And father? Maybe. He still couldn’t imagine himself a father. He supposed he would love the baby, whatever it turned out to be. Even stuffy. But it didn’t seem at all real to him yet. His childless first marriage and his beloved but unsettled profession had killed any illusions he may once have had of becoming the all-American family man. Now, suddenly, in his late thirties, balding rapidly, he had been informed that he would soon be a father. And couldn’t quite believe it.
Did Maggie believe it? She was still slim, lively and lusty as ever, not the bloated broody hen that she cheerfully promised to become. There were baby books now on her desk among the computer manuals, and there was her sudden ravenous desire for a bigger apartment. Maybe she believed in the baby. But to Nick, the child was still mythical, like Peter Pan, someone he could talk about but couldn’t imagine meeting in the flesh. ’Tis a wise father that knows his child. Men were so distant from their offspring. A spasm of pleasure and then, long months after, a strange little being that, people said, was yours. How could he believe such a story?
Maggie, of course, could get him to believe almost anything. Even that the corpse on Garfield Place had had a red-haired wife, and a friend named Curt, who would come meet him here in this coffeehouse.
Not that Nick’s own curiosity wasn’t strong too. Maggie had said that Dennis Burns had been an aspiring actor too. Young, Nick knew, even younger than Nick had been when he’d started. What kind of preparation had Dennis had? Those first months were always a devastating shock as you found that your highly praised school successes counted for nothing in New York. Nick and his first wife had struggled together, working as waiters, janitors, temporary clerks. It had not been healthy for her; alcohol and drugs could be very alluring when the alternative was facing crumbling dreams.
Had alcohol and drugs attracted Dennis Burns? Wine for breakfast the day he died, the lieutenant had said. And drugs could get you into deep trouble. Could get you killed. Even if you were very young.
He opened the guitar case, which held nothing more lethal than a script, and made himself concentrate on it. He had an appointment in the morning at the CBS casting office at Black Rock, a callback for a police drama shooting in the city. He wanted to have a clearer sense of who the principal characters were. The part he wanted was juicy—the bad guy who died horribly in a flaming car at the show’s climactic moment—but to play the scenes intelligently, he had to know who he was playing against. There was much more work in this business called playing than most people realized.
He was munching one of the last olives, wondering if he should rouse the sleepy waiter to order something else, when the street door opened and a young man entered. Mr. Clean Jeans, Palomino had said. His dark eyes skimmed the coffeehouse, snapped to a stop on the guitar case in Nick’s booth, then moved on to Nick. Nick beckoned him over.
“Curt?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Nick. Glad to meet you. Have a seat.”
Curt was tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly trimmed brown hair. Jeans, desert boots, corduroy shirt. Maggie had mentioned L.L. Bean. He slid into the booth, tense, looking furtively at the guitar case, at Nick, back behind him at the door.
“Coffee for my friend,” said Nick to the waiter, and watched him bring it and depart before he added, “I hear you’ve been asking about Denny.”
“Yeah. You knew him?”
“I’m an actor too. Met him in line at a cattle call. A while ago now.”
“You know something about him?”
“I might. I don’t know if I know.”
Curt nodded, as though Nick’s hedging made sense, but remained cautious. “Were you like a friend of Denny’s?”
“Not a friend, exactly. Acquaintance. But I don’t like to see acquaintances get killed.”
“And you know who did it?”
“Hey, not too fast! I’ve just got little bits and pieces. Enough to make me wonder. I thought maybe you and I could compare notes.” He saw the doubt in Curt’s face and added, “Maybe it’s worth something to you.”
“I see.” Curt was no friendlier, but the doubt was gone. He could believe a hustle. “I don’t have money to throw around.”
“We’ve not talking big money. We’re talking fair. Your bits and pieces for my bits and pieces, and maybe a few bucks if I tell you something really useful.”
“And if I already know?”
Nick shrugged. “That’s the breaks. No charge. Like I say, I don’t like to see acquaintances get killed.”
“So what do you know?”
He’d been afraid it would come to this. But Nick was an actor, deep in the role of a small-time hustler, and there was complete conviction as he leaned forward and said, “First, I know his dad left him money or something.”
Curt snorted. “Money? You’re crazy! His old man like drank it up those last years. Not even enough left for Denny’s mom.”
Nick backtracked. “Okay, maybe not money. He said something valuable.” That should cover it, he thought. Sage advice, even.
But Curt was nodding. “Sure. The stuff for his big job. But that’s what we’re talking about, right?”
“Right.” Better leave that topic until he had another clue. What else did he know about Denny? He said, “And there’s a woman.”
“You know her name?” asked Curt eagerly.
Not Amy, then. Nick said, “I might know her, yes.”
Curt squinted at him thoughtfully, stroking his jaw. “Well, he said she was like older, and you’re going bald.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Unsure of his next move, Nick stalled. “Yul Brynner’s bald.”
“Nothing’s wrong, man. So tell me about this woman.”
“Telly Savalas. Ed Asner.”
“Yeah, yeah, screw all that. What’s her name?”
“No, your turn first.”
“My turn?”
“Sure. I gave you this woman. Before I say more, you give me what was going on in Denny’s head. I’m not asking about the stuff his dad left, just what he was thinking.”
“I don’t know, man. He got this call Tuesday. He said she was uptight so he was supposed to get a disguise. Like goddamn Halloween, you know? He thought it was funny.” Curt swallowed. “Next morning he split early, eight-thirty. Took a bottle of wine to celebrate. He was a little high, man. Not spaced out. Said he was going to win another one for Amy, and to take good care of the stuff. God, he was happy!” Curt’s young face gave an unmanly twitch before he mastered it.
“Yeah. He had a sense of humor,” said Nick gently. “Where’d you meet Denny? Here, or back in Winston?”
“Winston. We were going to come into the city together. He’s an actor. Starred in Oklahoma! his senior year.”
“In high school.”
“Yeah.”
A lot of us have done that, thought Nick. He’d played Curly once himself, back when he had hair. This fact had not overwhelmed New York casting directors. “So what happened?”
“His dad got sick. Denny told me to go ahead and split, get started here, and he’d show later. But when his dad died—Christ, it was a real bitch, the way the old man had piled up the debts. Denny had to help his mom sell the house and everything. It was six months before he could come.”
“Did he have any luck with auditions?”
Curt’s face sagged, suddenly old. “Hey, it’s not real easy to get a start.”
Nick felt a surge of sympathy for the well-groomed, blustery young drummer. “Not easy at all,” he agreed. “But listen, you said the woman who called was uptight. How come?”
Wrong move. Curl’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, look, you being straight with me? You really know her?”
“Sure. But we aren’t bosom buddies,” said Nick smoothly. “More a friend of a friend. We do each other favors sometimes.”
“And are you doing her a favor right now, maybe?” Curt glanced at the guitar case.
“No. She doesn’t know I’m here,” said Nick. Shock
ing to find himself telling the truth about something. “But listen, you still haven’t told me what Denny was going to do. His big job.”
“He never told me about it.”
“Not her name, I know. But you had a pretty good idea what he was planning. You know what his dad left him.”
“Screw that, man! We have a deal! You tell me the woman’s name, and I’ll show you the stuff. I’ve got it at home.”
“You’re trying to trade promises for facts. How do I know you’ve really got it?”
Curl was firm. “You go first or we can the deal. I was his friend, dammit!”
Nick only had one card left to play. He said, “Maybe I ought to ask Amy.”
Shielded from the somnolent waiter by Curt’s casually outflung arm, the little revolver glinted suddenly against the Formica tabletop. “You say one word to Amy, and it’s all over!”
“Hey, all right, take it easy!” said Nick. “We’ll leave her out of it if you want.”
“So are we going to do business, or not?”
Curt was too young and too nervous. Unpredictable and unreasonable. Nick found himself wishing he had reinforcements. But the restaurant was empty, except for the waiter. He said soothingly, “Look, this is bigger than I thought. We don’t want to make a fuss here. But I’m going to have to think about it.”
“Screw that! Come on, let’s hear the freaking name!” Curt waggled the little barrel.
The man coming in the door was about six-six, lavishly tattooed, with a wrestler’s thick neck and a submachine gun. He started slowly toward their booth. Nick said as calmly as he could, “I can’t tell you anything if I’m dead, Curt. Look, I promise to leave Amy out of it. Now, I’ve got the name, you’ve got the evidence. We need each other, right?”
“Maybe.” Curt’s attempt to be tough was grotesque against his nervous downiness. “But tell me the name first.”
The tattooed man was drawing nearer. Nick the hustler was trying not to look at him, trying to concentrate on the little blue-black gun. But somehow, subtly, he must have given it away. Edgily, Curt glanced back over his shoulder. Back at where the tattooed man would have been if he hadn’t been just a vivid figment of an actor’s practiced imagination. Curt’s distraction lasted only an instant, but that was long enough for Nick to shove the barrel of the revolver aside with one big hand as he chopped down hard with the other on Curt’s gun hand. Triumphantly, he scooped the weapon into his own lap.
“Yeah? Want something?” called the waiter, awakened by the thumps.
“Another coffee for my friend. And the check,” Nick said. “You see,” he explained to Curt while he removed the ammunition, “I need a little time. There’s threats all over, and I’m thinking I should cover my tracks better.”
“The mob, huh? Heavy scene.” Watching his own gun uneasily. Curt bowed to the inevitable. “Well, okay, let me know when you’re ready.”
Nick pocketed the bullets. “I need a phone number.”
Curt gave it, and added, “When’ll you know?”
“Couple of days. And you might think about getting a couple hundred together. Just in case you like what I say.”
The coffee and check arrived. Curt gulped thirstily. He said. “Can’t get that much. But what I said about Amy still goes.” This time, though, his words were more wistful than threatening.
“Understood. I’m not trying to mess you up. Or her.”
“Okay.”
Nick slipped the empty revolver across the table. “Here, take better care of it. I’m not the mob. But they wouldn’t have been very impressed either.”
“Yeah. Well.” Curt stood up, shrugged, tried for nonchalance. “See you, then.”
Nick watched him leave, a neatly dressed handsome kid from Westchester County, trying to swagger his way into fame and fortune. But he’d never make it if he kept looking over his shoulder at imaginary men. Nick paid the waiter and went home.
Maggie, wearing a big striped barbecue apron and nothing else, greeted him at the door. A curly black spaniel was bouncing at her feet, and she held a plate of fresh madeleines. “Avec les compliments du chef,” she said.
“Mmm.” He ate one while he patted the dog. “Do I get a bonus if he pulled a gun on me?” He handed Maggie the bullets.
“Merde!” She stared at them. “God, Nick, I wish we hadn’t had to promise her not to call the police.”
“I’m not sure the police would have helped. He’s very young.”
“What on earth did you say to get him that excited?”
“Suggested that I might tell Amy about a mysterious woman with gangland connections.”
“About who?”
“Hell, I don’t know who! I came on very confidential and suggested there was a woman involved, thinking of Amy. But he instantly asked if I knew her name.”
She was pouring coffee to go with the madeleines. The barbecue apron didn’t quite meet in the back, which Nick found highly entertaining. She deftly removed his exploring hand and pressed a mug of coffee into it. “And then?” she prompted, sitting on the sofa.
“Um. Yes. Then we talked about Dennis a little. Poor kid. His dad was alcoholic, apparently. Here he is, eighteen, ready to embrace the future. And his father dies. Leaves him a load of debts and responsibilities.”
“You survived that.” Her blue eyes looked intently into his.
He nodded slowly. “Dad didn’t leave any debts to speak of. But I still felt—well, sad, of course. He was fun, a worthwhile guy. But I also felt angry that he’d abandoned me, left all those responsibilities. My mother, my sister. I know now it helped me through the grief. But I was mad that I couldn’t just chuck it all. Leave high school, become instantly rich and famous.”
“That was your original plan?”
He smiled and grabbed another madeleine. “Actors are insane. Diseased. You know that. But when Dad died it did force me to take responsibilities seriously. The whole man-of-the-house bit. I finished high school, even did what Mom wanted and went to college. Got married. Got the Army out of the way. And then, having proved how stable and reliable I was, I chucked it all.”
“I’m glad,” said Maggie firmly. “Insanity suits you. Reliability too.”
“I’m glad, too, now,” mumbled Nick through a mouthful of crumbs. “But at Denny Burns’s age, I was mad and resentful. He stuck it out six months, Curt said, then came to New York in February. New York did not roll out red carpets. I don’t understand quite what happened next, but the mysterious gangland woman is involved. I couldn’t find out much because Curt wanted to trade.”
“Trade?”
“He’d show me something or other that Denny’s father left him if I’d tell him the woman’s name. I said fine, it’s a deal. But then we got into kind of a stalemate about who should go first.”
She chuckled. “I can imagine.” As she leaned forward to put her mug on the coffee table, Nick sneaked a very appealing glimpse down the bib of her apron. He took another madeleine to distract himself.
“Mm-hmm. We went back and forth awhile. Then I tried to break out of it by mentioning Amy, and he whipped out his piece.”
She frowned. “Knight-in-shining-armor stuff? Do not sully her fair name?”
“Exactly.” The madeleine hadn’t worked as a distraction. Nick began undoing the barbecue-apron ties.
“That’s odd. He was a punk, right? A would-be hood?”
“Not at all. More a knight-in-shining-armor type.”
“Really?” She was unbuttoning his shirt now.
“This kid was all-American clean. Hair trimmed. He could do Ivory Soap commercials. I can’t think of a single band that would want him for a drummer, except maybe Lawrence Welk.” Nick tossed the apron aside.
“Strange. But I’m glad to think he may not really be a hood. For Amy’s sake.”
“I’m glad to think that too,” he murmured to her left breast. “But right now I seem to be thinking of something else.”
Later, resting, he lai
d his hand gently on her smooth belly. Was it a little firmer, a little denser than before? He asked, “Maggie, does this baby seem real to you?”
“It seems familiar, somehow. Not exactly real. But soon, I think.”
“I believe in it, but only with my head.”
“I know, love. Soon,” she promised.
* * *
Len was still awake, working up the figures on the apartment building. He’d stopped by it again that afternoon, looked hard at the mechanical systems, checked the roof. It was run-down, yes, but not gone. And with Nancy’s touch in a demonstration apartment, her gift for bringing light and excitement into all those gloomy corners, they’d rent fast, for lots of money. But he was sobered by the amount he’d need to start. It was clear why the offers that had come in so far had been lukewarm—the investment necessary for success was large. Did he dare ask Joyce for such a loan? The office market was down, would residential slide next?
But, hell, where else could Joyce get such a return on her money? Not at first, of course. Things looked bleak for the first two years, but she could probably use a tax write-off. People like Joyce always needed tax write-offs. And by the third year there should be profits. So, what the hell, he might as well ask.
He had almost finished copying the figures onto a clean sheet of paper when Nancy came in.
“Hi, Nance.” He kissed her unresponsive face. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, Len.” She lifted her hands and let them drop again in an abbreviated gesture of despair.
“Dammit, Nance, I wish I could help!”
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