A Cool Breeze on the Underground (14 page)

The futile walk gave him an excuse to stretch his legs and shift the dried sweat around a little, and also work up a little fresh sweat. His route took him past, and all too often into, a Wimpy Bar, which brought up melancholy memories of Nick’s. He learned to smother the piece of cardboard the Brits called a hamburger with mustard (extra charge), catsup (ditto), and salt (on the house) before choking it down along with the greasy chips, which is what the Brits called their poor facsimile of French fries.

After the first week, he had begun to vary his route. He would walk down St. Martin’s Lane, past the perpetual demonstration outside the South Africa Embassy, over to Trafalgar Square. He’d check out the throngs of tourists and school groups milling around Nelson’s column. Good old Lord Nelson, who in winning the great naval battle of Trafalgar saved England from Napoleon and assured the rights of all Englishmen to drive on the wrong bloody side of the road. Then Neal would cross over on to Whitehall Street and wend his way through the crowd on the narrow sidewalk, then through Horse Guards barracks, across Horse Guards Road, and into St. James’s Park.

If there was any spot in London that Neal at his most xenophobic had to admit he loved, it was St. James’s Park. Here was refuge. Built around a superbly designed manmade lake, the park was an oasis of gentility in its finest sense. The towers of Buckingham Palace peeked in the distance over the several hundred varieties of the park’s trees. Neal would stroll, yes stroll, along the walkway to a large kiosk that sold tea, sandwiches, and pastries. He didn’t even mind standing in line at the cafeteria there, but would purchase his cup of tea, a couple of sugary doughnuts or perhaps a ham sandwich, and then walk over to the lakeside. Here he would rent a chair for ten pence and throw bits of doughnut and bread to the ducks, of which there were a stunning variety. He was sure he would have noticed Allie Chase if she had been riding on the back of one of the humongous black swans that glided past him, but otherwise he forgot about the case altogether.

On a bandstand near the kiosk, a military band played show tunes and light classics to a crowd gathered in canvas chairs or picnicking on the grassy slope. Neal, who hated military bands, show tunes, and light classics, grew quite fond of the daily concert and was sorry when the IRA blew up the bandstand later that summer, putting an end to the music and killing two soldiers.

This was old England, Neal thought, or at least it was what he thought old England might have been or should have been. The tourists went mostly to Hyde Park, but St. James’s Park was usually full of nannies wheeling prams or looking after toddlers, government workers from the nearby Whitehall ministries on lunch break, and retirees for whom a walk in this place was a daily routine.

After finishing his tea, Neal would sometimes walk north to the Mall, up Waterloo Place to lower Regent Street, and up to Piccadilly. Or he would head south down Horse Guards Road to Great George Street, Bridge Street, nod to Big Ben, then take the long hike up Victoria Embankment.

This broad promenade along the bank of the Thames was a haunt for some vagrants and kids, but it never produced Allie Chase for him. Still, he made it a habit. He preferred active futility over passive futility, even if he was breaking Joe Graham’s philosophy of the fat and happy tiger.

He’d get back to the square by 3:30 or 4:00, check out the scene, and then steel himself for the coming ordeal in the Underground. Each afternoon, he’d make the rounds of several tube stations during rush hour. Even amateur, unaffiliated panhandlers can make out okay in a big city during rush hour, if they have any smarts at all and a nice face. Allie had both, so Neal would launch himself on a two-hour journey from Leicester Square to Piccadilly, change to the Bakerloo Line and go to Charing Cross, check out the huge station there and then carry on to Embankment, change to the Circle Line, hit Victoria, Sloane Square, South Kensington, and Gloucester Road. There he would switch to the District Line for a quick swing to grimy Earl’s Court and then carry on up to Notting Hill Gate, where he hoped he wouldn’t find her, and on north to Paddington, where he would catch the Metropolitan Line, make a quick check of Baker Street, which always brought Sherlock Holmes to mind (maybe he could locate Allie), and over to King’s Cross, where he’d take the long Underground hike through the suburban commuter crowds to get back on the Piccadilly Line, have a peek at the Covent Garden station, and then back to Leicester Square.

All this in the faint hope that young Allie was using some variation of the “I’ve lost my purse and need enough money to get home” scam that was a favorite of panhandlers worldwide.

This tends to work better at rush hour, when there are a lot more potential Samaritans to bilk, and when one is not so obvious to the thugs who control the thriving begging trade. A quick panhandler can keep moving better through large crowds and make a fair bit of change even if she couldn’t occupy one of the key choke points smack dab in the middle of the traffic flow.

Now there are a number of different strategies in this scam, and it really depends on how gutsy you are and how well you can afford to dress. If you’re really down and out, you’re better off just asking for subway fare—small change—to a nearby stop, because nobody’s going to believe you live in the suburbs and need that much more money to get back. But if you can get your hands on some better threads, you might want to give the bigger-ticket items a try, especially if you’ve got the nerve to attempt the “I’m from out of town and need five or ten pounds to get home and here is my card with my name and address and I’ll send you the money first thing” routine. The truly wonderful thing about the world is that there are people in it who will actually believe this and give the money. If you’re a teenager and try this, pick on women who look like they might have a kid your age, because they don’t want their own child stranded in the big bad city and they’re afraid not to give you the money.

Or you can go for volume and stick with the tried-and-true “Buddy Can You Spare a Dime” routine, but you have to hit a bunch of buddies to make this one pay. Anyway, people would rather be conned, even if they suspect they’re being conned, because they want you to work a little bit for the money. Or take a shot at making a really good cardboard sign: BROKE AND DESPERATE or HUNGRY AND ALONE. Always try to go for two bad conditions on the sign, though. It’s that
and
that gives it the poignant quality.

Or maybe Allie wasn’t begging. Maybe she was trying to steal in the Underground. Neal hoped this wasn’t the case, and really didn’t expect it to be. Despite popular legend, subways are terrible places to pick pockets. Picks like a crowd all right, but they also like to be able to get away if something goes wrong. Subways are full of things such as turnstiles, gates, escalators, and narrow passageways that make running damn near impossible. Add to this the fact that crowds of commuters have been getting increasingly irritated with increasing delays. But it was the possibility that Allie was finding her daily bread in the Underground that sent Neal on his daily tour of purgatory. It brought to mind a sermon he’d once heard when the priest really got cooking on hell, about how it was a place where murderers, thieves, and lechers baked in perpetual, torturous stench. At the time, that had sounded like the West Side Democratic Club’s steam room when all the Ryan brothers were in it. But now, he knew differently. Neal, who had been raised on New York’s subway, had never felt anything like London’s Underground.

Steamy
didn’t quite describe it. Neither did
grimy
or any of the other dwarfs. It was killer heat. Godlike heat. All-pervasive heat that denied even the possibility of the existence of cool. Still and sullen heat. As if the air itself were heat. As if a cool breeze was just a memory of something that once was but would never be again.

Not that there was any room to breathe even if there had been something resembling oxygen. The horrific crowding on the cars began to break down even the fabled English stoicism. Stiff upper lips wilted. And that was when the train was moving. When it got stuck between stations, as it frequently did, and a polite announcement came over the PA system, the crowd responded with a single groan. People dropped their heads and stared at their feet and watched their sweat drip on their shoes. Then the train would jerk forward again, the movement providing no relief except the knowledge that the end of the ordeal was a bit closer.

Except for Neal, who wasn’t riding to get anywhere, and who wasn’t getting anywhere riding, either. Allie wasn’t on the Underground. No cool breeze, no Allie. Six weeks left.

Like aging women, cities are prettier at night. The softer light shades the insults of aging. Darkness fades the lines and wrinkles that every good woman and every good city wear on their faces as signs that somebody has lived there.

If life in the city seems impossible in the daytime, at night it is irresistible. The night is for playing. For dining and dancing, for flirting and fucking. For making eyes and making love. The feet step a little lighter, and the blood flows a little faster, and the eyes race to the flash of neon blues and reds and ambers set off by the silky soft black of night.

People do things at night they wouldn’t dream of by day. They see things differently. What was harsh becomes soft. Sordid becomes colorful. Whores become courtesans; hookers are ladies of the evening. Light reflects prettily off the broken bottles in the gutters. Everyone has a bit of the devil in them at night. There’ll be time to deal with God in the morning.

The barkers stood in Soho doorways proclaiming the virtues of nude, absolutely nude, dancers inside. But not one of the dancers was Allie. And the bouncers guarded the gates to the flashy discos, beckoning the pretty and the well-dressed and the hip and turning away the rest. But none of the blessed or the cursed were Allie. And waiters served food and drink to the stylish after-theater couples and parties who mobbed the West End pubs and cafes after the curtains had rung down. But Allie was not to be found among the servers or the served.

Back on the square, Neal watched the phone box, and every once in a while he would ring the number to see who, if anybody, answered. But it was never Allie or her dealer. And Neal kept watching; only at night, he watched more carefully. He never sat still for long at night, when the scent of a solitary, sedentary stranger would waft its way to the delicate senses of the larger predators who prowled the night.

Neal knew that the night, like most pretty things, was dangerous. The money stakes were higher, for one thing, which brought the more serious players out. And too many of them were fueled by booze and drugs, which lent an ugly air of the unpredictable and Neal hated the unpredictable.

So Neal patrolled the area, but he kept to the shadows, using corners and doorways, buying snacks at street-side windows, fading to the back of small knots of people as they checked out movie times, disco signs, and buskers. He used all the shading and masking and other subtle shit that Graham had taught him, and he didn’t trust to the “cover of darkness.” Darkness covered everybody.

“Everybody” was the hard core. The ponces checked their ladies and the dealers checked their turf. And the thugs worked the porn trade and the bodybuilders looked for poofters to roll. And the gangs were dangerous, looking for an excuse to fight. And the schizoids were worse, because they didn’t need an excuse, just the ever-present jangle of the voices in their heads. And they were all out there.

Except Allie. Except her dealer. They were nowhere.

Five weeks.

That’s how it went for a month. Neal was left with his slim lead and a bunch of maybes. Maybe the dealer had fucked up and was in the slammer. Maybe he hadn’t paid his fees and was in the river. Maybe he’d decided on a career change and had taken up actuarial science. Maybe Allie had been with him that one night and that was it. Maybe all this was futile.

So Neal would sit in his room in the small hours of the morning and choke down his carton of Chinese take-away, wash it down with two warm room-service beers, and make his check-in call to Graham. Ask if he should call it quits and come home. Get told no. Bitch about it for a minute and hang up. Take a bath to try to wash off the day’s accumulation of sweat and sleaze. Never quite manage it.

Then he’d think about calling Diane. Hell, he thought one night, you have two women in your life and you’ve lost them both. One you can’t find, and the other can’t find you. Brilliant.

And you’re about out of time—with Diane as well as Allie. So call her. And say what? Tell her all about Friends and your fascinating line of work? Tell her that grad school is finished because you’ve fucked up the dirty job of finding an abused child and taking her back to her abusive father?

So he’d think better of it. Try to read. Give up and drink scotch.

Day after day, night after night. And the nights were bad. Worse as the days went by and he hadn’t found the kid. Worse as images of the Halperin kid crept into his head when he tried to sleep, infecting his thoughts with images of death.

Face it, he thought. Allie could be anywhere. She could be sick and she could be hurt. She could be beat-up aching, or clapped-up aging, junked-up dying. Dead like the last kid they’d sent him after.

More and more, he went to sleep with the picture of Allie in his mind. And in his mind, she was dead.

18

She looked great.

He saw her reflection first as he was passing by one of the more expensive eateries that flanked the square. He happened to glance up, and her reflection caught his eye and jerked his head up and around. She was inches away. Behind a pane of glass. And she looked great.

Her blond hair glittered from the light of the lamp hanging above her, and even in the shadowy light of the restaurant, she looked healthy, alive. At this moment she was laughing. She wore a black sleeveless T-shirt tucked into black jeans tucked into black ankle boots, sort of a demonic female Peter Pan. Her hair was cut short and uneven, above her ears, and her left ear sported a delicate silver chain that hung almost to her shoulder. She wore blood-red lipstick. She was drinking beer from a bottle. She was a beautiful girl having a wonderful time. And she was stoned out of her gourd.

For one awful second, Neal thought he might actually tap on the glass and yell, “Allie, come on. Time to go home.” But he backed off quickly, found an eddy in the traffic flow, and watched. He was surprised to hear his own heart beating.

Allie was sitting with three other people. One was a young man of about Neal’s build. His head was roughly shaved to a stubble, and he wore an impossibly filthy T-shirt that had been white in a time beyond memory. The shirt was torn in several places and the message FUCK THE WORLD had been crudely stenciled on the chest. He had a safety pin jammed through his right earlobe. He showed outrageously bad teeth when he grinned, which was often, as he was pointedly laughing at the witticism of the other man at the table, the dominant one. The laughter of the fawning ape. This one would be no problem.

A young woman sat beside him. She sported an orange, purple, and yellow crew cut, black eye shadow and lipstick, and had enormous boobs barely contained in a black leather jacket. She was chunky, her hips and butt jammed into leather pants, and Neal could barely imagine the rivulets of sweat that flowed underneath. She might have stretched toward attractive, but she was pretty enough for the laughing boy, who was all over her. She could be trouble, Neal thought, but not too much.

The other man was trouble. He was the A male, the leader of the pack. This was his table, his party, and his guests; his Allie.

He was of medium height, wide, stocky build—rugby type. He wore a pale khaki suit over a plain black T-shirt; no socks under soft brown loafers. A tiny stone that looked like an emerald adorned his left ear, and three fresh shallow cuts ran straight down from his left eye to his cheekbone. They had just scabbed over and Neal guessed they were self-inflicted. He was drinking something that looked like a tall gin, and he sipped at it as he looked over his glass at Allie and smiled. He was trouble: major league.

He uttered some fresh snippet of wit that sent Fuck the World into a new paroxysm of laughter. This was for Allie, and FTW probably didn’t realize the joke was on him.

One very pissed-off waiter came to the table. Neal saw from his look that the staff here would like nothing better than to throw this punk quartet out into the alley and maybe set fire to them if the chance arose and they had a spare match. But the punks had money and lots of it. The manager probably just wanted to get them fed and get them out before the regular customers got the idea that this was more than a fluke. The other customers were already getting nervous but looked too intimidated to complain.

The Suit ordered for all four.

Neal stepped back for a minute to think it over. He had a choice to make here: stand back and follow them or move in. Following was probably the safer choice. There was a small chance that the smart one could make him, but he doubted that. He could follow them through the night, get an address, and then make a nice slow move. But there was a chance, as there always was with a one-man tail, that he would lose them and he might never get another shot.

On the other hand, if he moved in unprepared, he might blow it for good.

He took a deep breath, edged his way through the crowd on the sidewalk, and entered the restaurant. The headwaiter greeted him with the wooden smile reserved for lone diners that says, “I have to seat you but you ought to have gone to a counter, where you wouldn’t take up a whole table, so please, at least run up a big liquor tab.” That smile.

“Table for one, please.”

“Yes, sir. Follow me, please.”

Neal pointed to an empty deuce across the aisle from Allie. “How about that one?”

“Really, sir?”

“Honest to goodness.”

The man shrugged. “As you wish, sir.”

He seated him at the table and handed him the menu. “Enjoy your meal.”

Now what? Neal thought. Come on, genius, what next? You could reach over, tap her on the shoulder, and say “Gotcha.” You could explain that you’re on a scavenger hunt and you have to bring home a seventeen-year-old girl to a Vice Presidential candidate and get twenty thousand points, you could … actually smell her perfume, which was some wicked variety of musk. You could suddenly understand how some poor prep school teacher could …

Steady, lad. Let’s take it easy. Let’s wipe the sweat off your palms. Christ, you’ve only done about a thousand undercovers, and the basic rule is always the same: Get close, stay close, wait for an opening.

He studied the menu. Might as well get a good meal out of this. But there was nary a cheeseburger to be found. He decided on the lamb. “Waiter. Oh, waiter!” he heard the Suit say. So he was local East End. But he did a fine parody of an Oxbridge twit. The harried waiter came over.

“Where are our steaks?”

“Cooking, sir. Did you want them raw?”

“When I want any shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your head.” His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being fucked with.

“Kill ’im, Colin,” laughing boy said.

A name. Colin. Thank you, baby Jesus. “If sir isn’t satisfied …” said the waiter.

“Sir isn’t leaving, if that’s what you’ve got on your mind. Now get us our bloody food. Wimpy’s have better service.”

“Better food, too.” Laughing boy was serious.

“Run along,” Colin said.

Laughing boy chimed in dutifully, “Now!” The shout lifted every head in the place.

“Easy, Crisp,” said Colin. “There’s an art to this. Eat your salad.”

“If you don’t, I will. I’m starving.” Oh, Allie, if you knew how long I’ve waited to hear you say that … or say anything.

Crisp pushed his plate to her. “You’re always hungry. How come you don’t get fat?”

“Yeah, Colin, how come?” she asked. It was a joke between them. “Better living through chemistry, love,” Colin said. “Better loving, too.”

Oh boy.

“Have you decided, sir?”

The waiter startled him,

“I’ll have the lamb, please.”

“And the wine, sir?”

“You decide.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colin was playing to a full house and loving it. He knew just how much he could bait the crowd of locals and tourists without forcing the manager to toss him. He had just the right edge, loud and sharp enough to disrupt the place. Putting it to the middle class he was, and no mistake.

“Well,” Colin asked his mates, and anyone within earshot, “have you ever met a bloke from Oxford who wasn’t a buggerboy?”

Crisp tried to keep up with him. “Have you ever met a bloke from Oxford?”

“Not me. I hate buggerboys.”

“Or do you just hate Oxford boys?” asked Allie.

“Oxford boys, Cambridge boys, Eton boys, Arundel boys … they’re all buttjockeys. What they get up to between the sheets when the lights go out would make me mother weep.”

“Your mother’s dead.”

“All the same.”

“I need to hit the loo,” Allie said.

“Again?”

“It’s been a while.”

Do I detect a slight tinge of the defensive? Neal asked himself.

“So go.”

“Come with me.”

“You’re a big girl now. It’s the one with the frock on the door.”

“You know what I mean.”

Their voices had dropped. This was private business. Neal saw that Colin didn’t like his act interrupted.

“Later,” Colin said.

“C’mon, Collie. Now.”

Collie? As in Lassie, as in woof-woof, come quick, Timmy fell down the well?

“C’mon, please?”

Neal checked out her eyes. He could never remember whether the eyes were supposed to be the windows or the mirrors of the soul. Maybe both, like those one-way mirrors they use in precinct houses and your finer department stores.

Allie’s eyes were tilting toward teary. Moist and soft, and Neal could swear they had been sharp and clear when he came in. A look like that on Seventy-second Street would draw the sales force for blocks around.

Colin took control. “Have another beer.” Allie’s fingers started doing a Buddy Rich imitation on the bottle. Her nostrils, as they say in the romance books, flared. Then she turned on the charm she’d learned from Mom and Dad.

“Maybe just a little something for my cold. Runny nose?”

Is it ever thus? Neal wondered. He had a friend at Columbia who claimed that life was just a stack of record albums on an automatic drop. Problem was, they were all the same record.

Colin smiled back at her. A compromise had been reached. “Yeah, those summer colds are always the worst. Got a bit of a sniffle meself.” He stood up. “Come on then, love. You two hold the table, eh? You can go when we get back.”

The loos were in the basement at the end of a dark, narrow corridor. Allie leaned against the corridor wall as Colin screened her from view and held the spoon to her nose. She steadied it against one nostril and rested her finger against the other to keep it closed. She inhaled sharply and deeply and held her head back while Colin carefully dipped another spoonful from the vial in his hand. She snorted this one and shook her head gently back and forth.

Colin dipped into the vial again for a quick hit. Then he ran the little finger of his right hand around the rim of the vial, and with his left hand pushed Allie’s shirt up and over her breasts. He gently rubbed a little coke around each nipple and bent over and licked it off. She bit down on the knuckle of her index finger and whimpered once, softly, as her right hand found his crotch and rubbed. He pulled her shirt back down. Her nipples stood out against the thin black fabric.

Colin smiled and removed her hand. “Very sexy, love. Very nice. Now be a good girl and pop back upstairs. I have to use the shitter.”

She brushed past Neal on the stairway. His hand almost reached for her. Instead, he ignored her and followed Colin into the gents’.

To find that God had given it to him on a platter. Colin had draped his jacket over the stall door.