Feelers (24 page)

I was suddenly back on the pavement on the Long Island Expressway.

This is of course when the orange Malibu came to a stop in front of an old woman with her grocery cart crossing the street.

I swerved around the orange car, out of the path of the semi. There were cars in the oncoming lane of the side street, so I could not go there. The lady with the cart was directly in front of me, and I narrowly made it around her by completing an S-turn out of my swerve.

This racing bike was very nimble. I was not. I reached out
with my foot in a vain attempt to keep from having the bike go down on its side. I say vain because that is exactly what happened. Right in front of the Malibu, which was stopped anyway.

I was not going that fast at all, so I managed to ease the machine down and spin my leg out from under it as I went down. From what I could tell the bike had not sustained any significant damage.

Perhaps I was not meant to ride motorcycles, yes?

I rose to my knees, and the passenger door to the Malibu opened. Fanny stepped out, considering the fallen biker with a mixture of concern and disbelief that I had done what I had done.

“You OK?” A young black man in a suit had approached from the opposite direction, and his hands were on my arms, helping me up.

“Yes, yes . . .” I reached down and began struggling to get the bike up off the pavement. People on the sidewalk had stopped and were staring. I straddled the bike, and as I started it, I looked back at the Malibu. Fanny was standing directly behind me, with no idea who I was.

“You coulda killed that poor woman, asshole.” Her arm was outstretched toward me in a derisive gesture.

There in her hand, the one she pointed accusingly at me, was a key. Yes, the key to the locker. We were on the road to the storage facility, and she must have been ready to retrieve my money.

Reversals of fortune such as this do not happen frequently, and require action before thought.

I snatched the key and let out the clutch almost simultaneously. I felt Fanny’s hand grapple with the back of my shirt and
the material rip, her grasp broken. A hundred yards and three heartbeats down the tree-shaded road, I looked back. The Malibu had only just started to pursue, but it was coming quickly.

It was time for me to become a better biker. Fast.

AS I WAS FLEEING THE
orange rat-rod Malibu, Danny was considering his next move. He had put the body of the man with the two-by-four in the basement. Danny realized the one that escaped—me—was the one he was looking for. When I pulled up, he could see my white rust-bucket Camaro with
MARTINEZ HOUSE CLEANING
printed on the door. Now it was gone, and I had escaped his grasp. How would he find me? Certainly not by waiting in the house next to his uncle’s.

That was another thing that bothered Danny. What was Martinez doing in the house next to his uncle’s? From the window of his uncle’s house Danny had watched as the two men went around back and broke into the neighbor’s vacant house. These certainly were not real estate agents or prospective buyers, and the one with the two-by-four kept prodding the tall, dark, and extremely handsome man like he was forcing him to go with him into the house. What were the two men doing upstairs when he entered?

A careful search of the second floor and attic told Danny nothing.

One thing was for sure: That thief Martinez would not come back to the house knowing Danny might be there.

Which meant he had to go looking for me again.

Yes, but where? How? His only connections to me were Dexter and Mary, and both of them were dead. The other connection was Dexter’s cell phone, which had my phone number in it. What use was that? Call that thief Martinez and politely invite him to come to dinner? He could not imagine I was that stupid.

Thief Martinez.
The saying “It takes a thief to catch a thief” was not unfamiliar to him, and so he thought his next move should be to consult with another house cleaner to find out where I might be.

So he walked the few blocks to the boulevard of two-and three-story brick buildings, shops on the ground floor and residences above. Some of the windows of those residences had older women in housedresses leaning on pillows on the open window-sills. It is the time-honored pastime of many older Brooklyn women with nothing to do. They perch like magpies surveying their domain, saying hello to people they know on the sidewalk, and monitoring those they do not know. They also talk to each other. Well, not so much talk as yell across the street or down the block or even across the air shaft. What do they discuss? Their poor health. Why are they in such poor health? Because they spend all day perched in windows instead of moving around and keeping their blood moving. And they do not mind sharing their complaints with the entire neighborhood as they shout to each other across the street.

The sight of these old bats shouting and complaining the afternoon away comforted Danny. It was good to see the old women still did this because it meant that some things had not changed while he was in prison. It made him feel that he might just be able to make it on the outside after all. Assuming he got the money. And stopped putting his ice picks in people’s chests.

“Excuse me,” Danny shouted to a white-haired walrus in one window.

The white walrus leaned farther out to get a better look at Danny. “Yeah?”

“Good morning. I was wondering if you might know where I could find someone who cleans out houses.”

“Outhouses?”

Danny actually chuckled. “I’m sorry, what I meant was someone who
clears
out houses, like after someone has died, like that.”

The white walrus’s button eyes shone a little brighter. “Ooo! Someone died? Who died?”

Danny glanced around him and saw the other magpies—or walruses, or what have you—leaning a little farther out their windows, all ears. I think both walruses and magpies have ears, don’t they, Father?

“Nobody you know, I’m sure,” Danny said.

“If they live around here, I might,” the white walrus shouted.

Danny ignored the question. “Do you know anybody? Or anybody who might know?”

The white walrus looked unhappy but pointed up the boulevard. “Oscar’s.”

“Oscar’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Excuse me, but what is Oscar’s?”

“A tavern. Some of them feelers hang out there. Like vultures, they are.”

All the other magpie walruses clucked in agreement.

She looked down at Danny’s confused face. “It’s a tavern. Oscar’s. That way.”

A few minutes later, Danny darkened the doorway to Oscar’s.

He took off his sunglasses and stepped up to the bar.

“Ooo!” Mim hooted. “It’s Danny Kessel!”

Danny squinted and made out her pale, beehived form surrounded by newspapers at the end of the bar.

The only other people there were Oscar and Slim Jim. Oscar was like a marble statue behind the bar, and Slim Jim was like a frozen Butterball turkey at the video poker machine.

“Ooo.” Slim Jim backed away from his game. “He must be looking for Morty.”

“Shaddap,” Mim snapped.

Danny waited to see if any of them made a move. They did not.

“Excuse me, but could any of you tell me where Morty is?”

“See?” Slim Jim sidled closer to Mim, like she might actually be able to protect him.

“We dunno where he is,” Mim croaked.

Danny looked at Oscar, who shrugged.

“I know where he lives,” Slim Jim said, raising his hand.

“Shaddap!” Mim pushed him away from her.

“For a hundred I’ll tell you where.”

“Slim Jim!” Mim scolded.

“Well, he’s gonna find Morty eventually, am I right? For a hundred I’ll tell you where he lives.”

“For fifty,” Oscar rumbled, “I’ll tell you where you can find his foreman, Speedy.”

“You rotten bastards,” Mim spat. “Danny, I ain’t telling you nothing for nothing.”

“He’s right,” Oscar said, gesturing to Slim Jim. “Morty has to face the music sometime, and if Slim is getting something for it, I can, too.”

You see, Father? These were my friends. As I pointed out before, New Yorkers have little sympathy and less tolerance for weakness. To their way of thinking, if I was in a jam with Danny, that was my own fault for being vulnerable. They could not make me any more vulnerable than I had made myself, could they? And if they could make themselves stronger at the expense of my weakness, that was the way of the jungle that was East Brooklyn.

“Sorry, but I’ll give you both fifty for what you can tell me.”

Of course, they began to do just that.

That is when I walked in wheeling the motorcycle.

I HAD MANAGED TO LOSE
the Malibu pretty easily. I took Fedder Alley, made a right on a street, then left into Mucklebust Alley, which is now a pathway where a car cannot travel. Then I went left again on a street, through a side yard, and soon found myself on the boulevard. That primer orange monstrosity was long gone.

Where could I go? Not home. Fanny might have figured out who I was—why else would the mysterious motorcyclist steal the key? And under the helmet I was wearing the clothes she had seen that morning when we left my place and were accosted by my landlord. So I could not see how I could go to the storage locker. Besides, carrying the Scottish suitcase on the bike just seemed a recipe for disaster. The Malibu could pop up anytime.

I wanted to get out of sight as soon as possible, then later go to my car.

Oscar’s was nearby.

“Oscar, my friend! Would you mind if I park this inside for a few hours?” I put my helmet on the bar where Buddy would be sitting before long. “I promise there are no leaks or anything. This is an emergency or I would not ask.”

They all looked at me as if I were a ghost.

Except for the tall one with the Gap hat and plaid long-sleeved shirt.

He smiled.

Like a puddle in winter, I froze.

It was the man from the house. The man whose testicles I had bashed a few hours before. He was casually tucking two fifty-dollar bills back in his wallet. “We need to talk, if you don’t mind.”

My eyes met Oscar’s, Mim’s, and Slim’s.

“We didn’t tell him anything or anything,” Slim stammered.

“Fellahs, if this is going to get messy, could you take it outside?” Oscar: what a pal. “This is my place. What ever is going on between you fellahs . . .”

No accommodation for the weak.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but there won’t be any trouble,” Danny said with a calming gesture of his hand. “I just want to talk to Morty. At that table. Can I buy you a drink, Morty?”

To tell you the truth, Father, my legs were shaking so badly both from the motorcycle and fright that if I had tried to run I think I would have ended up on my knees. Then I really would have taken a beating.

Fate, you seem to be forgetting about my promise, about the money to a good cause.

“I am sorry for before,” I finally managed to mutter. His blue eyes were looking straight through me. Like ice picks. How appropriate, yes? I saw him squirm slightly with the memory of my knee crushing his scrotum.

“I startled you. It’s OK. Can we sit?” He waved a hand at the table, the one where Pete the Prick used to sit before he got an ice pick and a drag down into the Vanderhoosen basement. Where
the Balkan Boys used to sit with Pete before they took a thumping from Pitu and Mamma.

Well, it did not seem to me at the time like he was going to hurt me. As a matter of fact, I will be brutally honest: I was a little bit relieved. That may surprise you, Father Gomez, but if you have ever expected a bad thing, and then have it finally happen and it is not as bad as you thought it would be, then you will know what I am talking about. It was daylight, and I was in a public space with witnesses. He would not torture the information from me at Oscar’s Grille. He would not kill me in front of witnesses. So what was the worst that could happen? At least I could try to talk myself out of it.

I was relieved that he and Fanny were not of one purpose. If he were driving the primer orange Malibu, how could he be here? And without Fanny? Whoever was with Fanny could not be half as dangerous as this ex-con with the Gap hat and nice manners.

Danny shot a glance at Oscar. “Beer, please. You?”

“I know what he wants.” Oscar sighed, no doubt thinking only of the fifty bucks he almost made. “What kind of beer?”

“Ooo, what’re you, an idiot?” Mim cackled. “He don’t care what kinda beer. He’s just here to talk to Morty.”

Moving sideways, and not taking our eyes off each other, Danny and I eased into chairs on opposite sides of the table. I felt if I so much as blinked he might do something violent. At the same time, as I said, my brain was telling me that there was no way he would pull something harmful in public.

We waited.

The drinks arrived.

Danny leaned slowly across the table toward me.

So did I. Except, of course, I leaned toward him.

Our faces could not have been more than six inches apart, and I could see the jagged white scar on his lip fairly tremble.

He said, “You found it?”

I shook my head. “I found money. But I do not think it was yours.”

He blinked very slowly, and when his eyes were focused on mine again he said, “What makes you think so?”

“I will tell you this much: I did not find five million, not even close. If I may be brutally honest with you, I am doubtful you could fit five million dollars in peanut cans under a couch.”

“Peanut cans?”

“Yes. Tight ones.”

“Tight ones?”

“A tight one is a short can—usually a Planters nut tin—with a roll of cash squeezed ‘tightly’ into it. Some would have you believe that such a can of money is called a tight one because it sort of resembles . . . well, an asshole. It is what they call a play on words.”

Danny looked away at the wall for a moment, biting his lip. “Under the couch? In cans?”