A New York Dance

by Donald E. Westlake

  It's a new world, Bobbi thought. "I'm not as good as they are," she said.

  "We'll plead youth and inexperience." And he held out his hand for her.

  She took it.

  A good half of the old people were dancing to "In the Mood"; chins rested on shoulders all over the place. The ballroom couple had toned down their movements, but were still the most graceful and charming sight in the county; elsewhere, a certain stiffness harked back yet again to high school dances, except that fifty years ago it had been shyness and now it was sciatica.

  Bobbi and the young man stepped on to the floor, and he grinned at her again, saying, "Do you Hustle?"

  "To this?"

  "It's perfect," he said. "Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?"

  He took her hands. La-de-da, de-dada, la-da-da-de-da Da. Their shoulders, flat and level and set back from their bodies, moved in unison as though operated by a marionettist from above. Their hips had an undulating underslung motion; understated sex. Their feet slid left and right, just above the floor.

  "Nice," Bobbi said. She was smiling, and he was smiling. Their hands were warm together. Other dancers, catching their eye, smiled and nodded at them. Everybody was happy. In the corner, the fiftyish couple paid their bill and left, arm in arm. The salesman went away with a newspaper under his arm. The male half of the ballroom dancers caught Bobbi's eye and winked; she laughed, and winked back.

  La-de-da, de-dada, la-da-da-de-da Da.

  The next number was "Ease on Down the Road." Bobbi and the young man looked at the musicians in pleased surprise, and the clarinetist nodded at them, smiling his inverted T while doobing through his clarinet.

  Ease on dow-own. The ballroom dancers did their best; they frugged or something, without touching. The spear carriers retired. Bobbi and the young man held each other's elbows, and spun around the floor. "My name is Jerry," he said, "and I'm from New York."

  "Of course," she said.

  On the trail…

  JERRY SAID, "Where are you heading?"

  "Los Angeles," Bobbi said.

  The old folks had gone, laughing and shouting into the night. The musicians had packed up their axes, lit up their Trues, and decamped. The waitress, much of her sentimentalism draining away, had requested payment of her cheques and had walked from the kitchen to the exit wearing a black-and-red hunting jacket over her white uniform. The bartender had rinsed a hundred glasses, had played the bells on his cash register for ten minutes, and had finally turned off a lot of lights and gone away. And Jerry and Bobbi sat alone in the Holiday Inn dining room, nursing a pair of anisettes and having a conversation.

  "Los Angeles?" Jerry shook his head. "Why?"

  "Why not?" she said.

  Which wasn't an answer, but what the hell. Jerry played it her way: "Because it isn't New York," he said.

  "Maybe that's the reason."

  Jerry frowned at her in disbelief. "You don't like New York?"

  "Well, I'm not a real New Yorker. I only lived there seven years."

  "Lady, I was born in Queens," Jerry told her, "and let me tell you something. Nobody's a real New Yorker. You get closer, and get closer, but nobody gets inside. You know?"

  "No," she said. "You're a New Yorker."

  He shook his head. "Up till a couple days ago, I hadn't been in Manhattan in four, five years. I used it up when I was in high school, you know? I got to be seventeen, eighteen, I thought I knew about Manhattan, I thought it was a bore, you know what I mean? But all the Manhattan I ever used up was just some dumb kid's idea of it. The last couple days, I been in the city, moving around, looking around, and I don't know that place at all. You ever been in Vegas?"

  "Where?"

  "Las Vegas."

  "No. Have you?"

  "Sure." Jerry held up a finger. "It's one neighbourhood," he said. "That's what every place is, except New York. One neighbourhood. You could be in Vegas in six days, there wouldn't be anything left you didn't know. I'd like to visit New York sometime, you know? Pretend like my place is a hotel, go out every day, see the city."

  She laughed, looking at him with interested eyes. "That's a very funny idea."

  "Why not? The first week, do all the tourist stuff. Radio City Music Hall, Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Staten Island Ferry, UN Building, all of that. Second week, the stuff that only some of the tourists know, like the Cloisters up at Fort Tryon Park, and the Circle Line, and the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and like that. Third week, the nut stuff, things I'd just like to do. Like ride all the subway lines on the same token; you know you can do that? Some kid did it about twenty years ago, took him twenty-four hours. Or how about the Staten Island Rapid Transit; ever heard of that?"

  "Never," she said. "What is it?"

  "The Toonerville Trolley, that's what it is. You ever go watch the Stock Exchange?"

  "No, I never did."

  "Neither did I," Jerry said, "and I lived in New York all my life. You can go there and watch them down on the floor. How many places got a Stock Exchange?"

  "Very few," she said.

  He glanced at her, and then away. Every time he looked across the table at her she was smiling at him as though it was Christmas time and she'd found him under her tree. He'd never had a girl look at him like that before, and especially not a girl he was figuring to rob a little later tonight. It was confusing, and unsettling, and he didn't know what to do about it, so he covered himself by a steady stream of talk. Christ knows what he was talking about.

  New York. The girl said, "You know, I never did any of those things. Except the Statue of Liberty, we went there once. But that's all.

  "Then you're a New Yorker," he told her. "You gotta be a tourist to see the place. Ever eat in Chinatown?"

  "I didn't know where the good places are."

  "They're all good places, and they all look like crap. I went a few times when I was in high school, I'd like to go back there again. And Rockefeller Centre. I used to know a guy in school, he was a nut, he liked to sneak around where people couldn't see him, he fell in love with Rockefeller Centre. You know there's a whole other level down underneath, with stores and wide walkways and everything?"

  "Oh, sure," she said. "I've gone down there to get out of the rain sometimes. You can go two or three blocks underground."

  "You can go all over underground," Jerry told her. "This guy claimed he could get out of the subway at Grand Central and walk underground as far as 51st Street and Eighth Avenue. I'd like to find out if that's the truth."

  "Oh, I know one!" She was getting caught up in it now. "The escalators at Lincoln Centre!"

  "Escalators?"

  "All the buildings there have huge windows," she explained. "And escalators. A girl I know in the orchestra says it's a terrific kick to ride up and down the escalators and look out the windows at the same time. You go up and you start with just the fountain, really, and then there's Ninth Avenue and Broadway, and the traffic, and the other buildings, and it just keeps changing. I've always wanted to do that."

  He was dubious, but he said, "Maybe so. And all the museums, that's something else. I went to a couple of them on class trips when I was a kid, but whadaya get out of something like that? Nothing. Who knows, maybe today I'd get a kick out of it."

  "Like the Fire Department Museum," she said. "You'd have to love that one."

  "Fire Department? Where's that?"

  "Way downtown, near City Hall. It's full of terrific old fire engines. A friend of mine took me there one time. You have to see it."

  "Okay," Jerry said. "As soon as I get back. Or, should I wait for you, and you'll take me?"

  "I'm not going back," she said, but she didn't sound happy about it. Positive, yes. Defiant, yes. But not happy.

  "You're not going back? Never?"

  "I've left my husband," she said, "and it's for real, and I'm never going back."

  "To him, or to New York?"

  "Neither."

  "How come? Is he the mayor?"

/>   "What?" She looked blank for a second, and then she laughed. "It's all connected in my mind," she said. "It's a journey into independence. Or does that sound stupid?"

  "No, I can see that," he said. "If you're making a big move, you want to make a move."

  "Right," she said. "If I'm leaving, I'm leaving."

  "Sure," he agreed. "If you're throwing out the bath water, you might as well throw out the baby."

  She frowned at him. "Somehow that doesn't sound the same."

  "Why would anybody want to live anywhere except New York?" he asked her. "You're quits with your husband, so you punish yourself by living in some tank town somewhere."

  "Los Angeles isn't a tank town."

  "The hell it isn't. Los Angeles is three Long Islands next to each other. But no Midtown Tunnel."

  Laughing, she said, "If you're so crazy about New York, what are you doing way out here in the provinces?"

  "Business," he said. "I'm coming out to get something, and then I'm going right back."

  "All right," she said. "But what if everybody felt the way you do? What if everybody wanted to live in New York?"

  "They do. That's why they all hate New York so much—it's envy. But you know who the big guy is in the social set in Indianapolis? The one that just got back from a trip to New York. He could go to Chicago or St. Louis or any damn place, and all the people say is, 'How was the trip?' New York is the only place in this country, he could go, when he gets back people say, 'Tell me all about it.'"

  She laughed again, and said, "Maybe you're the mayor."

  "I'm not so dumb," he said, and a fellow in a yellow blazer came over to apologize, and to say they wanted to close up the dining room now for the night. "Sure thing," Jerry said, and the two of them walked out to the semidark lobby.

  The original idea in Jerry's mind had been that he would scratch up an acquaintance with Bobbi Harwood, hustle her into bed — in her room — and grab the statue once she was asleep. He could be on his way back to the city before sun-up, he could be in Mel's living room — either with the golden statue, or with proof that this wasn't the right one — before noon. That had been the original idea, but something had gone wrong somewhere, and now he didn't know what the hell to do.

  The problem was, she liked him. The other problem was, he liked her. Who could expect a thing like that from some ditzy broad who throws her husband's clothes out the window and takes off like an asshole for California? Who could expect that she wouldn't be a ditzy broad after all — except for maybe that Lincoln Centre escalator idea — or that she would have such a nice friendly smile, or that she would act like a real human being instead of a bar pickup?

  But without the original idea Jerry didn't have any idea at all, so it was with some variant on Plan A still in mind that he now said, "I'd ask you up to my room for a nightcap, but I don't have anything to drink. But I'd like to go on talking."

  "So would I," she said, smiling. "I wish I could. This has been a lot of fun, Jerry. You make me think I might want to visit New York someday."

  "It's a rotten place to visit," he told her. "Do you want me to tell you why?"

  "Yes," she said, "but don't do it. I'd love to talk with you till morning, but I put in a seven-thirty call, and I've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow." She held out her hand; the friendly brushoff. "I really did enjoy meeting you, Jerry."

  He took her hand, but didn't immediately release it. "Any reason you have to get up that early?"

  "Several," she said. "But the one that counts right now is that I'm not going to be a runaway wife shacking up with a strange guy her first night on the road."

  He released her hand and stepped back, a pained smile on his face. "All of a sudden, I run out of arguments."

  "I did enjoy meeting you, Jerry," she said, and they exchanged a few more words in the same vein, and then she went away to her room and he want away to a phone booth and put in a call to Mel.

  Who answered in person: "Yeah?"

  "Mel?"

  "Jerry! By God, what happened to you?"

  "I'm out in the middle of nowhere. What's happening back there?"

  "She's got it, Jerry!"

  "What? Who?"

  "Bobbi Harwood!" Mel's voice was running up and down its range, full of excitement, and behind him several other voices could be heard whooping and shouting.

  "Bobbi Harwood?"

  "All the others are checked out! It's her, it's definitely her!"

  For some reason he hated that. "Great," he said. "I'm on her trail."

  "Go get her, tiger," Mel said.

  "Right," said Jerry.

  In the parking lot…

  THREE-FIFTEEN IN the morning. Darkness and silence everywhere. In the parking lot of the Holiday Inn along Interstate 80 near Oil City, Pennsylvania, snick goes the hood release of Hugh Van Dinast's Jaguar XJ12. Jerry pauses, hears and sees nothing, and goes to work.

  Twelve cylinders, that's a lot of cylinders. It's also a lot of spark plugs. One by one, Jerry removes each spark plug and uses a screwdriver blade to widen the gap. When each plug has been altered sufficiently so it won't spark, it is neatly put back in place. It is not enough that this car not run tomorrow; it is also necessary that any mechanic called in have a difficult time deciding why the car won't run.

  Eleven, twelve. So much for that. Next, Jerry uses the same screwdriver to turn the air-flow screw on the carburetor down tight. There; try driving with that mixture.

  And another thing. The tools from Angela's station wagon include an icepick; sliding under the Jag with that, Jerry pokes it through the automatic transmission pan. Ochre fluid drips thickly down, and Jerry emerges again, to alter the pressure on the fan belt, so that it won't turn with the engine.

  Is that enough? Probably; as it is, the mechanic is going to wonder how the damn thing ever got this far. Jerry closes up the Jag, returns the tools to the station wagon, and goes back to his room and to bed. His call is for nine o'clock. He isn't worried; his quarry will still be here.

  Around the circle…

  NEARLY EVERYONE IS asleep. Four in the morning, and nearly everyone sleeps, and why not? It's been a busy day.

  In the Bernstein house, Mel and Angela are asleep in one another's arms. Both are smiling, Mel because Angela is in his arms and Angela because Mandy has agreed to stay. In the guest room, Mandy also sleeps and also smiles; this is a much better gig than Valerie Woode.

  Frank and Floyd McCann are asleep in their separate beds with their separate wives. Frank is smiling in his sleep, because he is dreaming of gold. Floyd is frowning in his sleep, because he is dreaming of blacks.

  Angie Corella, asleep beside his plump wife in his expensive house in Red Bank, New Jersey, has no expression on his blocky face at all. He looks like something in a wax museum.

  Victor Krassmeier, having informed his wife that he would be staying in town tonight due to the pressure of work, is sleeping with the occupant of the apartment on 65th Street, who figures so prominently in his negative cash-flow. Neither of them is smiling.

  Oscar Russell Green and Chuck Harwood are both asleep in Chuck's apartment, and despite the day's setbacks both are smiling, since they blew a whole lot of grass after dinner. In Connecticut, Bud Beemiss sleeps fitfully beside his expensive second wife; his dreams are full of lifelines slipping through his fingers.

  Felicity Tower's dreams are also full of fingers, among many other things. She never remembers her dreams the next day, but they sure do keep her smiling at night.

  Awake, but soon to be asleep, is Wally Hintzlebel, who his sitting at the kitchen table with his mom, saying for the thousandth time, "You know I didn't mean it, Mom." Mom, unfortunately, has remembered every word that Wally said to her during this morning's argument, and has been more than willing to share her memories with Wally.

  Also awake, but also soon to be asleep, are Jeremiah "Bad Death" Jonesburg and Theodora Nice. There was no way Bad Death could keep himself from talking to "Pam Grier" after th
e funeral, and Theodora hadn't at all minded maintaining the fiction up close, and they are having an evening neither will ever forget. Ter-rif-fic!

  Jerry Manelli and Bobbi Harwood, in beds, separated by seven walls and eleven other sleeping bodies, are dreaming of one another. The dreams are tentative, the characters keep getting mixed up with other characters both have known in the past, and nothing really conclusive occurs in any of the dreams, but nevertheless both dreamers are smiling.

  Awake on the Holiday Inn dresser in Bobbi's room, prancing and dancing, glittering gold in the dim light gleaming through the gap in the window drapes, stands the Dancing Aztec Priest. To look at him, nobody would think he was at all valuable, and in fact he is not. He's the wrong one, he's made of plaster.

  What? That's right, he's a copy, he isn't gold at all, everybody's chasing the wrong statue. One of the sixteen statues handed out to the Open Sports Committee is the real one, worth over a million dollars, but not this one. This one is maybe worth twenty bucks.

  Someone has made a mistake.

  THE THIRD PART OF THE SEARCH

  EVERYBODY in New York City wants to be somebody. Young people want to be older and old people want to be younger. Poor people want to be rich and rich people want to be richer. First nighters want to be hip and last nighters want to be hipper.

  Blacks want to be equal. Women want to be equal. Puerto Ricans want to be equal without having to learn a new language. Sanitation men want to be equal with the other uniformed services. Jews who claim their middle name is their last name want to be superior, while drunks who hang around Third Avenue and East Houston Street want to be inferior.

  New York magazine wants to be The New Yorker.

  Outsiders want to be insiders. Singles at Adams' Apple and Maxwell's Plum want to be doubles, without getting hurt. Drag queens don't want to be women; they want to be drag queens.

  Cab drivers want to be Bobby Unser, and subway riders want to be sitting down. Architects want to be artists, and artists want to be useful.