The City When It Rains

  Corman felt like resisting. He didn’t move. “What’s wrong with me standing here?”

  The doorman looked surprised by the question. He gave him a very small shove. “I mean it.” He was an overweight, middle-aged man with wispy strands of gray peeking out from under his cap, but he looked hardened rather than weakened by his age, the sort of man who’d been pummeled, come back for more, then taken it again on the chin, the jaw, the eyes, until all the features had finally merged into a kind of doughy mass, slack and puffy, but still strong despite all that. Corman had met such people before, the type who knew exactly where the line was in them because they’d faced so many others who’d crossed it without a thought.

  “I mean it,” the man repeated.

  “I was just watching the chapel across the street,” Corman said innocently.

  The doorman didn’t feel like discussing it. “Look, pal, when you pay rent in this place, you can stand here till hell freezes over, but until then …” He gave Corman another small shove.

  Corman thought of Lucy, Lexie, and his picture in the paper, sprawled across the sidewalk, the doorman grinning above him. He could read the caption: News stringer roughed up by doorman. He stepped away from him and put up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m going.”

  The doorman eased off slightly. “Good.”

  Corman nodded, strode out from under the awning and headed across the street to the chapel. He could feel the doorman staring at him all the way, watching for a quick move, the pistol that might come from nowhere and turn his big hard fists into paper cups.

  Once across the street, Corman took a few close-ups of the chapel’s stone facade. He focused on the small details, the carvings on the wooden doors and the swirling pastels of the stained glass windows. Then he took a few more shots of the entire exterior.

  Inside, the chapel was modest, and as he stepped into its small dark foyer, he was struck by how slightly seedy it looked. There was a small square foyer, decked with slightly faded flowers, a brown wooden table with a few assorted vases and a signboard which listed the various rooms, along with the people who were in them. The memorial service for Sarah Rosen was scheduled for Room Four.

  Corman glanced around, found the stairs and headed up them. There was a wooden lectern just outside the room. Someone had placed a leatherbound register on it. Corman searched his pockets for the little notebook which seemed to be a part of him now, the one in which he could write down the facts, then hand them over to Julian or Willie Scarelli. He quickly opened the register. The page was blank. He sank his notebook back into his jacket pocket and stepped quietly into the room.

  Sarah Rosen’s plain mahogany coffin rested in front of a short wooden altar. It was closed, and someone had laid two sprays of red roses on top of it. The man in the black raincoat sat alone in the front pew, his head erect, facing the coffin.

  Corman took a seat in the back and waited for the ceremony to begin. Several minutes passed, then suddenly, as if on a signal, the man in the raincoat rose silently and began to make his way down the aisle.

  Corman stood up and watched him approach. He could tell that Dr. Rosen’s eyes had fastened on him, but it was too late to retreat, and so he simply stood in place as the old man made his way up the aisle.

  Dr. Rosen’s head was lifted high, chin up, his face strangely shadowed, as if stage makeup had been applied to darken the deep furrows of his brow. He stared intently at Corman as he approached, then stopped dead in front of him.

  “Who are you?” Rosen asked.

  His face was so near to Corman’s that he could gather its details immediately, the white, carefully trimmed Vandyke, the goldrimmed glasses that looked as if they’d been imported from another age, the dark, hooded eyes. In a modern version, it was the face of Lear, Creon, King David’s face when he first glimpsed Absalom hanging by his hair.

  “Who are you?” Rosen repeated, when Corman failed to answer him.

  Corman lifted his shoulders nervously. “Nobody,” he said.

  “Nobody?” the old man said. One of the hoods lifted. “You don’t have a name? I made it clear that this was strictly a closed memorial.”

  Corman glanced away, then said, “My name is Corman.”

  “Did you know my daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a photographer.”

  “A photographer? Why are you here? What was Sarah to you?”

  Corman realized he couldn’t exactly answer that question, but struggled to do it anyway. “It’s just that … that I was there the night she …” He stopped.

  Rosen’s body stiffened. “You took pictures of her?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the street?”

  “It’s my job,” Corman said weakly.

  Rosen looked at him hatefully for a moment, then suddenly his hand shot up and slapped Corman’s face.

  Corman remained before him, frozen, his face still hot and trembling from the blow.

  Rosen lifted his hand again, then held it trembling in the air, its gray shadow resting like a veil over Corman’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Corman sputtered. “I didn’t mean to …”

  Rosen’s eyes narrowed spitefully for an instant, then darted away. For a moment he stood entirely still. Then he bolted forward abruptly and fled the room.

  Corman sank down in the wooden pew, felt himself give over to the inevitable, rose again, walked into the street and headed east, toward what he thought now the only opportunity he still had.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE CONCIERGE was smartly dressed, and he did everything but click his heels as Corman walked through the large glass doors.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m here to see Harry Groton,” Corman told him.

  “And your name?”

  “Corman.”

  The concierge began to finger the buttons of the console behind his desk. “That’s 20–B, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Corman said, glancing back outside. The bare limbs of the trees weaved slowly as the rain and wind lashed them. They looked forlorn, forsaken, forest exiles walled in by the cityscape, their slender uplifted branches entangled in a net of rain.

  “Mr. Groton?” the concierge said into the black receiver, “Mr. Corman to see you. Yes. Thank you.” He looked at Corman. “You may go up: 20–B. Turn to your right when you step out of the elevator.”

  Groton’s apartment was near the end of the corridor and Groton himself was already standing in the door, his body wobbling slightly as he offered Corman a quick wave.

  “Didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. “Haven’t had a guest in a long time. Forgive the mess.”

  “Don’t worry,” Corman said. “I’m used to mess.”

  Groton waved his hand groggily. “Ain’t it the truth.”

  Corman pulled the camera bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.

  “Want a drink?” Groton asked.

  “Do we have time?”

  “Sure. What the fuck.”

  “Okay,” Corman said. “Thanks.”

  “Sit down anywhere,” Groton told him. His hands swept out from his sides in a gesture of resignation. “I’m a man of simple tastes.”

  Corman took a seat in a small wooden chair and let his eyes take in the room. Groton’s sleeper-sofa was still out. It sagged at the center, and a large rumpled pile of bedding spilled over the right edge and gathered on the uncarpeted floor below. The curtains were frayed at their edges, and there were no photographs on the walls.

  “Two sixteen a month,” Groton said. “That’s what I pay for this place.” He shook his head. “Shit, they’ll probably get close to fifteen hundred for it when I …” He stopped, catching himself. “When it’s vacant.”

  Corman smiled. “At least.”

  Groton pulled two paper cups from a stack of them on a small table. “Scotc
h okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What? Two fingers?”

  “Yeah, that’s good.”

  Groton smiled. “Can’t get tight,” he said, wagging his finger scoldingly. “Them’s the rules. Can’t get tight if you got a shoot.”

  He handed Corman a glass. “You look like shit,” he said, then lifted his cup. “To shit.”

  Corman turned toward him. “How many have you had, Harry?”

  Groton waved his hand. “Not enough.” He walked uneasily over to a chair, slumped down in it and took another sip.

  “When’s the shoot?” Corman asked.

  Groton started to answer, then looked as if he’d misplaced something, and said nothing.

  “Did you write it down?”

  Groton nodded. “Somewhere.” He stared about blearily. “Where the fuck could it be?”

  “What was it on, a piece of paper?”

  “Yeah,” Groton answered dully. “Some piece of paper, somewhere.”

  “It’s at the Plaza,” Corman reminded him. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” Groton said, suddenly remembering. “The Plaza. Pomegranate, something like that. Some fruit name. At four-thirty.”

  Corman looked at his watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Groton said without concern. “Yeah, that’s right. Fifteen minutes.”

  Corman glanced at the cup which tilted back and forth unsteadily in Groton’s hand. He’d poured himself a good deal more than two fingers.

  “You going to make it?” Corman asked.

  Groton grinned childishly. “Nope,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “Nope. Nope.”

  Corman shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I can handle it.”

  Groton looked at him softly. “Would you do that, Corman? Would you mind? I mean, to tell you the truth—” He thrust his hand out, and a wave of scotch washed over the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he hissed angrily. “Shit.” He began to slap at his shirt, sending small amber drops across the floor. “Shit. Shit.”

  Corman grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box beside the bed, rushed over, bent down and began wiping the scotch from Groton’s shirt.

  “I’m entitled, right?” Groton asked brokenly. “Just one time?”

  Corman nodded quickly. “Yeah, you’re entitled. Don’t worry about it.” He could feel Groton’s fingers toying with his hair. He drew them out and lowered the hand back into Groton’s lap. “You’re okay now,” he said.

  “Right, right,” Groton said. He sat up slightly, his chest thrust out, chin held up. “Just fine,” he said determinedly. “No problem.”

  There were no “fruit names” listed among the people who had rented ballrooms in the Plaza, but one of the families was named Pomeroy, and Corman thought it was a safe guess that that was the one Groton had meant. It was a wedding reception, and he managed to rush up the stairs to the designated room just as Stuart Clayton was glancing nervously at his watch for what Corman figured was probably the thousandth time.

  “Where the hell is Groton?” Clayton asked as Corman mounted the last step.

  “He came down with something,” Corman told him. “He sent me instead.”

  “Sent you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why you? This is not a blood-and-guts shoot. No offense,” Clayton said, “but I’ve never worked with you. And you can’t just work with anybody on this kind of thing. This is serious business.”

  “I know how to handle it,” Corman assured him.

  Clayton eyed him suspiciously. “You do, huh? Well, let me ask you something. How many of these shoots have you done, anyway?”

  “Ten, twenty,” Corman said, lying through his teeth.

  Clayton wasn’t buying it. “Really? When? Where? Give me some details.”

  “In Boston,” Corman replied, grasping for straws. “I worked in Boston before I came to New York.”

  Clayton still looked doubtful. “Where in Boston?” he demanded. “What rooms? What affairs? Jesus Christ, we’re not talking about the Ramada Inn here. We’re talking about the Plaza-fucking-Hotel.”

  Corman knew his bluff had been called and made a do-or-die grab for the job.

  “Look,” he said firmly. “Groton’s sick. He sent me. If you’ve got a problem with that, fine. I understand. So, go get somebody else.” He turned and started to leave.

  “No, wait,” Clayton said quickly. “Sorry. Don’t take it personally. It’s just that …”

  “Forget it,” Corman said, cozying up again. If he was going to replace Groton permanently, he’d have to get along with Clayton, and he didn’t want to ruin any chance of that on his first solo shoot. “Just relax,” he said easily. “Believe me, I’ll do a good job for you.”

  “Okay,” Clayton said. “We’ll forget all about this little dispute. We’ll just go to work, okay?”

  Corman nodded. “If you want anything special,” he said, “just let me know.”

  Clayton smiled halfheartedly. “Good, thanks.” He slapped his hands together softly. “Well, as they say, we’re into the arena.”

  Corman forced out a small laugh, then followed Clayton into the ballroom, walking slowly behind him, making sure he kept the lead.

  It was over in less than two hours. Corman stood in the corner, munching a small cracker while Clayton worked the room, methodically pumping the last Pomeroy hand just one more time.

  “Well, that’s it,” Clayton said, as he walked over to Corman, snapped off a bit of what was left of the cracker and chewed it slowly. “What’d you think?”

  “It was okay,” Corman said.

  One of Clayton’s light green eyes seemed to reach out toward him like a small, searching probe. “But did you enjoy it?”

  “Yeah,” Corman said lightly. “It was fun.”

  Clayton laughed. “You think so?” He laughed again. “Well, anyway, you did a good job. Really. Not bad at all. Maybe we could team up again sometime.”

  Corman nodded.

  “Would you like that?” Clayton asked.

  Corman offered him a quick smile. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  Clayton looked pleased. “All right,” he said. “But if we’re going to work together from time to time, I want to make a few things clear.” He turned and began to stroll out of the room, waving Corman up beside him. “You know what they call this beat?” he asked.

  Corman shook his head.

  “The snoot patrol,” Clayton told him. “That’s what they call it, all the so-called ‘real’ reporters.” He stopped, studying Corman’s eyes. “Real reporters,” he scoffed. “What bullshit. The editorial writers, the critics, the political reporters with their noses stuck two feet up some Congressman’s ass.” He laughed. “And they have the balls to turn up their noses at this beat?” The laugh thinned into a derisive chuckle, then trailed off entirely. “They’re lost, Corman. Take it from me, they’re completely lost.” He continued on, sailing gracefully over the littered carpet. “Because what they don’t understand is that in this city, what the rich do is the only real news there is.” He looked at Corman earnestly. “I’m talking about human news. I’m talking about the human fucking spirit.”

  They moved out of the room, down the stairs. At the side of the Palm Court, Clayton stopped again, his eyes lingering on the wide dining room. The band was playing softly, the piano in the lead, the accompaniment no more than a swaying presence in the background. “The people in editorial, international, all those people,” he said, “they think they’ve got the inside track on how things work, on what people are really like.” He shook his head. “But I’m a student of psychology just as much as they are, and let me tell you something, if you want to know what people are like, you have to study the ones who have everything. You don’t study the hustlers, the scroungers, the ones who have nothing. They’re lost in bullshit. You can’t learn anything from them.”

  Corman nodded.

 
“But if you study the rich,” Clayton went on, “I mean study them very closely, if you do that, you can really find out what people need, what people miss.” He looked at Corman and pointed to his chest. “I’m talking about in here. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  Clayton began walking again, strolling quietly among the potted palms, a lean white skiff cruising over tranquil waters. “That’s what makes this beat worthwhile,” he added in conclusion. “The insight.”

  Clayton picked up his pace suddenly. Corman trailed after him, just a single step behind, his eyes following the smooth gait and uplifted shoulders, the high, straight back. He wondered where Clayton had gotten all that style, whether he’d been born with it, or just soaked it in over time, like a tan.

  Once outside, Clayton stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Several limousines were lined up in front of the hotel. One by one they came forward and people got out of them, then either rushed under the great awning or ducked beneath the doormen’s large black umbrellas.

  “Very elegant,” Clayton said musingly as he watched. “The way they keep out of the rain. And very, very serious.” He glanced toward Corman. “You want to see something different?” he asked, as if it had just occurred to him.

  “Different?”

  “I always go to a certain place after one of these assignments,” Clayton told him. “I usually go by myself. But I was thinking that you might want to come along.”

  Corman thought of Lucy, of keeping her, of giving Lexie some bit of encouraging news about his work, of how important Clayton had suddenly become to all of that. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  “Good,” Clayton said happily. “Follow me.”

  They walked east to Lexington Avenue, then north into the Sixties, finally stopping at a noisy bar, crowded with people who were gathered in tight circles around tiny marble tables.

  “A lot of the ‘real’ reporters hang out in this place,” Clayton said after the two of them had found a table. “This is their real beat, Corman. Not the ‘corridors of power’ they’re always talking. No way. This is their real beat. You know why? Because it determines the way they see things, the way they report things. It determines what they are.” He looked at Corman piercingly. “You understand what I’m saying?”