New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  “I’ll see you in an hour, Will.” It was not a question.

  “An hour.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Kane hung up. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the pay phone, the Act of Contrition beating on his conscience. He could smell the beer on his breath and was light-headed from drinking on an empty stomach and a long time since he’d last imbibed.

  A horn blasted. “Hey fuckwad! Move that piece of shit!”

  GRAMERCY, MANHATTAN

  An old woman walking a tiny, yappy dog with a sparkly collar along Gramercy Park West stared at Kane and the Jeep with the combination of disgust and trepidation the Romans must have felt looking over Hadrian’s Wall at the Picts painted in blue. It was likely she had a key to the gate into the actual Gramercy Park across the street, the only private park on the island of Manhattan, which summed up the neighborhood.

  The black doorman wore a coat that would work outside Buckingham Palace. He looked like he was part of the building; solid, old and distinguished in his uniform and despite the heat, not sweating. He surprised the old lady by indicating for Kane to park the Jeep in the loading zone.

  He shocked the old bitch when he opened the door to the lobby and gestured for Kane to enter the exclusive domain of 7 Gramercy Park West and greeted him with a smile: “William.”

  Kane nodded. “James. Thank you. How’s Malcolm?”

  James grimaced. “Taking too many pills. I try to talk to him, but what can I say? I don’t know what he’s feeling. What he’s been through.”

  Kane nodded. “It’s tough.”

  “Yeah,” James said, “it is. Maybe you can help him?”

  Kane’s regret at damnation deepened. “Right. I’ll talk with him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kane walked to the elevator. It dinged open and an older couple, dressed for dinner, gave him the once over, then the wife pointedly looked away. The man appeared ready to say something but Kane was hot and tired and damned for all eternity so he didn’t give the guy a chance, abruptly pushing past into the elevator.

  The operator, the doorman’s son, was in a wheelchair, both legs missing from mid-thigh. The empty pants legs of the uniform were neatly folded and safety pinned with a blanket, the material the same as the uniform. “Will.”

  “Malcolm.” Kane shook his hand. “How you doing?”

  Malcolm shoved the lever shutting the doors. Waited until they were closed before talking. “VA giving me a hard time about the meds.”

  “Fuck the VA,” Kane said.

  “Amen to that,” Malcolm said as he pushed the other lever for the desired floor. “You look like shit.”

  “I feel like shit.” Kane noted that Malcolm’s hand was shaking on the lever.

  Malcolm laughed. “You’ll feel better soon.”

  Kane’s face went red under the dark scruff.

  “Hey man,” Malcolm said. “Farrah is all right people. And you did right by her. And my dad and me by running that punk off. No need to feel weird.”

  “I was raised Catholic,” Kane said.

  “Hey, we’re all going to hell,” Malcolm said. “This is the least of your worries. Might as well go smiling. You still practice the faith?”

  “Nah.” Kane laughed. “Besides, I got plenty of things I’m already going to hell for including marrying outside the faith.”

  “I didn’t know you was married,” Malcolm said.

  “Not any longer.”

  “Fucking bitches. All of ‘em.”

  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. Malcolm opened the door.

  Kane stepped out, but paused with one foot still in the elevator. “Do you believe that?”

  “What? Bitches?”

  “Hell.”

  “Hell?” Malcolm shook his head. “We’ve already been there. You and I. We go to hell again, we’ll waste that Satan motherfucker together.” He made a gesture of firing a machinegun. “See how he’d like some seven-six-two up his ass. Go down fighting.”

  “Yeah. On your shield or with it.”

  Malcolm frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s what the Spartan women used to say to their men when they marched off to war. Either come back with your shield in hand or being carried on it. Coming back without the shield meant you threw it away and ran.”

  “Fuck that.” Malcolm laughed bitterly. “I can’t run, but I can fight.”

  “Roger that.” Kane removed his foot.

  The door slid shut.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” Kane asked as Farrah opened the door to the apartment.

  “Told you,” Farrah said. “I always have time for you.”

  Young, blond, slender, and wearing a sparkly, white dress with wide cleavage. Her breasts, which were small and crowned with eraser nipples, were exposed when she turned. The back was bare to right above the buttocks. Her skin was pale and flawless. She sported a silver disco-mesh necklace two inches thick. Farrah had big, blonde hair, modeled after her chosen namesake, the most popular Charlie’s Angel and current record-breaking poster girl.

  “Come on, Will.” Farrah led him along the hall and opened the door to the left. They entered a bedroom with a cozy queen-sized bed. The comforter was covered with pillows and stuffed animals. “Get comfortable.”

  Kane put the map case on a chair. Took the shirt off. He slid the A7A cargo strap he used as a belt out of the loops, making sure not to cut his fingers on the steel wire garrote fixed on the inside by a handful of threads. He put the holster and .45 on top of the map case. Removing the belt also released the sheath holding the shortened Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife in the middle of his back and he placed it next to the gun.

  “How do you sit with that thing?” Farrah asked. She made no move to undress.

  “Carefully.” Kane pulled the t-shirt over his head, revealing a crater of scar tissue on his lower left abdomen and a linear, thin pale scar across the top of his chest. A small ring, a miniature of Kane’s original West Point ring, hung on a steel chain around his neck along with two dog tags wrapped with black electrical tape.

  He paused, but Farrah was behind him. She ran her fingers down his chest, avoiding the ring and tags, across his stomach, and deftly unbuttoned the jungle fatigue pants.

  He was already hard which bothered him.

  She pressed up against him, still dressed, but he could feel her nipples through the material. She chuckled against his back. “The boots, Will. You always forget the boots.”

  “Sorry.” He leaned over, removed the boot bands and unbloused the pant legs. He pulled out the double knot at the top of the jungle boots, then awkwardly jerked the laces, removing them from the top holes. He shoved them off along with the socks.

  Farrah pushed his pants down. “Why don’t you wear underwear?” she asked as he stepped out and she guided him toward the bed.

  “Jungle rot,” Kane said. “Got used to not wearing any.”

  “Real sexy foreplay, Will. I have heard better.”

  She turned him toward her. Smiled. Pushed him gently to fall back on the bed. His feet were still on the floor as she got on the mattress. She pushed aside a pillow and knelt beside him. She leaned forward and kissed his neck. “’Jungle rot’? That doesn’t sound good at all.”

  “It’s not fun,” Kane said.

  “Relax,” Farrah murmured. Her left hand slid up his thigh, cupping his balls. She looked into his eyes. “Relax, Will. You’re safe.” Her right hand encircled him, coated with something warm and slippery as she stroked him. “You’re safe here.”

  Kane closed his eyes. He reached up and placed his hand on her back, fingers gently running along her smooth skin. His other hand went to his chest, covering the miniature ring and dog tags.

  “You’re safe,” Farrah breathed as she continued her ministrations.

  The muscles in Kane’s stomach were ridged as he tensed. His entire body was vibrating. Farrah continued to play him, each time pulling back right bef
ore he came.

  “There’s no hurry. You’re safe.”

  Kane exploded with a deep groan and she continued to stroke him for several moments, until he was done. A wave of shame and guilt tsunamied over him. A stern internal voice vowed never to come back.

  “Stay here,” she said.

  Kane nodded weakly, eyes still closed, sinking into the soft bed and depression. He reluctantly removed his hand from her back.

  She went to the bathroom. Ran hot water and soaked a washcloth. Came back and cleaned him off with gentle wipes.

  Kane finally opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

  Farrah laughed. “You are something, Will Kane. You’re the only guy who just wants a handjob.”

  Kane frowned. “What do you mean? Is it weird?”

  “No,” Farrah hurriedly said. “Not at all. I like it. I like feeling you in my hands.”

  “What do most guys want?” Kane sat up.

  Farrah had been drying him off with a towel but stopped. “I’m not going there.”

  “Sorry,” Kane said.

  Farrah put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. I like doing this with you, Will.” She got off the bed. Washcloth in one hand, towel in the other. “I’d like to do more with you.” She smiled. “A lot more.”

  Kane shook his head. “I’m sorry, Farrah.” He went to the chair holding his clothes and weapons. “I just can’t. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Your ex?”

  Kane pulled on his jungle fatigue pants. He buttoned them. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It wouldn’t feel right. Not because of you,” he hurriedly explained. “Nothing to do with you, Farrah. I’m fucked up. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “I don’t think you’re fucked up.” Farrah got off the bed and walked to him. She kissed him lightly on the lips, which was a first and surprised him. “At least not that much. Comparatively speaking.”

  “You know—" Kane began.

  “What?”

  “You’re the only person I’ve touched like that since I got back to the States this time and . . .“ He stumbled into silence.

  “You’re joking?” Farrah was shocked. “But you only touch my back.”

  Kane didn’t say anything as he sat and put on his boots.

  She turned away and put the towel and washcloth into a bin but Kane caught the grimace on her face. “Hey!”

  Farrah was startled at the abrupt change in Kane. She spun about. “What?”

  “You’re in pain. What happened?” He went to her.

  Farrah put a hand on his chest, pushing him away. “Easy. Something got a little out of hand a few days ago. But it’s okay now.”

  “Is that why you called me?”

  “I just wanted to see you,” she lied.

  “Bull. I told you to call me if something got out of hand. And you mean someone got out of hand.”

  Farrah smiled sadly. “Will, if I called you every time someone got a little freaky, you’d have to move in. It’s the life.”

  “What did he do?”

  “No. We’re not going there.”

  “You only get one of those,” Kane said. “What happened?”

  She indicated the necklace. “He got a little rough. Left marks. No one is supposed to do that.”

  “Let me see.”

  Farrah removed the necklace, revealing bruises, thumb on one side of her narrow neck, two fingers on the other.

  “Did you black out?” Kane examined them.

  “No. It was just a little too hard.” She replaced the necklace.

  “Who was it?” Kane pulled his t-shirt on. Then carefully began rethreading the A7A strap, looping it through the holster, which was Army issue, well-worn leather, mink oiled to suppleness, the flap cut off. A loop of parachute cord was woven around the lower part making it snug enough to keep the gun from falling out, but easy to draw. He passed the belt through the knife sheath in the middle of his back.

  “Just a guy.”

  “You seeing him again?”

  “If it’s the job.”

  “Let me know if he hurts you again,” Kane said, pulling the cargo strap belt tight. “I’ll straighten him out.” He slid the .45 into the holster.

  “I can’t have you straightening out the high rollers, Will. There’s this thin line.”

  Kane paused, denim shirt in hand. “What line?”

  Farrah looked toward the windows overseeing the green rectangle of Gramercy Park. “I don’t want to do this forever. I’ve been saving money. Most girls say that, but they’re snorting it or wasting it on clothes or shoes or have a pimp taking it or some bullshit. I been saving. I want enough to go someplace that isn’t the city and settle down. Have a good life.”

  “Where’s home?” Kane asked,

  “Oh no,” Farrah said, putting a finger on his lips. “You don’t go there. This is my home. Here and now and that’s all that matters. And I have to work that line. He was real sorry. Real sorry. I made an extra five hundred.”

  “Does he know where the line is?” Kane asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. The bruises will heal.”

  “What if he does something that doesn’t heal?”

  Farrah nudged him, pushing him toward the door. “I do have to be somewhere, Will.”

  “Do you carry a purse?”

  Farrah nodded.

  Kane reached down and drew a very short, double-edged knife from inside his left jungle boot.

  “I’m not going to ask how you walk with that in your boot,” Farrah said.

  He removed the sheath, unthreading it from inside the canvas upper of the boot. “Will this fit inside your purse?”

  “Yes, but—“

  He extended it. “I insist. I’ll rest easier knowing you have it.”

  “It’s pretty small.” Farrah laughed. “Those are three words I’m never, ever supposed to say.”

  “Three-inch blade,” Kane said, “but it’s razor sharp. Knives, even a small one, can be very effective. You don’t stab. Too many bones in the body unless you know exactly what you’re doing and where to do it. You slash. People, especially cowards, don’t like getting cut. Slash and then run. If you’re cornered, slash at the eyes. No one likes a knife coming toward their eyes.”

  “How do you know he’s a coward?”

  “Only a coward would hurt a woman.”

  “You have some peculiar notions.” Farrah reluctantly accepted the knife. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” She led him to the door. “But I love when you visit. It’s my favorite time.”

  “Really? Nah.”

  Farrah smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “Really. You know when I tell you to relax?”

  Kane nodded.

  “When you’re here, that’s what I can do.”

  “What about when you’re alone?” Kane asked. “Aren’t you relaxed?”

  “Take care of yourself, Will.”

  “She okay?” Kane asked Malcolm as the elevator rattled toward street level.

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “I don’t care for those guys that visit. You’re the only one who comes around that I like.”

  “Who hurt her?”

  “I didn’t know she got hurt,” Malcolm said.

  “Someone choked her. Left marks on her neck.”

  “We all got scars,” Malcolm said. “She’s just fighting a different war than we did.”

  “Your dad is worried you’re taking too many pills,” Kane said.

  “That was smooth, honkie,” Malcolm said. “Jump right into my personal shit with no preamble?”

  Kane had no response.

  The elevator halted with a slight jar. “You can’t save everyone, Kane.”

  “I’m not trying to,” Kane said. “I don’t even want to.”

  Malcolm pulled the lever and opened the doors. “Fuck the VA, man.”

  “Yeah. Fuck the VA,” Kane agreed. He walked into the lobby, the elevator shutting behind him. “I am not heartily sorry,” he muttered
to himself, just before James opened the lobby door.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

  Kane drew the .45, thumbing off the safety as it cleared the holster. The matchstick lay on the concrete in front of the doorjamb to his apartment. It was dusk and there was just enough light in the dark entryway for him to see the tell. He retreated and glanced up. The front bay window on the main floor of the brownstone glowed. Kane holstered the gun and climbed the main stairs. Knocked.

  “Come in,” his landlord called out in an English accent. “Door’s open.”

  Kane entered the main floor of the brownstone. He paused in the entry hall. “Hello?”

  “In the kitchen,” Pope announced.

  Kane passed through the sitting room and the hallway to the kitchen. The thin, old man sat in a comfortable armchair, facing a round wooden table. It was covered with newspapers and books, some open, others paged with index cards. The room had the pleasant aroma of pipe smoke that filtered the light from the reading lamp behind Pope. A teacup rested next to the book in front of him. Pope wore khaki shorts and a short sleeve, colorful Hawaiian shirt. He sported a white straw hat with a black band on his balding head, completing the image of a refugee from a bad thirties movie supposedly set in the tropics. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He raised the pipe slightly toward Kane, who acknowledged it with a finger to his right eyebrow.

  “Evening, William.”

  “Evening, Mister Pope.”

  “I’ve told you, young man, just Pope. Everyone at the paper called me that. All my friends and all my enemies and all the unwashed masses in between.” His British accent was unmuted by three decades in the city.

  Kane took a position where he half-faced Pope and the back door, with the old fridge flanking him toward the front of the building. “I’m wondering if you went into my apartment today?”

  “Not that I recall and I hope I am not yet at that stage of forgetfulness.”

  “Did you see anyone go in?”

  “I did not, but I was wandering the stacks most of the afternoon. You Colonists are savages in many respects, but the bastion of knowledge guarded by Patience and Fortitude is a wonderful exception.”