West 47th

by Gerald A. Browne

  Admitted, he had himself a steady, soft spot. The salary was generous and the treatment liberal.

  Those, however, weren’t his reason for staying on. Not his way down inside reasons.

  Years ago, over a series of lengthy waits for Mr. Strawbridge, particularly one of six hours at Kennedy because Mr. Strawbridge had missed his return flight from London, Billy had done what he considered to be some deep introspection. Opened himself up beyond his layers of ordinary motives and came up with why, despite the frequent urge to make a change, he should remain where he was.

  The need to resent.

  That was it. His need to resent.

  Not devotion nor security, but the advantage of being able to resent with ease, confident that his resentment wasn’t about to spill over (desert the Lexus and Maddie mid-traffic on 50th) or gather into a temperamental tornado and havoc everything in his vicinity to such an extent he’d have no recourse other than to hang head and remove himself to another vicinity.

  It was a matter of counterpoise.

  Mr. Strawbridge’s genuine good nature and other personal merits, the various likabilities of Mitch and Maddie. Attributes that adequately outweighed (but not by much) his resentments, that kept the umbrageous side of him contained.

  Where, he often asked himself remindfully, would he ever again find such suitability, such an accommodating ratio—never less than fifty-one percent honest-to-goodness consideration to offset his rarely more than forty-nine percent grudge?

  He imagined having to endure employers who behaved less agreeably. He wouldn’t put up with it. It wasn’t in him to put up with it. He’d be forever deserting, escaping, quitting and being let go. There’d be too many trial periods, the begging for letters of reference.

  Couldn’t have that.

  Couldn’t risk having to have that, Billy thought.

  So, what about this four-way pull on his patience today? What had brought it on?

  Had to be the proposition.

  Made to him Wednesday night when he was having his usual slice of pound cake at the narrow coffee shop around the corner on Columbus Avenue, when that guy came in and helped himself to the same booth. No introduction, no preamble, just the proposition straight out.

  The guy was well-dressed. In gray. Had on a hundred-dollar tie. Seemed real enough, serious eyes, serious mouth. Talked like he had sense until the number came out of him. Twenty-five million.

  From that point on Billy was sure what he had was another city crazy.

  Still, as the guy had stipulated, he’d kept the proposition to himself, hadn’t spoken about it to Mitch.

  “What was it called, what I had to eat?” Maddie asked.

  “Orecchio d’ Elefante,” Hurley told her.

  “Which is what?”

  “The literal translation is ear of elephant. Actually a loin veal chop pounded so thin it’s floppy.”

  “The clams were delicious,” she said. For a starter she’d ordered a dozen littlenecks on the half shell. Slurped them down without the disguise of Tabasco, Worcestershire or lemon. Mitch, a bit impressed, had visualized her stomach a pink resting place, albeit temporary, for all those homeless clams.

  “Most women can’t even stomach the idea of eating raw clams,” he said now.

  “It’s a carnal thing,” Maddie said and allowed that to hang in the air. “With me, of course, it’s purely tactile, and I can accept the resemblance but why be so nasty nice? You know, Elise adores raw clams, oysters as well, always has. She fed me my first when I was three or so.” Then, without a half beat or breath: “Did you happen to overhear those three men at the next table, I thought they were mob guys planning arson and a hit but it soon became apparent that two of them were trying to sell the third some fire and life insurance. Most disappointing.”

  “Used to be a guy couldn’t get a waiter’s job there unless he’d done a hitch in some joint.”

  “I’d have appreciated it more then,” Maddie said.

  “That’s for sure,” Mitch commented to the windshield.

  At that moment they were passing over Newark Bay. It occurred to Mitch that once its water had been clean enough to drink. Black-hulled freighters were tied up like animals on short leash. The beaks of cranes picking their bellies empty. Then came Newark Airport on the left. A 747 on its glide path. Mitch imagined the collective quickening of the passengers’ heartbeats.

  He wished Billy would hurry the Lexus, get them to Far Hills sooner. He opened the glove compartment. It was stuffed with traffic citations, crumpled up malevolently and shoved in there. So many that some, as though relieved, flew out. A couple of years ago Mitch had paid off just as much of an accumulation, hoping a clean slate would inspire Billy to be more conscientious. All it did was set a precedent.

  “I’m not going to put out for your goddamn tickets again,” Mitch said. “You expect me to but I won’t.” He retrieved those that were on the floor.

  Billy did a shrug.

  “You’ll get your license taken away.”

  Billy agreed with some nods that unmistakably conveyed it would be Mitch’s loss.

  Mitch noticed the black butt of a revolver in the compartment, no holster, just the weapon in among the cram of traffic tickets. He took it out. A Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. A hefty piece.

  “I recall you having a thirty-two automatic,” Mitch said.

  “A plinker. I traded it.”

  “This loaded?”

  “Of course.”

  “You ought to keep it on safety.”

  “No one ever gets in there but me.”

  “I’m in there now.”

  “So you are,” Billy said intractably.

  Mitch put the revolver on safety and placed it back in among the tickets. He closed the glove sharply, closing the subject.

  Maddie was back on the clams. “I’ll bet I don’t get hepatitis from them,” she was saying. “Not in that restaurant. It’s probably the safest place north of Miami to eat clams.”

  “Why?”

  “If a mob boss ever got hepatitis the place would get bombed. Don’t you think?”

  They were on 78 now, headed west. New Jersey was sliding by, nothing pleasant. The city of Newark, off on the right, was aided by distance.

  A wave of depression invaded Mitch. Not the deep sort, just a minor concavity, enough to be felt. It wasn’t because of Billy’s shaded insubordination or because Maddie was in the back with Hurley, Mitch told himself. Sure, Hurley had it for Maddie. That had been obvious for a long while but it was a long way from being active.

  She used Hurley. Like right now, she was pumping the Kalali case out of him. Maybe Hurley thought it was conversation, but listening to it Mitch recognized it as pure Maddie, one-sided pump. By the time they got to Far Hills she’d know more about the Kalali case than he did.

  He read, as though interested, what was displayed on the rear and side of an eighteen-wheeler that Billy passed doing a good twenty over the limit. He thought the wish they’d get stopped for speeding. By a hard-mouthed state cop. That would change the climate.

  A green highway sign announced Irvington importantly.

  Named after some guy Irving, Mitch thought. Never forget Irving what’s-his-name. Irving Toplitz, that was it. A 47th guy who used to sell pique goods out of his pocket. Dirty little diamonds in dirty overhandled briefkes. Got hold of an eighty-pointer (four-fifths of a carat) that was loupe clean, first quality. A held-back piece of swag popped out of an engagement ring. Irving showed the stone up and down the street. Turned down better than fair offers for it because once he sold it all he’d have to show was money. In his own way in love with that eighty-pointer, like an unfortunate-looking guy who’d come by a beautiful girl. One afternoon at curb-side he was showing his prize possession to someone when he was accidentally jostled by a tourist. The eighty-pointer was flipped out of its open briefke. It bounced twice and found the sewer drain. Irv Toplitz felt victimized. He gave up on the street, was never seen upon it aga
in.

  Mitch thought a plaque should have been installed marking the spot, saying, for one and all to see forever, here is where Irv Toplitz lost his spirit. But then, if that was the criterion there’d be plaques all over the place.

  “What time you want to get started tomorrow?” Billy asked.

  “Early,” Mitch told him.

  “Not too early.”

  “Say seven, seven-thirty.”

  “Let’s make it nine or ten.”

  “I want to be up there by then.”

  Billy didn’t promise seven, seven-thirty.

  Hurley now had out a set of the Kalali photos, was describing them to Maddie piece by piece.

  Mitch adjusted his seat for more recline, closed his eyes and over-heard: “A belle époque period diamond and pearl head ornament.”

  “What exactly is a head ornament?” Maddie asked.

  “A comb.”

  “Why didn’t they say a comb?”

  They, Mitch thought cynically.

  Hurley told her: “This one’s made of real tortoiseshell mounted with a band of diamonds and bordered with natural pearls. Signed by Cartier.”

  “Sounds sweet. This Kalali lady had some lovely jewelry.”

  Had, Mitch thought.

  “Wonder where she got it all. Maybe she bought swag.”

  Hurley went on to the photo of the two twenty-carat emeralds fitted in their ivory box. As he was describing them in detail to Maddie, Mitch visualized them, their Arabic-looking inscriptions and all.

  “What do the inscriptions say?” Maddie asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “I’d think you’d want to,” Maddie said. “It’s probably important.”

  Mitch wondered why Hurley didn’t tell her what the inscriptions said was irrelevant, that all that mattered was they’d been stolen and whoever stole them had killed one Kalali going on two.

  Hurley went on describing other pieces.

  Mitch wished he had earplugs.

  But then Maddie reached forward and found his head, gave it a couple of loving strokes and mussed his hair some. That easily he was brought up to the brighter surface and the miles to the scene of the crime were made to seem not so many.

  The gate of the Kalali house was open but the police crime scene tape was still up.

  Mitch told Maddie he wouldn’t be long, she was to wait in the car with Billy.

  She did a brief, obedient smile.

  Mitch and Hurley walked up the drive. It was lined with an abundance of blue hydrangeas at their peak. An oriole was enjoying ablutions in a cantilevered bath. Altogether a summer contentment about the place, not robbery and homicide.

  They entered the house and immediately had to step around the outlined indication of where Mrs. Kalali had been shot down. The dried pool of her week-old blood dimensional on the slick, hardwood floor of the reception hall.

  They proceeded to the study where shards of Persian glass crunched beneath their steps and books were heaped helter-skelter. Their attention was immediately drawn to the white sofa upon which was the dark red stain of Mr. Kalali’s bleeding, a grisly Rorschach.

  Now it was a place of robbery and homicide.

  They went throughout the expansive house, absorbing the stark, cold, contemporary character of it. The master bedroom had been left as found, except for a lot of messy dusting for fingerprints.

  Mitch and Hurley agreed that the condition of the dressing room was unusual, didn’t look as though swifts had been there. Why hadn’t it been ransacked, the dresser drawers yanked out, their contents dumped on the floor?

  And the gaping, empty floor safe in the bedroom. A high-rated safe that would have taken considerable time and experience and special equipment to force open. What else could be assumed except that one of the Kalalis had opened it under duress?

  “For all the good it did them,” Mitch remarked.

  “Getting any ideas?” Hurley asked.

  “Could have been anyone’s crew,” Mitch said.

  They went out to the rear terrace and further out on the grounds. The Jersey guys had already gone over the area but there was the chance that they might have missed something, something that had been dropped or whatever.

  “Couldn’t have asked for a more ideal setup with the easy wall, the overgrown grounds and all,” Mitch commented.

  “Here’s where they came over. It was soggy so they left good, deep shoe prints. The Jersey police took impressions. According to them two of the guys weigh about one seventy-five, both had on Nikes. The other guy was a real lightweight, a hundred ten or so. Maybe not even that. Had on boots with pointed toes. Tiny narrow feet. Know a crew that has a swift like that?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “At least it’s something to look for. And the fact that they were a hard crew.”

  “That narrows it down some.”

  “Not much these days though. Would have ten years ago.”

  A hard crew was one that carried guns. Most swifts didn’t used to and some still didn’t because if caught the charge would be armed robbery rather than just burglary. Armed robbery carried a five-year-longer sentence.

  Piano music.

  Contradicting the moment with bits and passages of romantic Tchaikovsky. It seemed to be coming from somewhere neighboring but then Mitch and Hurley realized it was coming from the Kalali house.

  They hurried in.

  Maddie was seated at the black baby grand in the study. Her left hand struck three ominous-sounding chords, sort of Mozart. “This place is like a mausoleum,” she complained.

  “You were supposed to wait in the car,” Mitch told her somewhat reproachfully.

  “I needed to go to the bathroom.” She did a lively, double upscale run all the way to the last ivory key, along with a Ray Charles chin up, head back. “I had no problem finding it.”

  Chapter 14

  Such a summer Saturday!

  Why, the very air was different from yesterday’s. Not nearly so ladened nor polluted with responsibility. There’d be no Ruder, no Visconti, no Riccio, not a mote of 47th in this air, Mitch thought.

  He lay on his left side on his side of the bed, curled enough so the base of his spine was pressed to the base of Maddie’s. At times when they got into this position Mitch played with the illusion that they were permanently attached, like Siamese twins. The romantic fantasy was always spoiled by the inconveniences and impossibilities that would come with it. At other times he imagined their touching spines formed an erotic circuit for a current that would recharge them, in a sort of tantric way.

  He’d been awake since five-thirty. It was now close to six.

  If he got up now, didn’t continue to lie there letting thoughts pass through his head like neutrinos, he’d be able to leisurely do whatever he had to do before Billy picked them up at seven-thirty.

  He put his feet to the carpet.

  Noise didn’t matter. Maddie should get up. He said her name for the first time that day, softly. She didn’t respond. He nudged her with it, twice, louder.

  She did a torporous protesting mmm and reached with her legs to where he’d vacated. “Come back,” she murmured.

  “Billy will be here in an hour or so.”

  She burrowed in under her pile of pillows, pulled one of Mitch’s to her, hugged it and was again taking the downward passage to sleep.

  She’d be having to rush around later furious at herself, Mitch thought on his way to the kitchen.

  Fresh-brewed Kona.

  Well-buttered cinnamon toast.

  He brought them into the bedroom. Placed the tray on the bed. The aromas would get to her. He compounded the enticement by pouring himself some of the rich, steaming black and crunching a bite of toast.

  Maddie huffed and complained: “It’s too fucking early.”

  “Maybe you’d rather not go to the country today.”

  “At a decent hour.”

  “You and Billy,” Mitch remarked.

  She sat
up amidst the plump. “Coffee me please.”

  Mitch obliged and her first finger found the handle of the mug.

  Mitch was used to her blind precision.

  She helped herself to a slice of toast. Mitch didn’t care for it all that much but he knew it was one of her every-so-often morning favorites.

  “Are you dressed?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “What do you intend to wear?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “Wear jeans, a tight pair.”

  “It’ll be too warm for jeans.”

  “And boots. You do have a pair of high-tops, don’t you?”

  She was up to something, Mitch thought.

  “The Doc Martens I bought you. Did you leave them in the country?”

  “Yeah,” Mitch fibbed and thought he’d wear lightweight khakis, a T-shirt without a name or place on it and pair of sneakers. No matter what she was specifying or why, he was going to be comfortable.

  She got up for the bathroom with a whole slice of toast clenched between her teeth. Mitch heard simultaneously the diametric sounds of the toast being crunched and the stream of her striking the water in the commode.

  “I love you, precious,” she called out from in there.

  “Love you too,” Mitch said, and with that exchange it seemed what had ensued up to then in his day had been merely overture.

  Maddie was in the shower.

  “We’ve about a half hour,” he told her. Apparently she was being diligent about the time. However, when she was out and had dried herself she set about waxing her legs.

  “You can do that up at Straw’s,” Mitch said.

  She went on pressing the sheets of wax around her shins and calves. As she ripped them off it sounded and appeared painful to Mitch.

  “Don’t dawdle,” he told her.

  “Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was doing something that might please you later on.”

  Cheeks and thighs, he thought.

  “Did you take in the paper?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  He got that morning’s Times from the landing. It was already quarter after seven and he wasn’t yet dressed. Nor was Maddie. She was now before the mirror, leaning to it, fussing with her hair, picking at a tendril here, another there, as though she was seeing her image.