Authors: Gerald A Browne
To offset Springer's restlessness she kept him occupied. She asked Wintersgill to get video cassette copies of all the current films. Wintersgill contacted a bootlegger who for a premium price regularly supplied well-offs with such copies even before the films were released.
Audrey and Springer went through the stack of cassettes, watching triple features until they'd used up half a bottle of Visine. Only a few of the films were worthwhile. Included were a couple of somewhat attractively soft hardcores Audrey had requested. They served their purpose but really weren't needed. In that area Audrey dipped into her wellspring of artifices and came up with some variations. Not elaborate, obviously staged productions but such feasible things as having a shipment of lingerie coincidentally arrive from Paris at the very same hour that Ferragamo delivered two dozen of their latest spike-heeled evening sandals for her selection. She needed Springer's opinion, she said, and had him get comfortable while she did quick change after quick change.
Camisoles sans panties, panties sans camisoles, chemises, step-ins, teddies —and her, striding and turning about with the detached insouciance of a Givenchy runway star.
Needless to say it took Springer's mind off all else.
Another sort of therapy was what she called centering him. As Springer understood, it was a way of keeping his body and spiritual self well balanced, very important especially in times of stress. All it took was his cooperation and her hands. He lay supine and nude on the rug. She poked around until she located this or that contact point. (Evidently she knew one when she felt it, but when Springer asked her how she changed the subject.) Maintaining contact with slight finger pressure, she closed her eyes and allowed healing white light to course through her and into him. So she claimed.
Since the wonderworkings of stone 588, Springer was ready to believe just about anything was possible. He told Audrey that he felt considerably better, stronger, clearer-headed after one of these centering sessions. Only because it made her happy to hear it.
Audrey also had him take bhasmas.
Without Springer knowing, she located an Ayurvedic physician who had quite a number of patients in the East Indian community in Queens.
Dr. Shayama Chakravarty.
He suggested that in order to ensure the medicine he prepared for Springer was of superior quality Audrey should obtain several fine rubies, the finer the better, and a thirty-inch braid of 15 millimeter natural oriental pearls. He had Audrey observe while he burned the rubies and pearls and stirred the ashes (the bhasmas) into a mixture of alcohol and glycerine and a drop or two of red cake frosting coloring. He transferred the mixture to an 8-ounce medicine bottle. Wrote shake well and pitta/kapha on the label.
Dr. Chakravarty, a soft-spoken man with two unfortunately placed purplish moles below his left eye, explained to Audrey that Pitta and Kapha were two of the three known Doshas, the three forces of energy, inertia, and harmony that are in every cell in our bodies—in fact, in every atom of all other existences as well.
Audrey asked why the doctor hadn't prescribed the third Dosha. Why only two?
"From what you have told me, there is no need for Vayu."
"What's Vayu?"
"Harmony," the doctor replied matter-of-factly.
Audrey didn't see how anyone couldn't use a bit more harmony.
Before Springer would take the bhasmas, Audrey had to tell him what it was and how she'd gotten it. She told him honestly that she'd bought the rubies at Cartier's and the pearls at Seaman Schepps.
"What will it do for me?" Springer asked.
"All sorts of good things," Audrey said with a tinge of innuendo.
"Is this an indirect complaint regarding the quality of our sex life?"
"Hell, no."
To patronize her Springer gave the bottle a vigorous shake and took a swig of the syrupy stuff now and then. Often he stuck his tongue in the neck of the bottle and pretended to be swigging. If it had been prepared as Audrey claimed, it was the most precious (though not necessarily efficacious) potion of all rime. Springer thought. He suspected that the procedures of Dr. Whateverhisnamewas were faster than Audrey's eyes and that the ruby and pearl ashes he was now supposed to be quaffing were not from those Audrey had supplied. Rather than upset her, he never mentioned the possibility.
Frequently during those five days of waiting Springer stood at the south-view window of Audrey's apartment and looked down upon Townsend's place of business. Because it was on Fifth Avenue between 55th and 56th streets, which was almost directly below, Springer, on the thirty-fourth floor, had to press close up to the window glass to see it. From that height the five-story buildings below, including Townsend's, looked like miniatures modeled to scale. Sometimes Springer felt as though he could crush them by taking a single step.
On the afternoon of the sixth day of waiting. Springer decided he needed a more realistic perspective. He had about three quarters given up on Strand, believed Strand would have gotten in touch by now if interested. Anyway, Audrey would be there in case Strand called. Springer went down to Fifth Avenue and across 56th Street to the sidewalk in front of the Steuben Glass showroom. It was a horribly humid Friday. The tourists were hurting. They roosted hip to hip on the short ledge around the reflecting pool outside Steuben. The pool was still as glass, the black bottom of it scattered with coins. Mostly pennies but quite a few quarters and half crowns and francs. Springer wondered how it started, this paying for wishes. One night a couple of summers ago he had happened to be passing by there when the police were having a hard time apprehending a panhandler who was up to his crotch in the pool, diving to get enough for a bottle in a bag. The panhandler claimed he was merely baptizing himself.
A Japanese man without a camera vacated his place on the ledge. Springer was fast to claim it. On either side of him were young out-of-town lovers hanging on as though the city might steal them from each other. Springer fixed his attention on the buildings across the way. First, on the comer of 55th, was the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, constructed of brownstone and with a steeple and a half where two must have been originally planned. Adjacent to the church was an attractive six-story building and next to it another of three stories. The kind of tum-of-the-century European-influenced structures that the New York City Landmarks Commission was trying to save.
Next came Townsend's building. It, also, was turn-of-the-century but simpler in line: five stories with a flush, almost unomamented natural limestone facade. Its twelve upper windows (three to each floor) had identical shades, decoratively scalloped and tasseled. At street level the arched entrance was flanked by two display windows only about three feet high and half as wide. These were strategically lighted in much the same manner as Winston's windows three doors away. Even from across the wide avenue, Springer could see the scintillations of the diamonds they displayed.
Second floor front was Townsend's private office. Perhaps, Springer thought, the prick was up there that very moment, sitting at his desk with stone 588 the only thing on the surface before him. Gloating over it. Springer focused intensely on those second-floor windows, as though he were capable of transmitting some sort of lethal hate beam.
Buses.
Six of them lumbered down the stream of the avenue like behemoths in single file. Their advertisement-bearing hulks intermpted Springer's point of view.
More likely, he told himself, stone 588 was tucked securely away in Townsend's vault and the man himself was gone to some country place such as Libby's.
Springer tilted his head back and sighted up the grouped black shafts of Trump Tower, evil and powerful looking and so tall they threatened to topple over on him. He estimated just about where up there Audrey was. She would throw gold pieces into wishing pools, he thought. He leaned forward, forearms to knees, glanced down the avenue.
At first he didn't recognize Strand.
Strand looked so different in a short-sleeved cotton-knit sport shirt and casual slacks. He also had on wraparound wire-framed sunglasses. But there was no mistaking the cowlick. Strand was about thirty feet away in front of the Coca Cola/Columbia Pictures Building, using a brass Siamese automatic sprinkler outlet for a seat. How long had Strand been there? Springer wondered. More important, why was he there? Strand's gaze seemed to be fixed upon Townsend's across the way. Possibly he hadn't even noticed Springer.
Springer got up, went across the wide sidewalk to the curb. Stood diagonally facing Strand. He did everything but dance trying to get Strand's attention, even took a couple of quarters from his pocket and pretended to drop them accidentally. After about five minutes of such antics, when there was no way Strand could have possibly not seen him, Springer walked away.
He didn't look back. Either Strand was following him or he wasn't. He crossed over and went east on 56th to the atrium of the IBM Building. In there he sat at one of the small stationary marble-topped tables.
Strand came and sat across from him.
"Nice place," Strand commented, glancing around and above. "I remember when they were putting it up."
The atrium, courtesy of IBM and certain city building codes, was spacious and public. Clusters of bamboo grew thirty to forty feet tall. Bowl-like containers five feet in diameter held thriving ranunculus. High-ceilinged and open, with no music and only muted conversations, the place had the atmospheric quality of a public library.
Springer told Strand, "I was about to give up on you."
"I had things to do."
After three years who wouldn't. Springer thought.
"A guy I knew in the joint ... his wife was having a problem with her Jody. I promised I'd see if I could straighten it out."
"A problem with her what?"
"Her Jody. It's what they call the guy a woman is with while her man does time."
"Must be frustrating as hell, being jealous and unable to do anything about it."
Strand smiled at Springer's normal assumption. He thought he'd let it go at that but then, merely for the talk of it, decided to explain. "It's not a matter of infidelity," he said, "it's an accepted arrangement. And quite practical, all things considered."
"Oh?"
"Not many guys have the wherewithal to support a woman while they do time. Also, it's self-deceiving to believe she's not going to have to be taken care of sexually."
"So a Jody provides, huh?"
"Yeah."
Springer tried to imagine himself in prison and Audrey with some Jody. He'd be chewing the bars.
"Have you spoken to Danny?" Strand asked.
"Not for a couple of days."
"I had a few words with him this morning."
"What have you decided?"
"Nothing."
"Okay then, which way are you leaning?"
"I like the project. Not enough yet to say I'll get involved, only that it has its attractions."
"Why do you like it?"
"Someday maybe we'll discuss that."
"Danny told me the shit Townsend pulled on you."
"That's one reason."
Strand got up. So abruptly Springer thought he was offended and leaving. Without a word Strand went to the refreshment bar at the other end of the atrium. He returned with a tray bearing wedges of cream-cheese poppy-seed cake, chocolate mousse cake, and chocolate walnut pie and two glasses of fresh orange juice. He placed the tray in the center of the table and told Springer, "Help yourself."
Springer thanked him for one of the orange juices.
Strand drew the tray to himself and began on the desserts. He favored the cream-cheese poppy-seed cake but didn't slight the others.
"You and Audrey should really hit it off," Springer remarked.
"I want to ask you about her. Is she in this all the way or just around for you before and after?"
It was by no means a mere loose end. When Springer had told Audrey he didn't want her taking part in the actual robbery because it was too dangerous, she scoffed and told him to skip the movie hero obligatory speech to his girlfriend, when both knew, according to plot, she was going to be with him up to her ass in danger throughout. When Springer again mentioned he'd feel better if she wasn't so deeply mixed up in it, she didn't argue, didn't put it to him in the form of an unequivocal, eternal ultimatum. She just silently stood her ground, and from her stance and the look in her eyes. Springer knew if he insisted on holding his line she was going to be miserable, and therefore he was going to be miserable for a long time to come. "Audrey is in it all the way," Springer told Strand.
Strand grunted rather disagreeably with his mouth full of chocolate walnut pie. He pushed his sunglasses up so they were atop his head. "If this move is made it's going to take quite a few people, figure six to ten."
"That many?"
"They won't all be shareholders, of course, but there'll be things that will have to be done. Danny said he had some guys who would do without wanting to know why."
"I'm sure I can count on Danny."
"In return Danny wants first on all the goods."
Springer was disappointed that Danny's offer to help wasn't unqualified, but then he was trespassing Danny's livelihood, and no doubt Danny had to answer to others. "I wouldn't have any problem with that, would you?"
Strand shook his head no. He finished off the last of the chocolate mousse cake. It sure beat the hell out of raspberry Jell-0, or jail-o, as the guys in the joint called it. He scraped the plate with the side of his fork, got every last crumb. From the rear pocket of his trousers he brought out a once-folded legal-sized envelope. He held it open, offering its contents to Springer. Several folded pages. "Those aren't in my handwriting, nor are my prints on them anywhere," Strand said. He tore the envelope into small squares and dropped them onto one of the chocolate-smeared plates. "Even if I don't make it a joint venture—shit, that's an unfortunate choice of words, isn't it— anyway, I'm sure you'll find those helpful."
Springer thanked him with his eyes. He put the pages in his pocket. "Let me ask you just one thing."