The Lure

by Felice Picano

  Spots that greeted his coming to, he didn’t know how much later, then thought only seconds later, from the hard final jabs of a shoe into his chest, and the grating cement that scraped his face, and the two voices still muttering above him. Until he went out again with more colored lights.

  He came to in a warm shower that cascaded over his hair and face, washing the blood out of his eye until he could see with startling detail the grain of the cement of the sidewalk, as well as the bottom parts of three Western-style boots directly in his line of vision. He tried not to groan, tried not to move, tried to figure out whom the boots belonged to, whose voices they were, where the liquid that poured over his face came from, tried not to black out again.

  “Someone’s coming!” It was Zach’s voice. “Let’s split.”

  “I’m not done pissing,” the other said.

  “Let’s go!”

  Noel heard the pants zipper. Another kick in the chest bashed him against the door’s edge. This time he spotted out for a long time.

  14

  “Give me a hand with this guy, will you?”

  Noel flickered into consciousness.

  “Where are you taking him?” the other voice asked.

  “In there.”

  “Into the Tubs?”

  “Look at him. He needs help.”

  “Call a cop.

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  Noel felt himself lifted by the armpits. He swayed slightly, then flickered off again. No lights this time, just out.

  “…be here in a few minutes. He said not to call the police,” someone new was saying.

  “He’s coming to,” the first, helpful voice said. “How are you feeling?”

  Dim red lighting. Thin wooden partitions. Three men looking over him, one perched on the edge of the bed dressed only in a towel, the others in streetwear.

  “I’m a doctor,” the one in the towel said. He looked like Cal Goldberg: dark, bearded, going bald. “Nothing looks broken. No, better not try to sit up yet.”

  Noel tried to talk: mumbled through thick lips instead.

  “Better get some water,” the doctor said.

  “How about a beer?” one of the others suggested.

  Noel tried to sit up now. He’d never had such a headache in his life. Every inch up into sitting position caused waves of nausea, dizziness, the red lights going blink blink blink.

  Finally he was up high enough. Someone was helping lift him from behind. The doctor held the beer can to Noel’s mouth. The cool, brackish-tasting liquid trickled down his throat and gagged him at first. But he was able to swallow more. It quenched a thirst he didn’t know he had. Then he was allowed to sink back onto the pillows.

  “Can I go now?” one of the men in street clothes asked. He’d been the reluctant one.

  “Sure. Both of you can go,” the doctor said. Then, to Noel, “These men brought you in here. You’re in the Baths. You were jumped by some guys.”

  “Thanks,” Noel managed to say.

  One hurried out. The other asked, “Do you know who did it?”

  Noel shook his head: his ears rang for a minute.

  “I said, would you recognize them if you saw them again?” the man asked, evidently repeating what Noel had missed in the buzzing.

  “Yes.” He’d never forget those bastards’ faces.

  “I’ll leave you my name and telephone number. If you ever find them and want to press charges, I’ll stand witness that I chased them off.”

  Every contour, detail, and motion within Noel’s vision was getting sharper. That was a good sign. He still felt as though he’d been thrown off a speeding semi onto a concrete embankment. The man was writing down his information, then putting it in one of Noel’s front pockets.

  “Thank you,” Noel said. The man looked down at him.

  “You used to tend bar in the Grip, didn’t you?”

  “What?” Noel couldn’t believe he was asking the same damn question.

  “I remember you from there. Pretty as you are, you’re not going to look good in a mirror for a while, sorry!” He squeezed Noel’s hand, then left the room.

  The doctor remained, talking soothingly, and making a delicate but thorough examination of Noel’s body, asking what hurt, where, how much, and if he could move his fingers, his toes.

  Afterward, the doctor wrote something, and Noel closed his eyes, wishing he could do something to alleviate the throbbing ache behind his eyes, in his chest, below one rib, and especially against one shinbone. When he woke up it was because the doctor was applying ice-cold alcohol pads to his face.

  “I know it smarts. You’ll feel better later.”

  Noel already felt better. The ache in his head had lessened.

  Someone was trying to get in to the room; the locked door was pulled hard from the other side.

  “Busy!” the doctor said.

  “Cummings in there?” a gruff voice asked.

  The doctor got up from Noel’s side, rearranged his towel, and opened the latch. Noel couldn’t see whom he was talking to, they were off to one side. Other men, clad only in towels, passed the half-open door, curiously looking in, until they caught a glance at Noel and quickly moved on. He must look pretty bad. He still hurt all over although his eyesight was normal, and he seemed to be regaining his sense of smell: he suddenly became aware of an odor that was stronger, more pungent than rubbing alcohol. His right arm cramped as he reached up to touch his wet, caking hair. Bastards!

  “Someone to see you,” the doctor said, standing in the doorway. “Feel better, huh?” He waved and left.

  Noel had thought for sure it was Loomis—he couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “It smells like a urinal in here,” Eric said, closing the door and latching it shut.

  Noel didn’t move. Eric remained at the foot of the bed, staring down at him, expressionless.

  “You come here to gloat, or to finish me off?? Noel asked.

  Eric stiffened with anger, but held his tongue.

  “Go away!” Noel said, and turned his head to the thin wooden partition, where at least he wouldn’t have to look at Eric.

  There was no sound for a while, except Noel’s still heavy, irregular breathing (bastards, tried to punch in my lungs! he said to himself). Then he could make out some noises from beyond the partition: the creaking of a cot under the rhythmic weight of two bodies. It almost made him laugh. He’d made it into the Baths all right. “And I didn’t even have to pay to get in,” he murmured to himself.

  “What?”

  “I thought you’d gone.”

  “This isn’t a hospital, Noel. You can’t stay here.”

  “I’m staying and getting my twelve hours’ worth.”

  “You’re raving. I have the car downstairs.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Be reasonable,” Eric said in another tone of voice, softer, calmer. “Either you get up and come with me, or you’ll be dragged out by the management.”

  “What for? So McWhitter can finish off what his pals fumbled?”

  “McWhitter? What does he have to do with this?”

  “That’s who did it.”

  “He was with me all day.”

  Noel insisted: “They said they were from McWhitter.”

  “I thought they were just some street punks?”

  “They followed me out of the drugstore near my apartment. One got lost. The other tried to pick me up. I couldn’t shake him. Then, boom!”

  Eric’s annoyed condescension became intense interest. He even sat down on the cot. “Were they Spanish?”

  “Spanish? No.”

  “One tried to pick you up. And then they both jumped you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, that’s his style, all right,” Eric said, as if to himself. “Making it look like street kids, too. That’s the way he always did it before.”

  “Did what? Who?”

  “Vega. Yo
ur friend Vega. Or whoever he’s working for. You see, Noel, I’m supposed to believe all this crap and take you back with open arms.”

  Noel couldn’t make heads or tails out of what Eric was saying. He was still having difficulty grappling with any reason why Buddy Vega or his friends would attack him.

  “You see,” Eric was saying, “by doing this to you, I’m supposed to believe you aren’t working for them. Oh, very smart. He’s a mean mother, your boss. Doesn’t fool around. But you know what? I don’t believe it. Not for a second.”

  What Eric was saying was so unthinkable that Noel couldn’t finish the chain of reasoning for a while. Then he did, and felt cold all over, nauseated again. He reached for the half-empty can of beer.

  “They said they were from McWhitter,” he repeated.

  “What were they going to say? That they were from me? Would you have believed that!”

  Noel thought no, yes, maybe. “Sure I would,” he said.

  “That’s because you’re so fucked up you don’t know who your real friends are. I could do all this to you myself if I wanted to. I wouldn’t hire punks to do it.”

  That seemed right to Noel. But it was confusing. His head was hurting again. He moaned.

  “Let’s go one step further,” Eric said. “Let’s say I do take you back. Not that I believe it for a minute, mind you. You following me?”

  All Noel wanted was sleep. And a few dozen painkillers. “Yes.”

  “Only what your boss won’t know is that you’re going to have to pass a little loyalty test. If you don’t pass it, then start saying prayers. Because I’ll know you’re with them for sure.”

  “With who?”

  “Shut up, Noel. Listen carefully and don’t say a word until I’m finished.” Eric’s voice dropped to a clear whisper. “Listen, you and McWhitter are going to meet Mr. Vega two days from now. We’ve already been bullshitting him about opening a new club way down below SoHo. You and McWhitter will meet him there to discuss the place. Vega will come if he knows you’re coming, too. At a prearranged signal, you’ll get lost, leaving the two of them. You’ll wait outside for McWhitter, then the two of you will drive back. You’ll stay with me, under close scrutiny, from now until you go with McWhitter. Got that? That’s the deal.”

  There it was: the deal. Take it or leave it. What Noel had most feared when he’d taken this job with Whisper—not his own life in danger, but someone else’s. Monica in the lake. Kansas in the warehouse. Randy in the back room. And now Vega. Another chance. Only this time he would win. Because Eric didn’t know that even at Eric’s he could communicate with Loomis, could take countermeasures.

  “Wait until Alana hears about this,” Noel said.

  “She isn’t going to hear about it.”

  “You’d actually kill someone?” Noel asked.

  “Is it a deal or not?” was Eric’s reply.

  “Give me a cigarette,” Noel said. He wanted to seem to think.

  After he’d smoked half of it, he said, “I’ll tell you what. You can lock me up from now until after McWhitter’s done. I’ll promise to make no attempt to leave, to do anything. You can even put me in the Red Room if you want. But I won’t go with him.”

  “That’s tempting. Real tempting. But either you go or no deal.”

  “Why?”

  Eric leaned over and tapped Noel’s cheek. “Because you’re the bait, that’s why. You’re going to lure that big fish into my net.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll leave you on the street. Your friends will be back for you.”

  The irony of the situation didn’t escape Noel. But it was a fair turnaround, perhaps one Loomis could use to snare Eric. And Alana wasn’t involved in it. Not at all. Which cinched it. Let Eric rush to his doom. Let Loomis get what he wanted. To hell with them, Noel didn’t care anymore.

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “A deal.”

  15

  Once he hardened his heart to both Eric and Loomis, the rest was easy. Noel knew exactly what he had to do. He would go downtown with McWhitter to meet Buddy Vega. But he would warn the Fisherman. Let him worry about it. The matter would be out of his hands.

  “I want to stop at my apartment to clean up and change,” he said as he made the painful adjustments necessary to getting into the back of the Silver Cloud. Eric and a man Noel didn’t know helped him out of the Baths. He was surprised to see it was early evening. The edge of the sun could be seen through the canyon of building façades down Twenty-eighth Street, slowly setting in a pollution-tinted haze refracted off the Hudson River.

  McWhitter took over at the door of the car, and was surprisingly helpful and tender. Not like a man who’d ordered a mugging. More like someone who felt guilty about wanting to do it, now that he’d seen the wish fulfilled by someone else. Who were those two thugs anyway?

  “I’ll help you upstairs,” Eric said when they reached Noel’s building. Naturally: Redfern wasn’t taking any chances.

  Noel undressed with difficulty—the brush of denims over a thigh bruise where he’d been repeatedly kicked was intolerable. He found some codeine tablets, popped two into his mouth, then got into the shower. The water stung, then soothed. When he turned on the massage action, he felt almost human again.

  Eric had sat down in the rocker and was reading a magazine when Noel came out of the bathroom. He dressed as though he were alone, and even sorted out some clean clothing from a package of still unopened laundry to pack a flight bag.

  “Your phone rang while you were in the shower.”

  Noel hadn’t heard it. He disbelieved Eric, but didn’t know why he’d bother lying about it. “Who was it?”

  “I let your machine answer.”

  “Oh,” Noel said. “I didn’t hear it.”

  “It rang three times, then stopped. I heard the machine turn on.”

  Noel still didn’t understand. He zipped up the bag. “I’m ready.”

  “Don’t you want to know who called?”

  “I’m not in the mood for sympathy calls.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Eric said casually. “Play back the tape.”

  So that was it! He wanted to know who had called while Noel was out. There hadn’t been any telephone call while Noel was showering.

  “Whoever it was,” Noel said, “it can wait. I still feel shitty.”

  “Suit yourself. Here! I’ll carry that.”

  At the town house, Noel went directly up to his room, saying he had to rest. There, he wrote five messages on the onionskin paper, bunched them up, put them in his pocket, then took a long nap.

  When he awakened and went downstairs, Okku told him Eric and Alana had gone out for the evening. It was almost two o’clock. Noel ate alone—a salmon omelet and watercress salad—in the half-moon dining room, listening to a new easy-listening tape. Then he said he was going out for a stroll in the garden.

  Circling the grounds slowly, he wished to look to any observer as though he were merely thoughtful, convalescing. Nevertheless, he managed to get each of the paper balls out of the yard in ways that were almost sleight of hand, given the darkness, then turned inside the house.

  He watched one of Eric’s two copies of Casablanca he found in the film library. Just as the last reel was coming on, he thought he heard an odd whistling from somewhere outside. Looking out the window, he could make out no one to account for the whistle. Then it happened again, from higher up. Could Loomis have already gotten his message? Was this some manner of reply? He couldn’t go down into the yard and raise Okku’s or McWhitter’s suspicions. Or risk the elevator.

  He left the film running, and painfully, quietly, walked the three and a half floors up to the roof. There, he stood on the open deck for several minutes.

  It hit him on the side of his head with a tiny rap. Noel located the ball of paper at his feet, and scooped it up. There seemed to be a shadowy figure on the parapet of a building half a block away, but no one else even vaguely in sight any closer. Must hav
e been put into a pellet gun and shot over. He remained on the roof, as though admiring the night for another few minutes.

  Then, by the flickering light of Bogart and Bergman he read:

  Message received. Vega will be covered. McWhitter taken care of. You will just get out. Do as told. Good work.

  F.M.

  Outside he heard the soft thump of the Rolls hitting the rampway down to the garage. He burned the paper and sat back to watch the film.

  16

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Eric asked when Noel came down to breakfast late Sunday morning.

  “I don’t see any company,” Noel responded, taking a seat and drinking off his cranberry juice in two gulps. Only McWhitter and Eric were present in the dining room, its curtains opened this morning to fully reveal the bright sunlight and greenery surrounding them. Alana had left yesterday morning for a shooting in Milan. Noel and she had met on the stairway; she had looked at his bruised face, then rushed past him to her rooms. Not a word had been exchanged.

  “Get dressed right after you’re done eating,” Eric said, smacking the top of a soft-boiled egg so repeatedly it was a shambles of yolk and shell in his plate. He put it aside without touching it. And then, Noel knew.

  “Today?” he asked.