Shadow Dancers (26 page)

At a news kiosk at 86th and Lexington, he stopped to read details from a
New York Post
headline story, boasting of new clues uncovered in the Shadow Dancer case. He was relieved to learn that the new clues were really old hat and that the police were as stymied as ever. But, now more than ever, he was infuriated to see that the murders of the Bender girl and the woman in New Rochelle had been attributed to him. When he glanced up, he saw the kiosk manager, a Pakistani gentleman with a frozen smile, glaring at him. He replaced the newspaper on its stack and skulked off.

In his confused, strangely elevated state, he had started east again, now striding down Second Avenue in the Eighties, full of dark ruminations, when his gaze was deflected by a blaze of red lights floating above a canopy. The seven large letters flashing the name
Fritzi’s
throbbed like a red pulse into the moist, vapory night air, while the word
Balloon
floated in a smaller discreet calligraphy beneath it.

He knew the place at once. He’d seen it often enough on the television and recalled the big, gray-haired detective standing out in front, being interviewed by the press. He’d gone there once before looking for the detective (whose name he now forgot). He hadn’t found him there on that occasion but had spoken to a woman he’d presumed to be the manager and who told him when the detective might be expected.

He crossed the street and loitered for a time beneath the canopy, watching people departing and cabs pulling up to the door. Through big leaded bottle-green saloon windows he could make out a cluster of night-owl New Yorkers gathered at the bar. He saw it through the blurry distortion of the old glass.

Each time the revolving doors spun round, a faint din of activity from within drifted out. An air of festivity hovered over the low-ceilinged, flame-lit rooms. For some reason the sound of it filled him with a fleeting sense of unaccountable sadness.

He waited for a while outside, peering through the windows, aware of the doorman’s sharp, disapproving gaze. With a hand above his eyes to reduce the street glare, he scanned the bar. Smartly attired, well-heeled individuals lingered about there in small clusters of noisy, after-dinner affability.

He recognized the detective the moment he saw him. He loomed like a church steeple above all the rest. The thatch of thick, unruly white hair flashed like a beacon, guiding Warren’s searching eye. A circle of people surrounded him and occasionally Warren could hear bursts of muted laughter flow outward onto the street from behind the thick green panes.

“What time’s closing?” Warren asked the doorman over his shoulder.

“Eleven o’clock. Kitchen’s closed, but if it’s just a nightcap you want, you’d better go now.”

Warren nodded and stepped into the whirl of swinging doors just as a laughing young couple spun out the other side.

In the next moment he’d left the din of traffic and the chill, wet night behind him. Before him lay a pleasure dome of roaring hearths, thick carpets, and flaming sconces. The air reeked of sizzling fat and savory meats. The soft lighting and quiet understatement of the interior bespoke a world of taste and privilege.

The dinner hour was clearly over. The maître d’ stood at a small podium reviewing his guest lists for the night and the chef’s proposed luncheon menu for tomorrow. In the main dining room a handful of late-night diners lingered over coffee and liqueurs. But it was at the bar where activity was at its height, and it was in that direction Warren was drawn.

It was hardly the sort of place he was accustomed to. Far too tony and pricy for his tastes, he felt scorn and at the same time a bit of intimidation. Warren preferred the seedy little neighborhood saloons along the Bowery and lower Broadway, with their large, watery drinks and coarse, inexpensive food. There, one could wear his anonymity with something bordering on defiance. In places like this, the ground rules virtually demanded that you be “somebody.”

He found a spot at the end of the bar almost directly opposite where Mooney stood surrounded by friends. From where he positioned himself, Warren had a clear view of the detective. The peculiar acoustics of the room made it possible for him to hear everything that was being said.

Warren ordered a beer, munched a few chips, and listened. The talk was animated, sprinkled liberally with the argot of the street and the lore of the race tracks. There was talk of champions past and present, of jockeys and trainers, the clowns and princes of the circuit.

“… No comparing Swale with Danzig Connection.”

“… Apples and oranges.”

“… Give Swale five lengths. He’d eat him up alive.”

“You’re mad. Danzig’s already won the Peter Pan and the Belmont by a length and a quarter over John’s Treasure.”

“He still don’t have Swale’s stuff. Swale was a prince on turf.”

The talk was noisy and heated. Warren understood little of it, but he listened with the rapt attention of the spellbound. Though they all spoke at one time, it was the big man with the white hair who dominated the flow of chatter.

Warren drank his beer and studied the detective across the way. The fact that this man who’d been searching high and low for him for more than a year and didn’t realize that the object of his search was now seated no more than twenty feet from him, sipping a beer, tickled him mightily. He wanted to laugh out loud. Several times he had to stifle an urge to shout across the bar, “It’s me. Hey, look. Over here. It’s me. Here I am. Come get me. I’m your guy. Forget about that faggoty wimp, Koops. I’m the real Dancer. This is me, Warren Mars. Here I am.”

Like a child in possession of a wonderful secret, Warren felt little shocks of dangerous mirth quaking upward into his throat where he swallowed them, sitting there listening to the noisy blare of Mooney and his crowd, his own face a mask of stony impassivity.

Curiously, Warren felt no dislike for this man, his hunter and, conceivably, executioner. Quite the contrary, and just as before, it was admiration, even a sort of affection that he felt. There was a part of him that actually wished Mooney well and wanted the detective to succeed. Still, another part, wholly more realistic, was more determined than ever that that would never happen.

For Warren, the game of cat-and-mouse had become irresistible. Suddenly he was seized with a strange desire to make Mooney notice him. Possibly he might even speak to the detective. To Warren, that would have been sublime — sending up the world as very few had ever done. And the secret would have been his and his alone. He’d never share it with another soul.

The more he toyed with the idea, the more the cautious, realistic side of him retreated into the background. Despite all the obvious reasons for fearing the detective, giving him as wide a berth as possible, the more he was impelled to thrust himself at him. He was unaware that a small, foolish grin had begun to dart across his features.

For all of his efforts, he was having little luck attracting Mooney. The detective was too preoccupied just then to take note of the dark young stranger seated across the way, grinning at him. The talk was lively and heated. Another round of drinks was being served.

Warren tried again to catch Mooney’s eye. By that time the grin on his face had shifted from amiability to something bordering on either insolence or dementia. He had no way of knowing that until, suddenly, the big man, encircled by friends, reached for a drink. He turned and their gazes met.

Mooney had the sort of face that reveals everything at once, and Warren had a clear view of it the moment he turned — the startlement and then the frown as though the detective had confused the grin for ridicule. Was he being laughed at? Mooney scowled back at him. There was a question in his eye as if he were trying to recall whether or not he knew the person grinning at him across the bar or possibly whether this person was just . grinning at someone else nearby.

Warren was about to rise and go over and introduce himself. He would tell the detective that he’d seen him several times on television and how much he admired him, and wished him the best of luck on that Dancer job. He was about to stand, but just then Mooney was distracted by a tall, attractive lady with red hair. Warren ; recognized her at once as the woman he’d spoken to that first night he’d come into the Balloon.

She’d appeared now from the main dining room and greeted friends at the bar. She never noticed Warren, and even if she had, chances are she’d not have recognized him, so fleeting had their contact been.

She was busy at the moment, saying goodnight to guests. Most of them she knew by name. They appeared to be regulars of the restaurant. She looked around, waving and nodding and smiling here and there.

Warren waited for her to recognize him, but to no avail. Once her eyes even lighted on him. She smiled directly at him and for a moment he imagined she was about to come over and say hello. He half-rose to greet her in anticipation, only to suddenly realize she was smiling at someone else just behind him. She glided past him and beyond with not even a glimmer of recognition. It hurt and even angered him that she seemed not to recall him.

People were clustered around the front doors. Outside, an endless succession of taxis kept rolling up beside the canopy. Warren turned slightly, only to have his field of vision suddenly darkened by a huge looming object bearing down on him. The speed with which it came made Warren lean back as if to step aside. It was Mooney. Several people trailed at his heels, all chatting animatedly at one time, still talking horses.

At a certain point Mooney passed so close that Warren felt the heat of his body, radiating outward from his clothing. As he lumbered past, the sleeve of the detective’s jacket brushed Warren’s arm. The sensation was exquisite, too giddy and unreal to believe. It was imperative now that he talk to Mooney. Actually, his arm half-rose, as if to stop him before he bustled past. But something stayed him. In the next moment his arm dropped. He kept his place instead, lapping like a thirsty dog at the last of his warmish beer.

Mooney was now standing beside the tall, handsome lady.

“Hey, Fritz,” the detective boomed. “What d’ya say we go home?”

“When we get all cleaned up here.”

“I’m dead on my feet. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“That’s what you get for marrying a saloon keeper,” someone chided.

“Go on ahead,” the lady said. “I’ll be along in a half hour.”

Mooney grumbled. Several of his friends laughed.

So they’re married, Warren thought to himself. He rose quickly, oddly annoyed, and made for the door. So they’re married.

Outside on the street he could barely contain himself. He breathed deeply, gulping at the cold, wet air as if he were snapping at it with his teeth.

He started to walk. The annoyance he’d felt was now past. The laughter he’d managed to suppress inside the bar he now gave full rein to. Laughing to himself, his walk was nearly a sprint. To a passing couple he appeared demented, and they gave him a wide berth.

He had no idea what he’d found so funny. Only moments before he was angry. Now all he knew was that something tickled him immensely. He touched the place on his arm where Mooney had grazed it. Feeling a surge of elation, he bustled down the street, his feet fairly flying over the pavements.

He had no wish to go home to Bridge Street. After the Balloon, the gloomy house with the dirt and rank smells, the unventilated garret he slept in under the grimy, rain-spattered cupola, struck him as more of an offense than ever. Finding Koops, his
Doppelgänger,
picking him out of a city of millions, then finding Mooney, his pursuer, with whom he’d made actual physical contact that night, had left him feverish with excitement.

He would take care of Koops. He would eliminate that problem in his own way. But for now, he was hungry. Ferociously hungry. He would eat. It occurred to him that he wanted meat more than anything. The savory smell of roasts and thick steaks broiled on the open charcoal pits of the Balloon still lingered in his nostrils.

He could taste meat at the back of his throat. The roof of his mouth tingled for it.

He wheeled sharply, heading suddenly north and farther west. His course took him up past the Nineties and on to 103rd Street and Madison, where Janine lived.

Though he was famished, he wanted to go to Janine first. He longed to tell her about his encounter with Koops and then the detective. He had a need to be near her. It wasn’t necessary to see her; just to be within some reasonable proximity to her. To drink in the closeness of her. Even though her “friend” was there, sleeping by her side, no matter. He would not be there much longer. Warren would see to that too.

He had plans for Janine’s friend. He’d thought it all out. It wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done, just as Koops had to be done. And, in the end, Janine would understand. Even be grateful. He would make it all up to her. He had the power to do so. It was purely a matter of will and concentration. Once he set his mind to something, there was nothing in the world that could deflect him.

It was just past midnight when he reached the modest little walk-up where Janine and Michael Mancuso lived.

He knew the location of their apartment from his many nocturnal visits to the area. Several times he’d seen Janine through the windows fronting the street.

Those windows were dark now, as were most of the others in the building. Only a single set of apartment lights at the northeast corner of the building still glowed, suggesting insomnia or sickness behind them.

The streets were deserted. He leaned against a street-lamp across the way, and, with a sigh of enormous contentment, he gazed up at her darkened windows.

“AND YOU’RE SURE THIS WAS A SIXTY-EIGHT
Mercedes?”

“In mint condition. Positive.”

“How come he wanted to paint it?”

“He had some rust going on around the headlights and fenders. So while I was taking care of that, he said I should also paint it.”

They were in the cramped little space that served as Mr. Anthony Pagano’s office. A glass partition separated them from the big floodlit paint shop where just then an old Coupe de Ville was being sprayed.