Park Lane South, Queens (11 page)

Across the track and past the stables Johnny Benedetto shut the window, tossed his binoculars onto the bed, and picked up the phone. He ran a finger down the racing form. Number five. Number five. Here we go: Miss Know It All. He listened to the phone ring at the other end. “Eddie? Johnny. Can I still get in on the fourth race? Yeah? Gimmie Miss Know It All twenty times in the fourth. Got that? Good.” He hung up. Candy from a baby. He shook his head softly, put on his shoulder holster, and headed out the door.

“Here we are, your honor.” Claire relaxed the clothesline leash even more. Now they stood a good ten feet from each other on the top of the hill. Behind them and below was the still-slippery curve of Park Lane South. In front and below was the underwater green of the glittering woods. The storm had knocked down plenty of branches and left the whole place wild. Prettier than ever, the Mayor thought. A sunlit pandemonium. It wasn't often that he came in these woods. Not since that last run-in with a rowdy pack of wild dogs. An honorable defeat, mind you, but not the sort one would like to repeat in the extreme near future. They wouldn't give him any trouble with Claire about. They feared humans, didn't they? A motley crew. He still could feel those scars. Especially right before a rain. That was why he'd come home so early this morning … and missed a good soaking. Good for something, those old wounds. Bad for others. Now they'd keep him on a leash. Infernal bother! However was he going to keep the neighborhood in order if he was kept indoors? Or attached to a human! She had her hulking camera with her, too. How were they going to have a good run with that thing clanging about her neck? Always stopping to take pictures of any tomfoolery!

“Look,” Claire came over and knelt down beside him. “I'm going to take you off your stupid clothesline, but I'm going to have to put it back on when we leave the woods, all right? You won't just run off on me, will you? Good.”

She unhooked him from his irritating noose and scrubbed his back with her short nails. “C'mon,” she laughed. “We're off.”

And off they did go—not quite as energetically as either of them had planned, however. Claire would stop for a shot here and there and he would halt for just about any gamey essence. They were an excellent running team, each equally short of breath at frequent, corresponding intervals. The European Jews were out now. And there were other joggers, thrilled to once again have fresh breathing air after the clean wash of rain. Claire didn't like to take the main routes. The others looked so official that she was shy for them to see her not wearing what seemed to be the uniform: some sort of platypuslike tennis shoes and buoyant pastel-colored leotards. She and the Mayor kept to the thicket, colliding good-naturedly with nature as they bolted through. Each of them was lost in thought.

Now, what in glory goodness is that? The Mayor periscoped his dark snout upward, not understanding for the life of him why one of Stan's more radiant symphonies should suddenly come up here and interrupt the birds' song. It was, in fact, the dizzying strains of the “Skater's Waltz.” The Mayor looked at Claire, but he couldn't decipher that expression of joy and pain all at once.

Claire was captivated, transported momentarily back to Munich any Wednesday afternoon in the Englische Garten, the oompah-pah band in full swing, the sun in your eyes, and the bright yellow beer. Oh, yes. There were times when you remembered why you'd spent so many years there, after all. She smiled at the Mayor. “I think we've stumbled across the carousel,” she said.

The Mayor wasn't having any of it. An organ concert in the woods, indeed.

“No, no, really, it's all right,” she told him. “This must be the old carousel they've renovated. I read about it in the local paper. Look, fellow, come here and have a look. It's all magnificent horses. Hand-carved. God. I remember this from when Michael and I were kids. We loved it here. We used to catch guppies over there before they drained the pond.”

The Mayor took one look at the whirling cavalry horses and the fancy pastel chargers. That was it. He turned to go.

“Oh, come on. Don't be such a spoil sport. You hear? Now they're playing the ‘Merry Widow Waltz.' I can't believe they actually renovated this place. When I left Queens it was a filthy haven for dealers and junkies. Whoever did this did a beautiful job. Jesus, it's pretty. I've never seen such lavenders and subtle pinks and mossy greens like that on a carousel; they're usually so garish. These are unbelievable.” Claire shot while she spoke to the Mayor, trying to calm him down with the sound of her voice just long enough for her to get something really good. There weren't many kids, just a smattering of babies and tired parents, but no one could be unaffected by the beauty. The shining faces blurred and she put the camera down.

There was a guy looking at her, an older guy, maybe sixty or so. Maybe younger. It was hard to tell his age. He was either very blond or very white. His eyes were piercing and as pale a blue as Claire had ever seen. They almost weren't there. The man lowered his monkey wrench and came out from the bowels of the machinery into the light. He was older than she'd thought. He continued to watch her. Always sensitive to people's shyness at being photographed, she put her lens cap back on and dangled the camera across her shoulder.

In a thick German accent, he shouted something to another mechanic still working at the center of the gears. Claire didn't catch what he said but the unfriendliness of his tone chilled her. She shivered and turned with the Mayor to go. There were also times when she remembered quite well why she had left Germany.

They hurried along. Claire hadn't realized how far they'd come and she moved quickly, her shoulders brushing the overgrown plants. There was poison oak in here, she remembered, and poison ivy all over the place. The carousel had jarred all sorts of memories.

“Hello, there,” someone said and Claire whirled around, frightened. The murder was still fresh in everybody's minds. It was a man. A good-looking man at that. He was tall, slightly older than she, and extremely thin. The Mayor, caught as unawares as she, bared his fine row of teeth (he'd always been criminally vain of those teeth) and Claire had to grab him by the tail before he lurched for the man.

“Sorry,” Claire smiled not too apologetically, “he's very protective.”

“Good thing he is! This isn't the safest place in the world anymore.” The man stared intently into the foliage. He, too, wore those trendy pastel togs.

Claire nodded sympathetically. What was that accent? “Czech?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“Are you Czech?”

“Ah! No. Close, though. Polish.”

“Really!”

“You have a good ear. And you are … wait … let me guess … German?”

“I'm American, but I did live there for years.”

“Ah!” He was sweating, wiping his hands on a snow white handkerchief. “And now?”

“Right past Park Lane South. Directly on the wrong side of the tracks.”

He laughed and then frowned. “The Jamaica Avenue el?”

“No,” she rushed to assure him, reminding herself distressingly of Carmela, “—the other one. The trestle. The Long Island freight.”

“Oh, yes. That's still very pretty there. Quaint.”

“Mmm. Lots of pigeons, though.”

“It's lovely in here now, isn't it? I like it so much better than Central Park. It's really a virgin wood, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“And there are stables,” he went on. “The horses are all nags, of course, but it's great fun all the same. Do you ride?”

“Not lately.” Even the nags cost twenty bucks an hour.

“Do you jog every day? I've never seen you before.”

“You've caught us on our first day out, hasn't he, your honor?”

The Mayor didn't bother to look up. The idiot reeked of patchouli.

“What's your name? May I ask you that?”

“Claire Breslinsky. And yours?”

“Stefan. Stefan Stefanovitch. I'm living just off the park myself.” He fell into step with them. “I'm sorry. Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit? I'm all in. Why do you laugh?”

“I'm just thinking of my sister. She'd kill me if she knew I was talking to a perfect stranger in the woods.”

“The proverbial protective older sister—”

“No, younger. But she's a police officer.”

“And you? I don't expect that you are anything as … uh … rudimentary as a police officer.”

“That's a very condescending way to put it and you obviously don't know a thing about the complexities of the New York Police Department, but, no. I'm a photographer.”

Stefan Stefanovitch had broad, narrow lips. They broke into a wide grin. “I knew it! I knew you were an artist, the minute I saw you!”

“Eee, I hate that word. I just bungle away with my camera, really. I don't create as much as point and hope for the best. How about you?”

“Diplomatic corps. In town. Over at the UN.”

“That sounds like something to do.”

“Not really. It's frightfully boring. Listening to dreary speeches all day long and suffering through endless stuffy cocktail parties at night. Being a photographer sounds like much more fun.”

Without looking at him, Claire silently agreed.

“What sort of photography do you go in for?”

“You mean who do I like? Oh, Mary Ellen Mark. Diane Arbus.”

“Arbus?” He scratched his head. “Wasn't it she who said, ‘Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It's what I've never seen before that I recognize'?”

Claire whirled around. “Word for word!”

“I saw her work in London, years ago. When I was up at Oxford. Platonism, wouldn't you say?”

“More like metaphysical idealism,” she argued, pleased. “Well. Here's where I turn off.”

They both hesitated.

“Nice having met you,” she said.

“Yes. Awfully. Will you run tomorrow?”

Claire stopped. “Gee, I don't know. Let's see how my legs feel after today. Maybe I'll be covered with Ben Gay. I'm not particularly sporty.”

“Wait, I have an idea. I'm having a mob at my place tomorrow night. Perhaps you'd like to come?”

“Oh, I don't—”

“You could bring your sister,” he fumbled through his pocket, “—the policelady. I have nothing to write my address down on but you could find it easily enough. It's the first house on Park Lane South with a tile roof. The only one between Mayfair and Grosvenor that faces the street. You can't miss it. Eight o'clock. Dress however you want.”

“I don't know. I—”

“Don't say no!” he insisted, taking her hand in his own slender one and kissing it. He was already off. “See you then!” he cried.

The Mayor looked at Claire. Oh, yuck, was she smiling? Could she
like
that hideous man? Of course, she wouldn't go to his stupid party. Preoccupied, they picked their way through the overgrown roadway entrance and didn't notice the unmarked car in the bush. Johnny Benedetto slumped down in the seat and urgently folded one more stick of Doublemint into his mouth.

CHAPTER 5

“Come
on
!” Zinnie hollered down the cellar stairs. “If we're going to this dumb party, let's
go
!”

“All right, all right,” Claire muttered to herself. “Be right there,” she yelled from the fuzzy red interior of the makeshift darkroom. “Just finishing!” She scanned the last sheet of black and white as it materialized. Oh boy. Beauties. Real beauties. She inspected them with her loop. The foliage of the woods blended with the Yiddish faces and then, pop! you saw them … camouflaged but distinct all over each picture: oval, ancient portraits like gnarls in the trees.

“Clay-er!! Come on!” Zinnie's irritated voice bellowed. “It's eight a'fucking clock! Are we going or not?!”

Claire hung the last sheet up on a wire over her head, rinsed her hands, and switched on the light. She'd go over the last ones later. With one last wistful look, she left the darkroom and climbed the stairs. Zinnie was sitting at the top, Carmela was slouched along the wall.

Zinnie pursed her lips. “I told her she couldn't come.”

“Of course she can come,” Claire smiled, her heart sinking.

“I don't care. I mean, if it's a private party or something just say so and I'll stay home.”

Claire looked at the two of them. Zinnie was thoroughly annoyed, the way she always was if Carmela was involved. Carmela's cheeks were two bright patches of insulted apprehension. She was all decked out. The funny thing about Carmela was, as meticulous as she was in her dress, the room she left behind looked as though an army helicopter had flown through. It was always the same: the better she looked, the filthier her room. What state it was in now Claire could only imagine, because Carmela looked terrific.

“Oh, come on,” Claire laughed. “If he doesn't want all three of us he can—”

“Ought to be glad to have three extra women,” Carmela pushed the screen door open with a burst.

“That's right,” Claire didn't hesitate. The minute you made Carmela feel you didn't want her around, she'd stick like glue. It was some perverse insecurity that made her that way—who knew why? Claire had left Freud back in Germany where she hoped he'd do her Teutonic folk some good.

Zinnie, taking stock, decided to let it drop. “Lock the door,” she hissed. “Shall I take my car?”

“Oh, let's walk,” Carmela said. “Then we can all drink.”

Claire stood still. The Mayor watched her with those heartbreaking liquid eyes. Her parents had taken Michaelaen to McDonald's and then on to Crossbay Playland for a treat, so there was no one around to see.

“Oops,” Claire said. “He just slipped out.”

“Claire!” Carmela crowed. “He'll get another ticket!”