“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Sweets said. “That’s pretty smart. Hiding behind a pingpong ball.”
Isaac wouldn’t answer him. He kept hitting the ball with King Carol.
“You’ve been following me,” Barbarossa said to Sweets. “And you brought your triggerman.”
“I’m no trigger, Joey,” Wig said. “I’m just one more colored scout in the white man’s war.”
“Cut it,” Sweets said. And he reached out with his huge paw and grabbed the ball out of the air. “All right, Mr. Mayor. You can have your command post. This pingpong club. And two men. Wig and Barbarossa.”
Isaac groaned. “They’ll kill each other. I’ll never catch the Knickerbocker Boys.”
“That’s all you’re getting, Mr. Mayor. Good-bye.”
And Sweets abandoned Isaac to the pingpong club and his little gang of cops.
7.
Isaac couldn’t understand this new language of rubber and sponge. The players around him kept ripping off the rubber skin of their bats and gluing on other skins. Nothing seemed stable in the world of pingpong. He had his coach, King Carol, and his Butterfly. Now he wore short pants all the time, like a little kid. He hadn’t meant to make this voyage to Schiller’s club. It was utterly unconscious. He’d arrived in his bum’s clothes, Schiller glaring at him. Isaac saw Coen’s table and started to cry. He missed that blue-eyed angel. He’d messed up Coen’s marriage, and he’d have to bear the truth of his own machinations. Manfred’s wife divorced him, and the kid floated into his own alpha state with a pingpong ball. Marilyn fell in love with him. Isaac was jealous. He himself had gone into deep cover, lived in a candy store with the Guzmanns as a disgraced cop. Manfred Coen got caught in the middle and died at the pingpong club.
“Schiller,” he’d said, “it’s my fault … shouldn’t have left Blue Eyes out there all alone … ah, he was a good kid. I have conversations with him in my head … forgive me, please.”
He was shivering. The old man put a blanket around him, adopted this bum who was also the mayor-elect. And Isaac had his sanctuary, Coen’s table and Coen’s closet. The kibbitzers couldn’t make up their minds about Isaac, whom they considered both a killer and a king. It was Schiller who laid down the law. Isaac had become the club’s personal pilgrim. And anyone who showed him disrespect would be cast out of the club.
The weight of his own solitude fell off Isaac. He had a mentor, Emmanuel Schiller, and a coach, Carol, who wasn’t a real king but had a similar name to Isaac’s former adjutant, Caroll Brent. Caroll was Papa Cassidy’s son-in-law. He’d quit the Department and had become a private detective in New Hampshire. But he wasn’t a pingpong player like King Carol. Isaac knew that Carol was a lout, but he developed a camaraderie with the Roumanian. They talked pingpong. He listened to his coach.
“You have to love the ball,” Carol said.
“But what if I can’t?”
“Then you won’t find any peace at the table.”
“You’ll be caught in a dark closet,” said Schiller, the club’s Rousseau. And Isaac learned to love the ball. Ping-pong was a meditative game in motion. He was like a monk who had to find his own particular light. But he had too many ghosts behind the bite of his Butterfly. He’d never reach satori. But he tried.
“Schiller,” he said, “I’m going to abdicate.”
“Keep quiet.”
“I’ll devote my life to pingpong.”
“We don’t accept shirkers at this club. If you won’t walk to your coronation, then we’ll carry you.”
“Can we move the club into Gracie Mansion?”
“Not a chance.”
“They’ll isolate me, those budget directors and their builder friends. Will you become my first deputy mayor?”
“Shut up, Sidel. I never finished high school … you’ll convene at the club once or twice a week. You’ll play and we’ll have a dialogue. But don’t shove me into your administration.”
Isaac didn’t have Margaret Tolstoy, but he was as happy as a mayor-king could get under the circumstances. He was still haunted by his alias, Geronimo Jones. A fourth Geronimo was found dead with a note stuffed into his mouth.
Must we pay taxes for all this vermin?
—The Knickerbocker Boys
There was the same poetic list of madmen:
Monte Ward
Will White
Jay Penny
Long John Silver
Sam Wise
Jesse Nichols
Morris deMorris
Alexander Hamilton
Herman Long
Tobias Little
Isaac could have sworn that he knew Jay Penny and Tobias Little somewhere in his life. He sent out his own unlikely team, Barbarossa and Wig, to find some fucking handle. There was a Tobias Little in the Manhattan phone book. But he was eighty-seven years old and had lost the power of speech. There were two Will Whites, but neither of them seemed close to any lunatic fringe.
Isaac concentrated on his game. If he loved the ball enough, it might bring him some answers. Monte Ward, Sam Wise …
A woman with a blond mop walked into the club. Margaret Tolstoy. And a companion she didn’t have to introduce. It was Quentin Kahn, publisher of Pingpong Power, the bible of all the kibbitzers at the club. Quentin traveled throughout the world, reporting on every major tournament. It was Quent who got Carol out of Roumania and installed him at Schiller’s, it was Quent who kept the real-estate barons off Schiller’s back. The barons wanted to buy out Schiller’s lease, destroy the building, and put up one more glass and stone apartment house on Columbus Avenue. Quent ran a massage parlor, but the kibbitzers weren’t moralists about other people’s money.
Isaac was wickedly jealous. He knew Margaret was sleeping with Quentin Kahn. Quent must have been the trafficker she’d talked about, the mutt who was grabbing blue-eyed children out of Roumania. Isaac had to take another look at King Carol. His coach was one of Quentin’s pirates. And Isaac had to use all his power to separate this pirate from the art of pingpong and continue to love the ball.
“Isaac,” Margaret said, “this is Quentin Kahn, one of your admirers.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Quentin said, “it’s a treat to know that you’re a fan of table tennis.”
“I’m not a fan,” Isaac said, attempting to hide his truculence. “I’m a beginner … King Carol is my coach.”
“His name is Michael Cuza. He was the number five player in the world. I’m the one who began calling him Carol. Carol was the first king of Roumania, and his grand-nephew, Carol the Second, was also a king.”
“I know all about Roumania, Mr. Kahn. And Carol’s a terrific coach.”
“Would you write an article for us, giving your impressions of table tennis? I run a little magazine. Schiller must have told you about it.”
“Pingpong Power,” Isaac said.
“That’s it. Nothing formal, Mr. Mayor. Just your impressions. Our readers would love it. The magazine is published all over the world.”
I’m sure it is, you fucking child buyer, Isaac muttered to himself. He was growing paranoid in Margaret’s presence. He wondered if Schiller had something to do with the scam. No, he decided. Not Schiller. Not his gallery of kibbitzers. Just Quentin Kahn and King Carol. Margaret smiled at Carol, and that other king didn’t like it.
“I’d love to take you to lunch, Mr. Mayor.”
“That could be considered a form of bribery,” Isaac said, with a barbaric smile.
“You haven’t been installed yet. You’re not a sitting mayor.”
“But I will be.”
“Then we’ll have to have our lunch as soon as we can.”
“I’ll consult my calendar and get back to you, Mr. Kahn.”
“Please. I’m a friend. I contributed to your campaign. Didn’t Papa Cassidy tell you that?”
“I never discuss finances with the treasurer of my campaign.”
“That’s a novel idea. Mistreating your own contributors.”
“
I mistreat no one,” Isaac said. “I’ll have lunch with you. Next week.”
Quentin Kahn shook Isaac’s hand and left with Margaret, who smiled at Carol for a second time but wouldn’t even wink at Isaac. He wasn’t heartbroken. He was morose. But he had a sudden flash of pingpong satori. Quentin’s magazine was the perfect vehicle for selling blue-eyed kids. A want ad, a personal column with a very discreet message.
He had murder in his blood. He’d come to pingpong with his own odd innocence, the vagabond king. And he’d uncovered one more nest of rattlesnakes. It wasn’t Schiller’s nest. Isaac had grown to love the old man in less than a week. Schiller wouldn’t buy or sell children. But the Roumanian would. Isaac had to smile at his coach, treat him like some Zen master. But he’d destroy Quentin Kahn and make Carol choke on a pingpong ball.
Ah, he forgot. He had to love the ball. He couldn’t use it as a weapon.
8.
The king showered at Schiller’s, shampooed his hair. He had to look presentable. He changed his clothes, sang a little song to himself. Will White, where are you? But the Knickerbocker Boys would have to wait. Isaac walked down to the Ali Baba, paid his admission fee. He was in an enormous cave lit with blue lamps. He passed the different booths. None of the girls appealed to him, black, white, or brown. They had a hard, lascivious look, like demons in a blue haze. But he did see one girl whose eyes didn’t swallow up Isaac with some pretended lust. She was black, around thirty. She yawned and Isaac entered her booth.
“Honey,” she said, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Are you a cop?”
“Yes … no. I’m not a cop. I’m about to start a new job. What’s your name?”
“Yolanda,” she said.
Isaac insisted. “Your real name.”
“Josepha Church.”
“Please,” Isaac muttered. She must have felt the persuasion of a king in Isaac’s eyes. She didn’t yawn now.
“I’m Rita Mae. And who are you, hon?”
“Geronimo Jones.”
“Mistuh,” she said, “that’s not a healthy name to have. You are a cop.”
“No. I’m also Isaac Sidel.”
“The white boy who’s gonna be mayor?”
He wagged his head.
“Shame on you. Trying to trick a girl. Why the hell are you in a snatch house? Doin’ some research, Mr. Mayor?”
“I saw your face, and …”
“My face, huh? And my ass and my tits. Show me yours, Mr. Mayor.”
Isaac was caught in his own fucking trap. He started to stutter.
“Show me yours,” she said.
He unbuttoned his fly, held his own prick in his hand. He was amazed at its magnificence. Rita was the only other woman who’d given him a hard-on since Margaret Tolstoy reentered his life. Isaac already felt unfaithful. It was madness. Margaret seduced gangsters for the FBI, and Isaac was inside the Ali Baba with a black prostitute.
“Hon, do you want a date?”
“I’d like to talk to you, Rita.”
“Still doin’ research, huh? There’s a little chapel upstairs. We could pray together, hon … but I can’t talk about the price. Meet you in ten minutes.”
A dark curtain dropped over her window and Rita Mae disappeared. Isaac went back into the long corridor of blue light. He continued to carry that elephant stick inside his pants. He whistled to himself, Will White, Will White. He seemed to float. He wasn’t floating. Several pairs of arms were carrying him along. He was whisked away from the blue light, deposited into some secret closet inside another closet. This closet was equipped with radios and recording machines. Isaac could smell the FBI. Fucking Frederic LeComte had established his own little station inside the Ali Baba. He didn’t have his usual Mormon accomplices. Frederic’s agents were all black. They had contempt for Isaac Sidel, the vagabond king.
“Where’s LeComte?” Isaac asked.
“Shut your mouth.”
LeComte arrived like some sword-swallower through a trick door. He wagged his finger at Isaac. He wasn’t dressed in his ordinary blue on blue. The Ali Baba was a different country. He looked like a hayseed, an out-of-town hick in red socks and a mail-order suit. It was a clever disguise, Isaac had to admit. The cultural commissar of Justice was playing himself, without the color blue.
“This place is off limits. Isaac, do you read me?”
“I’m the mayor-elect. I walk wherever I want.”
The black agents laughed at Isaac. They had brilliant white teeth.
“You’re nothing … shit on a stick,” the agents said.
“You’ll blow our cover,” LeComte said. “You’re the most recognizable man in New York. That’s a fact. Not even Paul Newman gets as much eyeball as Isaac Sidel.”
“Yeah, I’m a superstar,” said the king.
“It’s honeymoon time. Enjoy it.”
“Fuck you, Frederic.”
The black agents formed a close circle around Sidel. But LeComte wouldn’t let them have their circle. He shooed them away from the king.
“Where’s Margaret?” Isaac had to ask.
“You know where she is. With Quentin Kahn. You’re not going to spoil my case against Quent. That mother is going down. And don’t you meddle.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, LeComte. But grab him before January. Because my first act as mayor will be to shut the Ali Baba.”
LeComte started to groan. “Get out of here. Go on. Chase the Knickerbocker Boys. That’s your meat.”
“I guess the FBI doesn’t give a fuck about homeless men.”
“We don’t have jurisdiction over the shelters. That’s a local affair.”
“Local affair,” Isaac muttered. “And Quentin Kahn is more important, huh?”
“He’s marketing children, Isaac. He’s stealing them out of Eastern Europe and making a fortune. Can you imagine? Mothers and fathers selling their own kids?”
“You’ll sell anything if you’re hungry enough.”
“Or greedy enough. It’s like running a chicken farm. You take a blue-eyed kid, fatten him up, sell him to the highest bidder.”
“It’s just another kind of madness.”
“Madness? It’s a multimillion-dollar industry. And Quentin Kahn is behind it all … you’ll blow it for us if you come here again.”
“Quentin contributed to my campaign. I’m having lunch with him next week.”
“You’ll never make it to that lunch. I’ll tie you to your pingpong table.”
“Grand,” Isaac said. “I’ll have long discussions with King Carol about the children’s market in Roumania. Good-bye, LeComte.”
The black agents walked him out of LeComte’s closet. He’d lost his erection while he was with the FBIs. He thought of Rita Mae behind her window. One more damsel in distress. He loved Margaret, but he was Rita’s knight. He left the blue haze of the Ali Baba and blinked his way back into the sunlight.
9.
Reporters began showing up at Schiller’s club. LeComte must have given them the king’s new address. Isaac had to hold a press conference near the kibbitzers’ gallery.
“Mr. Mayor, can you tell us something about your administration?”
The king had to lie a little. “It’s firming up.”
“Will Martin Malik be your main deputy?”
“I’m considering Malik, but that hasn’t been decided yet.”
“But you haven’t named one commissioner.”
“I’ll have my team in place by Christmas.”
“What about the budget, Mr. Mayor? Will fiscal ’eighty-six be a bounty year? Or will we have less in the pot than ’eighty-five.”
“I won’t anticipate revenues,” the king said, sounding like a mayor. “That’s premature.”
“Can you tell us anything about the Knickerbocker Boys? Are they white supremacists, part of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“Maybe. I’ll destroy them, whoever they are.”
“I don’t have a control room. You don’t do politics at a pingpong club. You play pingpong. And Ms. Rebecca isn’t leaving the mansion. She’ll stay on as my guest.”
“How are we to interpret that?”
“There’s nothing to interpret. I’m allowed to have guests.”
“Will Ms. Rebecca be part of your administration?”
“Officially? No. But she will advise me.”
“Aren’t you getting a little too close to one of New York’s least popular mayors?”
“She’s been a good soldier. I value Rebecca Karp.”
“But soldiers belong on a battlefield, Mr. Mayor.”
“This is a battlefield, believe it or not.”
Isaac closed the press conference, but other reporters camped out in the kibbitzers’ gallery, watched his every move. Isaac couldn’t concentrate on his game. And suddenly the biggest real-estate barons in New York turned into pingpong players. Jason Figgs and Judah Bellow showed up in short pants, clutching Butterflys. Schiller wouldn’t lock them out. He was a philosophe. He couldn’t discriminate against any man who happened to be a pharaoh.
Isaac had to warm up with Jason and Judah. He was furious.
“You got rid of Schyler Knott, didn’t you?”
“He resigned,” said Judah Bellow.
“With a little push from his real-estate friends.”
Isaac was only a beginner. He couldn’t love the ball and Jason Figgs or Judah Bellow. He withdrew into Coen’s closet. He tried to meditate, but his mind was like a river of dark sludge.
He ran downtown to his apartment, changed his clothes. The king did have one appointment. The Modern Language Association had come to town, and Isaac was scheduled to speak to a gang of college professors about the ritual of baseball, its own private language and literary life. But the profs didn’t really want a speech. They were baseball fanatics. They wanted to learn about the Bomber, Harry Lieberman, and that vintage year of 1944, when the majors were composed of “garbage teams,” rejects, retirees, and bush-league kids.
“Are you asking what baseball was like without Joe DiMaggio? It was glorious,” Isaac said. “We all missed DiMaggio. And his wonderful isolation in center field, his sense of grace. But it was a little crippling to me. I preferred the Bomber. He wasn’t DiMaggio, but he was the first Zen player in the history of baseball. Harry’s movements were like a koan. He never tried to get beyond his own awkwardness. His awkwardness was Harry. And each home run he hit floated into the stands like a stunned bird.”
Little Angel Street (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 5