Rhode Island Red (13 page)

I called again five minutes later.

Justin Thorn would see me about 1
P.M.
in his office on West Eighteenth Street, a place called Tower Printing.

“I guess next time I see you you'll tell me what the fuck you doing, Nan.”

“Trust me,” I replied. “Happy dreams, you two.”

About five minutes to one I took the elevator up to the fifth floor of the dingy building which housed Tower Printing.

I rang a buzzer outside the peeling door. An answering buzz let me in.

There was no printing equipment that I could see on the premises. There were no computers, no typewriters, no files. There was only one desk and one chair in the waiting room. The walls were bare. The floor was highly polished.

A stout, black, middle-aged woman wearing a gaily colored head wrap sat behind the desk. She was cussing bitterly as she fiddled with a boom box.

I greeted her. “Good afternoon. I have an appointment with—”

“Through there,” she said, cutting me off. Then she added: “Don't knock. He doesn't like people to knock.”

Justin Thorn looked up when I entered the room. He was seated on a rattan sofa with purple cushions, reading the
Village Voice
. There was no desk in the room, only the sofa and two matching armchairs.

“Mister Thorn?” I asked, taken aback and, I feared, unable to mask my astonishment.

First of all, his faded designer jeans and tight-fitting studded leather jacket—he wore no shirt underneath and he was working on a little belly—made him look like some suburban closet case on Christopher Street twenty years ago. Yes, he was as gay as tics are tiny.

That seemed pretty original for the mob. Or were they a good deal more enlightened than I was giving them credit for? Then again, maybe I was the one who was behind the times. Perhaps tolerance—shall we say, affirmative action—had reached even into the cradle of crime.

Justin's hair was coiffed almost onto death—long, peroxided, tied at the back with a velvet band.

And, perhaps most startling of all, he was no older than I.

“Aubrey's friend?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”

He looked me over, brazenly, critically, before offering me a seat. There was a hint of distaste in his gaze, and more than a little confusion.

It was apparent that I had discomfited him. And then suddenly I realized why. I realized what he was thinking.

“No, no,” I said reassuringly, “I don't want to dance in your club. I'm not here for that. I'm not looking for
any
kind of job, as a matter of fact.”

His face relaxed somewhat.

I jumped right in. “I need information,” I said.

“What kind of information?”

“About the mob.”

He grinned. “Is that right?”

“Yes. I need some information about someone who's in the mob. Or at least I think he is. That's why I'm here.”

He burst into hearty laughter. “That's a good one, child. I never knew Aubrey to be a practical joker.”

“She isn't. I'm serious.”

He hesitated for a moment, fear creeping around the edges of his expression. “You wearing a wire or something equally ridiculous?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Reporter?”

“Not smart enough for that.”

“That's very funny too. Now tell me why you picked me to give you a mafia lesson.”

“Aubrey says everyone in her business is either in the mob or owned by the mob. To hear her tell it, it's an occupational hazard.”

“Let me tell you something, girlfriend. Listen to
anything
Aubrey's got to say. She's rarely wrong about anything.” He batted his eyelids playfully. “So, Okay I'm a mob-stah. But to tell you the truth, I'm really a bartender. From Lockport, Indiana. White bread as they come. That is, I
used
to be a bartender. Until I was … discovered … at the soda fountain.”

“By way of the West Street bars?”

“You're not that dumb, miss.”

“My name is Nanette.”

“Nice name for a stripper.” He fired up a Benson & Hedges 100 with a day-glo colored disposable lighter.

Justin didn't have to offer me a cigarette twice. I pounced as soon as he turned the pack my way. I hadn't had a cigarette like that in so long.

“Mr. Thom, I'll come to the point. I'm hoping you know a … crook … whose name is Henry Valokus. I seem to be in a fair amount of trouble and so is he, I think. He may not know it but he needs my help. I'm … in love with Henry Valokus … and I can't find him. Can you help?”

“You're in love,” he said slowly, “with who?”

“Henry Valokus. Valokus. Comma. Henry. Do you know him?”

“What did he do—knock you up?”

“Nothing like that.”

He blew smoke at the ceiling and repeated dully, “You're in love—with Henry Valokus.”

“That's what I said, Bub.”

After his coughing fit was all played out, he rose from the sofa and came to stand very close to my chair.

“But he's an asshole, isn't he?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Thorn, but could you please just get to the point?”

“If he's the same guy I'm thinking of, he's a bit of a boob. Kind of looks like Napoleon, dresses like Victor Mature?”

“Dresses like who?”

“Never mind. Comes out of Providence, right? Talks with an accent.”

“That's him.”

“If I tell you what I know about him, will you promise not to die of boredom?”

“Promise.”

Justin Thorn stretched, walked back to the sofa, sat down, crossed his legs and lit another cigarette.

“It's a ten second story, really. He was born over in Europe but he grew up in Rhode Island, which means he worked for the Calvalcante family, out of Boston. They run the rackets in Hartford, Providence, New Haven.

“Valokus was busted for—oh, shit, what was it?—right—a hijacking charge. He ratted out somebody or other. Not a big muckety muck, really, but still, the Feds put him in Witness Protection. But when the case came to court Valokus got shredded by the defense attorneys. Prosecution's case fell all to shit. Case dismissed.”

“Then what happened?”

“They kicked his ass out of the Protection Program. Cut him loose. They're some vengeful mothers, you know.”

“Then what?”

“He did time on the original hijacking charge.”

“And when he was released?”

“Don't tell me that schmuck is good in bed.”

“Listen, mister …”

“Okay, Okay” He shook his head. “Jeez. Straight people,” he said in puzzlement. “Oh, well, judge not lest ye be judged, as the good book tells us. I mean, Miss Susan Hayward wasn't the greatest actress who ever drew breath but I'm ready to kick ass if anybody says a word against her.”

“Please, what happened to Henry Valokus after he got out of prison?”

“Nothing happened, far as I know. Nothing at all. Don't you get it?”

“No.”

“Any other rat would have been gotten to. Either in jail or out of jail. Someone would have whacked him long ago. He'd be dead and buried. But Valokus was such a pitiful rat … such a buffoon … that even if there was a contract out on him, there weren't any takers. The studio didn't pick up his option.”

“Poor Henry,” I said.

Justin laughed and coughed and laughed and coughed. “Now you take me. If I ratted out one of my associates, you'd probably find me in a Hefty bag on Christopher Street. Half of me, that is. You'd still be looking for the other half. And I'm just a poor little faggot they promoted from the ranks. Valokus could have been a
real
bad guy.”

“So I guess you wouldn't have any idea where I might find him—where he might be hiding out?”

He laughed again. “You mean like the Gangster Arms on West Fourteenth Street? No, sugar, not a clue.”

I thanked him and rose to leave.

“Wait just a sec,” he called.

I turned back and met his eyes.

“Listen, Nanny. I don't know whether I buy your story or not. You don't look like the kind of girl who'd be fucking a guy like Valokus, no matter what they say about Greeks. Anyhoo, I guess I've always been a sucker for a smash-up in love.”

“A what?”

“A smash-up. I call all women ‘smash-ups.' At any rate, I told you what I know because you're Aubrey's friend. And Aubrey is real good for my business. I owe her. I don't even think I have to remind you to be cool, but I will anyway. You know what I'm saying?”

Actually, I hadn't a clue what he was saying. But I nodded—gravely, sagely—and moved out of the door.

I turned into the first coffee shop I saw. The ubiquitous Greek coffee shop. I ordered coffee and one of those lard-laden muffins and I sat at the counter thinking dark thoughts.

Those unfriendly white folks in the van had not lied. Dear Henry Valokus was a criminal. But, according to Justin Thorn, not a very successful one. A schmuck, he'd called Henry. A buffoon. Well, Henry wasn't the first man I had found endearingly eccentric, while the world judged him a great deal more harshly. But a boob? An asshole? I stared down at the countertop, hurt, ashamed somehow, as if someone were calling me those names. Like the kids bad-mouthing Aubrey, my best friend.

So my lost love really was from Providence. Just like Wild Bill, aka Heywood Tuttle. Both show up in New York. Both connected to street musicians—Valokus to me, Wild Bill to the murdered blind girl. Providence. Some divine Providence. How many miles from Providence to Provence?

At least he hadn't lied about being Greek.

This poem was beginning to unravel. Both from Providence. One actually played with Bird. One claimed to be obsessed with Bird.

Where had their connection started? Was Wild Bill the gardener for the Valokus estate? Not bloody likely. Did he sell moonshine to Henry's father? Where did the thread begin and where did it end?

Well, wait a minute. I already knew where it ended, didn't I? Brad Weston, the melancholy pianist, had told us that poor Heywood Tuttle had lived his last days in a squalid tenement that hovered over the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

I walked west to the Tunnel and hopscotched through the traffic. Motorists flinched when they saw me, thinking I was one of those mad window wipers.

Up loomed a single half block of tenements, an island in the center of a traffic mess. Half of the island was filled with crumbling condemned houses, many of them boarded up. The sidewalk had been all but removed.

But four buildings remained. All occupied. I wondered how the residents negotiated back and forth late at night.

The fumes and honking noise were almost overwhelming. It was hell. And the devil might be living behind any door.

I pressed myself against a wall and waited. Tuttle had lived in one of those buildings. But which one? And how could I get inside without someone calling the police?

The spirit was upon me, or with me. Five minutes later an old man with the raw boned look of the covered wagon pioneer menfolk walked out of one of the buildings carrying a torn carton which he dropped unceremoniously at the curbside trash collection area. Inside the box, among the debris, were the red shoes I'd seen Wild Bill wearing.

“Excuse me!” I called out hastily to the old man before he could disappear into the building again. “Excuse me, but I think you knew my grandfather.”

He looked at me, not comprehending.

“Wild Bill was my grandfather.”

The old man squinted at me, removed the cigar and pronounced: “Hickok?”

For a moment I didn't understand. Then I got the joke. And I laughed.

“My name's Reardon,” the old man said, “and I don't know any Wild Bill.”

“I mean Heywood Turtle.”

Mr. Reardon pulled on the long string and there was light in the basement. Three cats flashed by us, headed toward the far wall.

“Friends of mine,” Mr. Reardon said.

Mr. Reardon was really quite nice to me. He explained that my grandfather had been a decent man at heart, it had just been “the drink” that made life so tough for him. It happened “to a lot of us,” he said. He was so sorry not to have made it to the funeral, and he'd be pleased to show me the few things left in Mr. Turtle's room at the time of his passing.

“You know, I always thought it was interesting how Heywood never talked much about his past. I knew there had to be some kin of his somewhere in the world. Isn't it just the goddamnest thing! Your grandpa dies just a week or so before you find him?”

“Yes sir it is.” I sniffled once and wiped at an elephant tear.

“He was a pretty peculiar man, that's for sure. To this day I don't know where he was most of that week before he died. He'd paid his rent, but don't look like he barely ever slept at home.”

“Well, you know musicians. I'm sure he had a reason.”

“Another thing,” Mr. Reardon added. “I always asked your grandfather why he didn't buy a bed. Said he preferred that old cot.” And he nodded toward the nasty thing. “Course it's yours if you want it. It's only right, you being kin. But I just thought somebody might be able to use it.”

“Keep it with my blessing, Mr. Reardon.”

He showed me the other pitiful things Wild Bill had possessed: a shaky bureau with the bottom drawer missing, the other drawers filled with scratchy towels, toiletry items, a couple of white shirts and an extensive collection of buttons.

Opening the last drawer it occurred to me that if Wild Bill had owned anything of value—a clock radio, a cassette player—the chances were that Mr. Reardon had already confiscated it. I didn't care about those kinds of things, of course. I was only concerned that Reardon, who'd stepped outside to give me a minute alone with my granddad's belongings, had accidentally taken something that might have held a clue to the Wild Bill-Valokus connection.