Connections (28 page)

Jason taped a sign announcing, in bright orange letters, COPIES MADE—ONLY 11 CENTS to the inside of the F-Stop’s window. The tenant association needed a copier machine for all the literature they were sending out, but even though members were willing to chip in for the balance that the operating fund couldn’t pay in order to purchase one, there was no place to put it. Jason’s offer to keep it in the store, charge for copies, and turn the money over to SAVE had been met with suspicion and all sorts of questions about the legality of it. In the end, he decided it was a good business investment and tax deduction, so he leased one himself. His biggest customers in the week he’d had it had been people copying their Medicare statements; it would take a lot of doctor bills to pay for it.

But Jason himself was making good use out of it. Now, he fed in the two-page meeting notice for the next tenants’ meeting, outlining the agenda and reminding everyone to bring their signed no-buy pledges with them. There were plenty of volunteers who would type and Xerox and put notices under doors. But not today and probably too busy tomorrow, but gladly next week. As Jason unconsciously nodded to the loud digestive noises the copier made in spitting out the papers, he thought about the enthusiasm that quickly had waned, the way it did with the general participation. No matter how interested everyone seemed to be in the future of their building and their individual apartments, attendance stank. They could rarely vote on anything, because they never had enough people present. Except for Miss Personality Pedersen, who could be relied on not to miss anything, especially a chance to start a good fight. The most opinionated people would shout their views, argue, and then not come back the next time to help make a decision about them. Jason found it all very frustrating.

He took the copies out of the sorter and checked each set to make sure it was collated properly.
Jason Ruderman
, he thought,
chairman of the
407
West End Avenue Tenants Association
,
secretary of the Support for AIDS Victims Everywhere organization. Jason Ruderman, whose high school yearbook might have said “least likely to do anything that matters” and whose many résumé versions omitted headings
like “extracurricular” or “interests” or “affiliations.” Jason
Ruderman, the lost cause, now has a cause. Two of them
.

The narrow counter on the side of the dispensary cabinet was a perfect place. It was hidden from the doorway so if people did suddenly appear, they wouldn’t see him; even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing there. There wasn’t much room for the pad, since the thin ledge was really only meant for filling pill bottles or sorting the little sample tubes of ointment the pharmaceutical companies sent. But it served his purpose.

He meticulously printed the message, his left hand awkwardly outlining the block letters, his right toe simultaneously tracing the same crude shapes on the vinyl floor. It took a long time this way, sometimes several sessions to complete one set of instructions. But he couldn’t take a chance by using his right hand. He didn’t know if handwriting experts could trace printing. It would probably never come to that anyway. He wasn’t being real greedy. Sure, if he asked for 25,000 dollars or 40,000, people would call the police. But ten thousand bucks or fifteen wasn’t that much to them. It was easier to pay it than to take the chance. He never expected it to be so simple, but it was. So far. All he had to do was send the letter and then pick up the money. One, two. If he had known, he would have started off with 15,000 dollars, but he was too nervous in the beginning. The old lady and the gay paid the 10,000 thousand quickly.

So he upped the next one. But that was the limit. No more than 15,000. He already had 35,000 dollars, spread out in six different banks. He promised himself he’d stop when he had 50,000. Just one more.

He wondered what he’d do if somebody didn’t pay. If he’d really go through with what he threatened. Or if he’d just skip that person and go on to the next. He probably would do it, just to teach them a lesson. Like they deserved. In fact, he had a funny feeling last time, when he watched the Marcus bitch nervously going into the Laundromat. There was that queasy mixture of exhilaration and fear in his belly and, at the same time, a slight sense of disappointment. Because it was all too easy. He wondered if he missed the electrifying tension of violence about to be committed. Or missed having his rage explode in a vicious, bloody, disgusting act. Now that he thought about it, he knew that was it. As the fantasy of his fury filled his brain, his stomach turned in revulsion. And his sphincter muscle clenched in excitement.

Rosa didn’t try to hide her surprise when she opened the door and saw Louise Sidway. Ken cleared his throat and introduced her. Rosa had expected Louise to be tall and thin, like Ken was, and pretty. But she wasn’t. She looked hard, especially with her shoulders thrust forward in a permanent hunch. And the way her lower jaw was. Her red hair, squared around her face, made her look geometric, almost like a mechanical doll with a wind-up screw on her sloped back. Rosa decided all Louise needed was large hoop earrings and a little brighter lipstick, and she could stand on the corner of 42
^nd
Street and Eighth Avenue. Because even in Rosa’s day, when she was the busiest hat-check in town, she saw hookers who looked better than Louise did. She was disappointed; Ken Hollis could do better than that.

She stood aside to let them in. From behind, Rosa realized that Louise
was
tall—she towered over Rosa anyway. But her hips, heavy and low, detracted from her height and pulled her down.

Louise looked quietly around the room, as if waiting for a formal invitation to sit down. Then she noticed the hairless bundle standing on the cushion of the easy chair, her stump of a tail erect, waiting for someone to tell her what was going on, who was there, what the sudden flurry of movement meant. “Well, hel-lo,” she said, going right to Princess. When she realized the dog’s eyes were sightless with a milky film, Louise put the back of her hand against her snout so Princess could smell her. She dropped her pocketbook on the floor and, ignoring the unsightly lumps and fuzzy skin, gently lifted up Princess and sat down, cradling the dog like a baby. “Aren’t you a cutie?” she murmured. Princess couldn’t hear, but the vibrations of the tender tone, together with the gentle touch, told her she was in safe hands. She spread her front paws open in Louise’s lap so the stroking fingers could find her chest and, when they did, she moaned with pleasure.

Well, beauty isn’t everything,
Rosa thought, pushing her step stool in front of a kitchen cabinet and standing on its bottom rung. She reached for three wine goblets with the navy Chambord crest, a souvenir of the elegant restaurant where she started her hat-check career, before landing the great one at the Rainbow Room, where she worked for twenty years—before it went out of business and she did too, taking an early retirement. Had she known they were going to reopen a few years later, maybe she would have gone back. But by then, they wouldn’t have wanted someone her age. And it was all different. Different from the days you could walk around to the tables with your case of cigarettes or maybe bring a white phone to one of the booths for an important customer getting a call to the restaurant.

She poured burgundy from the gallon bottle stored in the space between the refrigerator and sink and carefully carried two glasses into the living room. When she came back with the third, she dragged a wooden kitchen chair with her other hand and parked it opposite Louise. Ken was to Louise’s side, comfortable on the couch, holding his drink on the arm, the stem of his glass toying with the spot where the nap of velvet, stringy with age, showed through the worn slipcover.

“That you real color?” Rosa asked bluntly, pointing to Louise’s hair as she sat down.

“Of course. Would anyone
pay
for a color like this?” Louise laughed, patting her hair.

When she laugh,
Rosa thought,
her whole face, it lights up
.
Then, she look pretty. Well, almost pretty.
She nodded her approval to Ken.

He winked at Louise as if to say,
“Didn’t I tell you she was a case?”
Then he asked out loud, “So, any more news?”

“Nah. Just some ideas. You?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I did find out something. There was another one.”

“No!” Rosa inched her buttocks forward. The back of her dress remained stuck to the chair, the front riding up over her thighs. From where Louise sat, she could see the brown band of Rosa’s stocking stretched into the clasp of an old-fashioned garter. It reminded her of her grandmother. “Who? Just tell me—they hurt the dog?”

“No. This one would be a hard one to hurt. He’s huge.”

“She,” Louise interrupted.

“’Scuse me—she. Whatever it is, it’s big. And ferocious.”

Louise looked directly at Rosa. “You ever notice how people who aren’t dog people get their sexes mixed up?”

“Yes,” Rosa said, nodding knowingly. “Anyone who calls my little girl a boy has to answer to me! It’s an insult!”

“Ah, who could mistake this dainty little thing for a boy?” Louise tickled Princess’s belly. “On the other hand, my big lug of a male is so gentle and sweet, if you didn’t know, you’d think he was a female. Only you’d better not say that to him!”

“What kind he is?” Rosa asked.

“Macho. Mucho macho.” Louise’s laugh was infectious, and Rosa joined her. “He’s your basic mutt. But he’s mostly Lab. Black Labrador, and he has this silver triangle right here.” Louise drew one on her forehead with her finger. “He’s gorgeous. Isn’t he gorgeous, Ken?”

“It doesn’t seem like my opinion would count for much around here, all of a sudden being a non-dog person, but yes, he is gorgeous.”

Louise ignored him to continue on her favorite subject. “And really very masculine. If anybody ever called him a girl, he’d know it, believe me, and would probably rip that person apart. Like he would anybody who didn’t treat me right. Are you listening over there?” she asked Ken with a big smile.

“He must love you a lot,” Rosa commented.

“I do.” Ken said it without thinking, and Louise, stunned, grinned and looked down.

“We talkin’ about the dog.” Rosa slapped her thigh jovially but then impulsively went over and held Ken’s face in both her hands. “My children, my children, you make-a nice couple.” She left him and stood in front of Louise, forcing her to lift her head to look at her. When she did, the blush spread from her neck to her cheeks, glowing on her fair skin. Rosa bent over and gave Louise an awkward half-hug, her large bosom brushing Louise’s chin. “Now, that’s settled,” she said authoritatively, her blessing obviously final. “We have a toast to you.” She saluted them with her wine. “Okay, now, back to business. But first, we fill up the glasses.” She retrieved the jug and brought it into the living room. As she poured, she asked, “What happen? With this new one?”

“Marcus family,” Ken answered. “Couple in their mid-thirties, give or take a few years. They have an eleven-year-old son who used to be—I don’t know, not exactly autistic but had some development problems. They adopted a dog from the ASPCA. She’s big.” He turned to Louise, saying, “I saw her picture; you’d love her. She and the boy are very attached. Since they got her, kid has done a 100 percent turnaround. Anyway, they got a note a few weeks ago. Almost the same as the others.” Ken took a wad of papers out of his breast pocket and sifted through them. “The woman made the payoff. Husband didn’t want to give in, didn’t want to have anything to do with it. The mother was afraid to risk anything happening to the dog and the son then regressing. Here—this is a copy of the letter she got.” He handed it to Rosa. “But listen to the kicker—the boy ran away from home with the dog.”

“What? You mean because he’s afraid they kidnap the dog?” Rosa asked.

“No, the mother, Mrs. Marcus, doesn’t think he even knew about the note or the threat. Seems she and her husband are having some marital problems, and she thinks the kid might’ve been unhappy about that. Anyway, he’s only eleven; he can’t have gone too far. Trouble is, in this city, you don’t have to go too far to lose yourself. Anyway, they were evidently hiding out in Central Park, sticking close to a group of homeless men. Maybe the kid felt safer with a bunch of people around. One of them hated the dog and picked on the kid. One night, who knows what this guy did—nobody knows—but the dog went for him. Bit him badly. So bad he was taken to the hospital and had enough stitches in his neck to look like his head was zippered on. But before they could do anything more, the guy ran away.”

“What guy?” Rosa looked confused.

“The guy in the hospital. The victim. He probably had his own reasons for not wanting to be found or identified. Maybe he’s an escaped convict or something or owes five years’ alimony. Whatever reason he has for becoming homeless is likely the same reason he doesn’t want to talk to the police. And he knows the dog bite will be reported, and the police will come. That’s how I found out, by the way. There was a missing-person file on the boy, and the homeless man described the kid at the hospital. Some very smart cop linked them up.”

“So what happens then?” Rosa leaned forward, all ears.

“Nothing. Looks like the kid is still hiding, probably more afraid for his dog than he was before. Of course, the guy isn’t going to be around to press charges, but the kid doesn’t know that. The Marcuses are frantic about their son. At this point, they certainly don’t want to pursue the blackmailer. The police were worried about the guy—about rabies, about the guy getting it, foaming at the mouth and ranting and raving through the streets, maybe committing some heinous crimes. But now that they’ve located the Marcuses, who think it was their dog, at least the cops are pretty sure it wasn’t a stray. In fact, the mother just went to their vet to get a statement that the dog has had all its shots.” Ken shuffled through the papers still in his hand. “Here’s a copy of that.”

As he passed it over, the letterhead caught Rosa’s eye and she shouted excitedly, “Hey, that’sa my doctor too.”

“Really?” Ken tilted his head. “That’s a coincidence.”

“Manhattan Vet’anry Associates,” Rosa announced and skipped right to the bottom. “See, it’s signed by him—Dr. Pomalee.”

Louise jumped up. “Dr. Pomalee! I don’t believe it. That’s my dog’s doctor. Let me see that.” She took the letter from Rosa, scanned it, and handed it back. “Why do you go to 74
^th
Street from here?”

“He used to be closer, but it’s like anything else. I like him, he knows me, and he treats my dog good.”

“That’s why I go to him,” Louise agreed. “He’s actually not very pleasant to me, but he’s wonderful to my dog.”

Ken stood up to retrieve his papers. “Well, ladies, it’s very nice that you two have something in common—” He stopped short, and all three of them simultaneously opened their mouths in amazement.

Louise was the first to recover. “Do you suppose…?” Rosa slapped her forehead. “How stupid we don’t think of it.”

Ken nodded. “The most simple, the most obvious. But wait—you think that guy…what’s his name? Justin Ruderman?”

“Jason,” Rosa corrected.

“Right, Jason Ruderman. He’s all the way over on the West Side. You don’t think…”

Rosa was already at her desk, pulling out drawers. She turned a manila envelope over, emptying it, and photographs and bits of papers covered the surface of the drop-leaf. She found the card right away. “Here—the F’n Stop. You call. I no speak too good English when I’m nervous.”