Grand Central Noir

by R. Narvaez

  When Mary finally saw Harvey, her skin tightened because she realized he was drunk. He stumbled down the marble steps of the station, his suit and tie disheveled. Mary did not like drunk men, even though lately it seemed they were all drunk. But Harvey had money and it was amazing what a girl will put up with for a few dollars.

  “Mary, Mary, quite contrary!” he called, causing people to turn their heads. Harvey was a balding man, very tall, and in his thirties. When he reached Mary, he fell against her. She pushed him away and straightened her skirt.

  “I’m hungry, Harvey.”

  He rocked forward and nuzzled into her neck. “Mmmm.”

  Mary pushed him off again and stomped her foot. “Harvey, please!”

  “Now, now,” he said, chuckling, blinking his eyes at her. “All in good time.”

  “I’ve had nothing to eat all day. You didn’t leave me no money.”

  “That’s why I’m taking you home,” Harvey said. “We’re going to have a late supper in town.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “Boston!” Harvey cheered and then grinned. “With her dear mother.”

  Mary sighed, glanced around the great marble station, at the tall windows. “How long is the train ride?”

  “Thirty minutes. There’s a lovely place in town and then you can stay overnight.” He pinched her behind.

  Mary jumped back and caught the eyes of a well-dressed woman walking by, staring disapprovingly at them. “Harvey. We’re in public!” Mary said.

  Harvey laughed. “Public schmublic!” He took her hand and kissed it extravagantly. “Let us depart, my beauty. Let us leave this Titanic. Sail for calm seas.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. He was such a lush, absolutely intolerable when he was drinking. Last week, he’d come to her room three sheets to the wind, and he kept throwing her over his knees so he could spank her. He got her good, too, because a couple of purple and gray bruises flowered up on her behind that night. No, Mary did not want to go to the country with Harvey, or to wherever he lived. She wanted to go to the Oyster Bar. Unfortunately, Harvey was so drunk, surely the maitre d’ would not admit them.

  She stared up at Harvey, at his reddened cheeks, his dark five o’clock shadow, and an idea suddenly sparked in her mind: she’d go with him, he’d sober up on the train, take her to supper, they’d go to his house and when he passed out, she’d take his money and anything else worth having. That should keep the rent paid for the next month.

  Mary brushed her skirt with her gloved hands and agreed to accompany him. “You have to buy me a ticket because I got no money.”

  “With pleasure,” he said, holding out his arm so she could hook hers through his. When they began walking, he stumbled a bit and she had to catch him. “Whoops a daisy!” he slurred.

  * * *

  The ride lasted an hour and when they arrived at his town in Connecticut, the platform was deserted. During the ride, Harvey had pulled out a flask and drank from it, and then, right before they arrived at the station, he had passed out in his seat. It took both Mary and the conductor to get him off the train.

  Harvey led the way to the road and in the moonlight, the two walked, Harvey stumbling here and there.

  “Where’s the restaurant?” Mary asked, her feet sore in her strappy pumps. Like the platform, the road was deserted, and there was no town or building in sight.

  “Around the bend,” he muttered.

  She could see no bend and they walked for ten minutes before they came upon a large house. “Home,” Harvey said.

  Mary’s stomach grumbled. “You were supposed to take me to supper.”

  Harvey laughed and blessed himself. “Forgive me, sister. For I have told a lie.”

  Mary stopped and unhooked her arm from his. “I’m very hungry.”

  “I’ll make you steak. Step into my castle, my lady.” He bowed and waved his arm.

  The house was magnificent – Oriental rugs, Windsor chairs. The kitchen was large and as Harvey went to the parlor for a drink, Mary placed her pocket book on the counter, took off her gloves, and searched for something to eat. There was no meat, no steak, or anything to make a proper dinner, but there was bread in the breadbox, eggs on the counter, and a half-eaten chocolate cake under a glass dome on the kitchen table. She located a pan and a bowl in the cupboards and quickly went to work preparing herself French toast. There was even cinnamon and sugar and within minutes, Mary had made herself a meal. She sat at the table, eating, all while eyeing the chocolate cake. As a child she’d only seen chocolate cake in a bakery window. She’d never had a piece until the year before, when Mr. Parker gave her a slice after he took her to his apartment. Mary liked cake, especially chocolate, and when she was done with the French toast, she found a cleaver, lifted up the glass dome, and hacked off a slice.

  She was thirsty and poured the rest of the milk into a large glass and drank it. She did not clean up after herself – just left it for Mrs. Gilbert or her maid to take care of, if there was a maid. Most likely there was.

  Afterward, Mary wandered through the large rooms with their draped gossamer curtains and porcelain lamps. She eventually went upstairs where she found Harvey, still dressed in his suit and tie, asleep in his wide bed. A clock sat on the night table and the time read 12:15. Beautiful glass doors faced the road and when Mary opened them, they led onto a small balcony with a low railing, something she hadn’t noticed when they arrived. She stood in the chilly air, the full moon shining down on her, glowing like a stage light. She blew kisses to an imaginary audience, curtsied, smiled, posed, blew more kisses, and then returned inside. She studied Harvey, splayed on the bed, and rolled her eyes. She fetched her purse from downstairs and returned to the bedroom.

  Mary ruffled through Harvey’s pockets and found thirty-five dollars, a windfall considering her rent was $4.00 a week. “Good boy,” she muttered, taking the cash. Then she went through his dresser drawers, locating another five dollars. Mrs. Gilbert’s jewelry box was on the bureau, and out of curiosity, Mary perused it. She found a pearl necklace and held it up to her throat. She tried on the garnet ring and the Egyptian bangle. Mary glanced at Harvey on the bed and guilt overcame her. She didn’t want to take Mrs. Gilbert’s things. The poor woman was married to a schmuck – having nice jewelry was probably the only good thing about being tied to Harvey Gilbert. But Mary did find a silver hatpin with a lady sitting on the moon and because it was so pretty, she took it, sticking it in her beaded pocket book. She opened a drawer and found two tubes of lipstick: a coral color and another red. She leaned toward the mirror and applied the coral. It looked nice.

  She returned downstairs and searched the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen. She found $1.26 in a jar.

  The time was 12:45. Mary knew there were no trains back to the city at this time of night – earlier she’d asked the conductor – but there would be at dawn. She decided to have another slice of chocolate cake.

  * * *

  The noise of clinking glass woke her. She had drifted off in the parlor on the sofa, her pocket book in her hands. Harvey was in the corner of the room, near the sideboard, pouring himself a drink. A small clock sat on the fireplace and it read 4:10.

  “Dollface, wakey wakey,” he said. “I need you.”

  Mary sighed and closed her eyes, shifted and faced the back of the sofa, her pocket book tucked safely against her stomach. She was not interested in what he had in mind. “I’m sleepy, Harvey.”

  She heard his footfalls and felt the cushion sinking underneath her body as he sat down. Booze permeated the air like a factory stink. He put his hand on her behind and caressed it. “Now, now,” he said softly. “Upstairs, my beauty.”

  “Leave me alone, Harvey.”

  She felt him get up from the sofa and she let out a breath of relief. But then he slapped her on her backside. “Get up!”

  Mary twisted around and shot up. “Harvey, there’s no slapping! I told you that.”

  “Haha! Playing hard to
get!” He grabbed her and she pushed him away.

  They stood looking at each other and he winked. “Come on, dear. Please.”

  Mary thought quickly – she had all that money in her pocket book. Her best bet was to get out of the house. “Harvey, go up and I’ll be right there. I just want to freshen up.”

  A smile crawled on his face and he cocked his head. “Very good.” He turned and made his way up the staircase.

  When he was safely upstairs, Mary pulled off her strappy heels and tiptoed to the front door. With her shoes and pocket book in one hand, the other hand on the door knob, she quietly opened the door. Then she took a breath and made a run for it.

  “Hahaha!” Mary heard Harvey laugh as she raced across the yard, the dewy grass making it slippery. She looked behind her, stopped, and there, in the moonlight, Harvey was standing on the balcony in his white skivvies and dress shirt unbuttoned. Harvey held something in the air that jangled. “I have a car and I’m gonna come get you!”

  She hadn’t seen a car but there could be a garage in the back of the house. All the same, it was best to believe him, and she turned and started to run across the yard. However, when she reached the road, the rough terrain hurt her bare feet and she had to take a moment to put her heels back on.

  Harvey was still on the balcony, his hand in the air with the keys, his other hand holding a liquor bottle. He was so tall, the railing reached below his knees. He took a drink. “Where are you going, peach pie?” he called into the night. “Mary, Mary, you got a job to do!” He thrust himself forward, back, forward. “Get back here, Mary!” Harvey rocked harder – thrusting, hooting, hollering, climaxing: “Mary! Mary! Mary!” And then suddenly, on the final thrust, he lost his balance and just tumbled over the balcony. Mary watched him flop to the ground.

  She stood still, listening for a moan, a reaction, but there was none. She thought about walking across the grass and checking on him, but decided against it. He could be pretending. Mr. Parker used to pretend he’d had a heart attack and when she would check on him, he would holler like a bear, grab her with both arms, and tackle her down.

  Mary got the second shoe on her foot and began to run down the road the best she could in her heels, checking behind her for Mr. Gilbert. But he never came.

  * * *

  She had to wait on the platform for another hour and a half, the chilly air putting goose bumps on her skin until it was light. She worried that a squad car might pull up but one never did. Eventually, men in their suits and black hats arrived and they stood with her waiting for the train. When the train came, Mary sat in a seat and paid the conductor for her ticket with Harvey’s money. She wondered if Harvey was dead. She worried about fingerprints in the kitchen. Not that she’d ever been caught stealing and been brought to jail, or had ever been in trouble. The cops didn’t even know she existed, she told herself, and most likely she had nothing to worry about.

  An hour later, Mary was walking through Grand Central, her gloves on her hands, Harvey’s money and Mrs. Gilbert’s hatpin in her pocketbook. When they found Harvey, and if he was dead, there would be men that would say they saw a woman with light brown hair and strappy heels at the station that morning. Mary realized she would have to dye her hair. She had the cash to do it.

  Red, she figured. Apple red.

  She walked out to 42nd Street and because she had Harvey’s money, she took a cab back to 13th.

  Mary realized that if Harvey wasn’t dead, he knew where she lived and he’d come after her.

  Damn. She’d have to move, too.

  Spice

  - by Seamus Scanlon

  IN THE EARLY GREY GALWAY DAWN my brother Rob waited outside for me in his black Opel Vectra. He was driving me to Shannon Airport for my flight to New York. I lived half the year on the fifth floor of a walkup in the war zone of 186th Street and St. Nicholas in Washington Heights. Outside in DR Land music (so called), i.e., merengue burst out of cars, apartments, bodegas, hair salons, bakeries and El Pollo Toxicado outlets. DR women burst out of nail salons and their tight-fitting tops. The other half of the year I lived in Galway, Ireland, home of Nora Barnacle, Lord Haw Haw and the Great Fire of Galway (see below). If I was needed for special jobs during my six months in Galway I flew back to the U.S. I hated the killing July sun in NY but sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

  Rob had the driver’s window rolled down. He was blowing cigarette smoke from a Woodbine out into the quite crisp air. The car was pitted with rust and stains. His face was rutted with acne scars and knife cuts. I had perfect skin. Under the hood I needed some work. Ma was framed in the doorway as I sat in. She waved. We did not wave back. Our family foreshore was as bobby trapped as Omaha Beach. Psychic and emotional corpses floated facedown in the shallows.

  Rob stared after every Shell Oil truck that we passed until their red taillights faded in the pale light. He was a menace on the roads. Not to mention around inflammable materials (coming). As we drove into Shannon Airport he examined the squat ugly oil storage tanks on the periphery of the runways. Once I checked-in he watched the fuel trucks pumping gas through fat fast hoses into the planes deep hidden places. He was a pyromaniac with exhibitionist tendencies. He started the great fire of Galway when he was twelve. He was a bit precocious. It lasted for five days and five nights - destroying timber yards, coal silos, turf stacks, the railway station, shops, pubs, cafes, garages and the Galway Family Planning Clinic (divine intervention proclaimed the Galway Christian Family Army). Tramps had to run for cover. It was their first cardiovascular exercise in decades so some of them had heart attacks and strokes and perished and were consumed. Their tissue alcohol levels meant they were perfect pyre material.

  The firestorm stopped just short of the Galway Great Southern Hotel and just in time so that the annual weeklong Galway Racing Festival could go ahead. Otherwise there would have been trouble. Black smoke hung over the town for weeks. Petrol and diesel that had seeped into the soil for decades burned away underground – slow and long.

  All the neighbors in Mervue knew Rob did it but kept it to themselves. Mervue was an open prison and no one liked the Gardai. They never found out. They were as thick as the medieval Old Walls of Galway that Rob’s torching had uncovered. The Galway Archeological Review mentioned this as a very positive outcome of the Great Fire of Galway. Academics! During Race Week the Gardai had to deal with the annual invasion of 6,000 hooligans (Northerners, Dublin Jackeens, pickpockets, shop lifters, gamblers and three card trick hustlers) as well as 20,000 race goers from all over Ireland. It was easier for them to manage this influx than conduct a full-scale forensic arson investigation. Also they could not be arsed basically, races or no. They were hardwired lethargy-wise.

  The Russians used Shannon Airport, which lies on the edge of the Western Atlantic, to refuel planes on flights between Russia and Cuba. Che Guevara had a pint of Guinness in Shannon Airport once while an Aeroflot transport plane (also know as a Flying Coffin) waited on the tarmac for a spare part from Mother Russia. Some Cubans and Russians defected during other stopovers. Che Guevara was probably sorry he hadn’t. He could have ended up in a Corporation house in Dublin where his guerilla acumen would have come in handy.

  Mother Ireland wants to erect a statue to Che (as we now call him) in Galway. We will claim anyone. We already erected one to Christopher Columbus who allegedly stayed in Galway over night before he sailed for America. And the rest is history – yes Galway is now the B&B capital of the world.

  I had to jerk my black hold-all free from Rob when we got to the departure gate. He was mesmerized by the smell of jet fuel vapors.

  Rob – fuck off home!

  He nodded, turned abruptly and left me there. Brotherly love.

  The plane I was catching was a Jordanian Airways jumbo jet from Amman on a stopover. None of those passengers ever jumped ship. Too rainy. Too windy. Too blustery. And no sand. Except the grey coarse Irish variety blowing inland from various desolate inlets. It was like a Bedouin cam
p as I made my way down through the cabin looking for my seat, stepping over kids and adolescents sprawled on the floor. Old men and women with creased faces - desert effigies - sat huddled, talking in harsh guttural accents like my grandparents speaking rapid fire Irish. I could never understand them either. Their voices cascaded over me. I drifted off. Reverie was my middle name.

  I woke when we touched down seven pitta hours later.

  I got into the back of a yellow cab.

  The driver turned around - where to Gringo?

  What a jokester! He was from Haiti. He shouted pigeon English and French into a cell phone. He had a transistor radio, hanging from the rear view mirror, blasting in his ear. He was smoking a thin cigarillo. He had a tribal cut on his cheek. He was as black as the toxic smoke plumes over Galway during the great fire. I had go to Poughkeepsie first before I could relax in the war zone of 186th and St. Nicholas. The Haitians and Dominicans did not really gel except napalm-ingredient wise so I was glad the driver did not have to take me there. He was labile enough already.

  Grand Central – pronto!!

  He didn’t like that I can tell you.

  He drove like a maniac. Or a typical Irish driver back home. The breeze through the open window soon dissipated my jet lag. African rhythms rolled like war drums from the transistor that rocked back and forth on its thin strap as we raced past other cabs and ordinary decent drivers. The acceleration force pushed me back into the seat. When he passed a car he did a handgun shooting gesture out the open window. I had a Metro North timetable out trying to estimate what train I would get. It was hard to follow the small print with the swaying motion so I gave up in the end. It was possible we might not even get to Grand Central alive anyway.

  We did though. He pulled up with a screech of brakes. I got out quickly in case he rushed off again. He was a perpetual motion machine. I put my hold-all down. I paid. I gave him a tip.