Paradise Man (27 page)

“Hello, Frog,” she said.

Swiss started to cluck. “You’ve done me more damage, Holden, than any man I ever knew.”

“I’m glad,” Holden said.

Billet slapped him on the cheek.

“I’m still glad,” Holden said, with a mouth full of blood.

And when Billet went to slap him again, Swiss clucked a little louder. “No, no. He’s much too valuable.”

“How’s that?” Holden asked, having to bite with blood.

“Edmundo’s gone,” Swiss said. “He wasn’t very practical. He left no one in his place. Never organized. He ruled alone. And now his family is in complete chaos. Isn’t that why you killed him?”

“I had a lot of reasons.”

“Reasons?” Swiss said, waxing like some extraordinary owl in his chair. “That’s what kept you alive ... and the luck of that little girl. She was a great protector, Holden. Edmundo couldn’t seem to part the two of you for very long. She was a goddess, I hear. Black magic and fainting fits. Your dad wouldn’t have been clever enough to win her, Holden.”

“I never won her, Swiss. She was short on fathers. And I found her under a table. My dad wouldn’t have used a
santita.
He had Nicole.”

The owlish eyes never arched, never betrayed Swiss’ intentions. “Who’s Nicole?”

“My mother,” Holden said.

“You mean the bitch we hired for Holden Sr.? Was that her name?”

“Yes. And he wasn’t Holden. He was Mickeljohn. Sidney Michael David Hartley Mickeljohn.”

“I can see you’ve been talking to a certain tailor. He shouldn’t have told you such things. It’s dangerous to have a little information. It winds you up. And you get out of hand.”

“You broke my father when you started stealing his name. Holden was a chauffeur. Mickeljohn was something else.”

“He was a smalltime hood in the military police, Mickeljohn was. Utterly unreliable. Quite the ladies’ man. He got us into more trouble than he was worth. But I was fond of him. That’s my weakness, Holden. Once I take to a man, I commit for life.”

“Save the violins, Swiss. My dad cracked skulls for you. You had your own bumper in arts and archives. You held on to him after the war, sent him to Avignon to find some paintings stashed under the streets. But it was a scam. Another one of your enterprises. The paintings were in Hamburg all along. No wonder my father hated Avignon. He saw that city from under the ground. He started killing people with his shovel. My mom wised up. She must have asked dad to get some money out of you. But he still believed in your bull. That’s how he was. He was fond of military colors. He had a fight with her. She died. And you let my dad fall into purgatory. Like a snake without teeth.”

“But that’s my point, Holden. Your dad couldn’t have come to the same conclusions. He was debilitated from the start. I’ll be frank. If I’d had Billetdoux at the time, we might have put your dad out of his misery, once and for all.”

“But you have Billet now. And I’m Mickeljohn’s boy.”

“Good God,” Swiss said. “Do you think your dad could have walked into Mansions and shot Edmundo in front of his bodyguards? He didn’t have your imagination. He was okay for France. He couldn’t have survived out on the street. But you? This town likes boldness. There isn’t a restaurant in the city that will ever let you pay for a meal again.”

“But there are five district attorneys, Swiss, and at least one of them is after my blood. He could sell me to Manhattan or haul my ass to Queens.”

“Not without implicating himself. He was in with Edmundo, all the way.”

“But he’s peculiar about his daughter-in-law. I love the woman. So does he.”

“That’s his aberration. It will pass.”

“Meanwhile he has my shooter.”

“Holden, I’ve chatted with Paul. He won’t harm you. The mayor himself would kiss you if he could. You’re a hero. You’ve taken out La Familia with one bullet.”

“And I’m your military policeman in New York.”

“We’re furriers, Holden. New gangs will form and they’d love to steal from us, but they’ll think twice with you around.”

“I’m still not giving back Nick Tiel’s paper.”

“That’s fine. We’ve rehabilitated Nick.”

“Nicky’s doing cuffs again? How? He had pink eyes the last time I saw him. He couldn’t even speak his name.”

“Ah, but we’ve had him in deep therapy while you were away. Anti-depressants, shrinks around the clock. He’s started doodling. He’ll catch up with himself. You ought to see his new paper.”

“Nick recovered? There’s no trusting science. A man can do anything. I’d like to see Nick.”

Billet took him to the designing room. Nick answered after a dozen knocks. His cheeks were puffy. He’d gained twenty pounds. But he was scribbling furiously at his table. “Holden,” Nick said. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

Holden returned to that owl in the other room. “Better see a dentist,” the owl said. “I think your jaw is broken.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I insist.”

Holden wondered what it would be like if Andrushka had never gone to Paris. She’d have ended up with Caravaggio in her bed, and Holden on the floor. She’d followed Swiss into her own art and archives division. And Holden had trouble learning a little Matisse. But she hadn’t lost her beauty with a bit of fat.

“Frog,” she said. And there was a teasing tenderness in her voice.

“What is it?”

“I’m in love with your suit. Bruno doesn’t have anything to match it.”

“It’s a prototype.”

“Explain to her what a prototype is,” Bruno said. “It’s pure theft. That suit came off the Duke of Windsor’s back.”

“Not quite. It came from his closets ... and Swiss, I’ll need a raise. Fifteen thousand a month isn’t enough for New York.”

“There’s plenty a man who wouldn’t complain about your salary. I’ve had a bad year.”

“You stripped half my vaults. I want nineteen thousand a month.”

“Sixteen,” the Swiss said. “Not a penny more.”

“Eighteen,” Holden said.

“Seventeen and a half,” said Andrushka, and Swiss wouldn’t oppose his wife.

Holden would have kissed her, but Schatz was a jealous man.

He went down the elevator with Billetdoux. Billet returned the PPK. “I had to hit you, Holden. That’s my job.”

“It’s nothing,” Holden said. “A little blood.” But his mouth ached. He spat into Windsor’s handkerchief.

The two bumpers said goodbye and Holden marched up to Bryant Park. He searched the bushes, the walks, the open-air library lanes, the cafeteria tables, and couldn’t find Gottlieb. He asked one of the chief pushers, who controlled the north side of the park. “I’m looking for a kid in dirty clothes. Seventeen. With gray eyes.”

The pusher wore fingerless gloves. He had a band around his head. He looked like a narc. “You mean Holden’s whore? He disappeared a week ago.” The pusher might have been twenty, Lionel’s age. “Are you the Frog?”

“Yes,” Holden said. “I’m the Frog.”

“What can I do for you? A little heroin, man. It’s on the house.”

“I need a cab,” Holden said. And the pusher ran out to Sixth Avenue with his fingerless gloves. He whistled and danced and bumped into traffic until he lured a cab to the edges of the park. Holden got in. He didn’t try his circular routes. He didn’t change cabs. He rode down to Oliver Street and camped in Mrs. Howard’s flat. The corpses were gone.

Holden slept for eighteen hours. Then he took a bath. He shaved with Mrs. Howard’s old razor. He gobbled bran flakes out of her cupboard. He examined the
santita
’s dolls and realized how much he missed her.

He took a cab uptown to that cafeteria of kings. He felt like an infant, returning to the scene of the crime. But Holden didn’t care. He wanted a bite to eat.

All the kings and queens and little countesses smiled at Holden. The waiters hovered around him. Count Josephus stood against the bar, with his back to Holden, and Holden took a seat near the window. The kings were quiet. Florinda left Fatso, her favorite king, to sit with Holden. Her mouth looked grim.

“Are you out of your mind? Detectives have been here most of the afternoon. They’ve been questioning everybody.”

“It’s like Rex’s plays. A lot of barking. If the detectives wanted me, they know where I am. I’m safe among the kings. And I’m sorry. I didn’t intend it to be a public execution. I had to nail ’Mundo.”

“Oh, you,” she said. “I’m not interested in that outlaw. He was Robert’s partner. And he tried to get you killed. I went searching for you when you were shot. Went with Fay. She showed up at Mansions one afternoon, walked over to my table without a word, snubbed the count, and whispered in my ear, ‘Help me find Holden.’ My loving husband had told me you were dead or about to die. And I thought, I’m prettier than this blonde bitch, and Holden loves her, not me. But I couldn’t refuse her, Holden. Besides, I was curious. And worried, worried about you. So I used Robert’s connections, all the pimps around him. And a few cops. I didn’t know there were that many Cuban villages in New York. I hired a chauffeur with a gun. And I talked to Andrushka.”

“Andie helped you?”

“Yes. She drove with us in the car. Your three little wives ... oh, I shouldn’t include myself in that category. But sometimes I feel like a wife to you, Holden. It was Andrushka who found the name of that fat witch.”

“Andie was in the car? She sabotaged the Swiss?”

“She’s fond of you, Holden. You took her out of the filth at Aladdin. You’re her first love. That’s what she said.”

“The three of you talked like that while you went for a drive?”

“Why not? I told Andrushka and Fay that you were the best lover I’d ever had.”

“I’m speechless,” Holden said. “It’s like comparison shopping. I mean, women talk like that?”

“All the time.”

“And what did Fay have to tell?”

“That you liked to make love in the toilet.”

“It’s worse than slander,” Holden said. “I’ve been hit ... and what happened next?”

“We couldn’t find the witch. But she found us. And she said you were breathing, so we went home. But we got to be friends in that car. It was almost like a long ocean voyage.”

“At my expense. I mean, you compared, you talked. At my expense.”

“But we were all worried about you.”

Holden ate his lunch. Ratatouille and London broil. He had two desserts. Florinda abandoned the Frog. She had an appointment with her hairdresser. “Holden, do me a favor,” she said, “and stay alive.”

He saw a rat in the window, a rat from Paul Abruzzi’s detective squad. Holden decided to wait for Paul. He had a crème de menthe. The count kept avoiding Holden’s table. But the little kings arrived with fountain pens and slips of paper. The fountain pens were sleek and silver, and could have been as old as the century, older perhaps, when the idea of a king carried its own special weight, and kings wouldn’t have had enough time to collect in cafeterias and ask a bumper for his autograph.

“Hey, I’m not a movie star.”

But he signed their slips of paper until he discovered Paul. The district attorney stood near him in a dark sack and Holden had to send the kings away.

“Congratulations,” Paul said. “You walked into Mansions yesterday afternoon and settled all your business.”

“Don’t congratulate me, Paul. Just return my shooter.”

“I already did.”

“It was a dupe, Paul. Your gunsmiths must be great at preparing duplicate guns.”

“Sidney, the boys were having their fun.”

“Don’t call me Sidney. I mean, you’re not my father-in-law.”

The district attorney put Holden’s Beretta on the table, wrapped in a handkerchief. “It’s a present from your Uncle Paul. I never liked you, Holden. But we have to get along. I can’t afford another shooting.”

“Edmundo died in Manhattan, Paul. You’re off the hook.”

“Don’t be foolish. That man was tied to me. Or you wouldn’t be out on the street.”

“Good, but I want you to be the first to know. I expect to marry Fay.”

The district attorney laughed into his fist. But his eyes were dull. “She already has a husband. She’s married to my boy Rex.”

“I still intend to propose.”

“Holden, you’ve had a charmed life. Keep it that way. My daughter-in-law is not for you.”

The kings had begun to gather again and Paul excused himself. He’d been recognized. And the Frog watched him pat a few men on the shoulder. Paul was agile in his black shoes. He swayed like a dancer, and Holden was miserable, thinking of Paul and Fay, Fay and Paul.

The Swisser was right. No one at Mansions would let him pay the bill. The cashier kept insisting, “It’s on the house.”

“I don’t accept charity from strangers.”

“Please, Mr. Holden. You’re one of our oldest customers.”

“Then tell the count to come over here.”

The cashier shrugged until Josephus arrived from the bar.

“Holden, what’s the problem?”

“I like to be greeted, count. I’m making Mansions my favorite restaurant.”

“Is that smart?” the count asked.

“I don’t have to be smart. When I come in, count, you say hello. Understand? Meanwhile, you can hold this.” And Frog gave him the gun inside the handkerchief. “It’s my shooter, count. Take good care of it.”

The count went gray. “Holden, I can’t. How will I explain your shooter to all the detectives?”

“Hide it from them, count. If there’s a problem, go to Paul.”

The air smelled sweet outside the restaurant. The bumper was in his element. He started walking uptown. He had that pewter animal in his pocket, with its head staring at its own tail. He fingered the animal’s back. He was more comfortable with it than red and white
collares.
He couldn’t fathom all the twists of a jailhouse religion. The bumper had never been to jail.

He went to Madison Avenue with the idea of visiting Fay. But somehow he couldn’t approach the doorman and declare who he was. It was one thing to live with Fay in a mattress pad. But he turned reluctant near her territories. The Frog cursed his own shyness. Courtship had always been difficult to him. It would have been much less complicated to kidnap his darling.

He stood across the street from Fay’s building, stood two hours, and when his darling didn’t appear, he got into a taxi cab.