Found in the Street

  What were they up to, walking downtown at 2 a.m.? Two empty taxis passed, and the tall man showed no interest in them.

  They turned east on Houston Street, and their laughter floated back to Ralph, though he was too far away to hear a word of what they were saying. Then they crossed Houston and entered a street going south. Ralph had to wait for the next light. When he got to the street, they were out of sight. They must have gone into the single place with a light, Ralph thought, the restaurant or bar ten yards away on the east side of the street. Ralph approached this place, which had a crude sign saying STAR-WALKERS above the door.

  “Bah—de—dah—bah—de—dah…” A girl’s voice came through the closed door and dimly lit window. “Woo…oo…woo…” There was a stringed instrument with the voice. A placard propped against a rail in front of the place showed a girl with curly hair clutching a guitar. MARION GILL and her talking guitar. Jazz. Rock. Rhythm and Blues.

  The place looked as if it had formerly been a grocery store or some kind of shop that had had a display window. Dark red curtains hung behind the window, and through the glass top half of the door Ralph could see candle-lit tables, a raised section at the back where the guitar-playing girl sat, the girl on the poster outside, Ralph thought. Hadn’t one of the hooligans who had followed him shouted that name, “Marion”? The hooligan girl had had long hair, but that might have been a wig.

  This thought was a small blow to Ralph: for that tramp of a girl who had pursued him to be singing and playing before the public gave her some status—at least it was a job—though in truth Ralph held such forms of entertainment in contempt. Untrained voices! Empty-headed people, the dregs of society frequented such holes-in-the-wall as this, poisoning their already sick selves with alcohol and tobacco, marijuana and cocaine. So Elsie had been seduced by this kind of entertainment, and Mrs Sutherland liked it too? Ralph could imagine that John Sutherland did not want to go to such a place, if his wife had even told him that she was going here. And who was this new man in the picture? Was he Mrs Sutherland’s secret lover? Or was he possibly after Elsie? He looked as if he had money. That would be tempting to Elsie. Everything tempted Elsie, that was the problem, the danger. Ralph again peered, but could not see far into the place. He could not see Elsie, but he felt she was there. He believed that her presence, anywhere, had a magnetic effect on him, whether he could see her or not.

  Ralph blew on his hands, stepped into the shadow of the housefronts, and walked slowly to keep his circulation up.

  “Man…puddy…bah…” said the female voice.

  Insane words, if they were words!

  A young man and a girl, chattering away, walked briskly past Ralph and turned in at the door of Star-Walkers. Ralph looked in as they opened the door. He saw Mrs Sutherland in profile at a table against the left wall, leaning forward toward the bald fellow, and behind her and beside her sat Elsie with her eyes fixed on the guitarist.

  Ca—lumph! The door closed again.

  Ralph shut his eyes, turned uptown, rubbed his hands together and stuffed them back in his pockets. Misery! Unhappiness ahead! Ralph felt the sting of tears, might have wept, except that anger and shock dominated his feelings. Why hadn’t he done better by Elsie? How had he failed, when he had meant so well? Ralph imagined drug-peddlers in such a place as Star-Walkers, and the top-hatted man would have the money to buy anything—for Elsie.

  Well, he had not failed, he thought as he walked faster, as he turned left on Houston toward Seventh Avenue. If she damaged her health with these late hours, she was not yet wasting away, not yet even ill! He would keep trying.

  Was Mrs Sutherland deliberately leading Elsie astray for her personal amusement? And did John Sutherland know about it?

  Ralph would have liked to linger until Elsie and Mrs Sutherland and the man left the place, but that might not be for two more hours.

  Should he write John Sutherland a short and discreet note or speak to him? Speaking struck Ralph as wiser. The possibly dangerous and crucial information would then not be on paper.

  18

  “Oh, Mr Sutherland!”

  Jack whirled around. He had been walking fast.

  “Good afternoon!”

  Jack recognized Linderman, dogless now, smiling, with creases in his cheeks. “Hello.”

  “I have something—I’ll be brief. I know you’re busy.”

  Jack made a gesture with the portfolio under his arm. He had just come from a conference with Trews.

  “I am, in fact.”

  “It’s about your wife.”

  “Oh? What about her?”

  Linderman spoke more softly. “I don’t know—or maybe you do know that she’s seeing Elsie Tyler lately and—one evening I saw your wife with Elsie and with another man—I can describe him if you like—going into a nightclub in the SoHo district.—I should think you’d be concerned.”

  “Mr Linderman—my wife’s an independent woman. I like things that way. So does she.”

  “If she goes out with another man?—Perhaps it’s quite innocent. But with Elsie? Elsie’s so much younger!”

  What was the old fool getting at? Jack suddenly recalled the evening that Linderman must be talking about. Natalia and Louis had gone down to SoHo to hear a certain girl guitarist whom Elsie knew. “Was it a tall man?” Jack asked. “Sort of bald on top and—”

  “Yes!”

  “Friend of the family,” Jack said. “My wife’s known him longer than—He’s our daughter’s godfather!” Jack said with a smile.

  Linderman’s mouth turned down a little, maybe with disappointment.

  “You’re worrying unnecessarily, Mr Linderman. I assure you. I’ve got to push off now.” But Linderman’s thunderous stare held him.

  “I don’t like Elsie meddling with these sophisticated people—older than she is. She can be led astray.”

  “She’s—” Jack shook his head in exasperation. “My wife, for instance—Thanks to my wife, Elsie’s going to a school now. Studying. Art and literature. I ask you, Mr Linderman, is that corruption?” Jack gave a laugh, though he had the feeling, as he had had before, that he had better try to end this encounter on a friendly note.

  “What school?”

  Jack pretended to think. “Forget the name of it. Uptown. Got to go now, sir. Busy day for me.” With a wave of his portfolio arm, Jack strode down the sidewalk toward his house.

  As he unlocked the front door, he did not look back at Linderman.

  Jack returned to his own problems. A few of his yak book drawings were not quite right yet, and the meeting today was his second with Trews about them. First Brian Kent, the author of the book, had liked the spirit and atmosphere of the drawings, but had wanted more Tibetan detail in the huts, the costumes. This was easy for Jack, as he still had photographs from the public library. Now Trews thought he had overdone it. The details conflicted with Jack’s dreamlike style in the first place, but Jack had added them. Now what it came down to was doing five drawings over, because the details could not be whited out. Jack hated doing drawings over, trying to duplicate the freedom of the first, and he was in a bad mood five minutes after he closed the apartment door. But he decided to make one stab this afternoon and not just call it a day at 3.45. He’d make some tea for himself when Amelia arrived in half an hour, he thought, keep her company while she had her snack, which was usually peanut butter on soda crackers with a glass of Coke, though Jack always proposed milk.

  Jack laid out his work on his long table. Which drawing first? The cooking pot scene, he thought. This was the author, dark-haired as he actually was, his straight hair in need of a trim, hunched beside his clay pot which hung over a fire, as the author had described, on a horizontal stick supported by a heap of stones on either side of the fire. The details in this were genuine: mountain flowers, the narrator’s Tibetan leather knapsack or huge purse, bedding roll, water canteen—Well, a few would go, but Jack would keep the sweet little flowers, which he had come to love. Jack was glad
that Trews had passed on the encounter scene: the author and a small boy on a mountain slope in the chill morning mists. In the book, Brian Kent had heard pebbles rolling, and then the boy had slowly become visible, shrouded in a cape, his dark eyes round and amazed. Each had frightened the other to a rigid halt for a few seconds.

  He would not tell Natalia about today’s encounter with Linderman. What the hell had Linderman seen, after all? Natalia going into Star-Walkers with Louis Wannfeld about two weeks ago. Jack hadn’t yet been to Star-Walkers, but he could imagine the place. Natalia had thought Marion, the singer-guitar-player, rather good. And Elsie seemed quite hung up on her, according to Natalia, and it was a mutual thing. Marion was twenty-one or -two, Jack remembered, and had an apartment on Greene Street, or had been lent the apartment. And where was Genevieve, Elsie’s old girlfriend, in all this? Hadn’t Natalia said something about Marion throwing out her own roommate so Elsie could move in? Or was it Genevieve who had thrown Elsie out? Jack couldn’t keep track of such things. More interesting was the fact that Elsie was going to get some work as a fashion photographer’s model, which would certainly beat shoving mugs of coffee across the counter at that place on Seventh Avenue. Natalia and Louis had managed this, and with the minimum of effort, it seemed. It had been Natalia’s idea that Elsie might earn some money as a model, and Louis had introduced her to a fashion photographer friend or acquaintance of his. The photographer had been interested enough to invite Elsie to his studio to take some shots of her, and Natalia had heard from Louis that the photographer was going to try her on a job, and maybe he already had.

  “Dad-dee-ee!”

  Jack was startled by his daughter’s voice within the apartment.

  “Hi, Jack? You there? It’s Susanne.”

  Jack walked down the hall. “Well, hi. What a surprise!” Jack had expected a school employee to ring the downstairs bell.

  “I was visiting a friend on Bank, so I thought I’d call for Amelia.” Susanne looked her usual unmade-up self, rust-colored trousers and brown loafers in need of a shine, dark brown winter coat. “Amelia, I’ll help you with that.”

  Amelia was starting on her crackers and peanut butter. “I don’t want any butter with ‘em!”

  “Okay, but you do need a plate,” said Susanne.

  Jack reached for the kettle. “Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”

  He could. They sat at the kitchen table. Susanne asked about the yak book, and Jack told her of his latest difficulties. Susanne had bought five copies of Half-Understood Dreams at five different bookshops to give to friends at Christmas, though Jack had offered to get them for her at his author’s discount price. Amelia kept interrupting with events of Her Day, and Jack was happy to let Susanne chide her for rudeness.

  “Don’t just interrupt, Amelia. Now if you have something interesting to say, we’ll listen. Won’t we, Jack?”

  “Sure,” said Jack.

  Amelia’s lips parted, she looked sideways at some spot on the table, her well-defined brows frowning a little. “I read the best in class today.”

  “Is that true, Amelia?” Jack asked with respectful surprise.

  “Probably is,” Susanne murmured.

  As if hit by sudden shyness, Amelia got up and fled to her room, whence, a few seconds later, they heard a recorder’s tootling.

  “Natalia’s still working hard?” Susanne asked.

  “Well—noonish to six or so most days. She likes it. Meets a lot of people, you know. All kinds,” Jack added with a smile, because art galleries did attract all kinds.

  “Whatever happened to that blond girl I met here once? With the sailor cap. Remember?”

  “Oh, Elsie. Natalia’s met her too. She’s—she was working at a coffee shop around here. Now she’s trying out as a fashion model. For photographers. I hope it works out.”

  “She is pretty. I remember that.”

  “Yes.” Jack stared at his nearly empty cup, then picked it up and finished it. He didn’t want to say any more about Elsie just now. Susanne knew about the old guy in the neighborhood who had returned his wallet. But Susanne didn’t know that Linderman was pestering Elsie.

  “You look thoughtful today, Jack.” Susanne was clearing away dishes from the table.

  “Me work,” said Jack, smiling, getting up. “I have to get back to it.—Want to stay for dinner with us?” He knew Susanne could either read until dinnertime—she always had her brown briefcase with her, and she had it now—or she could find some task to do in Amelia’s room.

  “No, thanks, Jack. I’ll be heading up to Riverside. Unless there’s something you want me to do? Natalia hasn’t lost a button lately?”

  Jack laughed. Natalia detested sewing on a button, and would rather wear a suit or a coat with a missing button for a week than pick up a needle. “I don’t think so, no.”

  Susanne called a good-bye to Amelia who was watching TV, then said to Jack, “Oh, how’s Louis doing?”

  Jack could tell from Susanne’s tone that she had heard something about Louis’ cancer. “Now it seems he’s not in any danger. That’s the latest. Must’ve been a suspicion—or Louis’ fearing the worst.”

  “Isn’t that great?” she said in an awed voice. “Natalia’s so fond of him. Well, it’s mutual, I know. She’d be really broken up if something happened to Louis.”

  Jack nodded. “True.”

  Susanne left.

  Jack was still working when Natalia arrived at half past 7. It was Natalia’s night to cook, they had agreed that morning, though she hadn’t brought anything that Jack could see, except a bunch of chrysanthemums in green tissue.

  “Elsie gave me these,” Natalia said. “Aren’t they pretty? I had a drink with her just now.”

  “Oh?—Nice.” Jack meant the flowers. They were yellow and pink-red, fresh and starlike. “Shall I get a vase?” he asked elegantly, pronouncing it vahse, and went into the kitchen.

  “Elsie’s going to have a photo in Mademoiselle. Berkman clenched it today and Elsie called me at the gallery to tell me. It’s a sweater ad. She’s on top of the world.—Put them on the white table, Jack.—Funny—” Natalia stared at the flowers.

  Jack set the clear glass vase in the center of the table. “What’s funny?”

  “In France chrysanthemums are for funerals. You bring them only when somebody’s dead—you know? I’m sure Elsie doesn’t know that.” Natalia glanced at Jack, smiling.

  “Elsie has a lot to learn.—I’m pleased about the sweater job.”

  “Berkman wants her hair longer, but that’s no problem.”

  “Who is this Berkman? Did we ever meet him?”

  “No, he’s one of Louis’ acquaintances.—Elsie’s given notice at that coffee shop where she works. I hope she’s not jumping the gun, but there’s no holding her right now.—Like a drink, Jack?”

  “Yes, please. Can you do a Jack Daniel’s?—And what’s for dinner, ma’am?”

  “Oh.” Natalia turned from the bar cabinet, looking lost. “Oh! My God, it’s outside the door! I’m losing my mind!” She went to the apartment door and opened it, and came back with a largish bag. “I went to that delicatessen on Sixth. Got some barbecue stuff.”

  “Ah-h.—Have I told you, my darling, that I love you in that dress?”

  “Ye-s-ss,” Natalia said over her shoulder as she unloaded things onto the kitchen table. “Thank you.”

  The dress was a dusty pink with long triangles of red coming up from the hem to mid-thigh. Natalia had bought it, then said she hated it, though now and then she wore it.

  “Just what do you like about this dress?” she asked, back at the bar cabinet now.

  “It’s different. Like you.—Oh, never mind.”

  She handed him his drink. Then Amelia came into the living-room, having just finished something she wanted her parents to see. This was a watercolor showing red housefronts with several yellow windows and a green street running horizontal in the foreground. Amelia held the still wet drawing flat on her
palms, and was at pains to point out to her father that the yellow windows didn’t touch the red houses, so the colors did not run together.

  “I did notice that,” said Jack.

  “That was a lot of work,” said Amelia.

  “And you did well. Not a single mistake.” Jack cupped his hand against the back of her head, then she ran off, happy.

  Jack joined Natalia in the kitchen. “Susanne brought Amelia home this afternoon. She said she’s home this weekend if we need her. And she asked about Louis. She didn’t use the word cancer. I told her he was doing fine now. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Natalia frowned at the kitchen door, as if at Amelia, but Amelia was back in her room. “He’s not,” she said softly to Jack. “Since you ask. He has got cancer of the pancreas. He told me a couple of months ago, November maybe. But he prefers to—you know, not talk about it. I don’t know how Susanne heard anything.”

  “Are you talking about something fatal? Can’t they take part of the pancreas out?”

  “Yes, well—everybody’s heard of doing that, but Louis’ doctor thinks it might make things worse. Something about its leading to spreading.”

  Jack suddenly saw Louis in a more gallant light. A gentlemanly light, anyway. Louis had been his same old self at his pre-Christmas party.

  19

  In the middle of February, Ralph Linderman lost his job at Midtown-Parking. A new mechanic-manager came on to replace Joey, the friendly and human Joey Fischer, who had gone off to work at a garage farther uptown and nearer where he lived, and at once Frank Conlan, the guard whose duty usually followed Ralph’s and for whom Ralph had had to wait so often, blew his top against Ralph to the new manager for no reason, Ralph thought, except that Conlan was ashamed of his own work, and knew Ralph disliked him. Conlan told tales, apparently, about Ralph’s unwillingness to cooperate, his surliness, and Conlan invented mistakes, and the new manager—a dumb, bored-looking fellow of forty or so—had listened. Not that Frank Conlan had said all this in the open, oh no, but behind Ralph’s back after Ralph had gone off duty.