Make Room! Make Room!

by Harry Harrison

  There’s no secret, Andy thought, realizing this wasn’t the first time the question would be asked. “She’s going to be staying with me,” he said. “I’m coming over later tonight to help her move.” He glanced at Tab, who nodded seriously.

  “That’s very good news. I’m glad to hear that. I hope things work out okay, I really do.”

  He turned back to look at the rain and Andy looked at his watch and saw that it was almost eight and hurried out. The air was cool, cooler than the lobby, the temperature must have dropped ten degrees since the rain had begun. Maybe this was the end of the heat wave; it had certainly lasted long enough. There were already a few inches of water in the moat and the surface was dimpled and ringed by the falling drops. Before he had crossed the drawbridge to the street he felt the water run into his shoes; his pants legs were sopping and his wet hair was plastered to his head. But it was cool and he didn’t mind, and even the thought of the perpetually annoyed Grassioli didn’t seem to bother him too much.

  It rained the rest of the day, which, in every other way, was like any other day. Grassioli chewed him out twice personally, and included him in a general berating of the entire squad. He investigated two holdups, and another that was combined with felonious assault that would soon be changed to manslaughter or murder, since the victim was rapidly dying from a knife wound in his chest. There was more work piled up than the squad could get through in a month, and new cases coming in all the time while they plodded away at the backlog. As he had expected he didn’t leave at six, but a phone call took the lieutenant away at nine o’clock and all of the day squad still on duty—in spite of Grassioli’s parting threats and warnings—had vanished ten minutes later. The rain was still falling, though not so heavily as before, and the air felt cool after the weeks of continuous heat. As he walked along Seventh Avenue, Andy realized that the streets were almost empty, for the first time this summer. A few people were out in the rain and there were dark forms huddled in every doorway, but the sidewalks and streets were strangely vacant. Climbing the stairs in his building was worse than usual, the people who normally crowded the stoop and curb were sitting here, some of them even lying asleep across the steps. He pushed by them and stepped over the recumbent ones, ignoring their mumbled curses. This was an indication of what it would be like in the fall unless the building owner hired bodyguards to drive the squatters out. It was scarcely worth it any more, there were so many of them, and they just came right back when the guards left.

  “You’ll ruin your eyes looking at that thing all the time,” he told Sol when he came in. The old man lay on the bed propped up by pillows, watching a war film on TV. Cannon fire thundered scratchily from the speaker.

  “My eyes were ruined before you were born, Mr. Wiseguy, and I can still see better than ninety-nine per cent of the fogies my age. Still working union hours, I see.”

  “Find me a better job and I’ll quit,” Andy said, turning on the light in his room and digging through the bottom drawer. Sol came in and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “If you’re looking for your flashlight,” he said, “you left it on the table the other day. I meant to tell you, I put it in your top drawer there, under the shirts.”

  “You’re better than a mother to me.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t try to borrow no money, son.”

  Andy put the flash in his pocket and knew that he would have to tell Sol now. He had been putting it off and he wondered why it bothered him. After all, this room was all his, they shared food rations and meals because it made things easier, that was all. It was just a working arrangement.

  “I’ve got someone coming to stay with me for a while, Sol. I’m not sure how long.”

  “It’s your room, buddy-boy. Do I know the guy?”

  “Not exactly. Anyway it’s not a guy—”

  “Hoo-ha! That explains it all.” He snapped his fingers. “Not the chick, Big Mike’s girl, the one you been seeing?”

  “Yes, that’s the girl. Her name’s Shirl.”

  “A fancy name, a fancy girl,” Sol said, heaving to his feet and going toward the door. “Very fancy. Watch out you don’t get your fingers burned, buddy-boy.”

  Andy started to say something but Sol was out of the room and closing the door behind himself. A little harder than necessary. He was looking at the TV again when Andy left and did not glance away from it or say anything.

  It had been a long day and Andy’s feet hurt and his neck hurt and his eyes burned; he wondered why Sol was being sore. He had never met Shirl—so what did he have to complain about? Tramping crosstown through the slowly falling rain, he thought about Shirl and, without realizing it, began to whistle. He was hungry and he was tired and he wanted to see her very much. The turrets and spires of Chelsea Park rose before him through the rain and the doorman nodded and touched his cap to Andy as he hurried across the drawbridge.

  Shirl opened the door for him and she was wearing the silver dress, the same one that she had been wearing that first night, with a tiny white apron tied over it. There was a silver clip holding her copper hair in place and a matching silver bracelet on her right arm, and rings on both her hands.

  “Don’t get me wet,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “I’ve got all my good things on for the party.”

  “And I look like a bum,” he said, peeling off the dripping raincoat.

  “Nonsense. You look like you’ve had a hard day in the office or whatever you call that place where you work. You need a party. Hang that thing in the shower and dry your hair before you catch a cold, then come into the livingroom. I have a surprise.”

  “What is it?” he called after her receding back.

  “If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise,” she said with devastating female logic.

  Shirl had the apron off and was waiting for him in the living room, standing proudly by the dining table. Two tall candles reflected highlights from the silverware, china plates and crystal glasses. A white tablecloth hung in thick folds. “And that’s not all,” Shirl said, pointing to the end table where the neck of a bottle projected from a silver bucket.

  Andy saw that the bottle had wires over the top and around the neck, and that the bucket was full of ice cubes and water. He took out the bottle and held the label to the light so that he could read it aloud. “‘Frenchwine Champagne—a rare, selected, effervescent beverage of great vintage. Artificially colored, flavored, sweetened and carbonated.’ ” He placed it carefully back into the bucket. “We used to have wine in California when I was a kid and my father let me taste it, but I don’t remember it at all. You’re going to spoil me, Shirl, with this kind of stuff. And you were kidding me—you said that we had finished all the drink in the house—and all the time you had this tucked away.”

  “I did not! I bought that today, special for this party. Mike’s liquor man came around, he’s from Jersey and didn’t even know what had happened to Mike.”

  “It must have cost a fortune—”

  “Not as bad as you think. I sold him back all the empty bottles and he gave me a special price. Now open it, for goodness’ sake, and let’s try it.”

  Andy wrestled with the wire over the cork. He had seen them open bottles like this on TV, but it looked a lot easier than it really was. He worked it off finally and there was a satisfactory bang that shot the cork across the room, while Shirl caught the foaming wine in the glass that she held ready, just as the liquor man had instructed her.

  “Here’s to us,” she said, and they raised their glasses.

  “This is very good, I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

  “You’ve never tasted anything like this dinner before, either,” she said and hurried to the kitchen. “Now sit down and sip your wine and look at TV, it’ll only be a few minutes more.”

  The first course was lentil soup, but with a richer and better flavor than usual. Meat stock, Shirl explained, she had saved it from the steak. There was a white sauce on the broiled tilapia, which
were scattered with green flecks of cress and served with dumplings of weedcracker meal and a seacress salad. The wine went with everything and Andy was sighing with contentment and a pleasurable sense of unaccustomed fullness when Shirl brought in kofee and dessert, a flavored agar-agar gelatine with soymilk on it. He groaned, but he had no trouble eating it.

  “Do you smoke tobacco?” she asked as she cleared the table.

  He leaned back in the chair, eyes half closed and utterly relaxed. “Not on a cop’s salary, I don’t. Shirl, you are an absolute genius in the kitchen. I’ll be spoiled if I eat too much of your cooking.”

  “Men should be spoiled, it makes them easier to live with. It’s too bad you don’t smoke, because I found two cigars left in a box that Mike had hidden away, he saved them for special guests.”

  “Take them to the flea market, you’ll get a good price.”

  “No, I couldn’t do that, it doesn’t seem right.”

  Andy sat up. “If you want to do something, I know that Sol used to smoke, he’s the guy I told you about, who lives in the adjoining room. It might cheer him up. He’s a pretty good friend of mine.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” she said, sensing the edge of concern in Andy’s words. Whoever this Sol was, she wanted him to like her, living right in the next room like that. “I’ll put them into my suitcase.” She carried the loaded tray into the kitchen.

  When the dishes were cleaned she went to finish her packing in the bedroom, and called Andy in to help her get the last case down from the top shelf. She had to change for the street and he helped her with the zipper on her dress and this had just the effect she hoped it would have.

  It was after midnight when the last bag was packed and she had put on her gray street dress and was ready to leave.

  “Did you forget anything?” Andy asked.

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll have a last look around.”

  “Shirl, when you came here, moved in, I mean, did you bring any towels or bed linen or anything like that with you?” He pointed toward the rumpled bed and seemed uncomfortable about something.

  “No, nothing like that, I just had a bag with some clothes in it.”

  “I was just hoping that you owned some of these sheets. You see—well, I only have one, and it’s getting old, and they cost a fortune these days, even used ones.”

  She laughed. “You sound like you’re planning to spend a lot of time in bed. Now that you remind me, I remember, two of these sheets are mine.” She opened her bag and began swiftly to fold and pack them away. “He owed me at least this much.”

  Andy carried the suitcases into the hall and rang for the elevator. Shirl stood for a moment, watching as the apartment door closed, then hurried after him.

  “Doesn’t he ever sleep?” Andy asked as they crossed the lobby toward Charlie, who stood at his post by the front door.

  “I’m not sure,” Shirl said. “He always seems to be around when something is happening.”

  “Hate to see you leaving, Miss Greene,” Charlie said as they came up. “I can take the keys to the apartment now, if you want me to.

  “You better give her a receipt,” Andy said as she handed the keys over.

  “Be happy to,” Charlie said imperturbably, “if I had anything to write on.”

  “Here, put it in my notepad,” Andy said. He looked over the doorman’s shoulder and saw Tab coming out of the guardroom.

  “Tab—what are you doing here at this time of night?” Shirl asked.

  “Waiting for you. I heard you were leaving and I thought I’d give you a hand with your bags.”

  “But it’s so late.”

  “Last day of the job. Got to finish it off right. And you don’t want to be seen walking around this time of night with suitcases. Plenty of people will cut your throat for less.” He picked up two of the bags and Andy took the third.

  “Hope someone does bother me,” she said. “A high-priced bodyguard and a city detective—just to walk me a couple of blocks.”

  “We’d wipe the street with them,” Andy said, taking back his notebook and leading the way through the door Charlie held open.

  When they went out the rain had stopped and stars could be seen through holes in the clouds. It was wonderfully cool. She took each of the men by an arm and led the way down the street, out of the pool of light in front of Chelsea Park and into the darkness.

  13

  It had been strange climbing the stairway in the dark, sweeping the light over the sleeping figures on the stairs while Andy carried the bags up behind her. His friend Sol had been asleep, and they had gone quietly through his room into Andy’s. The bed was just big enough for both of them and she had been tired and curled up with her head on his shoulder and slept so soundly that she didn’t even know it when he had gotten up, dressed and left. She awoke to see the sun streaming through the window onto the foot of the bed and, when she kneeled with her elbows on the windowsill, she smelt the clean, fresh-washed air; the only time the city was ever like this was after a rainstorm. With all the dust and soot washed away it was wonderfully clear, and she could see the sharp-edged buildings of Bellevue rising above the lower jumble of tar-black roofs and stained brick walls. And the heat was gone, vanished with the rain, that was the best part. She yawned pleasurably and turned back to look at the room.

  Just what you would expect from a bachelor, neat enough—but as empty of charm as an old shoe. There was a thin patina of dust on everything, but that was probably her fault since Andy certainly had not been spending much time here of late. If she could get some paint somewhere, a coat of it wouldn’t do that dresser any harm. It couldn’t have been more gouged and nicked if it had been in a landslide. At least there was a full-length mirror, cracked but still good, and a wardrobe to hang her things in. There was nothing to complain about, really, a little brightening up and the room would be nice. And get rid of those million spider webs on the ceiling.

  A water tank with a faucet was on the partition wall next to the door, and when she turned it on, a thin brownish stream tinkled into the basin that was fixed on brackets beneath it. It had the sharp chemical smell that she had almost forgotten, since all the water in Chelsea Park was run through expensive filters. There didn’t seem to be any soap here but she splashed water on her face and rinsed her hands, and was drying them on the tattered towel that hung next to the tank when a clanking, squealing sound came through the partition in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what it possibly could be, though it was obviously coming from the room next door where Sol lived. Something of his was making the noise, and it hadn’t started until after he heard her moving around and running the water, which was nice of him. It also meant that, as far as sound went, this room had as much privacy as a birdcage. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She brushed her hair, put on the same dress she had worn the night before, then added just a touch of makeup. When she was ready she took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Good morning—” she said, and could think of nothing else to say, but just stood there in the doorway, trying not to gape. Sol was sitting on a wheelless bicycle, going nowhere—but going at a tremendous rate, his gray hair flying in all directions and his beard bobbing up and down on his chest as he pedaled. His single garment was a pair of ancient and much-patched shorts. The squealing sound came from a black object at the rear of the bicycle. “Good morning!” she called again, louder this time, and he glanced up at her and his pedaling slowed to a stop. “I’m Shirl Greene,” she said.

  “And who else could you be,” Sol said coldly, climbing down from the bike and wiping the sweat from his face with his forearm.

  “I’ve never seen a bicycle like that before. Does it do something?” She wasn’t going to fight with him, no matter how much he wanted to.

  “Yeah. It makes ice.” He went to put his shirt on.

  At first she thought it was one of these deep jokes, the kind she never understood, then she saw that wires led from the black motorlike
thing behind the bike to a lot of big batteries on top of the refrigerator.

  “I know,” she said, happy at her discovery. “You’re making the fridge go with the bike. I think that’s wonderful.” His only answer was a grunt this time, no remarks, so she knew she was making headway. “Do you like kofee?”

  “I wouldn’t know. It’s been so long since I tasted any.”

  “I’ve got a half a can in my bag. If we had some hot water we could make some.” She didn’t wait for an answer but went into the other room and got the can. He looked at the brown container for a moment, then shrugged and went to fill a pot with water.

  “I bet it tastes like poison,” he said as he put the pot on the stove. First he turned on the hanging light in the middle of the room and studied the glowing filament in the bulb, then nodded begrudgingly. “Just for a change we got some juice today, so let’s hope it lasts long enough to boil a half inch of water.” He switched on the electric heating element of the stove.

  “I’ve only been drinking kofee the last couple of years,” Shirl said, sitting in the chair by the window. “They tell me it doesn’t taste a thing like real coffee, but I wouldn’t know.”

  “I can tell you. It don’t.”

  “Have you ever tasted real coffee? More than once?” She had never met a man yet who didn’t enjoy telling about his experiences.

  “Taste it? Honeybunch, I used to live on it. You’re a kid, you’ve got no idea how things used to be in the old days. You drank three, four cups, maybe even a whole pot of coffee and never even thought about it. I was even coffee poisoned once, my skin turned brown and everything, because I used to drink up to twenty cartons a day. A champion coffee drinker, I could of won medals.”

  Shirl could only shake her head in admiration, then sipped at the kofee. It was still too hot. “I just remembered,” she said, jumping up from the chair and going into the other room. She was back in a moment and gave the two cigars to Sol. “Andy said I should give these to you, that you used to smoke them.”