by Steven Gould
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to go to his house. I didn’t know what his parents would say to me or about me to Dad. The thought of going to that party, though... that really tempted me. “Could you pick me up here?”
“Sure. Eight sharp, Saturday night.”
I spent some time that evening talking to Millie on the phone. It was frustrating because I kept having to put quarters in the pay phone.
“So, how’s school so far?”
“Okay. Haven’t really had to struggle yet. It’s just the first month.”
A recorded message asked me to add more money. I shoved several quarters in. Millie laughed.
“You really need to get a phone.”
“I’m working on it. Getting a phone in New York... I’ll call you with the number when I get it.”
“Okay.”
I was standing at the phones in the back lobby of the Grand Hyatt by Grand Central, a small mountain of quarters on the ledge in front of me. People swept past, going to the bathrooms. Occasionally a Hyatt security man in a suit would roust nonguests out of the bathroom. They were usually black, poorly dressed, and carrying plastic bags filled with miscellaneous belongings.
For some reason it bothered me that the security guard was black, too.
“What did you say?”
Millie was indignant. “I said there’s a party I’ve been invited to in two weeks. I don’t want to go because Mark will be there.”
“Mark’s your old boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Only he thinks I’m still involved with him.”
“How’s that? I thought you didn’t return his calls or let him in your apartment.”
“I don’t. He’s amazing. Oblivious. And the sonofabitch keeps it up even though I know he’s dating someone else.”
“Hmmm. You sound like you’d really like to go to this party.”
“Well. Shit. I don’t want to make decisions based on avoiding or seeing him. It pisses me off.”
“I could—”
The recording had me put more money in.
“What did you say, David?”
“I could go with you if you like.”
“Get real. You’re in New York.”
“Sure. Now. In two weeks I could be in Stillwater.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Well, it would be nice. I’ll believe it when I see it, though.”
“Hey! Count on it. Will you pick me up at the airport? Or should I take a taxi?”
“Christ! A taxi won’t run sixty miles to Stillwater. I’ll come get you, but it will have to be after classes.”
“Okay.”
“What, you mean it?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet again. “Well, okay then. Let me know.”
That took care of my next two Saturday nights. I said good-bye and hung up. The security guard came out of the rest room following closely behind another street person. I swept the rest of the quarters off the ledge and dropped them in one of this guy’s plastic bags. He looked at me, startled and, perhaps, a little frightened. The security man glowered at me.
I walked around the corner and jumped away.
Leo Pasquale was a bellboy at the Gramercy Park, the nice hotel I’d stayed at before I got my apartment. He was the winner in the hotel-staff dominance due over who waited on me.
I tip well.
“Hey, Mr. Rice. Nice to see you.”
I nodded. “Hello, Leo.”
“Are you back with us? What room?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve got an apartment now. I could use your help with something, though.”
He looked around at the bell captain, then tilted his head to the elevator. “Let’s ride up to ten.”
“Okay.”
On the tenth floor he led me down the hall and opened a room with a passkey. “Come on in,” he said.
The room was a suite. He opened a door and we walked out onto a large balcony, almost a terrace. The afternoon was pleasant, warm without being muggy. The traffic noise rose up from Lexington Avenue in waves, almost like surf. Buildings rose around us like mountain cliffs.
“What do you need, David? Girls? Something in a recreational drug?”
I took the money out of my pocket and counted out five hundred-dollar bills. I gave them to him and held the remaining five hundred in my other hand where they were still visible.
“Down payment. The rest you get on delivery.”
He licked his lips. “Delivery of what?”
It was my turn to hesitate. “I want a New York State driver’s license good enough to pass a police check.”
“Hell, man. You can buy a fake driver’s license for less than a hundred... a good one for under two-fifty.”
I shook my head. “Your money is just a finder’s fee, Leo. I’m not paying for a fake ID with this thousand. I’m paying to be hooked up with an expert. I expect to pay for his services myself.”
Leo raised his eyebrows and licked his lips again. “All of the thousand is mine, though?”
“If you come up with the product. But if it’s hackwork, if it’s no good, forget the second five hundred. Find me a wizard and the rest of the money is yours. Can you do it?”
He rubbed the bills between his fingers, feeling the texture of the paper. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure. I don’t know anyone directly, but I know a lot of illegals with really good papers. You got a number I can reach you at?”
I smiled. “No.”
“Cagey.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have a phone. I’ll check back. When will you know something?”
He folded the money carefully and put it in his pocket. “Try me tomorrow.”
I paid a homeless man twenty dollars plus cost to go into a liquor store and buy a magnum of their more expensive champagne. He came out with the large bottle in one hand and a jug of wine under his other arm.
“Here, kid. Have a hell of a time. I certainly intend to.”
I thought of Dad. I considered taking this guy’s wine away from him, grabbing it and jumping before he could do anything. Instead I said “Thank you” politely and jumped back to my apartment as soon as he’d turned away.
The champagne barely fit in the tiny refrigerator lying down, but not standing, and even then it bumped against the door. I leaned a chair against the door to keep it shut.
I spent the next two hours up on Fifth Avenue, buying clothes and shoes. A few of the clerks even remembered me. After that I went to my hairstylist in the Village and got a haircut.
You don’t even like those people, Davy. Why all the fuss?
I shaved carefully, scraping the few whiskers from my face with only a few nicks. I resolved to buy an electric razor. Hope the bleeding stops before tonight. The face in the mirror was a stranger’s, quiet and calm. There was no trace of the shaky stomach or the pounding heart. I wiped at the tiny bright beads of blood with a damp finger, smearing them.
Hell.
I still had three hours before the party, but I didn’t want to read or sleep or watch the tube. I dressed in some of the old, comfortable clothes, the ones I brought with me to New York, and jumped to the backyard of Dad’s house.
The car wasn’t there. I jumped to my room.
There was a thin film of dust on the desk and windowsill. There was the faint smell of mildew. I tried to open the door to the hall, but the door was stuck. I pulled harder, but it wouldn’t budge.
I jumped to the hallway.
There was a bright, shiny padlock hasp screwed into the wood on the door and frame. A large brass padlock held it secure. I scratched my head. What on earth?
I walked down the hall to the kitchen and found the note on the refrigerator.
Davy,
What do you want? Why don’t you just come home? I promise not to hit you anymore. I’m sorry about that. Sometimes my temper gets the better of me. I wish you wouldn’t keep coming into the house unless you’re coming home for good. It scares me. I might mistake you for a burglar and a
ccidentally shoot you. Just come home, okay?
Dad
It was held to the refrigerator by a magnet I’d decorated in elementary school, a clay blob in green and blue. I slipped the note out and crumpled it into a little ball.
More promises. Well, there’s been enough broken promises in the past. As an afterthought I uncrumpled one corner of the note and stuck it back under the magnet. It hung there, a ball of paper held to the refrigerator by the blob of colored clay.
Let’s see what he thinks of that.
I was angry and my head hurt. Why do I keep coming back here? I picked up the flour canister from the counter. It was a large glass jar with a wooden top. I tossed it up, high above the floor. It slowed, just below the ceiling, hung there, and then dropped. Before it hit the floor I jumped.
Chapter 6
“Christ, where do you get your clothes?”
I shrugged instead of answering and climbed into Robert’s car. The springs creaked and I had to slam the door twice before it would catch. I put the champagne bottle on the seat between us, a white ribbon tied around its neck.
Robert eased out of the parking lot gingerly, the springs rocking excessively as we went over the gutter. “Shocks are shot,” he said. “But it’s ugly.”
“Great. How many people are going to be at this party?”
He waved his free hand. “Oh, fifty, a hundred, who knows. They got band for it, I think. She can afford it.”
“What will her parents be doing?”
“They’re out of state.”
Good.
We had to park half a block down the street because of the accumulated cars. There was a crowd of Stanville High football players standing around the front door, beer cans and cigarettes in hand and mouth. We threaded our way between them.
One of them called out, “Who’s your date, Robert?”
Robert just kept on walking like he hadn’t heard, but I saw his neck turn red. I paused at the door and looked around. They were all grinning. The one who spoke was Kevin Giamotti, who used to extort lunch money from me in junior high. I looked at him, my stomach knotting for a second, my heart beating faster.
Christ, he’s just a kid!
I shook my head and started to laugh. Compared to those guys in the alley near Times Square, Kevin was a baby. And I’d been scared of him? It seemed ridiculous.
Kevin stopped grinning. “What?” He started to frown.
“Nothing,” I said, waving my hand. “Absolutely nothing.” I turned, laughing even harder, almost uncontrollably, and went into the house.
Sue Kimmel stood at the end of the hall talking with a couple who seemed far more interested in touching each other than listening to her.
“You two in heat or what?” she said. “The bar’s in the living room. If you’re going to drink, give your keys to Tommy. He’s behind the bar.”
The couple moved on, joined permanently at hip and lip.
“Hello, Robert. Who’s this?”
Robert opened his mouth and I said quickly, “I’m David.” I brought the bottle from behind me and presented it with a slight bow. “So nice of you to let me come.”
She raised her eyebrows and took the bottle. “The pleasure, Miss Doolittle, is all mine, I’m sure. Bollinger? They don’t sell this around here. Folks around here think Andre’s is hot shit.” She touched the bow and ran her finger down the condensation on the bottle. “Where did you get it?”
I swallowed and said, “My refrigerator.”
She laughed. “Subtle. Well, I shan’t stare down the horse’s mouth any longer.” She looked at Robert. “Trish was looking for you. She’s out on the patio.”
“Thanks, Sue.” He turned to me, “You want to meet Trish?”
I started to say something but Sue Kimmel said, “I’ll bring him along in a minute. After we open this.”
I found myself being gently steered down the hall and into a large room crowded with men and women my age or older. The temperature was several degrees higher than in the hallway. I loosened my tie and followed as Sue pushed her way through the crowd, using the cold, wet champagne bottle as a shepherd’s crook, steering people right and left by touching exposed skin or thin cloth.
We finally ended up at a long bar running the length of the far wall. A big man, perhaps six feet four, stood behind the bar, using a built-in tap to fill a beer mug for one of the guys pressed up against the bar. He wore a strap over his shoulder festooned with car keys.
“Yo, Tommy!”
“Yo, Sue.”
She put the magnum of Bollinger on the counter. “Glasses.”
“Yo.”
He pulled two wineglasses off a rack behind the bar.
“Not those... the flutes. Christ, Tommy. Champagne flutes.”
She looked over at me and rolled her eyes. Tommy blushed.
“I use mason jars myself,” I said. I smiled at Tommy and he nodded after a minute, then moved down the bar to fill another beer mug.
“Well?”
I turned to Sue and raised my eyebrows.
She gestured at the bottle.
“Oh, well, okay.”
I’d read up on opening champagne, just in case this happened. The lead foil came off pretty much like it should and I started on the wire, untwisting and lifting it gently away from the cork. The way Sue had swung it around, I was afraid it might go off like a bomb.
The book I read said to ease the cork out gently, keeping a firm grip on the cork, to prevent it from flying off and hitting someone. Shooting the cork off, the book said, “was for buffoons and fops.”
I tried to ease it out, but the thing seemed immovable. I resorted to tugging and twisting, but it still wouldn’t move. I lifted it off the bar and put it between my legs, so I could get a better grip. This put my head down at the level of Sue’s breasts.
“My, David? What’s that between your legs?” She put a hand behind my head and pulled me slightly closer. My forehead bumped against the hollow of her throat and I stared straight down her dress. She smelled of perfume and skin.
I tried to straighten up, my ears and face burning. The cork loosened slightly in the neck of the bottle. I managed to pull away from Sue.
Sue was laughing, watching me blush. Then her smile died and I felt a hand grab my shoulder and pull me around. A voice, loud and deep, shouted in my ear. “What the fuck you doing with my girl?”
He wasn’t as big as Tommy, but he still towered over me, large, blond, bearded. I stared at him, blank, still holding the unopened bottle. He shoved me and I took a step back, bumping into the bar and Sue, and inadvertently shook the champagne. That’s when it went off.
The cork caught him on the chin, snapping his mouth shut on his tongue. Champagne geysered forth, soaking both him and me. I stared in horror, trying in vain to stop the flood with my thumb. This just caused the foam to spray rather than gush.
Beside me I heard Sue say, almost under her breath, “Premature ejaculation... again.”
“You little shit!”
He lunged for me, his hands going for my throat. I dropped, collapsing into a ball, his weight coming down on top of me, covering me, hiding me.
I jumped.
The champagne-soaked tie and shirt made a wet thwack as it hit the wall in my bathroom. “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.”
Why does this shit always happen to me?
There was an ache in my throat and I wanted to punch something, break things. I stared at myself in the mirror.
Wet hair plastered my forehead and my jaw was clenched tightly shut. The muscles stood out on the side of my face and neck. I relaxed my jaw and found that my teeth had been aching. I took deep breaths, leaning forward on the counter.
After a minute I ran cold water and washed my face and rinsed the hair in front, to get rid of the wine smell. I combed my hair back in a slick, smooth shell.
The difference in my appearance was striking. My hair looked much darker and the shape of my head was changed. I frowned, then we
nt into the bedroom and picked out a black shirt with a stiff, upright collar. I put it on and checked out the result in the mirror.
I looked very little like the boy who walked into Sue Kimmel’s with the champagne.
I jumped.
The football players had abandoned the front porch, but their spoor, crushed beer cans and cigarette butts, dotted the walk and grass. Even before I got to the house I could tell that the band had started—bass and drumbeat shook the sidewalk and made the windows rattle. I opened the door and the sound struck me with almost palpable force.
I considered jumping home again, but took a deep breath and leaned into the noise.
The hall was more crowded than before, but when I finally won free to the room with bar, it was less so. The wall of noise came from the other end of the room. I could see people dancing like they were insane.
There were only a couple of people at the bar, though Tommy was still behind it, drumming on the surface in time with the music. There were twice as many keys around his neck as before.
I hooked a foot on the bar rail and leaned my elbows forward. He glanced at me, then looked again. He came down to the end of the bar and shouted over the music. “Christ. You sure changed quick. I thought I knew everybody who lived in this neighborhood.”
I shook my head. “You probably do. I’m not from around here.”
“Well, you sure faded fast. Sue was looking for you.”
“Oh?”
He reached down behind the bar and came up with the magnum of Bollinger’s. “There’s some left. You probably could have drained a quart from Lester’s shirt, but that would taste rancid.” He pulled down a tulip glass and filled it, draining the bottle to do so.
“Was Lester the guy who jumped me?”
“Yeah. Sue sent him home. She was furious.”
I smiled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come back myself. I’m glad he’s not here though.”
Tommy nodded. “He could fall down a hole for all I care.”
I blinked. “Don’t like him, eh?”
He nodded, grinned, and went down to the other end of the bar.
The champagne tasted like unsweetened ginger ale, its aftertaste unpleasant. I looked in the bar mirror and un-wrinkled my nose. I shifted my grip on the glass, trying to look more sophisticated, less awkward. I sipped at the champagne again and shuddered.