1985 - Stars and bars (33 page)

He reached Park Avenue, ran to the central island and crouched down, getting his breath back. A patrol car motored past and he drew himself behind a small bush. He let it go. Above him the stacked lights in the tall buildings quickly grew fuzzy before being enveloped by dark clouds. A few cars hissed by on either side of him but the pavements were deserted. He set off up the central reservation. He wondered what anyone—casually watching the rain fall from their apartment window—would think if they saw him, a pale ghostly figure slipping from shrub to shrub, darting across streetSj incongruous in his heavy black walking shoes…This was surely, he thought as he ran, the apotheosis of his shame and embarrassment. No basically shy person could experience any ordeal so hellishly demanding and harrowing, so testing as this. After his naked run through Manhattan he could hardly complain about other travails: nothing could be as uncompromisingly
harsh
as what he was currently undergoing.

And yes, he felt surprisingly good. Untroubled, oddly calm. He ran on—not strongly, but steadily—stumbling occasionally, his feet catching in the ivy that grew along the flower beds of the Park Avenue Central reservation, the heavy raindrops striking his face and chest.

He made good progress up Park Avenue until his way was blocked by Grand Central Station and the Pan-Am building. At Forty-second Street he paused by a traffic light, halted by a sudden and typical flow of cars. A wet man stood waiting for the ‘walk’ sign. Henderson jogged on the spot beside him, intoxicated with his new freedom.

The man looked round, swaying slightly.

‘Y’all right, man?’

‘Me?’ Henderson panted. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘Keepin’ fit, yeah?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Some sorta—what—athlete, yeah? Athletics, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mary Mount Maxi-Pads,’ he read slowly.

‘My sponsors.’

‘Hey, congratulations.’

The light changed, Henderson jogged on. He had been accepted, the moment had come and gone, but he had joined America at last. He cut up Vanderbilt Avenue on to Forty-fifth and then up Madison. He ran slowly, easily, not exhausting himself, pausing for breath when he got a stitch, enjoying the unfettered luxury of his temporary status as madman, American and jogger. He cut across at Fifty-ninth and loped casually by the Plaza, Central Park’s dark green mass on his right. Irene was now only a few blocks away. He looked at his watch: half past four.

Outside Irene’s block he paused. He stood in a doorway and checked himself over. The Maxi-Pad box was showing signs of wear and tear; bits were disintegrating from the wet and his flanks showed through gaps where the friction of his running had caused the damp cardboard to wear through. His shoulders were red and a little sore from the rubbing of the plastic braces. Making his fingers stiff claws he tried, incongruously, to put a parting in his hair.

He crept up to the apartment door. The lobby was lit, but no-one sat at the lectern. He pressed the buzzer on the aluminium pole and waited. Nothing happened. He was beginning to feel nervous and ordinary again, now that his heroic epic run was over. It was beginning to disappear, wear off. He was being normal once more, ringing doorbells, visiting, asking favours. He pressed the buzzer.

A door opened in the rear wall of the lobby and a small man came out, shrugging on a jacket. Henderson, suddenly wary—like an Amazonian native suspicious of his first encounter with strangers—shrunk back against the wall out of sight.

‘Yeah?’ came a metallic voice from the pedestal.

‘I want to see Ms Stien,’ Henderson whispered loudly in its direction.

‘What?’

‘Come to the door.’

The man advanced cautiously. With dismay Henderson saw that it was Bra.

‘Who is it?’ Bra asked, peering into the shadows.

‘Bra,’ Henderson whispered from his hiding place, ‘it’s me, Mr Dores.’

‘Who are you? Where are you?’

‘Here. To the side. Your right.’ Henderson waved.

‘Come out of there, ya fuckin’ freak!’

Henderson stood up and stepped into view. Bra backed off in patent shock.

‘Hello, Bra, It’s me, Mr Dores. I need to see Ms Stien. I’m in terrible trouble.’

‘What?…Get outa here! What are you?’

‘Look, Bra. It’s…it’s a matter of life and death.’

‘Get your ass outa here, ya fuckin’ geek! I warn you, I gotta gun in here!’

‘Bra, it’s
me
. Mr Dores. You know me. I was here the other day.’

‘I count to ten. I call the cops.’

He saw Bra lift the phone. With bitter, disgusted tears in his eyes he ran off into the dark. That little bastard
knew
it was me, he swore. He had done that deliberately. He ran full tilt down the road towards Central Park. A significant portion of his box came away revealing a section of pallid haunch. The rain still fell with healthy force; it showed no sign of relenting. At this rate he’d be naked again in half an hour—swaddled only in a plastic belting. But now he didn’t feel so wonderful—so transformed at the prospect. He had no money, he couldn’t even phone anyone…What he needed were clothes. It had never struck him as the key prerequisite for survival in the West. If you’re half naked you are a non-person, a subversive, a deviant. You can do nothing unless you are properly dressed. Shoes, trousers, a shirt-the
sine qua non
of social action.

He needed clothes…Perhaps he could mug somebody? Dare he return to his apartment? But what if Freeborn and Sereno were there? What if they had discovered his escape by now? And then, suddenly, he remembered where he kept a second suit of clothes. The Queensboro Gym. His fencing gear. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Only a matter of hours until it opened. He looked up at the sky. Keep raining, he implored. He set off. Straight down Fifty-ninth Street, all the way.

Henderson found a place to hide in a basement well opposite the gym. To his alarm it was beginning to get light with inconsiderate speed. Soon the first keen commuters would be arriving. Like witches and hobgoblins people like him should be off the streets by the time the first cock crowed, he thought. He felt, lurking close behind him, rank breath stirring the hairs on his nape, a vast implacable exhaustion waiting to pounce. He confirmed the time: half five. The gym opened at seven. He was suddenly gripped by a fierce hunger and realized he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours.

He looked at the grey empty streets, still hosed by curtains of rain. A puddle the size of a football pitch swamped the intersection of York and Fifty-eighth. A car had been abandoned in the middle, the water lapping at the radiator. Around its perimeter stepped a neat, waterproofed, track-suited figure, carrying small dumbbells in each hand. See, Henderson told himself, there are madder people than me out on the streets…

‘Teagarden! Eugene, over here! Over here!’

Teagarden trotted over and looked down at him.

‘Well, Mr Dores. What a surprise.’

Henderson clambered out of his basement well. His Mary Mount Maxi-Pad box was now the consistency of porridge. With every step part of it fell away.

Teagarden looked at him.

‘Yeah…’ he nodded. ‘Pretty good.’

Henderson shrugged. ‘Well…’

Told you you shouldn’t ought to have gone down there. What happened?’

‘Long story, Eugene.’

Tmsure.’

‘Going to the gym?’

‘Yes.’

‘Saved my life, Eugene.’

They strolled across the street to the gym. Teagarden unlocked the door and switched on the lights. Henderson sat down opposite his locker with a squelch. He suddenly felt like crying. He also felt like telling Teagarden that he loved him, so abject was his gratefulness, but he refrained.

‘Whew,’ he said. ‘Quite a night, one way and another.’ Now that it was over all the emotions he had pent up overwhelmed him, like a football crowd invading the pitch. For a few moments his brain succumbed to the mindless violence.

‘Like some coffee?’ Teagarden said.

‘Please.’

The gym was quiet and cool; it seemed like a sanctuary, a holy place. Teagarden went off to boil a kettle. Heh-derson stood up. With both hands he ripped away chunks of his Maxi-Pad box. A shower. A meal. A change of clothes…

‘Well hello there, Mr Dores.’

He looked up. Freeborn, Sereno and Gint stood at the end of his file of lockers. Gint was pointing his gun at him. ‘Quite a dance you’ve led us, Mr Dores,’ Sereno said. ‘Luxora and back in twelve hours. Quite a dance.’

‘Shoot the fucker,’ Freeborn implored. ‘Off him, Peter.’

‘First he has to tell us where the paintings are.’

‘How did you…? I mean…’

Sereno waved his address book. ‘Not many New York addresses, Mr Dores. Peter spent the night in your apartment. We’ve just been there. Missed you by minutes at Ms Stien’s.’

‘Blow him away, Peter! Waste the bastard!’

Sereno glanced suspiciously at Freeborn.

‘Where are the paintings, Mr Dores?’

‘They’re burnt, destroyed. Duane burned them on Loomis Gage’s instructions. Ask Freeborn.’

‘Give me the fuckin’ gun!’ Freeborn leapt for Gint’s hand but was elbowed easily away. Then Gint went very still.

‘Don’t move,’ Teagarden said. ‘Or else this thing’s gonna be stickin’ out your mouth.’

Teagarden held a sabre to the back of Gint’s neck, the point on his hairline. Gint stood like a man who has just had an ice-cube dropped down his shirt, back arched, chest out.

‘Drop the piece and kick it over to Mr Dores.’

Gint did this. Henderson picked the gun up. It was somehow much heavier than he imagined. He pointed it vaguely at Freeborn.

Teagarden walked round Gint keeping the point of his sabre at his neck.

‘OK, shitbrains, beat it.’

Freeborn turned and ran. Sereno watched him go.

‘So the paintings are burnt,’ Sereno said. ‘Making sense, at last.’ He and Gint backed off.

‘Duane burned them. Look at the bottom of the garden behind the Gage mansion.’

‘Shame,’ Sereno said. ‘I never really wanted the house. But beggars can’t be choosers.’

He and Gint turned and left.

‘Very impressive, Eugene,’ Henderson said weakly. ‘Thanks a lot. Here, you can keep the gun.’

W
hen Henderson next appeared on the streets of Manhattan he was slightly better dressed. He wore his whites—poloneck, knickerbockers, socks and gymshoes. Teagarden had lent him a green windcheater and ten dollars for a taxi. In gratitude, Henderson had signed up for a two-week crash course in
epee
.

He hailed a taxi and it drove him to his apartment. On the way he wondered what Sereno and Gint would do to Freeborn when they caught him.

At his apartment he picked up his mail. The doorman handed him a parcel.

‘Special delivery,’ he said. ‘Just arrived from the airport. Your friend was here earlier, but he said he couldn’t wait.’

Henderson ascended in the elevator. The whole ghastly adventure was now, he hoped, over. He pressed the buzzer on his door. Sereno and Gint had his clothes, wallet, address book, keys. Minor inconveniences.

Bryant opened the door.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘
God
. What are you wearing?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I can’t take it any more at home, Henderson. Mom, those fucking dogs—’

‘Bryant—’

‘Sorry.’ She paused. ‘Henderson, can I stay here? I don’t want to go back. Please?’

‘Yes, by all means, of course.’ He went in. She seemed to have forgotten Duane.

Shanda sat on the sofa.

‘My God, what are you wearing?’ She got up and waddled over. ‘Hi.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘That Peter Gint was here all night. Boy, is he off the wall…Then Freeborn and Ben came by real early. Freeborn messed the place up a bit. I was cleaning up when Bryant arrived. You know what?’

‘What?’

‘Freeborn took his denim jacket back. Can you believe that?’

Henderson sat down heavily in his ransacked sitting room, dumping the parcel on the coffee table. He shuffled his mail: catalogue, bill, bill, catalogue, letter. He ripped it open.

Dear Henderson,

 

Enclosed is a bill for cleaning. $13.50 for removing oil stains from my jacket sleeve. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked. The suit cost $175.00. We can settle up when you get back. Too bad about the Gage pix. But it’s an ill wind…Remember the man in Boston with the Winslow Homers? Ian Toothe went up there last week. It seems he also had two Pissarros and a Renoir and Ian persuaded him to sell them all. Good old lan—saved our bacon, as you guys say.

 

Yours, Pruitt.

‘You want some breakfast?’ Bryant asked.

‘Some, uh…Coffee, please.’

Bryant went into the kitchen. Shanda came and sat on the arm of his chair, her belly at eye-level, her musky farinaceous smell filling his nostrils.

‘Freeborn’s throwed me out. He says you can keep me.’

‘Oh really? Very big of him.’

‘Could we get married, Henderson? I’d kinda like for the baby to have a daddy.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

He got up, went into the bathroom and ran a bath. He locked the door, stripped off and soaked for twenty minutes or so. He thought distractedly of the last few days. He got out, shaved and went through to his bedroom. He fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke it was midday. He changed into clean clothes.

Back in the sitting room the air was blurry with cigarette smoke. Shanda scrambled some eggs and brewed some coffee. As he was eating, the telephone rang. Shanda answered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘My name is Shanda McNab.’

Pause.

‘Yes, I am staying here. Who is this please?’

Pause.

‘No, I’m Henderson’s fiancée. Oh.’ She looked round. ‘She hung up.’

‘Who was it?’ Henderson said with sudden alarm.

‘Bryant’s mommy. She says you’re a cheap bastard and she never wants to see you again.’

‘Typical,’ Bryant said. ‘Hey, are you guys getting married? Congratulations.’

Henderson opened another letter. It was from his car rental firm. The letter informed him that the car he had hired in New York had been written off during a car chase after a bank robbery in Biloxi, Mississippi. Could he throw any light on the matter? The cost of the car was $18,750.00.