Authors: Jerome Charyn
Nick Tiel didn’t make a move. “Holden, why are you doing this?”
“Nicky, get out of the shit storm you’re in. You betrayed me to the Swiss. You told him about the little girl. Why, Nick? I risked my ass pulling you out of a fire. Saved your precious designs. Now I’m keeping them for my own collection.”
“You don’t have a collection. You’re a bumper.”
“Maybe I’ll go into business with the Greeks.”
“They wouldn’t touch my work. Infante is their lawyer.”
“Then I’ll give them to the Swiss’ Paris competitors.”
“Holden, they’d never live to mount a single coat.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Holden said. “I’ll have the pleasure of fucking you and Swiss out of the Paris show. And pleasure is all I’ve got.”
“Holden,” Nick Tiel said, like the most rational creature in the world. “You’ll be fucking yourself. You’re still on the payroll.”
Holden nickered like a horse. “That’s generous of him when he’s been pulling all the money out of my money box. I’ll use your designs as money ... Nick, I’ve been watching over you for years. The Greeks would have busted your skull if not for me. You have Infante. I’m glad. But there’ll always be some hungry kid who’ll want your paper. You dream a lot, Nick. Your own cutters will steal you blind.”
“Holden, I had—”
“Tell it to the Swiss.”
Holden walked away with the
santita
and Nick Tiel’s designs. He went into the mailroom and pulled an envelope out of his box. It was his salary for the month. Ten thousand and change, after all the deductions. He had a health plan that could hold him in a hospital for years and years without ever having to pay the rent. He had a pension from Aladdin that would let him live out his life at the grandest hotel in Greece, where he’d never bumped a soul. His check was signed by the Swiss, who robbed Holden, payed Holden, and collected Holden’s wife. Aladdin had become an empire beyond Holden’s measurements and means.
He rocked across Manhattan and arrived at White Street in his fourth taxi cab. His pockets were swollen with change. He allowed the
santita
to tip all the drivers. She was free with Holden’s money. The cabbies fell in love with a little girl who counted quarters in their palms. “One, two, five,” she said. Holden adored her arithmetic. He’d send her to Bernard Baruch when she was ripe for it.
He tapped on Gottlieb’s window. The kid peeked out at Holden from the storefront’s black blinds. He looked like he was walking in his sleep. He roused himself and let the bumper in. He kept staring at the
santita.
“That girl’s unlucky, Holden. People start dying around her. Will you drop her off somewhere? Give her to the Bandidos, for God’s sake. Let them worship a little.”
“Gottlieb, you’ll have to get out of here. Edmundo’s after you. And the Swiss seems to know an awful lot about my mattress pads.”
Gottlieb shrugged, and in spite of money, murder, and all the sexual gambits, he looked like any other seventeen-year-old brat.
“Where should I go? I didn’t bring my bank books. And ’Mundo’s probably watching all the banks. I’m a pauper again.”
Holden handed him five thousand dollars from his personal kitty. “Haven’t I supported you?”
“But I had two incomes,” Gottlieb said, “when I was ’Mundo’s rat.”
“That’s because you were such a greedy kid. If you hadn’t been greedy, we might not have gotten into this mess. Now you’ll have to haul your ass back to Bryant Park and hide in the bushes.”
“With all the drag queens? I’m too old for that.”
“It’s your forest, Gottlieb. The Batista babies know uptown and downtown, but they could never get into the riddle of Bryant Park. You’ll be all right. You can operate near the library lions. You’re my only network.”
“How can I help when I don’t even have an office?”
“We’re wanderers now. Your office is your head ... and you’ll have to keep this for me.”
The kid found himself with a bundle in his arms. “What the hell is it?”
“Nick Tiel.”
All the sadness went out of Gottlieb’s face. “You took his paper? Holden, it’s a masterpiece. I’ll stuff those sketches into my pants.”
“Not your pants,” Holden said.
“I’m resourceful,” Gottlieb said. “Trust me. I’ll build a hole for Nick’s paper.”
“Where will you live?” Holden asked, alarmed that Gottlieb suddenly seemed so sure of himself.
“Holden, I was born on the street. I’ll manage.”
“How will I find you?”
“Just come to Bryant Park.”
Gottlieb returned Holden’s key, clutched Nick Tiel’s designs to his chest, and started uptown.
“Wait,” Holden said. “We’ll share a cab.”
“Forget it,” the kid shouted from behind his back. “I don’t sit in cabs with you, Holden. That’s part of my policy. I’m not going to ride in three directions to get to one place. Goodbye. And be careful with that
santita,
huh? She could start growing some very long teeth.”
And Gottlieb was gone.
Holden stopped off on Canal Street to buy the girl a doll. It was at a warehouse of stolen merchandise that he liked to visit. It was called Stumfel’s and it doubled as an export-import firm. His dad often took him there when Holden was a boy. They’d go searching for a baseball glove and Holden would walk with his dad among a mountain of mitts. The salesman looked as if he’d never come out of the dark. His eyes were greasy, Holden remembered, greasy as Stumfel’s walls. And Holden Sr. would say, “Benjamin, I’d like a Bobby Thompson for the kid.”
Benjamin would climb up onto that mountain, use the gloves as stairs, whistle to himself, scratch his behind, and bring down a yellow mitt with Bobby Thompson’s signature burnt into the skin.
This Benjamin was no longer alive. But the mountains were all in place. Mitts, pajamas, bow ties, dolls ... Holden searched among the dolls with Barbara and a much younger salesman, whose eyes seemed to scratch at the dark. The salesman brought her dolls that she didn’t like. The dolls were enormous. They could have been dressed and designed by Nick Tiel. The salesman kept returning to the mountain for another doll until the
santita
decided to choose for herself. She walked up to the mountain, sang a song in Creole, shut her eyes, and pulled out a doll that was dirty and ragged and without an arm. Its features weren’t distinct. The doll could have been a boy, an old man, or a grandma in a pair of pants. Holden understood. She was mourning Huevo with a broken, savage doll.
“How much?” Holden asked.
“Nothing,” the salesman said. “That’s a throwaway. It’s not even supposed to be in our inventory.”
And Holden left the warehouse with the
santita
and her doll. They rode for half an hour. The girl loved to change taxi cabs. They walked two blocks to the mattress pad and Holden felt a shiver in his blood. He recognized Paul Abruzzi’s Cadillac across the street from the pad. He was dizzy with anger and dread. The
santita
held him tight. Holden waited, waited, like a shy, shivering dog. He wanted to howl at the moon, but there was no moon. He’d arrived at his pad in the middle of the day.
His darling waltzed down the stairs. Fay had become her own leopard girl. Her calves held a sudden power. She could have bought and sold Manhattan with her stride. Abruzzi’s man, fat Dimitrios, got out of the Cadillac and opened the back door. Holden watched the red smear of her mouth as she climbed into the Cadillac. She hadn’t worn lipstick with Holden or Red Mike.
The Cadillac drove along the seminary’s north wall and disappeared. Holden stood with the
santita.
H
E COULD HAVE GONE
up to the Algonquin, found Paul Abruzzi’s love nest, and bumped the D.A. and his daughter-in-law. Holden didn’t care. He’d have gone to court, danced before the judge in Goldie’s finest wool, and told the jury how he’d killed for love. They’d declare him insane. Bumpers weren’t supposed to fall in love. He’d probably get a mattress at Bellevue. He’d sit for a couple of years, enjoy the scenery, and survive his fortieth birthday. He’d borrow some yellow candles, have a little party, invite all the bumpers to Bellevue. But he couldn’t afford to sit too long without the
santita.
Who would buy her dolls and help her brush her teeth?
She cooked him a crazy omelette with spices that couldn’t have come from the mattress pad. She must have gone shopping with Fay. She drank wine with Holden, sang to her injured doll, groomed his silly features, until Holden felt that Huevo was here with him in Chelsea.
And then his darling returned. Her mouth wasn’t smeared with red any more. She’d wiped the lipstick from her face. The
santita
jumped up to show her the doll. And Holden wanted to leap out the window. He knew she’d been with Paul.
“Had to go out,” she said, staring at the
santita
’s strange doll. “My heel broke. I was at the shoemaker’s and—”
“You were with Paul. I saw you get into the Cadillac.”
Her eyes seemed to explode like a gigantic breathless fish. “My heel,” she said. “Paul’s man took me to the shoemaker.”
“That was only the start of the trip.” He slapped her in front of the
santita.
She fell down, sat on the floor, her knees wide apart. And Holden despised himself. He’d never slapped a girl at Muriel’s. He’d never slapped the twig. And this was the second time he’d slapped Fay.
She stood up and wandered a little. Holden wanted to touch her hair, but he couldn’t forget about Paul. “You went up to his room at the Algonquin and you made love with him. Then you took a bath. I can smell the soap.”
“I didn’t take a bath,” she said, blinking as she wandered about Holden’s pad.
“You never stopped being his mistress ... did Paul ask you to seduce Red Mike and me?”
“I loved Michael,” she said, and he almost slapped her again.
“You gave Paul this address. That’s how the Swisser got to me. Paul’s been monitoring my life ever since I took you out of Rockaway. How much is he paying you ... or are you doing it for love?”
“He said he’d kill you if I didn’t come to him.”
“So you went up to his room on account of me. That’s what I call devotion.”
“He begged me,” she said. “He wanted to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Holden asked. “His son’s next play? Mike’s insurance policies? Or the shoemaker?”
He shook her so hard, her head whipped around, and she could have been one of the dolls on Stumfel’s mountain, a doll that the
santita
might have picked. He let her go.
“We talked about you,” she said, with curls in her eye. “He had a thousand ways to have you killed. I let him kiss me.”
“Fay,” Holden said, “does it always have to be some fucking fable? You’re attached to the old man. You’re his silver bullet ... he arranged our romance. He asked you to come to Aladdin. Infante let you into my office. And I was one more piece of furniture you could ruin.”
“No,” she said. “I loved Michael and I love you.”
“But Mike’s dead. And Paul has my keys in his pocket.”
“He won’t harm you now ... he swore to me. On his life.”
“Yeah,” Holden said. “As long as you go on being his whore.”
“I’m not his whore. He loves me. He always has.”
“But I don’t want you riding up to the Algonquin in a Cadillac just to save my skin.”
“I couldn’t refuse him, Sidney.”
His legs were in trouble. He thought his ankles would break off after she said Sidney. “Don’t call me that. You were with another man.”
“I kissed him, Holden, that’s all.”
“Paul wouldn’t have let you go with one kiss.”
“It was more than one,” she said. He would have strangled her if the
santita
hadn’t been around. No. He couldn’t have borne it if her face turned blue. He’d rather rush into the toilet and hang himself from the shower curtain. He didn’t want to imagine what more than one kiss meant. But his skull beat with questions. Did the D.A. fondle his darling, take off her clothes? Were they standing, sitting, or lying down when they kissed? It was like a goddamn anatomy lesson. Fay’s body had become the whole fucking world. And Holden was a kid again, worshipping Loretta’s underpants, following her around, dizzy with the smell of her. And now he had this tall blonde darling with the curly hair, and he’d have to give up all her underpants and all her perfumes, because she had her own headquarters at the Algonquin with Paul Abruzzi.
“I’ll forget the kisses,” he said. “But I’d like to know how Paul got this address.”
“I gave it to him.”
“Just like that? You called him and said, ‘Hey, that bumper from Aladdin is lying low in Chelsea somewhere. He’s a little eccentric. When he moves, he moves around the corner.’ Is that what you said?”
“No. Paul’s a possessive man. I wouldn’t go anywhere without giving him my address. He’d have sent all his detectives after you if I didn’t tell him where I was.”
“How many times have you met him since you’ve been living here with me?”
“I never counted ... it could have been five or six. We had lunch. We went to a matinee at Lincoln Center. We—”
“That’s enough.” Holden searched for the
santita.
He couldn’t find her until he realized she was standing next to Fay, with her head in Fay’s hip. And he wondered what kind of secrets the two women shared. He pulled the
santita
away.
“You don’t have to worry about us. You can go to every matinee in New York. You can live at the Algonquin or in Paul’s Cadillac.”
He started to leave with the girl. Fay clutched his arm. “Holden, I’m not in love with Paul. He’s nice to me.”
“And you’re nice to him,” Holden said. “Too nice.” He took the
santita
to the door. She watched Fay with a finger in her mouth and clutched at her doll. And Holden couldn’t tell if he had a tiny river goddess on his hands, or just a leopard girl.
“Holden?” he heard Fay ask. “When will you be back?”
But he had nothing to say. Because he was running out of mattress pads. And he was crazy about the blonde bitch, crazy to hug her, crazy to hold her hand. And he wasn’t even sure why he preferred Fay’s underpants, which weren’t so special, or why he had the wish to draw her into the toilet and make love to her while she held the wall.