Back in the city, Eastman parked the Saab on a safe-looking corner on Seventh Avenue and ran into a phone booth with a pocketful of change. He put in a call to his friend Eddie Sheenan at the 120th Precinct. They had been together at Boys High, and while Eastman went off into his literary endeavors, Eddie worked his way up the New York ranks to police captain.
“Well, you’re either in trouble or you want something from me,” Eddie guessed. Penny had disliked Eddie. He was a rough-around-the-edges friend from Brooklyn without sophistication or culture, all that stuff Eastman had developed, but Eddie was a reliable friend with tact and smarts, and he could certainly outthink any intellectual.
“It’s a little bit of both, actually,” said Eastman. “I got troubles and I need a favor.”
“You don’t write, you don’t call, not even a Christmas card at Christmastime.”
“I’m a Jew.”
“Then Hanukkah. Your tribe doesn’t send the occasional greeting card? I’m kidding, you son of a bitch. It’s great to hear from you. What’s shakin’?”
“My wife.”
“Barbara,” Eddie said.
“Penny. Barbara was my first wife.”
“My mistake. I had the order reversed. Penny, go on.”
“She’s seeing another man. I can’t seem to get it out of her—who the guy is—but I’m curious.”
“Sure you’re curious. That’s elemental.”
“I got a look at him in his car this morning. He’s a real jackass. Knows all about me, but still, that didn’t stop him.”
“Messing with another man’s wife. Unforgivable. I’m very sorry to hear about this, Al. I figured you especially would have it all together. Not that you don’t. You can’t control how other people act? It’s not your fault. What do you want done?”
“I got his plates. I just want to know who the guy is so I know what I’m up against.”
“Easy. Say no more. I can have a couple boys in blue put the fear of God in him if you want.”
“I don’t want anything more than the man’s name. Maybe a few details. What he does, et cetera. I want to know the score, so I know how I fare.”
“I can have that for you later today. Gimme the plates and call me back in a while. It’s done. And if you want him to back off, I’ll take care of it personally.”
“I don’t need anything like that.” Eastman thought about it and was flattered by Eddie’s offer. After all these years of not speaking, things resumed like they were still just kids in the schoolyard, with Eddie watching Eastman’s back. “I’d like to take care of this myself. If I need more I’ll call you.”
“All you have to do is say the word. I can make this man’s life a living hell. Mess with another man’s wife. Piece a shit. That’s all I have to say.”
Eastman gave Eddie the plate number and felt the slightest bit of relief. His friendship with Eddie was from a time before Penny, and this reminded him that he had a life once in which she didn’t yet exist. And if nothing else, was he willing to go back to it? He didn’t know. All he could do was wait and see.
• • •
So he waited. Eastman had an hour to kill before his meeting with Baxter Broadwater, and he strolled up along Seventh Avenue into the land of peep shows and go-go clubs and hot dogs and fast fried food. The district named after the paper that never hired him—the Times—was like the part of his brain that he hid from everyone, a circus of desperation. He was feeling a little desperate these days, so why not visit the part of town he often neglected. The Times Square of his youth was mostly a parade of ticker tape and Broadway theater. He could have been an actor, he thought, had he not chosen Hemingway and Dos Passos and Maugham as models in his youth. He loved the movies as a kid, and he was certainly born in the right place to become an actor. As he walked on, he caught a reflection of himself in the window of a peep show, his bulb of gray hair, his face a mug shot of his former self on a very drunk evening. Was he too old? Nonsense! He almost shouted it out loud. He had the will to do anything, hadn’t he? If he needed to he could summon the energy of a nineteen-year-old and get a hard-on just as quickly. He could prove it by walking into any one of these theaters. He passed some dirty-movie marquees, The Filthy 5, The Pig Keeper’s Daughter, Is There Sex After Marriage?
There was plenty of sex after marriage if you knew what you were doing. A strong couple could make their way through anything. Especially extramarital relations, when they happened. Sure, when Penny had her infidelities, they were incredibly painful to discover. But it didn’t cancel out their love; in fact, it had only made it stronger. Only now could he put it into words: I am hurting because of her claim. That he had fallen out of love with her, wasn’t that how she put it? But that was only a way of saying that she had fallen out of love with him. It was her way of placing the blame on Eastman. That was the true betrayal. How could she bring herself to blame him, to hide from her feelings, to declare it as truth to his face? She was a mixed-up woman, like Anna Karenina, like Emma Bovary, like Molly Bloom. He had been through it before with Barbara, and to throw in the towel, be a quitter, would only set them back years. And he didn’t have years, did he? He didn’t have years to spend in loneliness. He wanted his life now. He wasn’t about to let her take his life away. And he would keep trying to have it, their life together, till he was victorious. Eastman walked into the Tic Tac, a strip club he had frequented in the long-ago past. He took a seat at the horseshoe bar in front of the pole dancers and looked up into the thinly veiled crotch of one of the girls. If Penny had been manipulated by this phantom to leave him, then Eastman, her husband of ten years, the father of her two children, should be more than capable of moving her to stay. He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar to be changed. The dancer whose crotch he’d stared into so longingly saw the singles being counted out on the bar, and so she centered herself in front of him. She turned around and danced for him to the tune of a country-and-western song. She moved her hips with rehearsed sensuality, an inelegance as she bent over for him and lowered her ass seconds from his face. Penny the liar, he thought, as he took two bills from his stack and placed it under the band of her string panties.
It was too early in the day to have a drink. And last night’s drunken party at Lazlo’s hadn’t helped him with his wild emotions. He wanted to be straight and narrow for his meeting, so he ordered a club soda with lime and watched the dancer stand up and bend over and repeat.
Baxter Broadwater entered the Tic Tac at a quarter to three. He was early, and Eastman was happy about it because he didn’t want to sit there alone for very much longer appearing desperate. His twenty singles were running low and he didn’t feel like spending more. These girls made him melancholic. He wasn’t able to give in to fantasy at the moment when reality seemed too demanding of him. Broadwater saw him right away, took a big gulp of the damp air, and hesitated to take a seat next to him at the bar.
“You come here, Alan?”
“If ever I’m in the neighborhood. It keeps you in touch with your limits, and if you can get a hard-on, I see no shame in it. Sit down, Baxter.”
Broadwater followed suit reluctantly, as if the barstool had been contaminated with bodily fluids. He wiped it down with a handkerchief and then discarded it on the floor. “This is awful.”
“You hungry, Broadwater? They have a full menu. The fried oysters aren’t bad. Maybe not what you’re used to out on the Vineyard or wherever the fuck it is you go.”
“No, I’d rather not eat anything here.”
“Would you have a bite of her?” said Eastman. A young topless chick with a collared bow tie made her way over to Broadwater from the back rooms.
“Don’t be disgusting, Alan.”
“Here’s what you do,” said Eastman. “Give me twenty dollars.”
“What for?”
“Give me a twenty. You can’t just sit here without tipping t
he girls.”
Broadwater got out his wallet with a fuss and handed over a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Eastman put it down on the bar and the bartender changed it into singles.
“They’re here for your entertainment, therefore you toss them a tip every now and again. Haven’t you been to the Playboy Club?”
Broadwater continued his skepticism and Eastman was glad for it.
“Are you telling me you’ve held an office this close to Times Square for the past I don’t know how long and you haven’t been to a nudie bar? You ever relieve yourself in a peep show? Jack off a bit on your lunch hour?”
“I only go to the Herald from the subway. And return. It’s a short distance. This isn’t for me.”
The girl with the bow tie moved in on Broadwater from behind, petting his shoulder.
“It’s for everybody. Now look, be nice to her. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Brandy,” she said.
“Brandy, that’s a lovely name. This is my good friend Baxter. He’s feeling a little uncomfortable.”
“Baxter,” she said, “you should have a drink. I’ll have what you’re having.”
“She’s very charming,” said Eastman. “Now be nice and show her some appreciation.”
Broadwater turned to the girl, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and got a face full of her cone-shaped tits.
“You’re very beautiful,” said Broadwater.
“You’re sweet. You want a dance? A titty shake? You can look at my pussy in one of the back rooms.”
“You see, Broadwater, isn’t she friendly? There are virtues in places like this. The Tic Tac is an institution.”
Broadwater held up his small bankroll and turned to Eastman. “How much do I have to tip?”
“Whatever you think is justified. That’s the beauty in it.”
Once Eastman felt Broadwater was unsettled enough to hear what he had to say, he sent Brandy to fetch them a couple of drinks and told her to keep the change. Meeting Broadwater here, in the smoky lounge with girls dancing on the bar top, made Eastman feel at ease. Brandy brought them Scotch and water. A jolt of whiskey would loosen Broadwater up a bit. Eastman pretended to sip his but wasn’t really drinking.
“Have you given any thought to what I proposed?” asked Broadwater.
“I have looked over the proposal. Why do you want me again?”
“Is this another test? Am I going to be humiliated?”
“This is business. I’m going. Not for you or Jay Husskler or for the goddamn shitty money you’re paying, but because there is a story here that should be told; there is a perspective that has not yet been taken and which I think I can provide. It could really put some punctuation on the end of the war. If it’s done properly.”
“The war is ending. Men are coming home. This is what we know. But what do the people who remain know? We need a human piece, to tell us what the people are saying. Those in Saigon—civilians, contractors, villagers. Whatever you can get. How about those in Hanoi, how are they handling the cease-fire? Has there been an end to fighting altogether? Like you say, put things in perspective.”
“You really want me. You and Husskler and the Herald?”
“Yes. Do you have the contract? We can get this under way and have things move along quickly. The North Vietnamese visa will be the hardest, but we’ll be able to take care of all that. How’s your back, by the way?”
“It’s fine. I have chronic pain because I fuck too much.” A pained look crossed Broadwater’s face, making Eastman think he should ease up. “Thank you, by the way. For coming out with the doctor.”
“He gave you your vaccines.”
“That’s why my arm still hurts. I can barely remember.”
“You’re all set medically speaking. How’s your family? Will they be able to manage?”
“My family is on hiatus. I feel this will fix things if I get away for a while.”
“I ask because I care about your welfare, Alan. You’ll be working with us, and we want every precaution taken. If things are not well at home, and I suspected this much, a month in Vietnam may be hard on you. And your family, particularly. Some of our correspondents get divorced and end up staying out there, jumping around from paper to paper. But you have things going on here at home. So I trust you’ll have enough sense to be safe and make it back.”
“I’m not planning on throwing everything away, Broadwater. Not on this salary.”
Eastman got out the contract and slipped it over on the bar. “I’ve made my adjustments. I’m not doing three dispatches, but two longer ones. Six to eight thousand words apiece. For the same money, or if you can better it—better it. One dispatch from Saigon, wherever I get around in the South, and the other from Hanoi, in the North. I’m going two places so three dispatches makes no sense and I wouldn’t know how to divvy up the story. And I want final approval on everything. I want book-length rights and movie rights and any old rights . . . I retain.”
“That’s standard. So we have a deal?”
“Why do I feel like I’m bending over like this broad on the bar and you’re about to mount me from behind?”
“You’re not getting fucked, Alan. This is great news. You’re doing a remarkable thing for the paper. Something good. A return to form, some might say. Husskler is going to be pleased. I’ll run everything back to the office now and we’ll get moving on the visas.”
“Buy me a lap dance.”
“Whatever you want, Alan.” Broadwater was pleased. “Who would you like to dance on your lap? Pick a girl. It’s on the Herald.”
“Do me a favor. Get me on a flight to Saigon as soon as possible.”
• • •
Broadwater seemed relieved to make his exit, and Eastman felt a little sorry for him. The guy was an office man, unhip, a square, everything Eastman fought against becoming. Did a man like Broadwater have regrets that he hadn’t performed to the best of his abilities? Eastman could have done better, it occurred to him. That morning in Pequannock, he hadn’t apologized to Penny for allowing things to fall apart, hell, he hadn’t even proposed the possibility of changing himself for her. He had too much to lose and too much pride to let up on her, so he continued to make demands. Move home, Penny. Now this plan of going to Vietnam in order to appear heroic. He wasn’t a celebrity author anymore, so he may as well be a hero.
In the back of the Tic Tac, past private booths with red velvet curtains, he found a phone where it was quiet but for a few debauched whispers. He put some change in and dialed Eddie Sheenan to see about the matter of his phantom. Eastman was a bit fearful in making the call. Would this be the piece of information that brought his mental state to collapse? He could still choose to live in ignorance, and maybe that would be preferable. But he couldn’t stand the uncertainty.
“Eddie, it’s Al,” he said. “Were you able to make any headway with those plates?”
“Yeah, I told you I would, didn’t I? Where are you?”
“The Tic Tac. I had some business I had to take care of with an editor up here.”
“The Tic Tac? They were shut down a bit ago. Some girls were caught turning tricks in the back rooms. Not that I see anything wrong with that, this is a democracy. But one was a captain’s doped-up daughter, got picked up in there for soliciting a blow job from one of ours. And the captain, he had to put the hammer down on the place.”
“Well, it’s open now. And it’s just as seedy as I remember it.”
“All right, here’s the guy’s name, you got a pen?”
Eastman had another matchbook, which he’d taken off the bar. He opened the flap and readied himself to write.
“Arnaud Fleishman. Four Twenty-seven West Twenty-eighth Street, the Chelsea neighborhood.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ar-nod. Ar-node. Pernod. I don’t know how t
o say it, he sounds like a French pastry.”
“He’s some kind of French Jew? Fleishman?”
“And that’s the address. It’s a house.”
“How do you know that?”
“I had a car drive by. He’s not home.”
“I didn’t want you to do that.”
“I just had somebody ring the bell to verify the information, see if the title of the car matched the owner of the house. You never know, the car could have been a loaner registered under Fleishman, who turns out to be a grandfather. There was no funny stuff, Al. Unless you give me the go. Mess with another man’s wife. We’ve all had our temptations. I’m no saint either. But hey, this ain’t right.”
“You’re damn right this ain’t right. He’s fucking my wife.”
“That’s what I’m saying. So I wanted to make sure. Just in case we got it wrong.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“Lincoln Continental. Color black.”
“That’s him. That’s the one. He’s fucking my wife.”
“What more can I say, Al? Again, I don’t mind applying a little pressure if it’s gonna alleviate matters. But the best thing to do now is to talk to her. Talk to her, show her who you are. You’re a man, plain as day. You step to this Fleishman, who knows how it’s going to look to her.”
“Bad. It’ll look bad. I gotta take the high road on this one, Eddie. I gotta be the bigger man. I have been talking to her and I have a plan. I just had to know who he was. To hear it from someone else so that I knew he was real.”
“What can I tell ya,” said Eddie. “He’s Arnaud Fleishman of Four Twenty-seven West Twenty-eighth. Good luck to you, okay? If you’re going to do anything stupid, don’t. Call me instead.”
Good old Eddie hung up and Eastman lingered a bit with the receiver in his ear, staring at the name, Fleishman, which he had written on the Tic Tac matchbook. Another clue, another matchbook. A curtain opened up on the nearest booth and a Midtown man walked out, straightening himself. He said to Eastman, “Could you talk a little louder? We couldn’t get the whole conversation.”
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