End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  He held up his hand. “What’s not exactly?”

  “It’s what I want to be,” Ivy said, annoyed that he’d made her say it out loud. “But right now I’m teaching the inmate writing program at Dannemora, and—”

  “That where they’ve got Harrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” said Tony B. “You thought you’d solve the Gold Dust case, put yourself on the map.”

  “Put myself on the map?”

  “By writing a big bestseller,” Tony B said. “True crime sells.”

  Ivy let a moment go by: she realized she didn’t like anything about Tony B, most of all the way he kept interrupting her. “My interest is fiction, Mr. Blass. Harrow wrote a story that showed a lot of talent, in my opinion. I wanted to find out more about him.”

  Tony B had big watery eyes. They looked her up and down. “Harrow wrote a story?” he said.

  Ivy nodded.

  “Your interest is fiction?”

  She nodded again.

  He held out the Almond Roca can, rattled the contents sociably in her direction.

  She shook her head.

  Tony B helped himself, thought things over, said, “What do you want to know?”

  “Something about his background, for starters,” Ivy said.

  “Harrow? He’s a punk.”

  Ivy rejected that out of hand: no punk could write like that. “He must have had some education,” she said.

  “Attended West Raquette High.” Tony B swiveled around to his screen, put on a pair of glasses, hit a few keys. There was a sweat stain on the back of his shirt, in the broad soft space between his shoulder blades. Strange, but something about that sweat stain told Ivy what she should have figured out already: he had dreams of writing the Gold Dust Casino bestseller himself. “Nothing in my notes about graduating,” said Tony B.

  “He grew up in West Raquette?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “A dump.”

  “How about his parents, things like that?” Ivy said.

  “Dead end,” said Tony B. “Nothing in his background leads to the money. I checked it all out.”

  “The money that was stolen?”

  “We’re talking about something else?”

  He wasn’t getting it. “We are, actually,” Ivy said. “Did Harrow have a daughter?”

  “Not that I recall.” Tony B scrolled down the screen, shook his head.

  “But there was a wife,” Ivy said.

  “Yes indeedy,” said Tony B. “Betty Ann Price. Want to see a picture, at least how she looked seven years ago?”

  Ivy moved closer. She could smell Tony B’s sweat and his deodorant at the same time. A photo popped up on the screen.

  “Is she Indian?” Ivy said.

  Tony B shook his head. “Casino rules—all the dealers dress in tribal regalia.”

  “She worked at the casino?”

  “A relevant detail,” said Tony B, “since it was an inside job, whether the D.A. admitted that or not.”

  Ivy was a little lost. She gazed at the picture of Harrow’s wife, young and beautiful, with short straight blond hair and fine features. “I’d like to hear the whole story,” she said. “From beginning to end, if you’ve got time.”

  Tony B checked his watch. “Buy me lunch?”

  “Sure,” said Ivy, thinking, After all that Almond Roca, he won’t be hungry.

  But he was. They went to an Irish pub around the corner—green awning, shamrocks, leprechauns, grease smells. Tony B ordered steamed mussels and the rib eye, medium, with a side of onion rings. “Ale or lager?” he said.

  “I’m not really—”

  He ordered a pitcher of ale.

  Ivy had leek soup.

  “Cheers,” said Tony B.

  “Cheers.”

  Tony B patted at his mouth with a napkin, getting most of the spillover, and sat back. “Beginning to end,” he said. “Know the north country at all, along the St. Lawrence?”

  “No.”

  “Indians have a chunk of land up there, both sides of the river, U.S. and Canada. Don’t recognize the white man’s border. Also they’ve got cheap gas and smokes, in case you’re ever passing through.” He poured himself more ale. “Plus the casinos. In this case, especially comparing with Vegas or even Atlantic City, the word’s a…” He searched for the right one.

  “Misnomer?” said Ivy.

  “Yeah.” He gulped down a big drink. “Gold Dust is the nicest and it’s a pit. But guess how much money goes through there on a daily basis.”

  “No idea.”

  “A hundred and fifty grand. Every day. Maybe double on weekends. And that was seven years ago. How it was then, the cash just sat in a safe in the back office till the armored car pickup at eight A.M. Betty Ann Price dealt blackjack there until two months before the robbery, knew the whole setup. All too tempting for a gang of small-time local hoodlums, namely Marv Lusk, Simeon Carter, Frank Mandrell—the brains—and Harrow.”

  “You’ve got a good memory,” Ivy said.

  “I lived with those scumbags for six months,” said Tony B.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s how long it took me to write a book about the case.”

  “So there is a book?”

  “If that means a published book, no,” Tony B said. “A great yarn—my agent kept hearing that—but no ending, not without finding Betty Ann Price and/or the money.”

  “Who’s your agent?”

  Tony B named an agent Ivy had heard of. “I fired the asshole,” he said. “How am I supposed to find Betty Ann when the cops couldn’t?”

  “Is that what your agent wanted you to do?” Ivy said.

  “Hard to believe,” said Tony B. “Those New York publishing types live in a fucking dreamworld.” He sliced off a big chunk of rib eye, shoved it in his mouth, then said something that began incomprehensibly because he was chewing at the same time. “…so dumb it almost worked—ski masks, smoke bombs, sawed-off shotguns. But this security guard, Jerry Redfeather, recognized Simeon Carter. Ski mask isn’t much use when you’re a local guy, six-six, three-fifty, so Redfeather yells through the smoke along the lines of ‘Carter, you son of a bitch.’ At which point Carter starts blazing away, Redfeather blazes back, Carter, Lusk, and Redfeather all bleed to death within a minute or two, and in the commotion Harrow gets away with maybe three hundred and fifty grand, the exact amount never established on account of how much skimming’s going on. Meanwhile Mandrell’s waiting in a boat down by the river—the plan being to get away to Canada, where Mandrell’s got a cousin—but Harrow never shows up. The Border Patrol spots Mandrell and picks him up, thinking he’s a smuggler. Mandrell cuts his deal about an hour later, fingering Harrow as the third man. Not long after that, they grab Harrow at his house—this is all the night of the robbery—but Betty Ann’s gone and the money, too. Harrow got offered a deal of his own—lesser sentence in return for Betty Ann’s whereabouts. He turned it down, meaning it must have been true love. Which is where we are, as of now. Any questions?”

  Ivy tried to take it all in. Robbery going bad at warp speed: a wild story. Part comedy, part—not tragedy, exactly, except for what had happened to Jerry Redfeather—but whatever word fit all that brutality, greed, stupidity. “Do you think the deal’s still in place?” she said.

  “Harrow getting time off or something if he coughs her up now?” said Tony B.

  “Yes.”

  “If it is,” said Tony B, “he could have done it already. Why would he change his mind now?”

  Ivy thought: Because of this talent he has; a confused thought, perhaps, that she kept to herself.

  “And that’s assuming he’s still got anything relevant at this late date,” Tony B added. “Help me with the onion rings.”

  But he didn’t need help: they were almost gone.

  “What was
the relationship between Harrow and Frank Mandrell?” Ivy said.

  “Relationship?” said Tony B. “Mandrell was maybe ten years older, the brains, like I said. He’d met Lusk in the joint and Lusk and Harrow were related somehow. Guess you could say they fell under his influence—Mandrell was a big, good-looking guy, drove a Beemer, I think it was.”

  “Did it bother him, trading in Harrow like that?”

  Tony B laughed. “Bother him? We’re talking about the jungle here.”

  “Is that how he put it?”

  “Who?”

  “Frank Mandrell,” Ivy said. “When you interviewed him.”

  “I never actually interviewed him,” said Tony B.

  Had she gotten the story wrong? “But didn’t he go free?”

  “Sure did,” Tony B said. “But part of the deal was an identity change. Witness protection. He dropped out of sight right after his trial.”

  The waiter appeared. “Dessert?”

  “Talked me into it,” said Tony B.

  Ten

  “You are so far liking this criminal job?” Dragan said.

  Down in the cellar under Verlaine’s, Ivy hooking up a keg of Stella, Dragan bagging trash. “Yes,” Ivy said.

  A bag split, and a wet glob slopped to the floor. Dragan stooped to clean it up without complaint. “What is in your mind the attraction?” he said.

  “The attraction?”

  “Attraction?” said Dragan. “This is an incorrect word?”

  “It’s a correct word,” Ivy said. “I’m just not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Getting at,” said Dragan. “What a primo American phrasing turn! I am getting at what is for you the good of teaching criminals?”

  Ivy rose. “It pays,” she said.

  “You are making sense,” said Dragan. “Money is talking and bullshit is walking—this I learn from day one. But how can criminals do good writing?”

  “They can,” said Ivy. “Even very good.”

  Dragan got all the bags lined up at the base of the stone steps leading to the steel door at sidewalk level. “I would ask big favor from you,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “To read my novel.”

  “It’s finished?”

  “Plus two revises and final polishing,” said Dragan. “I will of course pay you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Dragan,” Ivy said.

  “You refuse to read it?” said Dragan. “I perfectly understand.”

  “I refuse to charge you,” Ivy said.

  Dragan smiled one of his huge unsightly smiles. “So you will read it?”

  “Yes. But just remember my opinion doesn’t mean anything.”

  He wiped his hand on his apron, held it out. They shook. Dragan didn’t let go right away. “You are American woman,” he said.

  “That’s true,” said Ivy.

  “My school friends and I, we many times discussed American women.”

  “And what was the verdict?” Ivy said, withdrawing her hand.

  Dragan took a deep breath, as though one of those all-or-nothing rolls of the dice was coming. At that moment, Bruce yelled down the stairs, “What the hell’s going on? I’m dying up here.”

  Danny Weinberg was sitting at the end of the bar, in Ivy’s territory, but first there were some college kids she had to take care of.

  “I’ll have to see some ID.”

  Out came driver’s licenses from various distant states. They all looked good enough to be genuine. She handed them back.

  “Never been to Alabama myself,” she said to the boy with the Alabama license.

  “Check it out sometime,” he said in an accent a lot like Bruce’s, Brooklyn born and bred.

  “After you,” Ivy said.

  “Huh?” he said. One of the kids guffawed. ’Bama boy turned red. Ivy served them anyway: Bruce balked at any kind of close ID analysis. He was a businessman, as he frequently said, not a clerk at the CIA.

  Ivy worked her way down to Danny. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair; Ivy read the label—Hugh Griffin, Gentlemen’s Tailoring, London.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Ivy. How are you doing?”

  “Good. What would you like?”

  “I’ve got two bits of news,” Danny said.

  Her heart understood before the rest of her, started beating faster.

  “Whit likes your story,” Danny said.

  Faster and faster. “No. He does?”

  “He does,” Danny said. He was smiling, not as big a smile as Dragan’s, but his teeth were perfect.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “‘She’s got a sly screwball take on modern life,’” Danny said.

  “That’s what he said?”

  “Quote unquote.”

  “A sly screwball take?”

  “Verbatim.”

  “But is that good or bad?”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe it’s a put-down.”

  “It’s not a put-down.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know him.”

  “Screwball,” Ivy said. “That’s like those thirties movies.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bringing Up Baby.”

  “Don’t know that one,” Danny said.

  “So maybe…” Ivy began. So maybe since the screwball reference had probably been lost on Danny, he might have misunderstood Whit after all. She looked into Danny’s eyes, tried to see whether she could trust his interpretation.

  “What’s with that look?” Danny said. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Where did this conversation take place?” Ivy said.

  “What conversation?”

  “With Whit, for God’s sake.”

  “On the squash court, actually. We—”

  At that moment, the door burst open and the Boerum Hill Gay Bowlers came in, about a dozen of them, in their pink satin team jackets. All of a sudden, everything speeded up, the way it did sometimes at Verlaine’s. ’Bama boy was holding an empty beer bottle on his head, an amusing frat-boy signal for another round. Bruce, shaking up two martinis with savage force, glanced over at her.

  “Got to go,” Ivy said.

  “When are you off?” said Danny.

  “In an hour.”

  “How about dinner?”

  Ivy paused.

  “Don’t you want to finish your cross-examination?” Danny said.

  Ivy laughed.

  They met at the River Café, sat at a window table. A barge glided by, all dark silhouette except for the pilot’s face, green in the glow of his instruments, and a crewman at the stern reading a book by flashlight.

  “Been here before?” Danny said.

  “Way out of my price range,” said Ivy. “I didn’t know you played squash.”

  Champagne arrived. The cork popped with a promising little explosion. Ivy ordered the duck special.

  “Excellent choice,” said the waiter.

  “Thanks,” said Ivy.

  This was nice. Her mind, restless and greedy tonight, wanted to flash forward to vignettes in the life of Ivy, bestselling novelist. She tamped it down as best she could.

  “I try to get on the court once a week or so,” Danny said.

  “With Whit?”

  “That was our first time,” Danny said. “He’s not much of a player—no touch at all.”

  “How did ‘Caveman’ come up?”

  “‘Caveman’?”

  “The title of the story.”

  “Oh, right,” Danny said, refilling her glass, empty already. “I asked if he’d read it yet.”

  “And?”

  “And what I told you,” Danny said. “The sly-screwball thing.”

  “What else did he say?” Ivy said.

  “That was it.”

  “Nothing about when he’d get in touch?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be soon,” Danny said. “Relax.”

 
Ivy relaxed. Yes, why not? So good to just relax.

  Danny told a funny story about a recent flight to Taipei, a stressed-out flight attendant and a pet tarantula on the loose in business class. The duck—yes, an excellent choice—came and went. So did another bottle of champagne.

  “Do you ever think of writing novels?” Danny said.

  “Sure.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “There was one,” Ivy said.

  “All ears,” said Danny, pouring more.

  “It’s not developed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Ivy had never told anyone about this, not even Joel. But…but if things were really going to happen for her, why not? Why the hell keep holding back? She licked her lips. “It’s about a surveyor. You know, those guys who—”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway—” She took a big drink, really good champagne, the kind that just tastes better and better no matter how much you have—“this surveyor starts to find that nothing measures right.”

  “I don’t get it,” Danny said.

  “First it’s just little things, like the lot on an architect’s plans doesn’t quite line up with the lot on the ground. But then it starts happening everywhere, and soon she’s—”

  “She?”

  “Why not?” Ivy said.

  “No reason,” Danny said. “Sorry. Go on. This is fascinating.”

  “It is?”

  “More,” said Danny.

  “There isn’t much more,” Ivy said. “She gets to the stage where she’s measuring everything—skyscrapers, cathedrals, bridges—and it’s all a little off.”

  “The whole world’s out of whack?” Danny said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah?” Ivy said.

  “Wow,” said Danny.

  Ivy felt his foot against hers, under the table. She did nothing about it.

  “And then what happens?” Danny said.

  The bill came. While Danny paid, Ivy gazed across the river at that lit-up Manhattan skyline that always transfixed her. But now something was different, personal for the first time: not like she owned the place, but at least she belonged.

  Then they were out walking, the night air cool but still. “And then what happens?” Danny said again, taking her arm. Ivy let him.