I stumbled out into the street and almost bumped into a guy in a Nehru jacket that had Filene’s Basement written all over it. He asked if I was okay. I told him it was that time of the month, and asked if he was from around there.
“That’s my brother-in-law’s business next door,” he said, “Slezak Buttons and Novelties.”
I asked him if he knew anything about 137.
“Until a couple of years ago,” he said, “that used to be the New York headquarters of Simon Jaffa Securities and Mortgages—a highly regarded business. They relocated to Sarasota. You don’t get the respect around here anymore. The building’s been empty since then, except some artist moved in a couple of months ago. But you don’t take that serious. The way things are, you take any lease you can, but you can’t sign a long-term lease with that kind. I hear this bunch moved out in the early hours this morning—probably without paying the rent. They had a truck and cleaned the place out.”
“Did you see the truck?”
“Me? No. I heard this from a delivery guy.”
“Do you know anything about the artist?” I asked. “Did you see him?”
“A loudmouth. I don’t think he was living there, but he had a bunch of assistants. Some cute young girls. Some guys, too. You know the kind—long hair, bad hygiene. They might have been camping out here. It happens.”
“Who owns the building?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Who owns it? I couldn’t say. The rental agent is Harry Zubin on Church Street. Probably he could tell you.”
After that conversation, I checked out the Datsun. Its windshield was shattered and all four tires had been slashed. I’d have to deal with that later. In the meantime, I made my way on foot to Harry Zubin’s office, cursing the Beatles for that Good Day Sunshine song, which kept ringing infuriatingly through my brain.
I didn’t get to see Harry, but I did talk to a zaftig lady who described herself as his majordomo.
“If you’re interested in leasing the Ladies Lane space,” she told me, “you can talk directly to me. We are authorized to handle everything, and even a very short-term lease is open to discussion.”
“Look,” I said, “you don’t have to worry about me going behind your back, but I’ve been burned once too often. I don’t negotiate with anyone unless I know whose signature is on the title, or who carries the mortgage, or whatever the deal is. I’m interested in talking about a five-year lease on this property, so please, can we get real?”
I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but I figured I sounded pretty convincing, given that there were Floor for Rent signs all over the neighborhood. The zaftig lady heard me out and asked me to bear with her for a few moments, then disappeared into an inner office. When she returned, she was smiling.
“We’ll be glad to give you the information you request,” she said, “if you could tell us a little more about your own business.”
I got up and apologized for wasting her time.
“I can get this information from the city,” I said. “It will mean I have to pay an assistant five bucks an hour to stand on line, but if that’s the way it has to be…Or I can go to Jack Klein and see what properties he has available.”
The zaftig lady saw the light.
“No point in getting upset about this,” she said. “The property belongs to Donald and Shirley Baldridge. You’ve probably heard of Councilman Baldridge. You couldn’t deal with nicer people.”
That was better.
“I understand an artist—or a group of artists—has been renting the property,” I said.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” she said. “There’s been nobody in that building for a couple of years.”
I didn’t call Mrs. Baldridge right away. First, I took a subway home, swallowed some Tylenol, showered, soaked in the tub for about half an hour, then took another shower. After all that, and a couple tokes of Mendocino Mauve, I was just about strong enough to scramble some eggs, which I helped down with a can of Ballantine Ale. I don’t make a habit of drinking at breakfast, but sometimes the occasion calls for rules to be bent.
Feeling halfway normal, except for the bass drum throbbing inside my cerebellum, I called the car rental company and told them where they would find their vehicle. The woman at the other end of the line didn’t sound pleased. Then I called Mrs. Baldridge. She answered the phone herself and recognized my voice.
“My husband’s not here at the moment,” she said. “Can I take a message?”
This was stated in a tone that told me that the Donald was definitely at home, probably perusing the minutes of the last meeting of the Sanitation & Waste Management Standing Committee as he scarfed down his Wheaties a few feet from the phone. I gave Mrs. Baldridge my office number, told her I’d be there in half an hour, and asked her to call me as soon as she could.
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said. “I’ve already given generously, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
I thanked her and told her it was urgent.
When I got to the office, I found a message from my other voluptuous matron, Mrs. Kravitz.
“I just received a phone call from someone who told me that I should not worry about Lydia. Lydia wanted me to know that she was safe. I tried to ask questions, but the girl hung up on me. She sounded young, but I didn’t recognize the voice. Definitely not Andrea Marshall. I don’t know what it means, but I suppose it’s a relief, though my husband doesn’t seem to think so. I thought I’d better let you know.”
I told her not to get too excited.
“That may be good news, but there’s no way of knowing for sure unless you speak directly to Lydia.”
She made a noise as if she were about to put up a fight, then calmed down and asked if there were any new developments. I told her I had some leads I was following. I don’t think that made her happy, but she didn’t push me. After she hung up, I tried again to call Mrs. Baldridge. There was no reply. Olga the masseuse stopped by to bum a cigarette. She was dressed the way she had been early that morning, and her shoulders were still stunning—but then I have a thing for freckles.
“You can’t imagine the night I had.” she said. “Some customers…”
“I had quite a workout myself,” I told her.
“Poor boy, you look tense,” she said, moving behind my back and placing her fingers on my neck. For five minutes, she kneaded my neck and shoulders. She was good. I told her I thought I was in love.
“Don’t forget,” she said. “A full-body rub any time you feel you need it. The first one’s on me.”
She left, and I was still waiting impatiently for Shirley Baldridge to call when the door opened and in walked Detective Campbell.
“Just a follow-up to our little conversation yesterday,” he said, “the one about the report of a man with a gun.”
“I guess you’re a connoisseur of wild-goose chases,” I suggested.
“I just like to tie up loose ends for my own satisfaction,” said Campbell. “I like to be thorough. It’s one of my few vices. I seem to remember you told me you don’t carry heat, but that you have a thirty-eight at home. I forgot to ask, do you keep anything in the office?”
Campbell had a brain like one of those eighteenth-century Scottish thinkers I wrote a paper about at City College—David Hume or one of those dudes—empirical, skeptical, and a bit quirky. There was no point trying to bullshit my way out of this one.
“Yeah. There’s a gun in my wall safe. D’you want to see it?”
Campbell shrugged.
“What model?” he asked.
“It’s a Ruger—a thirty-eight. Smaller than the Smith & Wesson I keep at home, but they take the same ammo.”
Campbell nodded.
“Too bad I didn’t think to ask yesterday,” he said. “But I happened to be passing, anyway.”
Sure. His visit was as accidental as the summer solstice.
The phone rang.
It was the West Indian help from the Baldridges’ apartment. She asked me to hold for Mrs. Baldridge.
I told Campbell, “I have to take this.”
He sat tight and took out his pipe, as if he was about to settle in.
“It’s confidential,” I said.
Campbell nodded, and got up slowly.
“If you think of anything else,” he said.
“About what?” I asked.
“About anything.”
“You’ll be the first to hear.”
“By the way,” he said, “that’s a nasty bruise you have there on your forehead.”
“Cab door,” I said. “Some fleets operate with compacts these days.”
“It’s the pits,” said Campbell.
Finally, he left, and a few seconds later, Mrs. Baldridge came on the line.
“Back for more already?” she said.
“I wish,” I told her.
“Because, let’s get this straight—I had a ball last night, but that was strictly a one-shot thing. That call-me-soon shtick was entirely for Donald’s benefit. It worked, too. I wish you could have stayed for the fireworks.”
“This is about something else.”
“Okay, but make it snappy. He’s working at home today—big speech to prepare. He’s in the shower, but he doesn’t make a meal out of it.”
“Does 137 Ladies Lane mean anything to you? It’s down in the loft district.”
“The address doesn’t mean anything,” she said, “but Donald and I own some properties down there. He thought we’d make a killing when Robert Moses put the highway through. Moses owed Donald a favor, but now it looks like the highway deal is off, and we’re stuck with worthless real estate. We’ve been talking about tearing the buildings down and converting them into parking lots. That way we get some income and cut out some property taxes. At least that’s what Donald says.”
“Do you know anything about renting 137 to artists?”
“I told you, the address means nothing to me. Our agent would handle that kind of crap. Harry Zubin.”
“I talked to the sweetheart in Zubin’s office. She didn’t seem to know much about anything. When I heard it was your property, though, it made me wonder if your brother might somehow be involved.”
“Why are you interested?” she asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“Are you some kind of cop?” she demanded. “Some kind of city snoop, or something to do with the feds? Is that why you were hanging around last night? Is Donald in some kind of trouble? Oh, my God!”
It passed through my mind that it might be good for her to chew on that possibility for a while.
“We need to talk,” I said. “Face-to-face.”
“Oh, my God!” she said again. “Today is difficult. It’s the science fair at my kid’s school. I have to be there.”
“What about this evening?”
“This evening I’m going to an opening at the Museum of Modern Art.”
“With the future mayor?”
“No, he hates those things. Says they’re full of fags and phonies. I’m going with Julian, my decorator.”
We arranged to rendezvous at the Modern, at the foot of the escalator, at eight o’clock. I heard her say, “You’re dripping on the parquet, Donald…” Then she hung up.
I thought it was about time to give Gabriel Kravitz an update. After all, he was paying the bills. On the other hand, what could I tell him? I doubted that he would see the fact that I’d been hit over the head, shot at, and nearly mangled beneath a train as good value for his money, since so far, nothing had brought any tangible results. In my head, I prepared a heavily edited version of recent events and called the direct line to his office. In companies like Kravitz Developments, Inc., the direct line is never really direct. The call was answered by a hard-nosed assistant, the sort of woman who provides her boss with his first and last lines of defense, even if he is facing charges of embezzlement, fraud, abduction, aggravated sodomy, and ripping off the money from the church bake sale.
“Mr. Kravitz can’t talk to anyone,” she said.
I gave her my name and told her that Mr. Kravitz had told me I could call at any time.
“You still can’t talk to him,” she said. “He was called away on unexpected business. He did leave your name, however, and said that if you called I was to tell you he would contact you later.”
Once again, I was stumped by what to do next, and this time, I fell back on an old standby. I would go to the New York Public Library newspaper room, which in those days was a sizable freestanding building in Hell’s Kitchen, a warehouse full of millions of newspapers from all over the world, some on microfilm, some bound between boards, precious depositaries of public chicanery and private indiscretion. I liked the ones that had survived as newsprint for their feel and smell, the gritty aroma of history they gave off. Sometimes, when I was getting nowhere with an investigation, I would order back issues from the twenties or thirties, of the Chicago Tribune or the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, just to read the Sunday comics sections. More often though, I would try to research something associated with the case I was working on, however peripheral it might seem. This at least provided backstory and gave me a sense of sending out feelers that might somehow connect with something useful. Once in a while, one of them did.
On this occasion, I started with the New York Times, using the article index to reference Jerry Pedrosian. There were half a dozen reviews of solo exhibitions by hard-line scribes like Hilton Kramer and John Canaday—none of them telling me anything I didn’t know—and several mentions of his participation in museum shows, or other group exhibitions. His name appeared among those present at a handful of social events, and then there was one mention that was much more interesting. In the summer of 1960, when Jack Kennedy was running for president, Pedrosian had been the spokesman for a group of avant-garde artists, writers, actors, filmmakers and musicians who noisily interrupted a speech by JFK at the Brooklyn Navy Yard to demand that the candidate state his position on government support for the arts. The article suggested that Kennedy had handled the situation with charm and humor, and had won over the young would-be radicals.
I checked this story out in other New York papers and got lucky, coming up with a photograph of a smiling Jack Kennedy shaking hands with Jerry Pedrosian against the background of a placard that announced, “Kennedy—Our Next President.” Jerry looked like he’d just hit the jackpot on Name that Tune.
I made a photocopy of the picture and, feeling pleased with myself without much reason, decided to head back to my apartment to get some sleep before I put myself together for the MoMA opening. I walked to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, descended to subway level, and boarded a downtown C train. Just before the doors closed, three kids boarded, two girls and a boy in their late teens or early twenties. The girls looked like typical art students, in men’s shirts and jeans, the boy looked more like a hippie, with a headband and a mustache, and wore one of those suede fringed vests that were considered cool at the time. They sat down directly across from me, so I had a lot of time to study them. There was no reason to do so, but they looked vaguely familiar. The boy looked at me once then looked quickly away. I decided to stare, and got the impression they were deliberately ignoring me.
Only when I got off the train at 14th Street did I realize where I’d seen those kids before. They were the self-righteous trio that had been arguing politics with Martin Wolfe at the Mafioso bar on Prince Street. On the face of it, it was comfortably within the laws of probability that I would find myself on the same train with them, since they obviously hung out together, and most likely crashed somewhere downtown. Like 137 Ladies Lane maybe?
I told myself I was putting two and two together and coming up with the title of a Fellini film. Even so, I was spooked.
TEN
The Museum of Modern Art was a lot cozier in those days. Sometimes, on a weekday morning, you could visit the Matisse room and find yourself alo
ne with a priceless harem of swooning odalisques and naked houris, undisturbed by parties of lost souls drifting through the galleries at a pace determined by the audio pods clamped to their ears. Openings were another matter, and on evenings when some long-awaited survey or retrospective was unveiled, crowds swarmed through the building, sipping wine, riding the escalators, or clustering around familiar bronzes in Philip Johnson’s sculpture garden, eyeballing celebrities.
I don’t recall what show opened that evening. I arrived a little before eight, early enough to take in the crowd, which was the usual mix of tuxedoed Brahmins, Park Avenue matrons, and haute bourgeois hangers-on. Saint Andy was already in attendance, surrounded by his usual motley entourage, and sporting a shawl-lapelled tuxedo jacket with jeans and sneakers.
I found Shirley Baldridge at the appointed place and time. She had already dumped her decorator and was all mine. Not that she was particularly pleased to see me.
“So I fucked a detective!” she said, loud enough for the woman next to her to turn and stare.
I took her arm and led her to a quieter spot overlooking the sculpture court.
“Just so you know,” she said. “I’m wearing a chastity belt.”
I doubted the truth of that, but she did have on a severe outfit with a boxy jacket that gave off none of the signals she had been flashing the evening before.
“Okay, I’m a detective,” I said, “but I’m not with any government agency. I’m not after your husband, or your family.”
That calmed her down a bit.
“I’m a self-employed private eye trying to earn a buck. I’m working on a missing persons case, and your brother may be involved. How involved, I don’t know. To the best of my knowledge, he’s done nothing illegal. Also to the best of my knowledge, the police are not involved, though I’m not one hundred percent sure of that. What I told you last night is true. I do know Jerry, though not particularly well. To be honest, I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me.”
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