Red Rag Blues (3 page)

“Have you got any money?” she asked. “Anywhere?”

“None. No dollars here, no cruzeiros in Venezuela, no Swiss francs in Zurich. I'm totally broke.”

“Then you're a bigger fool than he is. At least he can afford bread. Why the hell did you come here? New York is absolutely the worst place to be broke in.”

“Is it? I can think of worse places. Siberia is uncomfortable, and large parts of China are not at all attractive.” Julie groaned. He said: “When you want to make money, go where people
have
money. Right? New York is rich. Besides … I wanted to see you again.”

“After eight years?” They sat on a park bench. “We agreed, back in '45, remember? End of story.”

She was hunched and tense. He was relaxed, sprawling, his arms hooked over the back of the bench. She kicked his ankle. “Hey!” he said. “That wasn't a very kind thing to do.”

“Did I get your attention? Listen. This is not a kind city. New Yorkers murder each other for no reason at all, it happens every day.
You,
you're not even American, you're an alien. What makes you think anyone here is going to be nice to you?”

“Why are you so angry? And don't hit me.” He raised an arm in defense. That annoyed her; she got up and walked away. “We only just sat down,” he called. “It's all rush, rush. I'm an old man, I can't stand this pace.” But he followed her.

“You're thirty-four,” she said. “And you're an idiot. You had at least a hundred thousand pounds when the war ended. A quarter of a million dollars, give or take a buck. That's more than most Americans make in a lifetime. How could you possibly spend it all? Where did it go?”

“Oh … here and there. This and that. I had some bad luck at the track.” She looked at him as if he had said:
there was a hole in my pocket.
“All right,” he countered, “how come you're broke?”

“I got fired.”

“There you are, then. You've been working, and look where it got you. I haven't been working, but at least I enjoyed myself.”

“Let's get out of here.”

They passed the old man, no longer throwing bread in the air. He was mopping a sleeve with his handkerchief. “Little bastard shat on me,” he said. Luis smiled, courteously. “That's New York for you,” he said.

They were on 84th Street again before Julie spoke. “How did you know where I live?”

“Simple. MI6 has a man in Caracas, awfully nice chap, we played tennis. Anything I can do to help, he told me, just ask. So I did. He got in touch with Kim Philby, and Kim did the rest.” Luis leapfrogged a fire hydrant. “You liked old Kim, didn't you? Best brain in MI6, and manners to match.”

“You're telling me the British Secret Service knows where I live.”

“Evidently so.”

They stopped at York Avenue. The traffic thumped past, an unhurried tidal wave. Luis was puzzled by Julie's attitude, her seriousness, the flickers of annoyance that flared into anger. At Hoboken he'd expected a kiss, even if it was just a brush of the lips on his cheek. But no kiss. No handshake. They hadn't touched in any way. She kept coming back to money. During the war, money had never excited her.
He
had been the one always concerned about getting paid. Now their roles were switched. He could sense the tension in her body. The lights said WALK. They walked.

“Would it be insensitive of me to ask about your husband?” he said.

“Dead. Car crash in Belgium. Four years ago.”

“Oh dear. I never met him, of course, but—”

“Don't let it bother you. Belgium, for God's sake. What a dumb place to die.”

That seemed to dispose of Harry. Luis allowed a decent interval to pass, and asked: “Where does Sammy Fantoni figure in your life? He seemed very attentive, and …”

“We met at a party. He's a hood. He thinks he's in love with me.”

“A hood? A gangster? Such a cordial chap.”

“Yeah. If I asked him to, he'd cordially break your arms. As a demonstration of affection.”

For once, Luis was silenced. They went back to the apartment.

Luis had picked the best day to arrive. Once a week, Julie and three others ate supper at the cheapest pasta joint in Manhattan. It was called Vesuvius and it was far to the east of Greenwich Village, even beyond the Bowery, out where the rent was very low. The owner cooked the food, served it, washed the plates. Enrico was very old, face like a pickled walnut, had fought the Austrians when Italy was on the Allied side in the first war, later got slung in jail by Mussolini for his politics. Came to America, got his citizenship, did time for smuggling booze out of Canada during Prohibition, learned to cook in Sing-Sing. “No family,” Julie told Luis. “Enrico takes in waifs and strays like me and the rest of the supper club. All you can eat for a dollar, sometimes wine too. Enrico won't take more than a dollar a head. Politics.”

“What politics?”

“Ours and his. Act polite, don't talk smart, and he'll feed you too.”

A taxi came to pick them up. She introduced the driver as Herb Kizsco. Fiftyish, bald as an ostrich egg except for a thick gray ruff, long face that would have suited an El Greco cardinal. “Herb knows more about Shakespeare than even Ann Hathaway did,” she said. “Unless, that is, he was really Francis Bacon, in which case I guess she married the wrong guy. Is that right?”

“No,” Herb said.

“Good. Shortest lecture you ever gave. Let's go.”

He drove over to Park Avenue and turned south. The meter was not on. “I like Park,” he said. “I like cruising past these doormen, all blowing whistles and waving, busting a gut to get a cab for their rich tenants. Let 'em take the subway, I say.”

“Subway stinks,” Julie said.

“It wouldn't stink for long if they had to ride it. The mayor himself would be down there, spraying Chanel Number Three.”

“I hate Chanel.”

“Comes the bloody revolution, you'll get Chanel whether you like it or not.”

“Is there to be a revolution?” Luis asked.

“It was a joke,” she said. “I like Herb's jokes. I always have.”

They turned west on 42nd Street. Beyond the cinemas and the soft-porn peepshows, the buildings became hulking, grimy, industrial. Herb stopped outside the steel-shuttered offices of a corsetry distributor and honked his horn. After a minute, a woman came out of a side door. She was a short and chunky redhead, hair in a scarf like Rosie the Riveter; keen, alert face, or maybe she was just hungry. No make-up; denim skirt and jacket; old sneakers. Age thirty-plus.

“Bonnie Scott, meet Luis Cabrillo,” Julie said. They shook hands. “Bonnie was the best fiction editor this side of Chicago.”

“I met Graham Greene once,” Luis said. “Awfully nice chap.”

“Huh.” Bonnie was impressed, but not much. “What did you talk about?”

“The war, and the dreadful damage it did to literature. Graham thought that Hemingway's metaphors, in particular, had suffered horribly.”

“I'm so hungry, my stomach thinks my throat's been cut,” Bonnie said. “Is that metaphor bad enough for you? Let's go.”

Herb drove downtown on 9th Avenue, took 14th Street east all the way across town to Avenue C, and found a block of tenements that looked just like the next block and just like the last ten. Fire escapes zigzagged down every building. One house had been gutted by fire; smears of smoke blackened the tops of windows. Kids on roller skates were playing street hockey. They parted reluctantly. Their voices were unbroken but the curses were adult enough. “Are we still in Manhattan?” Luis asked.

“I sometimes wonder that myself,” Herb said. “In the greater sense, does Manhattan exist, or are we all just looking for it?”

“There's Max,” Julie said. “He's looking for us.”

Max was six-two, late thirties, dressed mainly in army surplus clothing. “You're late, and I'm starving,” he said as he got in. His voice was as rich as rum.

“If you're in such a hurry, get out and take a taxi,” Herb said, driving on.

“Not wise. They shoot taxi drivers on sight in Avenue C.”

“Actors ought to be shot on sight,” Bonnie said, casually.

“Her ex is an actor,” Julie told Luis.

“Allegedly,” Bonnie said.

“In that case he should only be allegedly shot,” Max said.

Herb had to slow and swerve to avoid some garbage cans. “This is a truly terrible part of New York,” he said.

“Max Webber, meet Luis Cabrillo,” Julie said. “He got his fruit boots in Venezuela.”

“I got the clap in Guatemala,” Max said. “It happens.”

They crossed into First Avenue, drove a few blocks, turned left into 5th Street. By now Luis had no idea which was east or west. The shape of the conversation baffled him too. It was rapid, clipped, throwaway. Nothing anyone said seemed to lead anywhere. Caracas had not been like this. He kept quiet and looked out the window. The view was grim and repetitive.

“At last!” Julie said. “Shangri-la.”

Enrico's restaurant was small. The name
Vesuvius
was spelled out in thick plywood letters. Most of them had lost their paint. There had once been a neon-lit eruption, but the volcano had dropped off and now only the dead lava-flow clung to the building.

Max led the way in. Their arrival was like a happy invasion, everyone smiling in anticipation of greeting Enrico and his steaming pasta. The old man wasn't there. The place was empty. No customers. No message, no notice, no explanation. “Huh!” Bonnie said. Herb dragged a bentwood chair from a table and sat astride it. “Too damn quiet,” he said. “There's Apache up in them hills.” A priest came out of the kitchen. “Don't tell us he's dead,” Herb said.

“Enrico? No, no, he's alive. But he's in prison, poor fellow.” A hint of Dublin in the voice, a rusty streak in the gray hair, a calmness that suggested the priest knew of many worse predicaments than being in jail. “I visited him this morning. Complains about the food, but then so he should, it's abominable, if they had any brains they'd put him in charge of the kitchen, but when did you ever see a jail with any brains?”

“What did he do?” Julie asked. “Why is he inside?”

“Well now, that's a bit of a mystery. All we know for sure is some people from the Immigration Department came and took him away.”

“Enrico's a citizen. He showed me the papers.”

The priest nodded. “They'll have to let him go. The thing is, he's been questioned rather a lot by a couple of men in similar suits who are nothing to do with Immigration. They want to know all about his customers. The ridiculous part is they already knew everything. Whenever Enrico forgot someone's name, they reminded him. So what do you make of that?”

“They've been watching the place,” Bonnie said. She walked to the window. “There's probably a telescopic lens pointing at me right now.” She waved. “Shove it, buster!”

“No need to shout,” Herb said wearily. “Just talk to the bugs.”

Gloomy silence. Luis leaned against a wall. He had no idea why they were so angry, so grim; but he knew it was caused by more than the absence of pasta. He was hungry. If they couldn't eat here, he hoped they would rapidly move on.

“I guess Enrico looked after a lot of guys like us,” Max said.

“You four were kind of special,” the priest said. “He asked me to be here tonight, so I could explain the situation to you. Said to wish you good luck, and stay strong.” He rattled a bunch of keys. “I have parishioners to visit.”

They went out and sat in Herb's taxi and watched the priest lock up and walk away. He had thick rubber soles and a long stride. A priest on the Lower East Side did a lot of walking.

*

They had to eat. No money for restaurants, coffee shops, cafeterias, bars.

“If we can't eat out,” Bonnie said, “we'll have to eat in.”

“Don't look at me,” Julie said. “Four people going into my apartment means an orgy. I'll be out on my ass in the morning.”

“We'll be quiet as mice,” Max said.

“Give me a break. You know what landlords are like in this city. Single woman tenant equals whore. I can't risk it.”

“I'm out,” Herb Kizsco said. “I'm living in the Bronx now.”

“I can't cook,” Bonnie said. “Con Ed just cut off my gas.”

“I know a guy would reconnect you,” Julie said. Bonnie was interested. “He charges ten bucks,” Julie said. Bonnie lost interest.

“That just leaves you, Max,” Herb said.

“I have plates. Unfortunately …”

“Nothing to put on 'em,” Julie said.

“Well, let's go
some
where,” Herb said. He started the engine. “It's bad enough being hungry without looking at the crappiest street in the cruddiest part of Manhattan.” He drove on. After a couple of blocks, he said: “I'd hock the gold in my teeth if I had any gold in my teeth.”

“Would some gold help?” Luis asked.

Nobody laughed. If it was a joke, it bombed. “Gold would undoubtedly help,” Herb said. “An ingot, for instance, would be useful.”

“I have this.” He showed them a fountain pen. It was dull yellow.

“Gold-plated?”

“Heavens above, no. Solid gold.”

“I know a pawnbroker, stays open till midnight,” Bonnie said. “Bleecker Street and Sixth.”

She got twenty dollars for the pen. They bought all the fixings for spaghetti bolognaise, plus French bread, a pint of olives, a pound of Parmesan, much fruit, and a gallon of Californian red. She gave Luis the change. “We need coffee,” Max said. Luis bought coffee. He turned to Julie and murmured, “Do I tip the man?”

“Only if he sells you his sister. Come on, let's go.”

Max's apartment was at the top of the building. He used four keys to open four locks. The door was sheet steel. “Wait a second,” he said. “Give the roaches a chance to hide. They own the damn building, after all.” He marched in, loudly. “I'm home, darlings. Had a good day at the beauty parlor?” Small vermin hustled and scuttled and found sanctuary in dark corners.