Agnes Among the Gargoyles (21 page)

   Agnes is silent.

   "These are my credit cards," he says to her. "I'll have to explain why I can't kick in for dinner. Do you know how I'll look?"

   Agnes steps backward.

   "Take them, would you?" He throws them at her. His Amex grazes her cheek.

   Two uniformed police officers appear, to Agnes's great relief. The officers are trailed by Tommy. Behind Tommy is Sarah, filming everything. Behind Sarah and Wayne are the Jensens.

   "You called the cops already?" says Jack, as though Agnes has somehow betrayed him. "Why did I waste my time arguing with you?"

   One of the uniformed officers cuffs the Pinboy. Tommy reads the Miranda rights. He is interrupted by Mark Rennet, who leaps from his seat and has to be restrained.

   "What are you doing?" says Rennet. "You've got the wrong guy, damn it."

   Tommy, momentarily confused, looks to Agnes.

   "That's him," Agnes says.

   The Pinboy is hustled away.

   Mark Rennet's outburst becomes understandable when Agnes's old friend Alex shows up dressed in a policeman's uniform. He has his handcuffs ready. He's not delivering GorillaGrams anymore. Now he works for Arrest-A-Guest.

   "I'm sorry I'm late," he tells an angry Rennet. "I had to arrest someone at a bridal shower in Queens."

The plan is to bring John Speer into Central Booking through a back door. Tommy and Whitey Walker cover Speer's head with a sheet before helping him out of the car. Standing by a dumpster is Tollivetti. He takes half a roll of film of the sheeted figure.

   "I'm one step ahead of you guys—always," says Tollivetti.

   "Shoot away, my friend," says Whitey.

   "Who do you think this is under here?" says Tommy. "It's the last Halloween drunk of 198_. Big deal."

   Dov Bloch must identify the Pinboy. A lineup is arranged. Meanwhile, Chief of Detectives Codd holds a press conference.

   "Settle down, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll give you the straight poop," says Chief Codd. "And I promise to speak slowly to accommodate the gentlemen of the Yiddish press."

   The Chief recounts the details of the arrest. He congratulates Agnes and Wayne for their roles in the capture. "It's that sort of involvement that makes this city safer."

   "What do you mean, Chief?"

   "I mean they gave the department invaluable assistance by trailing the suspect and then alerting us."

   A reporter asks, "Would you advocate the average citizen taking that much on himself, Chief?"

   "Well, no, not really."

   "They did everything but make the arrest, Chief."

   "Ideally, we should have been brought in sooner," the Chief concedes. "We're here to help."

   "Help, Chief?"

   "Help is a bad word," says Chief Codd, as twin globules of perspiration trickle down his cheeks, racing toward his numerous chins. "The police department will naturally do the lion's share."

   "Lion's share of what, Chief?"

   "Surveillance, pursuit, arrests—we'll take care of all that."

   "Gee, that's nice of you, Chief."

   Inside, the lineup theater empties. Detective Diaz, dressed in a suit and no tie just like the Pinboy and the other decoys, struts over to Agnes and breaks the news to her.

   "The Jewish kid picked me out," he whispers. "That little
putz
never saw John Speer in his life."

   Tommy comes over to Agnes. He folds his arms. "All right. What do we do now?"

   "I don't know," she says. "You're the cop."

   He shakes his head. "I'm just watching. And when Razumovsky calls me into his office and asks me why our case is all fucked up, I'll say, 'Gee, I don't know, Inspector, we'd better ask Agnes.'"

   "I'm sorry," she says.

   "It's not your fault," he says wearily. "But while we're on the subject, why
is
our case all fucked up, do you think?"

"I have some rather bad news for you, Agnes," says her mother. "I'm afraid you're illegitimate."

   Agnes is cooking dinner. She cradles the telephone receiver while whisking butter and flour together for a roux. "What are you talking about?"

   "We couldn't find the divorce papers because there was never any divorce," says Hannah. "Your father and I were never legally married. You're a bastard."

   Agnes stops whisking. "Ma, I'm so sorry."

   Hannah is mysteriously cheerful. "It's no big deal, Agnes. Years ago we didn't worry so much about paperwork. I'll bet half the couples I've known in my life aren't really married."

   Agnes doubts that strongly.

   "Does this mean you're not entitled to Daddy's Social Security money?" Agnes asks.

   "We weren't legally married," says Hannah, as though her daughter is dense.

   "I'm getting off the phone now," says Agnes, trying to stay calm. "I'll call my lawyer."

   "If the first spouse doesn't contest, I can still get the money," says Hannah. "I'll have to go to a hearing."

   Agnes shakes her head. "God damn Daddy."

   "It wasn't his fault."

   "Yes it was. You can be mad at him, you know. You're entitled."

   "He didn't do it on purpose," says Hannah.

   "Of course not. He just fell victim to classic Travertine thinking. It never occurs to the Travertines that everyone else in the world might have a good reason for doing what they're doing. We think the rest of the world is stupid. The Travertines have their own way of doing things, thank you. So what if couples have been getting legally married for thousands of years? What do they know? I swear, Ma, if the Travertines had a coat of arms, that would be the perfect motto:
What
do they know?"

   Agnes gets off the phone and dials her lawyer. She is blind with rage. Her dialing is inaccurate. Twice she gets the West End Florists. She feels sorry for her mother, and resents having to clean up the mess. In an orderly world, children use their parents' lawyers, not the other way around.

   Agnes makes her appointment, then calls the telephone company to report the two wrong numbers.

"Barbara's mother called to thank me for catching Jack," says Agnes. "Isn't that sad? I wanted to die."

   "Just a phone call?" says Tommy. "Not a little note?"

   "Stop," says Agnes. "I guess now I've done everything humanly possible for Barbara. Do you still want to go out?"

   He nods solemnly. "I'm ready."

   So they have a date. One Sunday morning Tommy appears at Agnes's door. His hair is freshly cut.

  Without distractions, without a corpse and floodlights and reporters, without Speer and Razumovsky and the mayor, without the Wegemans, Tommy and Agnes aren't quite sure how to proceed with each other.

   They stay on familiar ground. Speer's arraignment, Tommy tells Agnes, was a joke. The offices of Razumovsky and the district attorney were not in communication; Speer, in handcuffs and belly chain and leg irons was charged with nothing more serious than Impeding the Progress of an Investigation. The reporters laughed. The judge, aware of Dov's blown identification, angrily set bail at $500. Speer used his Gold Card to come up with the cash.

   Tommy suggests that they go to an afternoon concert at Julliard.

   "I hope you like chamber music," he says as they take their seats.

   "Oh yes. It's very relaxing."

   "That means you hate it. It should be involving, not relaxing."

   The first piece is a Brahms horn trio. Like everyone else who knows nothing about classical music, Agnes pages furiously through the program, looking for clues. She needs something to latch on to: an analysis of form, the story of a movement's inspiration—anything but the music itself which, though pleasant enough, is maddening to her.
There's a nice tune!
she thinks and,
whoosh!
it's gone, like an attractive man glimpsed on a crowded subway platform.

   "I find it helpful not to read the program," he suggests gently.

   "You would."

   Agnes has to hand it to him. Everyone she knows seems to enjoy sitting through arty films and plays, but not one in ten has been able to vault the classical music hurdle. Agnes's mind wanders.

   The Brahms horn trio, Schumann's piano quartet, and they are back out on the street.

   "Was it the worst two hours of your life?" he asks.

   "I had a great time."

   "You were a little fidgety. I think you distracted the cellist."

   "I didn't notice."

   "That's why she moved her seat. They usually face the audience."

   They stop to buy groceries. Agnes will make an early dinner in Tommy's apartment.

   He lives on Eighteenth Street off Eighth Avenue in Chelsea. After the Revolutionary War, most of the city's brothels were located there, and the district takes its name from an infamous prostitute. Chelsea Newles was from St. Croix. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. She had a long, graceful neck, which she adorned with nine rings, one atop the other. She carried around a little case containing nine smaller rings, and if the gentleman could put on all nine at once, there was no charge.

   Tommy puts the key in the door. "I have to apologize for my apartment."

   "I don't mind a mess."

   "It's not messy. It's just a rotten apartment."

   It is an impossibly small studio, about the size of a boxing ring though not so nicely shaped. There are two windows. The plasterboard walls, which are new, don't match the ceiling molding. It looks less like a discrete apartment than a collection of spare corners and leftover alcoves assembled from all the other, proper apartments in the building.

   "I never should have moved in here," says Tommy. "I should have just stayed in the U-Haul. I'd have as much space for the same price. I'd have three windows."

   Agnes uses the bathroom. When she closes the door too forcefully, a cork panel from the ceiling drops down on her head.

   "That's why it's called a drop ceiling," says Tommy. He wrestles the panel back into position. "And drop ceilings are only good for hiding pornography."

   Agnes heats oil in a big black skillet. She chops olives and anchovies for spaghetti. Tommy opens a couple of beers.

   "I hate for you to see this place," says Tommy mournfully. "It's such a stupid apartment. But I won't be here much longer."

   "Where are you going?" says Agnes. She feels a shaft of anxiety.

   "My father and his girlfriend bought an abandoned brownstone in Fort Greene. They think the neighborhood's going to turn white soon, and they'll be rich. But I'm the only white person they can get to live there now."

   "Is your mother dead?" Agnes asks.

   "Not dead enough for my old man," says Tommy. "They're divorced. She still lives on City Island My father's the one with the new, glamorous life. Silvia, his girlfriend, makes jewelry. She deducts a bedroom on her taxes and he thinks it's hot shit."

   Agnes separates eggs into two bowls.

   "You're good at that," Tommy notes.

   Agnes knows City Island. Like the neighborhood she grew up in, on the other side of the Bronx, it was filled with cops and firemen whose sons followed in their fathers' footsteps. They were the boys Agnes grew up with, and in high school their familiarity and low horizons rendered them devoid of interest to her. Tommy makes her wonder, for the first time, about those boys. What made her think they were stupid and commonplace? (He pulls a table to the middle of the room and she wonders if all the Bronx boys turned out so straight-backed and so sweet.) Which leads to troubling questions about herself. Who has she been looking for all this time? And what else has she overlooked?

   After dinner, Agnes and Tommy embark on the next stage of their relationship. It has been forever since Agnes was this close to a man. She pulls Tommy to her and he responds but not immediately, and Agnes remembers that being with a man is like driving one of those big army rigs: you've got to think ahead, you've got to turn the wheel before you even reach the curve. They are big beasts, men.

   But Agnes breaks it off. She sits on the edge of the bed, panting.

   "This is going too fast," she says.

   "Not fast enough," Tommy murmurs. "Come back over here. I want to fuck you twice."

   "No."

   He sits up in the bed. He props the pillows behind him and looks ready to settle in with a book. "No?"

   "It's not you. It's me."

   He shakes his head. "Gather ye rosebuds, Agnes. You're almost fifty years old. What's the matter?"

   "You're going to think I'm crazy, but I won't fuck you without an AIDS test."

   "I don't have it," he says.

   "I'm a very careful person," she says.

   "You read too many newspapers," he says sourly. "You're panicking."

   "Do you not want to go out? I would understand," she says.

   "Every woman has a secret lunacy," he says.

   "We can still kiss," she says, moving toward him.

   "I'm agreeing under duress," he says. "But I need some serious sublimation. Let's have dessert."

   Agnes has made oeufs a la neige, Floating Islands. The only problem is that they have waited too long to eat it. The islands have run together into a single mass.

   Agnes barely touches hers. "Do you hate me?"