New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  At the entrance a short, grumpy doorman in a white evening jacket plumped his hand in the middle of a customer’s chest. He wearily pushed the man back, as if he’d done it a hundred times that day already.

  “No, you’re not properly dressed.”

  The man had on a regular gray business suit. He angrily waved his hat, sore at being shown up in front of his girl. The face of another man appeared inside the door as he lit a cigarette.

  “I came up all the way from Poughkeepsie to this place,” the man in the gray suit said, “and I can’t get in!”

  Two veins popped up on the doorman’s face. He clenched his incongruously large fists. “Poughkeepsie! We never let any fucking hicks from Poughkeepsie in here!”

  With that the other man cursed and swung. The doorman caught his arm in midflight and yanked him into range, expertly punching one sharp jab in his face. The muffled crunching sound of teeth breaking like pieces of hard candy echoed over the courtyard. Then he pinned the man and ran him across the roadway, throwing him headfirst into the fountain. The woman ran screaming after him, “Billie-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”

  His head bobbed up in the illuminated cauldron between a pair of spouting dolphins, face streaking blood into the water. The man inside held back, puffing his cigarette, calmly watching.

  Hawkins dug for a fiver in his pocket. But no need. The doorman glowered a split second, primed for another fight. His eyes locked on Mrs. Simpson-Saunders’ yellow rose boutonniere still adorning Hawkins’ white evening jacket. The scowl and grumpy manner instantly vanished. He actually jumped for the long bronze handle, bowing and swinging the heavy plate-glass door open.

  “Good evening, sir! Welcome to Riley’s!”

  Just as Hawkins entered the ballroom a microphone rolled down to an MC standing to the side of a stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Riley’s Lake House, the showplace of the Adirondacks, is proud to present Mr. Louis Armstrong and his orchestra!” The microphone reeled up into the ceiling as the stage rotated into view.

  Armstrong swung up, pointing his trumpet at the ceiling and rolled an awesome trill up and down. His orchestra sent the chords bounding back.

  Louis Armstrong? Actually here. Incredible, Hawkins thought. Another shock. Only a good one. A rather disorienting quality, like a splash of unexpectedly cold surf on a blisteringly hot day, refreshing and enjoyable, but stunning. Followed Armstrong for years. Never expected to hear him in person, least of all here, now.

  Still—listen but keep looking—Chet said he’d be here. Is he alone?

  A silk canopy on a silver frame partly shaded the dance floor and most of the tables. Worse, a set of klieg lamps rotated over the canopy, playing dancing pools of colored light on the walls, camouflaging the revelers walking around the outside. He squinted. Damn hard to make anything out. The crowd was in high spirits, noisy, drinking hard, jumping up from the candlelit tables to dance. The only decent light came from an octagonal bronze chandelier that projected a cone of blue light on the swaying dancers, just hitting the tables near the dance floor.

  After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the light and shadows. Look, there, Cary Grant’s down on the aisle with a group of people. A well-known US senator, lesser luminaries, rich debutantes littered the room.

  Good—some luck. The dancers momentarily cleared. There he was, Chet with Ventnor, at a table at the far side of the dance floor. Just in the light, thank God. Sitting silently, listening. But where’s Daisy? Hawkins thought. No third drink. No purse on the table. No chair pulled out.

  Chet hadn’t picked her up, after all.

  Hawkins edged against the side wall, leaned against it, bracing and resting his back as he took an enormous deep breath. Chet and Daisy aren’t together. Not together. She’d gone home, after all. Hot damn. The wave of relief, noticeably physical, pulling up, out, close to the joy of dancing along to Armstrong. His back and side suddenly actually felt, well, almost good.

  Another thing was striking. Chet doesn’t seem particularly happy, a man who’s just been accepted by a beautiful woman, Hawkins thought. That’s even better. After checking the angles to make sure he couldn’t be seen, he positioned himself by one of the bundled silver columns and settled in to watch, now slightly bemused, taking in the scene.

  All quite enlightening, he thought. Nothing in the papers, no guidebook mentioned this place. Given its scale, the size and character of the crowd, that was extraordinary. And yet these people all knew about it. Well, naturally. Here, in this room, around tables with little red silk shaded candle lamps, sit the people who own America. Among other things, they don’t want an audience. Merely being here, by virtue of knowing about it and being admitted, meant that you had arrived, you were in the know, an insider, one of the top people, a far more valuable coin than any you could put in your pocket.

  Chet and Ventnor—talking a little. But they weren’t drinking or relaxing very much either, rather waiting for something or someone.

  -66-

  A spectacular tall, blond cocktail waitress circled the outside of the dance floor, crossed up the aisle and walked around the outside of the room. A very short black tutu over a froth of white tulle fluffed up and down with every step of her black stockinged legs, barely covering her derriere. Each breath partially squeezed her breasts out of a strapless black bustier. Black evening gloves and a matching rhinestone choker accentuated her bare shoulders.

  What an outfit, Hawkins thought. Part haute couture, part Folies Bergère—only not on a distant stage, but close enough to touch. Provocative. Outrageous. Scandalous. Utterly riveting.

  Obviously, such a thing could only be worn in an establishment like this, he thought. Every parson and church lady in the state would be demanding a police raid … if they knew about it. Well, naturally. If this was the zenith of society, not only would one find luxury, mildly safe vices like illegal gambling, but also a large upright finger flipped at bourgeois sensibilities. What did life’s big in-the-know winners care about rules or what the little people thought?

  Carefully pacing around the mezzanine, Hawkins maneuvered behind the columns. The waitress did a swishing pirouette to another table. Her face was hidden by a large black harlequin mask covered with an effervescent whirl of sequins. Even more outrageous. Too much.

  The maître d’ seated two more men at Ventnor and Chet’s table. Neither one anything out of the ordinary—two middle-aged Caucasian men, one graying, one not, both with thinning hair, spreading middles and rented evening wear. The taller one, with a sharply receding chin and pendulous nose, acted quite nervous, repeatedly leaning forward on his arms, catching himself, then sitting back as if he couldn’t get comfortable. The other man, shorter by about eight inches and darker, kept swinging his head around the room, gawking as if he’d never seen a nightclub before.

  Neither act like mobsters, Hawkins thought. Maybe they’re involved in juicing the horses. That might make sense. Fixing horse races was definitely the kind of thing rackets would be interested in.

  The cocktail waitress, who’d been steadily circling around the dance floor, stopped at a table and paused, fussing with her tray, her large rhinestone bracelets clinking against the glasses. Ventnor snapped his fingers. She peered over her shoulder at him and froze. He gestured her over. Very stiffly, with a steeliness exaggerated by her long legs, she eased over to their table. Ventnor ordered drinks. She instantly spun on her heel and left. A few minutes later she arrived carrying a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. She started to pop the cork. Ventnor took it from her. She promptly left the room.

  They made a toast to something. Smiles all around. More nods. A round of handshakes. Chet and Ventnor stood and rather purposely left. Hawkins followed, holding back just far enough not to be seen. But they weren’t leaving. Instead, they passed out of the ballroom, through the marble lobby, another lounge and out a door on the far side of the building.

  -67-

  The door had a label, VOGUE ROOM. Hawkin
s pushed it open. No room at all. Instead, an open iron catwalk below. Ah, of course, a drawbridge, he thought. When the police throw a raid, the owners can lift the gangplank and cast off. The casino sinks temporarily while the nightclub steams along. No doubt they had quite a bit of experience at this. Imagine police raids anticipated in a building’s very architecture? Remarkable.

  Across, inside a plain door, another brawny bouncer, another inspection. Hawkins paused at the outlet of a long, narrow passageway. To the right a series of balconies rose against the wall. Ahead, a long, high room resembling the lobby at Radio City Music Hall: soaring ceilings, gilded murals, high octagonal bronze chandeliers. The goddess in the black tutu was standing by a gold railing at the far end, as distracting as before. After a second he spotted Chet and Ventnor, together, in the center of the room, in the middle of an intense discussion of some sort. After a few gestures Ventnor sat down at a blackjack table. Chet went to the nearby cashier’s cage. For all their motions at playing cards there was more afoot. Their manner was all wrong, too businesslike, perhaps, slightly tense.

  The door to the gaming room opened behind. The voice of the bouncer, followed by two women’s voices. They were trying to enter the gaming room. No, he said, gentlemen only. Surprise in their voices swiftly shifted through wheedling and indignation to tight resignation. No, came the hushed answer again and again. The ladies weren’t about to get the bum’s rush the man in the gray suit got out front. Their husbands are probably inside, Hawkins thought. Finally the bouncer gently and quietly shut the door in their faces, steadily expressing his regrets, although in no way could it be called polite.

  Not that there weren’t any women inside. There were several more leggy cocktail waitresses like the blond, only without the mask. Two were operating a birdcage machine and a large vertical wheel game.

  Hawkins slipped to the top of the tiered lounge to settle in and watch, resting his steadily recovering back and side again, ordering a gin and tonic. Chet rejoined Ventnor, carrying a tray of chips in each hand. Not the kind of small round chips you normally see, Hawkins thought, five, ten or twenty-five dollar chips. No, large oblong plaques made of richly colored heavy marbleized Bakelite. For huge sums, the numbers “$500” and “$1000” visible across the room. A few small ones were scattered on top. There was a startling amount of money on the trays.

  They started playing the small chips. Ventnor, then Chet, glanced down at the far end of the room. Girl watching? Hawkins bent down, sighting past one of the big octagonal chandeliers. Ludwig was sitting at a table by himself, with a small group of chips arranged in front of him.

  The man standing inside the front door earlier, evidently the owner or manager, came in the room. He began moving about, checking with the cashier, the floor manager, passing by the tables, patting the croupiers on the shoulder. At the back of the room, the blond came up behind him, hesitated, then touched him on the arm. He stepped back and beamed at her. She began telling him something. At first he acted disappointed, but at the end he beamed, gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and left.

  A few more minutes. The two men who’d joined Chet and Ventnor in the ballroom came into the gaming room, one at a time. Each hunted a second, spotted Ventnor and Chet and sat down at the blackjack table. They talked a few minutes. Chet flipped the dealer a big tip. The man took a break.

  Time to get out the Minox, Hawkins thought, take a few pictures, whatever happens, just in case. Pretending the diminutive camera was a lighter, he snapped a picture, wound it with his thumb while pretending to tamp his pipe, and shot another.

  Only seconds later the tall man with the receding chin picked up one of Chet’s trays of chips. Seemed nervous, looking around to see if anyone was watching. He stepped over to the roulette table. The man took one of the small chips off the top and put a bet on the black. The croupier spun the wheel. Red. The man visibly flinched, picked up his tray and moved over to the tall wheel. The girl smiled. A second of hesitation—he actually seemed to be thinking about it—then placed a chip on a number. She reached up to the top with a graceful skirt-lifting swing and spun the wheel. Nothing. He visibly winced.

  Then the man curtly picked up his tray, walked past Chet and Ventnor, almost imperceptibly nodding, to the cashier’s cage. He pushed the tray full of chips in. The teller started counting out hundred dollar bills. The man leaned toward the cage and spoke. The teller stopped, made a gesture in the direction of the bills. The man shook his head. The teller took them back.

  Chet and Ventnor—are they watching? Hawkins thought. No. They’d missed that exchange entirely. Too busy talking to the second man, not watching the first at all. A second later the teller reappeared with a checkbook. He made one out to the man’s name, slowly following him as he spelled it. When the clerk slid it across, the man carefully folded it twice, placed it in his wallet and unceremoniously left the casino.

  The man must have pocketed several thousand dollars, at least, Hawkins thought. And he didn’t want the cash, he wanted a check.

  Did he drive? That was the next question. Hawkins quickly slipped around the bar, sticking to the side of the tiers. The man reentered the center building. Hawkins jumped down from the drawbridge, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, watching for him to come out the entrance.

  Ludwig’s Mercedes waited a bit down the driveway. Dieter didn’t seem to be in sight. No, there, on the far side of the complex, sitting on the steps of a service building, probably the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. With a bottle of beer. They must’ve served him one from the kitchen. The doctor, no doubt, would not approve.

  Dieter was tapping one foot in time to Armstrong and the orchestra, his head bobbing very slightly along, relaxed, smiling. Naughty, naughty, Hawkins thought. The Nazis definitely would not approve of that, either. Listening to racially impure music could get you arrested back in the Reich.

  One of the cocktail waitresses came to the door for a smoke. Dieter eagerly hopped up and offered her a light. Big, eager smile. He made a small motion with his arms and shoulders. Wants a dance with her, Hawkins thought. Well, who could blame him? The girl was as spectacular as the rest, another blond, no mask. She smiled, obviously intrigued—he was a big handsome guy—had a puff or two, talked a second, animatedly gesturing toward the ballroom with the cigarette, rhinestone bracelets flashing on the dark evening gloves. She did a flirtatious little step, spun around, beaming back, then waved a kiss with her fingers and went inside. So Dieter likes jazz, swing music. W will be interested in that little scene.

  The tall man came out the front entrance. He curtly nodded at the doorman. No cab. Perfect, Hawkins thought. He darted through a wood flanking the road, following the man to a tan Chevy. As he pulled out Hawkins wrote down the license plate. Seconds later he pressed himself straight up on the drawbridge and reentered the gaming hall.

  -68-

  The second man, the shorter, darker one, shook Ventnor’s hand. Not like the other man, Hawkins thought. Very happy they are, laughs all around. The man impatiently picked up the second tray of chips and made his way straight to the craps table. With a flourish he set it down and began playing with a big smile, throwing out a pair of the plaquettes, breaking them for smaller chips.

  Ventnor and Chet traded glances, surprised, more and more obviously checking with Ludwig. Something’s amiss, Hawkins thought, but what? He crouched a bit to see Ludwig. Ventnor raised his hands up and shrugged slightly. Ludwig shrugged back. Not upset, either of them. But clearly, this wasn’t the plan, the gambling was merely supposed to be for show.

  The man started playing craps—badly. Only took a moment to see he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was doing. Throwing chips down mostly on the pass line, idiotically waiting for the charmed seven or eleven to come up. Playing it safe, if such a thing as a safe bet on pieces of tumbling ivory existed. At this level he could roll for hours.

  Several other players joined the short man at the table. His bets accelerated. Not making much
of a dent in his pile. Instead of standing back from the table after placing his bet he began leaning out over it with each roll of the dice. Unselfconscious excitement began relaxing his flushed face. The blond cocktail waitress steadily circled the table priming him with drinks. The short man shouted at the dealer, “You’re not throwing them right!” He’d begun sliding into a serious losing streak. All the dealer’s throws landed bad. The man demanded the dice, looked around, then waved at the blond with a frantic gesture.

  She delightedly skipped over to his side, eager as a puppy, smilingly standing at attention, obediently waiting with her head cocked at an angle while he readied a throw. Cupping his hands, he’d shake the dice inside, leaving a small hole between his thumbs. Then he’d hold his hands up to her lips. She’d smile, raise her shoulders slightly, pucker up and coyly blow a little lady luck on his bones. Then, bang!—he’d hurl them against the far side of the table.

  Seven. Then eleven. He began winning again. Every time she blew on his ivories and he won he’d flick a chip on her tray. At five, then ten, then twenty bucks a shot, the little colored discs began rapidly piling up. The short man’s gloom abruptly shifted, grinning at the girl with an almost manic giggle. Lady Luck, goddess Fortuna herself, was putting in a personal appearance at his side. Caution flew to the winds. The bets and the tips soared.

  Standing almost sideways to the table, the man began calling the bets out. The croupiers rushed to place them as he kept furiously throwing. Two hundred bucks a toss now and rising. An excited crowd huddled around. The blond straddled his left leg, riding it like a saddle, egging him on, one hand rubbing and patting his shoulder and back as he threw with his right. She took his hand and gently drew it around her waist. Then after a few minutes she helped it down into the froth of tulle, placing his hand right on her cheek. She whispered something in his ear. The tongue, the opening jaw, the last syllable, she said … luck? Or fuck? The short man’s face jerked up as he beamed at her. He began enthusiastically, possessively petting her derriere with each throw, then lightly spanking it with each win. With each slap she giggled and went “Ooh!” The two of them were moving together like dancers, sinuously swaying back and forth with each throw in a ballet of dice. The chips piled up on her tray.