A New York Dance

by Donald E. Westlake

  Priests want to be relevant. Novelists want to be relevant. Eric Sevareid and David Susskind want to be relevant. Andy Warhol wants to be irrelevant, and is.

  High schoolers from Staten Island want to be sharp. High schoolers from Brooklyn want to be cool. High schoolers from Queens want to be funky. High schoolers from Harlem want to be the baddest. And high schoolers from the High School of Music and Art in Manhattan want to be Leonard Bernstein.

  Leonard Bernstein wants to be everybody.

  The Landmarks Commission wants to be effective. The real estate developers want to be 100 per cent leveraged. The powerless want to be powerful, and the powerful want to be unobserved.

  Wall street clerks want to be financiers, financiers want to be great lovers, great lovers want to be serious actors, serious actors want to be called to the Coast.

  Cops want to be cowboys. Cowboys want to be sophisticates. Sophisticates want to be liberal. Liberals want to be tough-minded. The tough-minded want to be in charge. Those in charge want to be chauffered, and chauffeurs want to be in the driver's seat. Everybody wants to be in the driver's seat, but nobody is.

  Everybody in New York City wants to be somebody. Every now and then, somebody makes it.

  The Hero…

  JERRY MANELLI WANTED to be a tough guy. Growing up in a neighbourhood like his, a smart guy learns to be a wise guy, and a wise guy knows how to be a tough guy. Jerry Manelli never wanted anything except to be a tough guy, and a tough guy was what he had always been.

  But does a tough guy grin for no reason at all? Does a tough guy hum "In the Mood" and dance with his reflection in the bathroom mirror?

  The hell with it; this tough guy does.

  Jerry's wake-up call was for nine, but he'd been up since eight-thirty, his mind fuzzy and full of confusions. After brushing his teeth with his fingers and putting on yesterday's clothes, he looked out the window and saw below him the tableau in the parking lot; arm-waving girl, shoulder-shrugging mechanic, raped Jaguar, massive tow-truck. And does a tough guy feel guilty when one of his hustles work out?

  The phone: "Good morning, Mr. Spaulding. Nine o'clock.''

  "Thanks," Jerry said, and went away to breakfast.

  The Heroine…

  BOBBI WAS furious. After dragging herself out of bed at seven-thirty this morning — a cold empty bed, too, since she'd so nobly resisted that fellow Jerry last night — and after rushing through a mediocre breakfast, the car wouldn't start. Nothing at all from it, just nothing. The starter would grind, but the engine simply refused to operate.

  At Beacon Auto Transport, back in New York, she'd been told what to do in case anything went wrong with the car. Take it to a garage or call a mechanic, and if the repair would cost less than twenty-five dollars she was authorized to spend the money, get a receipt, and expect reimbursement from the owner on delivery of the car. If it would cost over twenty-five dollars, she was to call the owner, turn him over to the mechanic, and let them work it out together.

  "Let it be less than twenty-five dollars," she muttered to herself, as the nice desk clerk phoned for a mechanic, and when the mechanic arrived with his tow truck she told him the situation at once, finishing, "So if it's under twenty-five, it'll be a lot simpler for everybody."

  "Uh-huh," he said. He had a flowing brown moustache and black hornrim glasses and a dirty white T-shirt stretched over his beer belly, and he didn't seem to much care about anything at all. He sat at the wheel of the Jaguar — he couldn't have looked more out of place in a convent — grinding the starter and gazing mistrustfully at the instruments, and then he shook his head and got out of the car and opened the hood. After poking and prying under there for a while, he said "Start 'er up."

  Bobbi slid in at the driver's seat, hope suddenly blossoming inside her, and turned the key in the ignition. Grind grind grind, while the mechanic did something under the hood. She stopped finally, hating the noise, but he gestured at her to do it some more. She did, but then at last he withdrew his head from under the hood and shook it at her, as much to say, this-thing'll-never-live-again.

  Bobbi was reluctant to leave the wheel. Leaning out, she said, "Do you know what it is?"

  "Could be a lot of things." He was wiping his hands on an already filthy orange cloth.

  "Well can you find out which one?"

  "Not here," he said. "Have to take it in."

  "Tow it?"

  He shrugged. "Ain't gonna move on its own, lady."

  Bobbi got out of the car, abandoning hope. "That's more than twenty-five dollars, isn't it? This is going to cost a lot isn't it?"

  "Depends what it turns out to be."

  "But more than twenty-five."

  "Probably so," he admitted. "The tow's fifteen."

  "We'll have to call the owner," Bobbi decided, and she couldn't have hated that knowledge more. The idea of contact with Hugh Van Dinast on any subject was distasteful, but to have to tell him that his car had broken down within a day of her taking charge of it was doubly grim.

  Still, she never expected the response she got, once Van Dinast had accepted the collect call and she'd told him the situation: "You did it!" he screamed. "To get even with me!"

  "What?"

  "What a filthy, sneaking—"

  He probably went on like that, but Bobbi listened to no more of it. Instead, she handed the receiver to the mechanic, saying, "Tell him about it."

  "Right." But after listening for a second he said, "He's talking to somebody."

  "That's all right. Just tell him."

  "Okay." Into the receiver he said, "Hello? Hello?" There was a little pause, and he said, "I'm from Coe's Garage, here in Oil City, Pennsylvania." Another pause. "My name's Tucker, what's yours?" Apparently, whatever Van Dinast was saying back there in New York was not sitting too well, because the mechanic raised an eyebrow at Bobbi while saying into the phone, "I'll tell you, pal, I got all the business I need. That Jag of yours can sit in this parking lot till kingdom come for all I care." Another pause. "Just a second." Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Bobbi. "He wants to know did you sabotage the car."

  "Of course not! Let me have that phone!" Snatching it from his willing hand, she shouted into the mouthpiece, "If I was going to wreck your stupid car, I'd do it in California, you imbecile! I don't want me to sit in this parking lot till kingdom come!"

  "I'll speak to Mr. Tucker, if you don't mind," Van Dinast said.

  "Asshole!" Bobbi slapped the phone back into the mechanic's hand, telling him, "If you want me, I'll be in the bar."

  "I don't think it's open yet."

  "We'll see about that," Bobbi said, and marched away.

  The Rivals…

  GlNNY DEMERETTA DIDN'T know what to think. She'd been an interviewer with Beacon Auto Transport for seven years, and she had never seen a day like this one. Working in an operation where on the one hand you have people too rich to drive their own car, and on the other hand hippies and flake-outs with bedrolls, you can expect the job isn't exactly going to be tame, but never a day like this. Never. And to think it all had to do with that nice Mrs. Barbara Harwood. Of all the drivers Ginny Demeretta had interviewed in the last seven years, Mrs. Barbara Harwood was the last one she'd expect to make trouble.

  In the first place, Mrs. Harwood wasn't really poor. She was broke, but as Mike Todd used to point out, that isn't the same thing. In the second place, she was a respectable ongoing member of the middle class. Harpist with the New York Symphony Orchestra! And in the third place, the owner of the car, Mr. Hugh Van Dinast, had phoned yesterday afternoon especially to say how pleased he was with the person chosen to drive his car. Now a thing like that never happens, an owner calling to say he's happy about something. Never.

  But that was yesterday. As for today…

  It started exactly at ten A.M., as Ginny was walking in the door. Mickey, the receptionist and switchboard girl, was nodding and talking on the phone, her head down and shoulders hunched in that inevitable way w
hen the shit is hitting the fan, and when she looked up and saw Ginny a relieved smile covered her face and she said into the phone, "Excuse me, Mr. Van Dinast. Here she is now."

  "Oh, shit," Ginny said. But it was too late to duck back out the door.

  Mickey was waggling the phone at her, saying, "One of yours, left yesterday. The owner says she racked up the car."

  "Racked it up?"

  "On purpose."

  "Beautiful," Ginny said. "Wait a minute, did you say Van Dinast?"

  "Right. The driver's a—"

  "Mrs. Harwood." Shaking her head, Ginny said, "There's something wrong here. I'll take it at my desk."

  "Better you than me," Mickey said.

  Ginny settled herself at her desk, popped a Turn, picked up the phone, pushed the right button, and said, "What appears to be the problem, Mr. Van Dinast?"

  "The problem?" His voice was an enraged squeak, with intermitting bass notes. "The problem is, your driver deliberately destroyed my car!"

  "Deliberately destroyed, Mr. Van Dinast? If there was an accident of—"

  "This was no accident! She called with some lame story that the car won't start this morning! She has a mechanic! She says he's a mechanic! She vandalized my car!"

  "Mr. Van Dinast, you can't mean that. Why would she do such a thing?"

  "Well, she — I presume she's insane, that's why!"

  "Mr. Van Dinast, did the mechanic say the car had been vandalized?"

  "He's her mechanic!"

  "Here in New York?"

  "In Oil City, Pennsylvania! Oil City, Pennsylvania!"

  "Then he's hardly her mechanic, Mr. Van Dinast. Who told you she'd vandalized your car?"

  "Nobody had to tell me! I know she did it!"

  "Why?"

  There was silence on the line; in it, Ginny could hear heavy breathing. "Mr. Van Dinast," she said, "you're making a very serious accusation here. I assume you've called the Oil City, Pennsylvania, Police."

  "Not yet." And all at once Van Dinast sounded oddly defensive.

  Hmmm. Had the son of a bitch thrown a pass at Mrs. Harwood yesterday? Is that why he thought she'd vandalized his car? Getting even. Good Christ, maybe she did vandalize it!

  "Well, Mr. Van Dinast, I'll certainly look into this, but before you make accusations, I—"

  "I'm not making accusations," he said, with astonishing inaccuracy. "I just don't want her to drive the car any more, that's all."

  "But what if it turns out she didn't vandalize your car?"

  "I don't want her to drive it!"

  "I have your number, Mr. Van Dinast. Let me check with our driver in Oil City, and I'll get back to you. Do you have the number there?"

  He gave it, a Holiday Inn; she was travelling first cabin. Ginny called and got Mrs. Harwood's side of the story. The car had been working fine yesterday, it didn't work at all this morning, the mechanic said it could be a lot of things, and when she'd called the owner as per instructions, he'd blown up at her. "Hm," said Ginny. "Listen, Mrs. Harwood. Did he try anything with you yesterday?"

  "He got very grabby, if that's what you mean. I fought him off."

  "Successfully?"

  "Of course!"

  "He thinks you're trying to get even with him."

  "Getting away from him was all I needed."

  Ginny sighed. "What a mess. He says he doesn't want you driving the car any more. I don't know what we'll do."

  "You mean I'm stuck here in Oil City, Pennsylvania?"

  "I'll get back to you," Ginny said, and called Van Dinast again, and he was much calmer. "I may have been hasty," he said.

  "I thought you probably were," Ginny told him.

  "Nevertheless," he said, "I can't be sure one way or the other, and I would prefer that… she, not drive my car any longer. I'll pay your fee, of course, but I'll arrange to have the car picked up and transported."

  Well, she argued with him, she tried to jolly him, she implied her knowledge of his bad behaviour of yesterday, but nothing would budge him. Mrs. Harwood was not to drive his car ever again; he would pay the company's fee, and he would make his own further arrangements regarding the car.

  So she called Mrs. Harwood back, and broke the news, saying, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Harwood. If you can get a bus back to the city or something, I could probably get you into another car the early part of next week."

  "Back to the city." She sounded very depressed.

  "Sorry," Ginny said. "Give me a call when you get back."

  "Sure."

  Ginny hung up, and at that point discovered an individual seated in the client's chair at the side of her desk. He flashed an untrustworthy smile with a rancid cigar stuck in the middle of it, and he was wearing a powder-blue shirt with a white collar, a broad powder-blue tie with tiny white windmills all over it, an off-white sports jacket with powder-blue stitching, powder-blue slacks with a white belt, and white patent-leather shoes. Ginny's guess was that he was a pickpocket disguised as the Virgin Mary. "And what can I do for you?" she said.

  "Information," he said, leering, and placed a palm on the surface of the desk. Through the slightly spaced fingers she could see a touch of green, a bit of currency, a twenty-dollar bill.

  Never in her life had Ginny Demeretta ever been offered a bribe. What would anybody bribe her for? She didn't know anything, she didn't have any clout anywhere, and none of her decisions made any difference. Ginny's immediate reaction, therefore, was suspicion; she frowned at the twenty, glowered at its offerer, and said, "What's that for?"

  "Like I said. Information." And he made a little go-on-and-take-it gesture with his chin.

  "Information. Information! What information?"

  "About Mrs. Barbara Harwood."

  Suspicion deepened. Ginny glanced at the phone, so recently full of the subject of Mrs. Barbara Harwood. What was going on with that woman? If this was a private detective — and on television bribes were invariably by private detectives — what had that nice lady got herself mixed up in?

  "Don't worry," the private detective told her, with a smile that would have made anybody worry. "You can't get in any trouble for this."

  "And Mrs. Harwood?"

  He looked surprised. "Mrs. Harwood? I'm on her side!"

  "Against Van Dinast?"

  Was that doubt, briefly on his face? If so, it cleared up at once, replaced by a confident smile as he said, "Absolutely! Against Van Dinast!"

  She wasn't sure of him yet; personally, she thought he was a creep. "What do you want to know?"

  "Her present location, and her final destination."

  "No," She shook her head.

  He seemed surprised. The hand covering the twenty nearly lifted. He said, "Why not?"

  "Maybe you aren't on her side."

  "But I am! And I have to get in touch with her, right away."

  "Then you don't need to know her final destination."

  He didn't like that, but he recovered. With a shrug, he said, "Fine. Present location, that's all I need."

  Could that be harmful? This fellow would be able to phone Mrs. Harwood, but he'd never physically reach Oil City before she'd left it. "Okay," Ginny said, and gave him the information, and the twenty-dollar bill disappeared into her desk drawer. She'd been bribed!

  And all at once the private detective was on his feet, smile gone, expression anxious, noxious cigar smoke fuzzing his head as he leaned close and harshly whispered, "Tell them nothing! I'll go out the back way!"

  "There isn't any back way," she said, but he'd already trotted away toward the filing cabinets, and now she saw the two new men who had just walked in, and who were pointing in surprise and anger toward the fleeing private eye.

  On television, these two would be plainclothes police. One was white, and the other was black. Both were tall and moderately well-built and in early middle age. Both were dressed rather seedily, and the white was dressed very seedily. In fact, his shoes didn't match. Even Columbo has shoes that match.

  "Hey!" the bl
ack man yelled. He had a speaker's voice, with good projection. He and the other one started down the long office space past the row of interviewer's desks.

  Ginny turned, and saw the first one coming back from the dead-end wall, a big insincere smile spreading like a stocking-run across his face. "Well, hello, fellows!" he said. "You're up bright and early."

  "Yeah," said the black man. "And we caught us a worm." Exactly what he would have said on television. Ginny watched, fascinated.

  But now the scene took a turn into some other plot, because the alleged private eye stopped in front of the alleged cops, and smiled at them, and said, "You don't think I'd try to cut you boys out, do you?"

  The white had taken a pipe from his pocket, and now he smiled in a calm and amiable way, pointed the pipe at the non-private eye, and said, "My good friend, of course that's what you'd try to do. You're too stupid to do anything else."

  "Such kidders," said the nonprivate eye, with a big confident grin. "I got the info and I was on my way to the office. Can I give you fellows a lift?"

  "You sure can," said the black man, and the three of them walked out of the office together.

  Ginny gazed after them, frowning. Should Mrs. Harwood be told? Should Van Dinast be told? It was, after all, his car. Who was the villain in this piece, anyway?

  Maybe what Beacon Auto Transport ought to do, maybe Beacon Auto Transport ought to mind its own business. "Next!" said Ginny.

  The Castaway…

  SINCE BOBBI HAD already given up her room, she'd been taking all these phone calls at the Holiday Inn desk, and after the second conversation with the girl from Beacon Auto Transporters, she spent a minute leaning against that desk, brooding. It wasn't fair, that's all. Denied that terrific car, just after she'd gotten it. Falsely accused. And forced now to turn around and go back to New York, probably spend the whole weekend there before she could get another car to the Coast.

  The desk clerk, a neat and friendly young man in a 1957 haircut and a yellow blazer, came over and said, "Anything wrong?"