Paradise Man (26 page)

“You owe me for sentencing my dad to all those gray years.”

“I didn’t sentence him. I was his friend. I looked after both of you. I made you meat pies when you were a boy.”

“And you reported all my moves to the Swiss. You put a gun in my hand. You dressed me up. Where are the twins?”

“Camping on Oliver Street.”

“In Mrs. Howard’s flat? Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” the tailor said. “I can’t help it if I’m a thinker, Holden. It was the best place for them to be. The premises were unoccupied. And Swiss didn’t have to pay the rent.”

“You are a thinker, Goldie. And if you’re planning to call the Swiss after I leave, I’d forget about it. I’m wearing magic beads. I’ll feel your message, Goldie, honest I will. And I’ll visit you with my PPK.”

“I wouldn’t call the Swiss,” Goldie said, with a glint of his teeth. “I never betrayed you. I never steered you into a trap.”

Holden left the shop, wondering how much the tailor had lied. Goldie was a forger. He could have invented Nicole and Sidney Michael David Hartley Mickeljohn. But Holden did have a couple of factors. He wasn’t born under a table. He had a mum. A tart, Goldie said. With brown hair. And his dad had strangled this Nicole to keep her from telling about a fortune under the streets of Avignon. He imagined his father with a shovel, chipping at the stones, while his mum carried him in her belly. That’s how he arrived on Oliver Street, with images of a mum he’d never met. He walked around the back, to Loretta Howard’s yard. Her pigeon coops were empty and there wasn’t a creature in the cat barns she’d built. Civilization had fled from Oliver Street.

It was one in the afternoon and Holden waltzed up to Loretta’s back door. The curtains were down. The rooms seemed dusty to him. The door was locked. But Loretta wasn’t there to tighten the window guards. Holden tried a window, toyed with the frame, and let himself into the house. He found one of the twins in the
santita
’s room, sleeping near her dolls. Jupe in pajamas. Frog broke his neck with a couple of pulls on his jaw. There wasn’t even a whimper of surprise. Or the little moans of an unfortunate dream. A bone cracked behind Jupe’s ears. His head shivered. A drop of spittle appeared. And he was dead.

Jean-Paul was in Mrs. Howard’s room, snoring with a blanket on his chest. Frog stood over him and smothered Jean-Paul with Loretta’s favorite pillow. He scavenged through the pockets of both twins and found very little cash. The Castigliones had thousands and thousands in thick bundles of traveler’s checks. Holden could have traded in the checks and gotten fifty cents on the dollar, but he didn’t want to advertise his hand. Any one of the fagins he used might have hollered to Edmundo or the Swiss. So he settled for the cash and said goodbye to the brothers when he heard the doorbell ring. He could have scampered out the back, but he was curious about the bell-ringer. He crossed half the house and peeked out a window near the front door. He thought angels had been whispering some tunes, because his mortician had arrived. Bernhard Saxe.

Frog opened the door, and the mortician could barely hide his amazement. “Come in, Bern,” Holden said. “Come in.” And the mortician stepped inside. “How are you, Holden?”

“I don’t like riddles, Bern. Who sent you and why?”

“Edmundo asked me to wake up the Castiglione brothers.”

“Are you a traffic cop? The brothers were after my skin.”

“Holden, how long have we worked together? Fifteen years. I run a funeral parlor. I can’t afford to take sides.”

“But I never heard of a funeral parlor that does wake-up calls.”

“I was picking up some extra change.”

“At my expense, Bern. You shouldn’t have figured me for dead.”

“Holden, the man has an army out there. Put yourself in my place. What would you figure?”

“That you don’t fuck one client to help another ... I’m recruiting you, Bern.”

“Holden, the man will kill me.”

“He might ... where’s Edmundo?”

“At that cafeteria for kings. I called him from my chapel. He said, ‘Wake up the twins.’”

“They’re beyond waking, Bern. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the cafeteria,” Holden said.

“You’re crazy. I can’t be seen with you.”

“Bern,” the Frog said. It was almost a whisper.
Bern.
And the mortician caved in. He led Holden out to his funeral truck. Both of them crept into the cab and sat with Bern’s assistant, Lionel, a boy of twenty, who must have been aware of Edmundo’s business, because he looked at Holden in Windsor’s suit and started to weep. The bumper felt embarrassed. He hadn’t provoked the boy, menaced him with the PPK. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, with Windsor’s own mark in the corner, stitched in blue, and handed it to the boy. “Here, wipe your nose.”

Lionel took the handkerchief, patted his face with it, and returned it to the Frog. “Mr. Holden, please, I don’t want to die.”

“Wouldn’t hurt my undertaker,” Holden said. “Drive.”

Lionel brought Holden up to Mansions. Two of Edmundo’s bodyguards stood outside the window. Holden could feel the boredom in their eyes. They’d stopped reacting to the terrain. And Holden could have walked into the cafeteria all by himself and there was a fifty-fifty chance that the bodyguards would have mistaken him for just another lonely king.

He got out of the truck with Lionel and Bern, stood behind them half a step, in a slight crouch. The bodyguards recognized Bern. “Hey, did some old guy drop in the toilets? Who are you taking out?”

“It’s a social call,” Bern said, and the bodyguards laughed. Holden could have been a shadow, some third mortician. He entered the cafeteria with the other two. He saw kings near the window, feasting on cabbage pie. He recognized a princess who’d sat in her corner table ever since Holden began arriving with Florinda Infante for lunch. Florinda’s friend, King Alfonse, stopped him as he skirted around a table with Lionel and Bern.

“Holden,” Alfonse said, with a pity in his eye only a king could have. “It’s not safe.”

“Thank you, Fatso. I’ll be all right. Just don’t sit near the wall.”

And then he saw Edmundo at the center table, with his mistresses, cousins, uncles, fortunetellers, veterans from the Bay of Pigs, captains, lieutenants, Florinda, and Count Josephus. He was in the midst of revealing one of his invasion plans, how he would grab Cuba back from Fidel with his own family members.

“Brothers, we won’t touch Fidel. We won’t pluck his beard or exhibit him in a cage. We’ll fly him to New York and let him scream on the ‘Today’ show. He’ll be the new Groucho Marx ...”

The Batista babies laughed.
Groucho Marx.
They were dreaming of old Havana and Calle Ocho in that Cuban village of Miami. They had one prince, one father, one king. Don Edmundo. They wouldn’t have noticed a mortician and two other men. The Frog wasn’t supposed to be out on the street. It was Florinda who saw Holden, whose mouth puckered in the middle of a smile. She took in his form, the contours of his suit, and seemed happy the bumper was still alive. She was helpless. She couldn’t warn him to go. And Holden was grateful to Florinda. He should have been kinder to her during those long, long lunches when his head would ache with having to deal with so many kings. That purple streak in her hair didn’t mean she was a whore.

“I promise you,” Don Edmundo said, “we will have our fun with Fidel.” He ate fish eggs on a cracker. He stood up to ruffle the hair of a nephew and a niece. He had his family around him, mistresses, bankers, fools.

He was puzzled when he saw the undertaker. But then he thought, why not? Bernardo has come with a message for me. He likes champagne in the afternoon, even if he lives in a funeral parlor. “Bernardo, did you wake up the two Frenchies? They have to find that other little frog. It’s important. I’m losing face while Holden breathes. He can’t hide forever under the dress of a fat witch.”

But the undertaker didn’t answer. And then Edmundo saw the hombre behind him. He wasn’t a
bobo.
It was the señor himself in his British suit, and for a moment, Edmundo thought that Holden had come to apologize and make peace. And the señor could have some champagne and be part of the family again, because Edmundo admired that crazy bumper. The bumper had a pair of balls. He was like some kind of crusader, killing people in a holy war, but nobody could remember what the holiness was about.

Holden, would you like a drink? he started to say when he saw a twist of red and white beads over the bumper’s necktie, and Edmundo knew he was lost. The witch Dolores had summoned her god Changó in one of Holden’s British suits. ’Mundo had always mocked that jailhouse religion. It was for the curly hairs, the africanos. A children’s cult of chicken blood. And he was a conquistador. But how did Holden get past Edmundo’s guards unless he could depend on Changó’s tricks? And as ’Mundo sought his captains at the table he heard a pop like thunder in some faraway store. Mansions disappeared and he wished he could have died at Pinar del Río as Comandante O ...

It wasn’t Rockaway, where the Frog had three brothers standing by themselves and could leave holes in their foreheads like red dimes. There were children flitting around the table. And Holden wasn’t Buffalo Bill. He’d had his target practice on a firing range. So he went for the heart. Edmundo’s captains wouldn’t see any blood, and Holden had to count on confusion. The captains watched ’Mundo fall back into his chair. They couldn’t take their eyes off the chief. An uncle pointed a bony finger at the Frog. But he said nothing. And Frog walked out with Lionel and Bern.

The two bodyguards were near the window with 9 mm guns. They’d heard Holden’s thunder but they couldn’t believe the Frog had gone past them like an invisible man. They looked at Lionel, looked at Bern, and before they could look into Holden’s eyes he ran out from between the two morticians, socked the first bodyguard on the side of his head and walloped the second in the groin. As they tottered, Holden hit them again. “Come on,” he said to Bern.

Holden got into the funeral truck. Bern started to mourn Don Edmundo. “That man was my biggest customer.”

“You’ll survive, Bern. I’m back in business.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the mortician said.

Lionel took Frog to the Algonquin. The boy was shaking a lot. “Kid,” Holden said. “It had to be done.”

“I understand,” Lionel said. But he didn’t stop shaking.

“Watch the truck,” Frog said, and he walked into the hotel with Bern. Now he remembered why all the Brits stopped at the Algonquin. The lobby was made of wood, like the better, older English hotels where Holden had stopped when he was bumping British furriers and collecting patterns from greedy tailors on Saville Row. He liked Bond Street and Marble Arch and British taxi drivers, who were always polite in their polished cars and took Holden to whatever obscure rendezvous he had with the tailors.

“Ask for Schatz,” Holden said to Bern, handing him the house telephone.

“I haven’t seen Bruno in years. What should I say?”

“Say hello. Start the conversation. Tell him you’re coming up. You have a couple of items from Don Edmundo to deliver. All I want is the room number. I’ll do the rest.”

“What if he decides to come down?”

“Then I’ll whack him in the lobby,” Holden said.

“This is the Algonquin, for God’s sake.”

“So what? You can always bump someone in a hotel lobby. I learned that from Red Mike. There are so many witnesses, no one remembers right. Some of the guys will swear I had a red hat or a blue nose. Bern, I promise. You won’t even need an alibi. You can tell the district attorney to scratch himself”

“And keep my license?”

“Don’t worry, Bern. Call the Swiss.”

But he couldn’t get Swiss on the telephone, and the clerk at the front desk wouldn’t surrender Swiss’ room to strangers, so the Frog went out to the truck with Bern and discovered Lionel at the wheel with a hole in his head. Billetdoux squatted behind him, clutching a gun with a long metal cuff. “Get in,” he said.

Bern and the Frog climbed into the truck.

“Jesus, Billet, he was a kid,” Holden said. “You didn’t have to sock him so hard.”

“He takes his responsibilities if he rides with you. You’ve been on a bloody rampage. You march into a man’s hotel with the worst intentions. You ought to show respect ... let’s have your shooter, Holden.”

Billet removed the PPK from Frog’s shoulder cup and shoved it into his pocket.

“Billet, this is Bernhard Saxe, the mortician.”

“We’ve met,” said the bumper from Marseilles.

“Then you know he works for Don Edmundo.”

“Worked, you mean. Edmundo’s dead.”

“He had nothing to do with it, Billet. Let him go.”

“Don’t dictate to me ... Mr. Saxe, get behind the wheel.”

Bern had to lay the dead boy down near his feet.

“Drive us to the fur district, Mr. Saxe.”

He’ll take us to that ghost town, Aladdin, Holden figured, and bump us in Nick Tiel’s designing room. We’ll rot for a month before anyone finds us. The Frog wasn’t scared. It was a bumper’s fate to sit in a funeral truck.

T
HEY ARRIVED AT THE FUR MARKET
and Billet said, “I’m sorry about the boy, Mr. Saxe. But I couldn’t take chances. Bury him somewhere and forget you ever saw Holden. Can you promise me that?”

Bern looked at Holden with a bit of shame. “I promise,” he said, and he drove off as soon as Billet and the Frog climbed out of the truck.

“He’s a top man,” Holden said. “In the business all his life. His dad buried Dutch Schultz.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Billet said, and he brought Frog up to Aladdin in the service elevator. He had his own key. They stepped onto the landing and Frog couldn’t believe it. The cutters and nailers had their old roost. Frog could smell all the skins. The house was full of furriers.

“Did Swiss get himself a new designer?”

“You’ll see.”

They passed a bunch of nailers who kneeled to the Frog as if he were their homecoming prince and he entered Robert Infante’s office with Billetdoux. Schatz was in his old chair. Andrushka sat on the desk. Holden felt remorse. He’d loved her and lost her. She’d grown into a woman in Swiss’ arms.