Paradise Man

by Jerome Charyn

  The leopard girl continued to eat. Holden had half his fist in his mouth. He should have known that Andrushka would end up in Swiss’ armed camp. He paid for the santita’s chocolate paradise and marched out of the hotel. He went to Bryant Park with the girl. It was odd to Holden. The park had almost became a country manor since he’d found Gottlieb in the bushes three years ago with a pack of lowlifes. The kid had been whoring for nickels and dimes. He slept with any old man who’d have him, and an occasional woman too. He had startling eyes, and he wore a ragged brown suit that made him look like a young seminarian in search of a flock. He was fourteen, and the apostle to every pusher and transvestite in Bryant Park. Holden had been on a job. He was following a Creek furrier with a fondness for boys. The furrier liked to nose around in the park. His name was Andropolous. His heart was set on Nick Tiel’s designs. He’d been acquiring agents who might corrupt any of the people close to Nick. And Holden had to stop him. He’d been circling the park for weeks, studying the terrain, watching Andropolous and that boy in the brown suit. And suddenly he was more interested in the boy than in the Greek. He could always frighten a furrier. But it wasn’t so easy to recruit the services of a rat. He waited until he caught Andropolous in the bushes, fondling the boy, and then he pounced. He slapped the Greek’s buttocks in front of the boy.

  “Andropolous, it’s just a warning. You’ll get much worse if you don’t lose your appetite for Nick Tiel’s paper.”

  The Greek started to cry. “I hear you, Holden.”

  “I want you to dismiss every fucking agent you have. If I catch one more snoop on Aladdin’s premises, it’s the end of the line ... walk away from here.”

  The Greek crawled out of the bushes, and Holden was left with that fourteen-year-old boy, who stared up at him as if he were some kind of a god in a dark blazer who paddled people’s behinds.

  “Kid,” Holden said. “From now on you work for me.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Never mind that. When it’s time to tell, you’ll learn.”

  He took the kid on a sightseeing tour—Holden was touching his usual corners in taxi cabs—and deposited him at Goldie’s to be fitted for a suit. He gave the kid a thousand dollars.

  Gottlieb pointed to Goldie and whispered in Holden’s ear. “Do you want me to kiss the old man?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He huddled with Goldie, and then decided to leave the kid with one of the madams he knew. Muriel. He never found another kid like that in the bushes. And now the bushes were much too manicured. The park had given up its wild character. A country estate. With book stalls and a little garden restaurant. But he couldn’t seem to discover the clientele. There were no squires around. A couple of cops, and a black preacher with a little mob of men. The preacher sang to an empty sky about some fall from paradise.

  No one seemed interested in the preacher’s songs except the santita, who sucked on a lollipop and listened to him with her leopard’s eyes. But the santita wasn’t enough. The preacher drifted off without his little mob of men. And Holden saw Gottlieb appear from behind a tree. He didn’t have that high polish he’d picked up at Muriel’s. He’d become an urchin. He was as camouflaged as the street.

  “What gives?” Holden asked.

  “Who knows? I’m trying to build a second career.”

  “As what?”

  “A survivor,” Gottlieb said. “You were wrong about Edmundo. His boys have been around with their stinking hooks.”

  “Then we’ll find you another home.”

  “I don’t need another home. The morons never noticed me.”

  “Well, did you put your ear to the ground? Get any tips?”

  “Jesus,” Gottlieb said. “I just arrived. But I can tell you one thing. Ditch the santita. There’s no way you can be anonymous, holding her hand.”

  “That’s not the point. She’s my protection. The Bandidos are scared to death of her.”

  “Shame on you,” Gottlieb said. “Hiding behind a little girl ... Edmundo might not have to depend on his supply of Mariels. He could be interviewing a few other bumpers.”

  “What other bumpers? He’d have a civil war if somebody touched the santita.”

  “That somebody wouldn’t have to touch. All he’d have to do is steal her from you ... Holden, I’d better run. I can’t afford too much of your company. I have my own life to consider.”

  Gottlieb returned to his tree. Holden continued downtown. He didn’t get into a cab. He was sick of circuitous routes. His fate was buried somewhere at Aladdin.

  He entered the fur district. All the Greek cutters stared at him. They knew about his problems. He was a bumper without guarantees. He had no backers now. But they still nodded to Holden. This was the fur market. And there wasn’t that much stability behind a mink coat.

  Holden arrived at an empty house. Aladdin’s big metal door wasn’t locked, but the factory was deserted. There were no nailers, cutters, or skins around. Holden stared at Nick Tiel’s dummies in the dim light. Nick hadn’t gone back to his paper. He’d closed the shop, sent his cutters into early retirement.

  Holden locked himself and the santita inside his office. He took a bath while the santita played with her doll. He’d have to get her some clothes. He heard footsteps on the factory floor.

  Holden got out of the tub and grabbed his Beretta Minx. He hid the santita under a table. And he had to smile. Would another Holden come for him, the way he’d come for the Parrot, and find a little leopard girl under the table?

  He opened the door. A woman stood in the gloom. Andrushka. She’d declare her love to Holden, tell him it was like old times, if he returned Nick Tiel’s paper. She couldn’t tempt him now. He was in love with that big blonde bitch. But he was still scared to look at Andrushka’s face. He’d lived in the same bed with her for two and a half years. He’d fall asleep touching her neck, wake up, listen to her breathe. It mattered to him more than the kisses ...

  Wasn’t Andrushka. He recognized the purple streak in Florinda Infante’s hair. Hadn’t she threatened to come to the office and undress him on the office couch? But he wasn’t one of her fat little kings whom she could bully. He’d decide who could undress him and who couldn’t. But she didn’t have that dazed smile of seduction. He saw worry in her aristocratic face. She didn’t have shoes. She must have left them outside the door. She was his own barefoot contessa, an inch taller than Holden. He’d never have gotten into trouble if he didn’t like tall women. Wouldn’t have married the twig, slept with Florinda, or gotten involved with the district attorney’s daughter-in-law.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, tentative with Holden for the first time.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Can’t you put that thing away?”

  Holden was clutching his Beretta Minx. He shoved it into his pocket and welcomed Florinda into his office.

  “Is that the little monster?” she said, looking at the santita and the santita’s doll. “She caused a whole lot of killing.”

  “She’s a girl,” Holden said. “God knows, seven or eight.”

  “She’s still a monster.”

  “Be friendly,” Holden said, “or get the hell out.”

  “I am friendly,” Florinda said. “That’s why I’m here ... Holden, the pack of them are at Mansions, figuring out your fate. I couldn’t stomach it.”

  “Who’s at Mansions?”

  “My darling husband, with Nick Tiel, Don Edmundo, Andrushka, and Schatz.”

  “The Swiss is in town?”

  “He came with Andrushka. They’re sitting at Count Josephus’ table, deciding the best way to end your life. It has something to do with a gun. Your gun.”

  “Did they mention Paul?”

  “Paul?” she asked, with thick lines in her head.

  “Paul, Paul, the district attorney. He took my shooter, but he gave it back. I checked the serial numbers ... damn him,” Holden said, “he pulled a Swiss. Doing Rembrandts with my gun.�
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  “Holden, will you talk an English I can understand.”

  “Paul put his gunsmiths to work. He made a double of my shooter. Don’t you see? He returned the wrong gun. He can lend my shooter around. Some poor slob gets killed, and they’ll look for Holden.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Paul’s playing parlor tricks. He’ll dump me in the can whenever he feels like it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he’s partners with Edmundo, and Edmundo’s partners with the Swiss. He’s also in love with Fay.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Florinda said. “He’s been crazy about her for years. You’re no threat to him. No matter who she’s with, she sticks to Paul. It’s a cozy combination. The district attorney and his daughter-in-law.”

  “She once loved Red Mike,” he muttered.

  “The woman has a Ph.D. What could she have found in Red Mike? He took off her clothes, and she enjoyed it.”

  “Who’s been telling you so much about Red Mike?”

  “My husband, that’s who.”

  “He’s slippery,” Holden said. “He keep asking me to take you to lunch.”

  “That’s because Robert’s in love with himself. He calls you his peon. He thinks you’re saving me from all the studs in town.”

  “Wait a minute,” Holden said. “He’s my lawyer. And who’s a peon? I’m vice president.”

  “So what? You work for Aladdin. And why are we arguing? You’re in danger. Let me have the little girl. I’ll watch her while you run.

  “Not a chance,” Holden said. He kissed Florinda on the mouth, touched her purple streak with more love than he could have imagined, because even if she’d set a trap for Holden, she’d come to him alone, she’d risked her long neck, and she’d told him about the abracadabra of Paul Abruzzi’s gunsmiths. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To Mansions,” he said.

  18

  THEY WERE SITTING LIKE lords at some Last Supper, six of them near Mansions’ far wall. The count, Nick Tiel, Robert Infante, Swiss, Edmundo, and Andrushka. Holden had come in wearing a cream-colored coat from his closet. His slacks were brown. His tie was made of priceless silk. He looked like a man who was dressed to do damage. He sat across from Andrushka and the five men. He ordered lentil soup for him and the santita. He saw Bandidos in the kitchen, rubbing their teeth. His first impulse was that they’d poisoned his soup. But he drank it anyway and asked for a second bowl.

  Count Josephus arrived at his table. “How are you, Holden?”

  “Good, considering there’s a lot of people with murder on their mind. And they happen to be in your restaurant.”

  “That’s because you’re a troublesome boy.”

  “I’m not a boy, count. I’ve got gray in my hair. And I’m a bumper, like you. But I don’t sit in restaurants with kings. And I wouldn’t let thugs into my kitchen.”

  “The old man wants to see you.”

  “What old man? Swiss? Tell him to come to my table. I’m busy drinking soup.”

  “Holden, you have business to discuss ... please.”

  “After my soup,” Holden said, ordering a third bowl. He drank it and then walked over to the Swiss’ table with the santita. The count provided a chair, and Holden sat with the girl on his lap and her damaged doll.

  The Swisser started to laugh. “Holden, forgive me, but that dolly stinks.”

  “It’s meant to stink. It’s Huevo, Swiss. That’s how a little girl mourns.”

  “Is she mute?” Schatz asked.

  “Not at all. She just doesn’t like to talk to shits.”

  “Keep insulting us,” Edmundo said. “You already have a terrific future. And don’t forget. Your ex-wife is at the table.”

  “She’s not my ex,” Holden said. “She’s a bigamist. But it happens I have a lousy lawyer.”

  “Moron,” Infante said, “who’s kept you out of jail all these years?” He searched the restaurant with his nose, sniffing for traces of his wife’s perfume. “Did anybody see Florinda?”

  “I thought you sent her to me, Robert, like you always do.”

  “Shut him up,” Infante said.

  “Why?” Edmundo said. “He makes a good parrot. Let him talk. He has one foot in the grave. And the other foot isn’t smart enough to know where to land. He’s sinking fast, our paradise man.”

  “Not so fast. I have Nicky’s paper ... right, Nick?”

  Nick Tiel blinked, without looking at Holden. He was on his own planet, where patterns could never be made. He couldn’t seem to recover from Holden’s robbery. Another month, Holden thought. And Swiss would have to put him away.

  “Don’t exaggerate your bargaining position,” Schatz said. “You have the paper, but we still have Nick.”

  “Try him,” Holden said. “See if he can sketch a cuff.”

  “A temporary crisis,” Schatz said. “Nothing more.”

  “How temporary is temporary?”

  “We’d rather not get into that,” Schatz said. “We’ll give you half a million for all the paper you have on hand.”

  “Half a million? When your empire is already rotting without Nick. You’re a cheapskate, Swiss.”

  “All right, we won’t haggle,” Schatz said. “Five million for the sleeves and the cuffs. Is that fair?”

  “Yes, Swiss. It’s a sweet price. But you can’t have the paper. You shouldn’t have gotten Mrs. Howard killed. A chauffeur is one thing. But she was family. And that I can’t forgive.”

  “He’s suicidal,” Infante said.

  “No, he’s like his dad,” Schatz said. “Spirited and dumb ... the paper’s useless to you, Holden. You can’t sell it. We’d murder whoever bought it from you. Everybody knows that.”

  “I don’t intend to sell. I’m keeping it ... for sentimental reasons.”

  “Then we have no choice,” Schatz said. “If we can’t have the paper, we’ll have you.”

  “That’s pretty good logic, Swiss. But be careful ... you might get bumped instead.”

  “Did you hear that?” Infante crowed. “Threatens the man who gave him his living.”

  “And my name,” Holden said. “Tell me, Swiss, who was my dad before you turned him into Holden?”

  “Does it matter that much? If I give you the name, do we get the paper?”

  “No,” Holden said, staring at the twig, who sat in her silverfox coat, and he knew she’d have to come into the calculations somewhere. Schatz was a man who didn’t waste moves.

  “What if we put Andrushka into the package?” Swiss said.

  And Holden smiled. Now he knew they really meant to kill him, because Swiss wouldn’t have returned Andrushka for all the cuffs, sleeves, and yolks Nick Tiel had ever designed. But Holden had to enter into the Swisser’s little game. “How’d you get her to agree to that?”

  “It was easy. She’s fond of you. She always wanted to go back to America. She gets lonely in Paris.”

  “Lonely for what, Swiss?”

  “Fifth Avenue. Bendel’s. The park.”

  “And me.”

  “Something like that,” Swiss said.

  “Let me hear it from her.”

  But the twig said nothing. And Holden liked her for that. Loved her, almost. She’d come here in the silverfox coat, sit at the bargaining table, but she wouldn’t lie for her old man.

  Holden stood up with the santita. Andrushka was like a marble mask. He could see the small blue veins in her neck. He’d kissed those veins, felt them beat like a tiny heart.

  “Wait,” Edmundo said. “You haven’t finished with me, Holden ... you’re my property now.”

  “You have it wrong, ’Mundo. You’re the first sucker on my list.”

  Holden picked up the leopard girl, held her under his arm, with the doll dragging against his stomach, and said to all the magi at the table, “Don’t count on Paul. He may have my shooter, but if he fucks me, Swiss, I’ll cross counties and sing to the other four D.A.s.”
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  “Hopeless,” Infante said. “The man is hopeless. He must enjoy signing his own death certificate.”

  “Robert,” Holden said, reaching out across the table to grab Infante’s tie. “Don’t talk death certificates. Bump a couple of guys first, and then see how it feels.”

  The Bandidos came out of the kitchen, looked at Edmundo and the little leopard girl, looked at Holden and the tie in his fist, looked at Andrushka, and returned to the kitchen.

  Holden relinquished the tie and left the table. He had to pass a gallery of kings, kings who turned their eyes away from Holden. He walked out onto the street, still hugging the santita. And then he saw Billetdoux, the bumper from Marseilles with all the seams in his face, and Holden understood what the Swisser had in mind. Billet stood in front of the restaurant with a pair of twins, the Castiglione brothers, Jean-Paul and Jupe. Holden remembered their histories. The twins had carved up half a hotel in Avignon three years ago, looking for some pathetic local gangster. They were short and mean and wore tropical suits, as if the world only had one season, and all weather began inside the Old Port at Marseilles.

  “Billet,” Holden said, “I’m disappointed. I figured the Swisser might send you ... but not with your two chums.”