professor Koenitz again: "When the IRT subway was built, Bennett was convinced it would be a failure. He thought that once it failed, he could arrange to keep his private railroad car on the tracks, and navigate around the city as his whim dictated. Of course, the IRT was an immediate success, so nothing came of the plan. But a tunnel from the Herald Building was built.

  Though the City Hall stop is not in regular use, trains do pass by it on a turnaround loop, and police theorize that the gang may have ridden one of those trains into the station.

  "Maybe one of them works for the MTA," says Chief of Detectives Larry Codd. "We haven't ruled it out. A man on the inside would be very helpful for this kind of job."

  "Maybe a transit cop," counters a reporter.

  "Maybe," says the Chief, then thinks better of it. "Now don't you go printing that or anything."

  "After the robbery, we think they went
back to the City Hall station," says Michael Harrington, a spokesman for the Metropolitan Transit Authority. "They probably walked the loop tracks and strolled into the Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall IRT station. Anyone who took any notice at all would have assumed them to be a work gang. At that point, they probably split up. Maybe they took the subway home! It is convenient and quick."

  The gang got away with twenty-one pieces, including an art nouveau gold, enamel and ruby water nymph brooch signed by Rene Lalique; an art deco jade, lapis lazuli and emerald pendant; a pair of chandelier design caliber-cut emerald and sapphire ear pendants; and a sapphire cocktail ring. Ironically, the haul was smaller than it might have been on some other night, as the theme of the evening's festivities was No Diamonds Please. The purpose of the cotillion, according to Sarah Wegeman, daughter of Madelaine and Ronald Wegeman and vicepresident of the No Diamonds Please Association, was to call attention to the plight of South Africa. The robbers did get away with one diamond piece—an art deco diamond-encrusted garter, which was to be worn secretly as a kind of silent protest by one of the guests who was not in complete sympathy with the politics of the evening.