“I was thinking about The Odd Couple,” Bob said. “You remember that movie?”
“Indeed I do,” the cabbie said. “Which locations interest you?”
Sue picked through the pile of glossy prints and selected three, handing them to Bob. Bob turned the first one over and read the address aloud. The Hotel Flanders at 133 West Forty-seventh Street. You know where that is?”
“I know where that was,” the cabbie said.
“Was?”
“Yeah, they tore it down some years ago,” the cabbie said. “Sorry. Anyplace else you wanna see from that movie?”
“How about Oscar’s apartment at 131 Riverside Drive?” Bob said.
“Now that I know is still there,” the cabbie said. “Riverside Drive it is.”
When they got to the corner of Riverside and West Eighty-fifth Street, Bob smiled when he recognized the familiar building. He elbowed Sue and pointed out the window. “There it is,” he said. When the cab pulled to the curb, Bob and Sue got out, camera in hand, ready to snap their photos. Sue held the glossy photo in one hand while she instructed Bob where to stand and how to pose for the correct replica shot. Bob did the same for Sue and then returned to the backseat of the cab. He turned the third photo over and read the address to the cabbie. “Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Monument,” he said.
The cabbie laughed.
“Did I say something funny?” Bob asked.
The cabbie pointed out the windshield of his cab. “It’s just up ahead, not far from here. I’ll have you there in less than a minute.”
Bob and Sue repeated their picture-taking routine, with each of them posing in the shot, before returning to the cab, satisfied with their efforts.
“Where to next?” the cabbie said.
Sue raised her index finger. “I’d like to see The Goodbye Girl’s apartment building,” she said, turning over the glossy print and reading the address to the cabbie. It’s at 170 West Seventy-eighth Street at Amsterdam Avenue. Are we far from there?”
“Not too far,” the cabbie assured her. “Maybe a dozen blocks, give or take. Sit back and relax. I’ll have you there in no time.”
The cabbie headed east on Eighty-sixth Street and turned south onto Amsterdam. As promised, less than a dozen blocks to the south he pulled up to the curb and pointed to an old apartment building on the corner. “There she be,” he said.
Sue grabbed Bob’s hand excitedly as the two of them exited to the street. The cabbie watched as the two tourists walked around the doorway to the building, snapping pictures and posing as if they were the principal players in that Oscar-winning movie.
Bob looked up at the fire escape that hung from the front of the building. He turned to Sue. “I wonder if I could climb up there so you could get a picture of me leaning over the fire escape railing, you know, like Richard Dreyfuss did when he was calling down to Marsha Mason.”
“I don’t know, Bob,” Sue said. “That sounds dangerous, not to mention that it might make that second story tenant mad. You wouldn’t want to get shot for trespassing, would you?” Bob thought about it for a moment and said, “I guess not. But let me get a shot of it from here anyway. Later I can use my graphics editing program and insert a picture of me in the shot.”
“Okay,” Sue agreed. “Then let’s get out of here. I don’t like the look of this neighborhood.”
Bob took a few more photos and quickly led Sue back to the cab. “Get what you were after?” the cabbie said. Bob said that he did. “Okay, folks, where to next?”
Bob held out his hand and waited for Sue to hand him the next set of glossies. He turned the first one over and announced, “Park Avenue and East Sixty-eighth Street.”
The cabbie smiled, knowing how many people he’d already taken to this now-famous corner. “Midnight Cowboy, right?” he said while still looking forward.
“Boy, you really know your movies, too, don’t you?” Sue said. “It’s not that,” the cabbie confessed.
“It’s just that I’ve taken more than my share of tourists to that same corner. If I remember correctly, that’s the corner where Jon Voight followed that woman across the intersection and asked her for directions to the Statue of Liberty.”
“Yeah,” Bob agreed, “but she was on to him and knew that he was just trying to pick her up and offer his stud service.”
“Right,” the cabbie said. “And not far from there is the townhouse where Voight daydreamed about taking that woman. I can show you that location as well, if you like.”
“If we like?” Bob said. “That was going to be our next stop.” When the cabbie parked at the corner, Bob asked him if he’d like to take a couple of shots of him and Sue crossing that intersection. The cabbie agreed, knowing that the meter would be running the whole time. “When we get across the street,” Bob told him, “take a picture of the two of us in the same location as Voight and that woman. Get it?”
“Clever,” the cabbie said. “Sure, I’ll be glad to take those pictures for you.”
Bob waited until the cabbie was situated in the proper place for the right effect and then waved to him. Sue crossed the intersection with Bob following close behind her. The cabbie snapped several pictures of that event and then crossed the street himself to get the close-up shot of the two of them, with the same backdrop as in the movie.
When they finished, the three of them got back into the cab. Bob and Sue immediately checked the camera’s three-inch screen, looking at the photos the cabbie had taken of them pretending to be Joe Buck and the classy woman. They were perfect. Bob looked up at the cabbie. “Great shots,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
“All part of the full service,” the cabbie said, parroting the phrase he’d used on them the day before. “I’ll take you to that townhouse now.” He drove two blocks to the location used in the movie and parked at the curb while Bob and Sue got the shots they wanted for their scrapbook. They returned to the cab and double-checked their pictures before they were satisfied that they could move on to the next project.
The sun would be setting within the hour and Bob knew he needed to get a few more shots before he and Sue called it a day. He looked at the cabbie. “There’re just three more locations we want to photograph before we quit for the day,” Bob said.
“And the address?” the cabbie said.
Bob looked at the back of one of the last three glossies that Sue had handed him. “Would you take us to 33 Riverside Drive at West Seventy-fifth Street, please?”
The cabbie scratched his head. “You got me on that one,” he said. “Which movie are we talking about here?”
Bob smiled, proud that he’d finally stumped the knowledgeable cabbie. “That would be Paul Kersey’s apartment building from Death Wish with Charles Bronson,” Bob announced.
The cabbie snapped his fingers. “I would have gotten it in another minute. Yes, I saw that movie several times. Riverside Drive it is.” He pulled away from the curb and headed for the address Bob had given him.
When they got to the address, Bob compared what he was seeing out the cab window with the glossy photo in his hand. This was the place where the muggers had followed Bronson’s wife and daughter home from the grocery store and had beaten and robbed them both, raping Bronson’s daughter before they left. Bob and Sue took several shots of the same area as in the glossy photo before they were satisfied that they had what they came for.
“That didn’t take long,” the cabbie said.
“There weren’t that many scenes shot here,” Bob explained. “There is another place we’d like to photograph before it gets dark. Can you take us to the corner of Eighth Avenue and West Forty-fourth Street?”
“Sure,” the cabbie said. “What’s there?”
“Remember in the movie when Bronson was trying to lure muggers down into the subway?” Bob said. “He sat in the café and opened his wallet, letting everyone see that he had a lot of money. He knew that someone would follow him when he left the café and he wanted to get them do
wn into the subway and dispatch of them, so to speak.”
“Yes,” the cabbie said. “I remember that part. And you say that café is on Forty-fourth and Eighth?”
“If it’s still there,” Bob added. “Let’s go find out.”
It was indeed still there, as Bob learned when the cab pulled to the curb at the corner. He leaned toward the cabbie. “We won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll just be getting exterior shots. The interiors were probably filmed on some sound stage anyway.” He and Sue got out and crossed the street to the café. Bob got the shots he wanted with the two of them taking turns posing before they returned to the cab.
“That it for the day?” the cabbie said. “It’ll be dark in a few more minutes. I expect you’ll both be anxious to get back to your hotel.”
“Just one more stop,” Bob said.
“But will you be able to get the shots you want in the dark?” the cabbie said.
“They’d turn out more accurate in the dark, actually,” Bob said. “Take us to Riverside Park and West Ninety-ninth Street, would you?”
The cabbie’s face took on a look of concern. “Are you sure you want to go there?” he said. “It’s not really safe out there this time of night.”
“We just need two or three more shots before we can call this project finished,” Bob said. “It’ll just take a few minutes. You worry too much, you know that?”
“Okay,” the cabbie said, reluctantly. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He stopped at the address Bob had given him and glanced at the meter. There was enough on there to justify this foolhardy stop at night. He imagined what kind of tip he’d get from his passengers when he dropped them off at their hotel once all this picture taking was done.
Bob and Sue got out of the cab, assuring the cabbie that they’d be right back. The two of them walked over to the exact place that was shown on the glossy print Sue had in her hand. “This is it, alright,” Bob said. “This is the exact spot where Charles Bronson stood when he shot that mugger at the top of the stairs. Remember? Then he turned around and took a shot at the other mugger at the bottom of the stairs. You go to the bottom of these steps and look up at me. I’ll get a picture of you from up here and then I can bring the camera down to you so you can get a picture of me looking down from the top of the stairs. Then we can go home.”
“Let’s hurry,” Sue said, nervously. She walked to the bottom of the cement stairs, camera in hand. When she was situated, she called up to Bob to quickly take the picture and then bring her the camera.
Bob did as he was told, got two shots of Sue looking up at him and then hurried down the steps to give her the camera before returning to the top again. When he got to the bottom, he stood beside his wife and pointed up at the top of the landing. “Wait until I get ready up there,” he said. “I’ll wave down at you and you can snap two or three pictures and then we can go home, okay?”
“Okay,” Sue said. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t like it here.”
“What’s not to like?” a voice from behind the couple said.
Bob and Sue both turned toward the sound of the voice only to see two young men standing there, staring back at them. One of them was scraping dirt from under his fingernails with the tip of a switchblade knife. The other one was casually holding a snub-nosed revolver, as if it was an extension of his hand. The one with the gun was the voice they heard. “Come on, folks, you know the routine. Give me your watches, your wallets, and anything else you might have on you, like that camera. That looks like a good one.” He held his hand out to receive their personal possessions.
“Give it to them, Bob,” Sue said.
“But all our photos from this trip are on there,” he protested.
“Give it to them, Bob,” Sue repeated, more frantic this time.
Bob pulled the wallet out of his hip pocket and handed it over to the thug with the gun. He also gave the man his watch as well as Sue’s watch. “Just take that and go, please. Let me keep the camera, alright?”
“I ain’t gonna tell you again, pops,” the thug said, gesturing with his head toward his knife-wielding partner. “Get the camera,” he told the other kid.
Bob grabbed Sue by the hand and made a mad dash for the stairway.
The cabbie had waited several minutes past the time he thought he should have. He got out and walked over to where he’d seen Bob standing earlier and looked down the cement stairway. He saw two youths standing over the bodies of Bob and Sue. They were going through their pockets and looked up when they heard a noise at the top of the stairs.
The kid with the gun aimed it up at the cabbie and squeezed off three quick shots, two of them hitting the cabbie in the chest. He fell onto the top landing as the kid with the knife hurried up the steps and relieved the cabbie of his wallet as well. He stood back up and waved the cabbie’s wallet overhead, smiling maniacally. The cabbie’s eyes fluttered open and he could see the kid waving his wallet at his partner. The cabbie reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun of his own, firing it several times at the kid on the landing. He caught the kid once in the back of his calf, once in the hip, and once in the back of his skull before he dropped the gun again and died there on the sidewalk.
The kid holding the cabbie’s wallet tumbled down the cement stairs, coming to rest on top of Bob and Sue’s bodies. The thug with the gun yelled, “Oh shit,” and took off running in the opposite direction.
The following day an early morning jogger found the carnage and called the police. When they lifted Bob’s body up, they found the digital camera but no identification on either body. A further search of the area netted them one dead cabbie with a gun lying near his body. When the media got wind of the crime, they were all over the scene, taking pictures of their own. It eventually came out that this couple had come from Wisconsin to take pictures of movie locations and that fact was reinforced when the police got a look at the pictures on the digital camera.
The evening papers ran a front page story on the four deaths found on the stairway. The headlines read DEATH WISH and ran side-by-side photos of the murder scene as well as the glossy photo found on Sue’s body. On the back, written in pencil it said, “Charles Bronson from Death Wish. Location: Riverside Park and West Ninety-ninth Street.”
It would be one hell of an addition to someone’s scrap book.
THE TOUR GUIDE
BY KAT GEORGES
“AND HERE IS A BOX of New York’s Best Cannolis, for all of us to share,” the tour guide said. She held a white cardboard box high above her head. Liz was a short brunette. Neat: tailored woven silk jacket over designer jeans, urban black leather boots, well-kept nails with a fresh French manicure, chic intelligent glasses shielding deep brown eyes that took in much more than they gave away. Now she was smiling on a warm spring afternoon on Bleecker Street in the West Village. Smiling, at the seventeen tourists in her group. Smiling, in that way people smile when they expect the people they’re looking at to smile back exactly the same way.
They did, reflexively. Good, Liz thought. More smiles, more tips. She glanced down and opened the box lid and carefully showed off its treasure—seventeen mini cannolis. The tourists took a few photos with their cell phones, then she gently handed them one mini cannoli each.
Tourists are so damn easy to please, she thought, over their adoring clicks and coos. Goddamned sheep. I could give them dog shit and—as long as I told them a good story about it—they’d suck it up with a stupid grin and tell me over and over how delicious it was. As if they knew from delicious. I give them the best slice of pizza in the world, they get goo-goo-eyed and gush about how it reminds them of their first slice of Domino’s. I give them the best cannoli in the world? To them it’s the same as some crap they “just love” from Dunkin’ Donuts. They’ve got no ability to distinguish quality from mediocrity. As long as they’re eating and they don’t get sick, they love it. Idiots.
Liz reached for the last cannoli in the box and held it out without looking up. A
hand reached out, fingers brushed hers as they took the treat. She heard a familiar voice. A repeat customer. She had heard it a few times during the past few weeks. A man’s voice: smooth, deep. “Thank you, Liz.” She glanced up. He waxed on, “I just love your walking tours. Far better than any of the others! You are amazing!”
It was not a compliment. Compliments never scared her like this.
HE WAS THE DEFINITION OF a middle-aged man: medium height, a little overweight, slightly balding. Sunglasses in the top pocket of his striped short-sleeve light-blue shirt. Neat khaki pants; brown leather loafers—cheap and well-worn. He’d been on the tour two—no, three—times, always with a different woman—some dowdy out-of-towner or another. Some small-town woman past her prime. A Kansas, Georgia, Arizona type. Some lonelyheart on a weekend break from Facebook.
This time he was all alone. He smiled at her. She did not smile back.
WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME he came on Liz’s Exclusive West Village Bits and Bites Walking Tour? Hard to say. These days, she ran it so many times every week. With repetition like that, memories blur. It was all rote by now: life on repeat. Jackson Pollock’s first art studio was here at 69 Carmine Street! Bigtime mobster Vincent “The Chin” Gigante roamed these very streets as a child before he became boss of the Genovese crime family! Jack Kerouac sipped espresso at this very table of Cafe Reggio!
How long had she been at it? Two—no, three—years? God. Too long. Should have stuck to walking dogs.
Her first tours—three years ago—gave her that same sheer joy she’d had as an actor back in her little theater days. She researched her part—went to the library on the weekdays and found out interesting tidbits about the West Village that she knew would make her tour The Best. Enthusiasm flew out of her—infectious. Tour groups were thrilled. They recommended her to friends back home. She was able to go from one tour a week to four a weekend, and—by summer—tours on weekdays as well.
That first year, in July, she led at least one tour a day for three weeks straight. She was able to buy real food instead of junk. She ate out once in a while. Got her hair cut and colored at the local salon instead of doing it herself. Bought new clothes. Even shoes.
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