“Thanks, but I have to make a call. I don't exactly know where I'm going. I mean, I have to see which of my friends is in town.” I knew it sounded stupid but I didn't trust any cop now.
He said, “You're a real case, buddy,” and got in his car.
For a split second I wondered if I could make a deal, have him drive me to Asbury and give him fifty or a hundred bucks? But I couldn't afford that risk.
I walked down a few blocks and into a candy store, looked up the Harold Andersons in the phone books again. I had three chances out of nine of hitting the right one: three to one odds were rough. It seemed to me Hal had said something about a house and from the little I'd seen of Manhattan, it was all apartment houses. I decided to risk my money on the Bronx and Brooklyn. When I asked for change I thought the fat lady behind the counter was going to scream for help. But she gave me three dimes, even if her hand shook.
I dialed the first Hal Anderson in the Bronx, working the dial carefully—a wrong number would ruin me. A man answered and told me he certainly wasn't a ship's purser and hung up. Next I tried a Brooklyn Harold Anderson and didn't get any answer. I went through a bad moment waiting for the dime to return. I picked another Anderson number in Brooklyn and a woman's voice with a warm accent said, “Oui,” when I went into the ship's purser bit. I realized she had to be Hal's French wife and I couldn't have felt better if I'd hit the daily double. I said, “My name is Mickey Whalen. I was a friend of Hal's down in Florida. We had a boat together.”
There was a brief silence and I had a chill. Suppose Hal had never mentioned me to his wife?
“Ah, yes. He often talks about you.”
“Is Hal home?”
“No. His ship is not due for another week. Too bad, he would want to see you.”
“Mrs. Anderson, I'm in a kind of trouble. I know this sounds odd, but I fell down and lost my wallet. I need a few dollars and don't know a soul in the city but Hal— and you. I have no one else to turn to.”
“Well...” There was another silence, then she asked, “What was the name of the boat you two had?”
“The Sea Princess. Did Hal tell you he saw me down in Haiti a month or two ago?”
“Yes. How much money do you need, Mr. Whalen?”
“A few dollars. I arrived in New York this morning and had this accident with my wallet. Can I come over to your house, now?”
“Of course. Have you...?”
The operator cut in to ask for another nickel.
Hal's wife asked, “Have you a car?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In Manhattan.”
“Then take the D metro, the subway marked D to...”
The operator demanded her nickel again and I said, “I'll be out, Mrs. Anderson, but I have to walk. Wait for me.
I hung up and used my last dime to dial the Anderson who'd been out, to erase the call in case I was being followed. I was getting worse than Rose, didn't put a thing beyond whoever was after us. The party was still not home. So I had a big fat dime, and the subway cost fifteen cents.
Stepping out of the phone booth I wiped the sweat from my face as I asked the old lady behind the counter, “Which way is Brooklyn?”
In a thick accent she said, “Walk two blocks down and turn right. That's the subway. Get on the downtown side and then ask the conductor for...”
“I'm walking. Which way is it, please?” I knew I was talking too much. If I was being followed and this plump lady told them about Brooklyn—but then Brooklyn must be a big place.
She shook her head and all her chins danced. “Walk?” She chuckled. “You funny enough to be on TV. Brooklyn is maybe ten-twenty miles from here. My God, Coney Island must be fifty miles. Better you take subway.”
“Sure it would be better but I have to walk.” I held up the dime. “I was in an accident, lost my money. This is all I have going for me, at the moment. Which way do I start walking?”
“Two blocks down and turn right, to subway,” she said, placing a nickel on the counter. “Take this. And please, no wine.”
“Thank you. I'm not a wino, no matter how I look. I'll return this by mail soon as...”
The chins did their dance again to another short chuckle. “No bother, I don't ask for it back. What's a nickel today? Penny is almost useless, five cents hardly buy anything. I used to have big display of nickel candy. Soon a dime be the same way, then quarter... all very bad. Frightens me. You use subway and be careful, no more schnapps.”
At the door I waved and said, “Madame, for a few hours today I was convinced people are no damn good. May a good life be yours.” I gave her a little bow, too.
Walking toward the subway I wondered if I was batty. Over a lousy jit I was starting to talk like a professional beggar. Me, the joker who'd been straining his wrist tipping everybody ten bucks last night.
On the downtown platform I asked a subway guard which train went to Brooklyn. He said, “Brooklyn covers a lot of territory. What address you want?”
“All I want is to get to Brooklyn,” I snapped, full of suspicion.
“Take any train on this express track,” he said, running his eyes over my clothes and turning away.
I boarded a near empty train and sat down, realizing how bushed I was. A little girl sitting across the aisle started to giggle. Sitting, the big rip in my pants showed most of my leg and everybody could see the torn shoe. I tried covering my leg with my overcoat but that was ripped too. I walked over to a map pasted on one window of the car to find the street Hal's wife lived on. I've studied some complicated sailing charts but I never saw anything like this map of the city. Finally I got a fix on an avenue that crossed Hal's street—after I figured out which subway I had to be on.
The farther downtown we went the more crowded the car became. I worried about whether I was being followed: I didn't want to bring my troubles to Hal or have the clowns chasing me have the opportunity of learning my real name. I remembered what Rose had once told me—how when she was on the run she had stepped out of the first car and waited to see if anybody else stepped out farther down the train.
I'd been keeping track of the stations on the map and had a long way to go, so I walked through the train, keeping my coat collar up and my bloody neck from frightening anybody. Reaching the first car I stepped out at the next stop and glanced down the length of the train. More people than lived on Ansel's island seemed to be getting in and out. However, a few stations later it was better—the platform was almost empty. I stepped out and waited. Several cars down a pretty girl came out, then a guy in a windbreaker, and farther down an old man. I made a feint at stepping back in but all of them kept walking toward the exit. I jumped back into the train as the doors started to close.
I did this at every other station, felt pretty sure I wasn't being tailed. We went under a tunnel. My ears popped. And four stations later I reached my stop. I did my on and off number. It seemed to me a guy stuck his head out in the car next to mine. When the doors started to close and I made like I was jumping back in, I saw this guy pull in his head. All I could see was the back of a brown pork-pie hat and when the train went by I had a flash of the hat again—with a fancy red feather stuck in the band. It could have been my imagination.
Going up the steps I came out on an area looking like many small cities in the south, rows of private houses and a few stores, most of the streets lined with trees.
Afraid to ask, I walked in circles until I found the avenue I was looking for. I got my direction and started walking. They weren't kidding, Brooklyn is big. A half hour later I was still walking, my feet sore and all of me dead tired. My cut shoe seemed ready to fall apart. I stopped at a trash can and poked around until I found some string. I bound the shoe together across the instep and looked up to see a horse-faced woman staring down her big nose at me and making tsk, tsk noises. The string worked okay. I walked for another half hour, stopping to look into store windows, or turning down quiet side streets. I didn't see anybody following me. I'd be an easy make with my size and torn clothing.
It was almost six and starting to get dark when I passed another subway station and realized if I'd been able to ask I would have saved myself all the walking. Of course there were buses passing me all the time, going up and down the avenue, which didn't help my tired feeling. I was killing myself for a lousy fifteen cents. Even in the old days I'd never been this broke.
I finally reached Hal's street. I walked down it and looked at the numbers, knew I wasn't more than a block away from the house. To be on the smart side I went back to the avenue and up another block. And then I got sick because I saw a stocky fellow walking behind me, a red feather in his hat! I stopped to glance at a grocery window and he went by me, and damn if he didn't stop to stare into a hardware window. I walked slowly by him and casually glanced around. There he was, following me.
When we reached the corner I stopped, pretended I was hunting for something in my pockets. Of course he couldn't simply stop and stand there, so he turned into this empty side street, walked slowly ahead of me. I followed him, waiting to see what he'd do now.
He walked along as if he didn't know I was there and when we started to pass a modest apartment house, he suddenly ducked down the service entrance. I jumped after him, determined to settle one badge's hash!
We were in a narrow concrete alleyway, dimly lit by a single bulb. He half turned as I rushed him, dropped when I clubbed the side of his head with my fist. He crumpled into an odd heap, legs corkscrewing under him. Then he fell forward on his face, the hat with the loud feather rolling away. I quickly frisked him. He was clean. I took out his wallet. There were three singles and some identification cards. One said he was a member of a hospitalization group. Another card said he was certified to operate an oil burner. The last identification card stated he was the superintendent of a building. For a moment I was puzzled, then with a horrible sickened feeling I read the address on the card. I ran out to the sidewalk— saw the same street number on the apartment building.
If my shoe wasn't busted I would have sprinted. I walked as fast as I could, heading back toward Hal's street. Several thoughts were thundering around in my sore head. The guy was okay, or would be in a few minutes. I'd dropped the wallet at his feet so they couldn't arrest me for robbery. But was suspicion driving me crazy? I'd flattened a harmless janitor minding his own business, all because he wore a colored feather in his hat band!
Lord, if anybody had seen me, if the cops ever bagged me, they'd let me have the book, if I didn't land in a padded cell. I'd deserve it. Who would believe my story? Not even me! No wonder Rose had been flipping with fright: suspicion and caution can be harder on your nerves than dope.
But there was little chance the super saw me, would be able to identify me, so I was in the clear. But if I was caught... damn! Why had I insisted upon coming to the States? How much of a clown can one guy be?
VIII
Hal's house was a shingle and brick job with big picture windows, neat and new, like all the other houses on the block. The street seemed empty and, making as sure as I could that I wasn't seen, I quickly ran up the few steps. For the first time I noticed it was a two family house. I rang the bell with ANDERSON above it, and didn't hear a sound.
A man turned into the street from the avenue. I pressed the bell again. No sound. I had to get off the street but fast. I tried the door. It was open. Stepping into a two-by-four hall I was confronted with two doors. I cleverly pushed open the door which had a mat with a large “A” before it, walked up a sharp flight of stairs to another door. I knocked. A child's voice said, “My goodness, you know it's open, Mommy.”
Opening the door I saw a little girl of about five with long colt legs standing naked in the middle of a large and shabby living room. There were many paintings on the walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, a sewing machine, a typewriter. And in one corner a big chair in the process of being reupholstered. Part of it was down to the frame with chisels and planes and a pot of glue beside it. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, shabby only because of the beating the modernistic furniture had taken—from the little girl, probably. I expected the kid to yell when she saw me, instead she asked calmly, “Are you the company Mommy is expecting?” She had a cute pixy face.
“I hope so. Where is your mother?”
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?” .
“My goodness, you should know boys must not look at girls without their clothes on. I am ready to take my bath. You close your eyes.”
I shut my eyes. “Where's your mother, honey?”
“Got ya covered!” a shrill voice at my right said. I jumped and my heart seemed to explode. I spun around to see a boy of about seven standing behind the couch with a toy machine gun in his hands. I gave him a sickly grin. He looked so much like Hal it was startling. He said, “Gave you a scare, didn't I?”
“Yeah. Where...?”
“Please close your eyes until I get into the bathroom,” the girl said.
I turned away from her and faced the boy, who gave me a burst of sparks. The little girl said, “Your eyes are still open!”
Shutting my eyes I told her, “Why don't you go to the bathroom and stop talking?” I half opened my eyelids.
“You are not my Daddy. I don't have to do what you say,” she said.
The boy gave her a burst. “You'd better be in the tub before Mama comes back, Bessie.”
“You shut up, Francois. Mommy told you about pointing that gun at...”
