Manhattan Noir 2

by Lawrence Block

  When we left the museum, the snowflakes had ceased to fall. In the busy Manhattan streets there was no memory of them now. A bright harsh sun shone down almost vertically between the tall buildings but everywhere else was shadow, without color, and cold.

  By late afternoon Daddy and I had shopped at Tiffany & Co., and Bergdorf Goodman, and Saks, and Bloomingdale’s; we had purchased beautiful expensive items to be delivered to us at an address in New Jersey—“On the far side of the River Styx.” One purchase, at Steuben on Fifth Avenue, was a foot-high glass sculpture that might have been a woman, or an angel, or a wide-winged bird; it shone with light, so that you could almost not see it; Daddy laughed, saying, “The Ice Queen!—exactly”; and so this present was sent to Momma at 31 Central Park South. As we walked through the great glittering stores Daddy held my hand so that I would not be lost from him; these great stores, Daddy said, were the cathedrals of America; they were the shrines and reliquaries and catacombs of America; if you could not be happy in such stores, you could not be happy anywhere; you could not be a true American. And Daddy recited stories to me, some of these were fairy tales he’d read to me when I’d been a little little girl, a baby; when Daddy had lived with Momma and me, the three of us in a brownstone house with our own front door, and no doorman and no elevators; on our ground-floor windows there were curving iron bars, so that no one could break in; there were electronic devices of all kinds, so that no one could break in; our house had two trees at the curb, and these, too, were protected by curving iron bars; we lived in a narrow, quiet street a half-block from a huge, important building—the Metropolitan Museum of Art; when Daddy had been on television sometimes, and his photograph in the papers; they would say I knew nothing about this, I was too young to know, but I did; I knew. Just as I knew it was strange for Daddy to be paying for our presents with cash from his wallet, and out of thick-stuffed envelopes in his inside coat pockets; it was strange, for no one else paid in such a way; and others stared at him; stared at him as if memorizing him—the vigor of his voice and his shining face and his knowledge that he, and I, who was his daughter, were set off from the dull, dreary ordinariness of the rest of the world; they stared, they were envious of us, though smiling, always smiling, if Daddy glanced at them, or spoke with them. For such was Daddy’s power.

  I was dazed with exhaustion; I was feverish; I could not have said how long Daddy and I had been shopping, on our Saturday adventure; yet I loved it, that strangers observed us, and remarked how pretty I was; and to Daddy sometimes they would say, Your face is familiar, are you on TV? But Daddy just laughed and kept moving, for there was no time to spare that day.

  Out on the street, one of the wide, windy avenues, Daddy hailed a cab like any other pedestrian. When had he dismissed the limousine?—I couldn’t remember.

  It was a bumpy, jolting ride. The rear seat was torn. There was no heat. In the rearview mirror a pair of liquidy black eyes regarded Daddy with silent contempt. Daddy fumbled paying the fare, a $50 bill slipped from his fingers—“Keep the change, driver, and thanks!” Yet even then the eyes did not smile at us; these were not eyes to be purchased.

  We were in a dark, tiny wine cellar on 47th Street near Seventh Avenue where Daddy ordered a carafe of red wine for himself and a soft drink for me and where he could make telephone calls in a private room at the rear; I fell asleep, and when I woke up there was Daddy standing by our table, too restless to sit; his face was rubbery and looked stretched; his hair had fallen and lay in damp strands against his forehead; globules of sweat like oily pearls ran down his cheeks. He smiled with his mouth, saying, “There you are, Princess! Up and at ’em.” For already it was time to leave, and more than time. Daddy had learned from an aide the bad news, the news he’d been expecting. But shielding me from it of course. For only much later—years later—would I learn that, that afternoon, a warrant for Daddy’s arrest had been issued by the Manhattan district attorney’s office; by some of the very people for whom, until a few months ago, Daddy had worked. It would be charged against him that as a prosecuting attorney Daddy had misused the powers of his office, he had solicited and accepted bribes, he had committed perjury upon numerous occasions, he had falsely informed upon certain persons under investigation by the district attorney’s office, he had blackmailed others, he had embezzled funds … such charges were made against Daddy, such lies concocted by his enemies who had been jealous of him for many years and wanted him defeated, destroyed. One day I would learn that New York City police detectives had come to Daddy’s apartment (on East 92nd Street and First Avenue) to arrest him and of course hadn’t found him; they’d gone to 31 Central Park South and of course hadn’t found him; Momma told them Daddy had taken me to the Bronx Zoo, or in any case that had been his plan; Momma told them that Daddy would be bringing me back home at 5:30 p.m., or in any case he’d promised to do so; if they waited for him in the lobby downstairs would they please please not arrest him in front of his daughter, Momma begged. Yet policemen were sent to the Bronx Zoo to search for Daddy there; a manhunt for Daddy at the Bronx Zoo!—how Daddy would have laughed. And now an alert was out in Manhattan for Daddy, he was a “wanted” man, but already Daddy had shrewdly purchased a new coat in Saks, a London Fog trench coat the shade of damp stone, and made arrangements for the store to deliver his camel’s-hair coat to the New Jersey address; already Daddy had purchased a gray fedora hat, and he’d exchanged his amber-tinted sunglasses for darker glasses, with heavy black plastic frames; he’d purchased a knotty gnarled cane, imported from Australia, and walked now with a limp—I stared at him, almost I didn’t recognize him, and Daddy laughed at me. In the Shamrock Pub on Ninth Avenue and 39th Street he’d engaged a youngish blond woman with hair braided in cornrows to accompany us while he made several other stops; the blond woman had a glaring-bright face like a billboard; her eyes were ringed in black and lingered on me—“What a sweet, pretty little girl! And what a pretty coat and hat!”—but she knew not to ask questions. She walked with me gripping my hand in the angora glove pretending she was my momma and I was her little girl, and Daddy behind hobbling on his cane; shrewdly a few yards behind so it would not have seemed (if anyone was watching) that Daddy was with us; this was a game we were playing, Daddy said; it was a game that made me excited, and nervous; I was laughing and couldn’t stop; the blond woman scolded me—“Shhh! Your Daddy will be angry.” And a little later the blond woman was gone.

  Always in Manhattan, on the street I wonder if I’ll see her again. Excuse me I will cry out do you remember? That day, that hour? But it’s been years.

  So exhausted! Daddy scolded me carrying me out of the taxi, into the lobby of the Hotel Pierre; a beautiful old hotel on Fifth Avenue and 61st Street, across from Central Park; Daddy booked a suite for us on the sixteenth floor; you could look from a window to see the apartment building on Central Park South where Momma and I lived; but none of that was very real to me now; it wasn’t real to me that I had a momma, but only real that I had a daddy. And once we were inside the suite Daddy bolted the door and slid the chain lock in place. There were two TVs and Daddy turned them both on. He turned on the ventilator fans in all the rooms. He took the telephone receivers off their hooks. With a tiny key he unlocked the minibar and broke open a little bottle of whiskey and poured it into a glass and quickly drank. He was breathing hard, his eyes moving swiftly in their sockets yet without focus. “Princess! Get up please. Don’t disappoint your Daddy please.” I was lying on the floor, rolling my head from side to side. But I wasn’t crying. Daddy found a can of sweetened apple juice in the minibar and poured it into a glass and added something from another little bottle and gave it to me saying, “Princess, this is a magic potion. Drink!” I touched my lips to the glass but there was a bitter taste. Daddy said, “Princess, you must obey your daddy.” And so I did. A hot hurting sensation spread in my mouth and throat and I started to choke and Daddy pressed the palm of his hand over my mouth to quiet me; it was then I remembered how lon
g ago when I’d been a silly little baby Daddy had pressed the palm of his hand over my mouth to quiet me. I was sickish now, and I was frightened; but I was happy, too; I was drunk with happiness from all we’d done that day, Daddy and me; for I had never had so many presents before; I had never understood how special I was, before; and afterward when they asked if I’d been afraid of my daddy I would say no! no I hadn’t been! not for a minute! I love my daddy I would say, and my daddy loves me. Daddy was sitting on the edge of the big bed, drinking; his head lowered almost to his knees. He was muttering to himself as if he were alone—“Fuckers! Wouldn’t let me be good. Now you want to eat my heart. But not me.” Later I was wakened to something loud on the TV. Except it was a pounding at the door. And men’s voices calling “Police! Open up, Mr.—”—saying Daddy’s name as I’d never heard it before. And Daddy was on his feet, Daddy had his arm around me. Daddy was excited and angry and he had a gun in his hand—I knew it was a gun, I’d seen pictures of guns—this was bluish-black and shiny, with a short barrel—and he was waving the gun as if the men on the other side of the door could see him; there was a film of sweat on his face catching the light, like facets of diamonds; I had never seen my Daddy so furious calling to the policemen—“I’ve got my little girl here, my daughter—and I’ve got a gun.” But they were pounding at the door; they were breaking down the door; Daddy fired the gun into the air and pulled me into another room where the TV was loud but there were no lights; Daddy pushed me down, panting; the two of us on the carpet, panting. I was too scared to cry, and I started to wet my pants; in the other room the policemen were calling to Daddy to surrender his weapon, not to hurt anyone but to surrender his weapon and come with them now; and Daddy was sobbing shouting—“I’ll use it, I’m not afraid—I’m not going to prison—I can’t!—I can’t do it!—I’ve got my little girl here, you understand?”—and the policemen were on the other side of the doorway but wouldn’t show themselves saying to Daddy he didn’t want to hurt his daughter, of course he didn’t want to hurt his daughter; he didn’t want to hurt himself, or anyone; he should surrender his weapon now, and come along quietly with the officers; he would speak with his lawyer; he would be all right; and Daddy was cursing, and Daddy was crying, and Daddy was crawling on his hands and knees on the carpet trying to hold me, and the gun; we were crouched in the farthest darkest corner of the room by the heating unit; the ventilator fan was throbbing; Daddy was hugging me and crying, his breath was hot on my face; I tried to push out of Daddy’s arms but Daddy was too strong calling me Princess! Little Princess! saying I knew he loved me didn’t I. The magic potion had made me sleepy and sickish, it was hard for me to stay awake. By now I had wet my panties, my legs were damp and chafed. A man was talking to Daddy in a loud clear voice like a TV voice and Daddy was listening or seemed to be listening and sometimes Daddy would reply and sometimes not; how much time passed like this, how many hours—I didn’t know; not until years later would I learn it had been an hour and twelve minutes but at the time I hadn’t any idea, I wasn’t always awake. The voices kept on and on; men’s voices; one of them saying repeatedly, “Mr.—, surrender your weapon, will you? Toss it where we can see it, will you?” and Daddy wiped his face on his shirt sleeve, Daddy’s face was streaked with tears like something melting set too near a fire, and still the voice said, calmly, so loud it seemed to come from everywhere at once, “Mr.—, you’re not a man to harm a little girl, we know you, you’re a good man, you’re not a man to harm anyone,” and suddenly Daddy said, “Yes! Yes that’s right.” And Daddy kissed me on the side of the face and said, “Good-bye, Princess!” in a high, happy voice; and pushed me away from him; and Daddy placed the barrel of the gun deep inside his mouth. And Daddy pulled the trigger.

  So it ended. It always ends. But don’t tell me there isn’t happiness. It exists, it’s there. You just have to find it, and you have to keep it, if you can. It won’t last, but it’s there.

  IN FOR A PENNY

  BY LAWRENCE BLOCK

  Eighth Avenue

  (Originally published in 1999)

  Paul kept it very simple. That seemed to be the secret. You kept it simple, you drew firm lines and didn’t cross them. You put one foot in front of the other, took it day by day, and let the days mount up.

  The state didn’t take an interest. They put you back on the street with a cheap suit and figured you’d be back inside before the pants got shiny. But other people cared. This one outfit, about two parts ex-cons to one part holy joes, had wised him up and helped him out. They’d found him a job and a place to live, and what more did he need?

  The job wasn’t much, frying eggs and flipping burgers in a diner at 23rd and Eighth. The room wasn’t much, either, seven blocks south of the diner, four flights up from the street. It was small, and all you could see from its window was the back of another building. The furnishings were minimal—an iron bedstead, a beat-up dresser, a rickety chair—and the walls needed paint and the floor needed carpet. There was a sink in the room, a bathroom down the hall. No cooking, no pets, no overnight guests, the landlady told him. No kidding, he thought.

  His shift was four to midnight, Monday through Friday. The first weekend he did nothing but go to the movies, and by Sunday night he was ready to climb the wall. Too much time to kill, too few ways to kill it that wouldn’t get him in trouble. How many movies could you sit through? And a movie cost him two hours’ pay, and if you spent the whole weekend dragging yourself from one movie house to another …

  Weekends were dangerous, one of the ex-cons had told him. Weekends could put you back in the joint. There ought to be a law against weekends.