Smart Moves (22 page)

“You want to stay with me tonight?” I asked. “I mean for what’s left of the night?”

Pauline shrugged. Righteousness had been replaced by total defeat. She looked blowsy, flat-footed as a middleweight who’s gone through six or seven rounds with Henry Armstrong. “Sure,” she said, finding a weak smile. “Beats going home to Mom.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

That got a small laugh out of her. We got in the waiting elevator and roused the operator who took us up to twelve. When we got to the room Shelly was snoring gently. We didn’t wake him.

We got undressed in the darkness and moved under the cool blanket and sheet of my bed. We didn’t even whisper as we made love to Shelly’s snoring. I thought of Anne, pushed the thought out of my mind, and strained in the darkness to see Pauline’s face. Enough night light filtered through the drapes to see her closed eyes. I wondered who or what she was thinking about. Suddenly it was easy. I thought about here and now and Pauline and it was good.

We slept for about three hours. I kept waking up with Pauline’s hair in my mouth and a variety of body aches. The worst ache was the one in my head from my sea battle with the now deceased Povey. I had a dream. At least I think it was a dream. Maybe I just imagined it as I lay there waiting for the sun.

In my dream, Povey was standing down a deep dark corridor, beckoning to me with his hand, beckoning for me to follow him. I didn’t want to follow him. Koko the Clown leaped out of the door to my left, scaring hell out of me. He took my hand and tugged me in the direction of Povey, who kept motioning for me. Koko was marshmallow-soft, no strength, but I couldn’t resist him because the floor was made of ice. I slid forward without moving my feet. Maybe the hall had tilted downward or maybe the slight pull of the clown was enough to get me moving. I slid closer and closer to Povey who, when I got close enough, turned to show me the stiletto in his back.

“They stabbed me in the back,” he said, rubbing one hand through his bristly white hair. “And now I stab them.” Povey pointed at a door in front of us in the darkness, with only a little light coming under it to betray its presence.

“Open it,” said Povey.

Koko skated around me out of sight, and then appeared before me, his face huge as he stuck out his tongue and said, “Open it.”

“Killers are there. Iago is in there. Betrayers are in there. Traitors are in there,” Povey said. “The worst thing about having a knife in your back is that it itches and you can’t reach it.”

The hell with it. I opened the door. The sudden light was blinding. I was afraid that the killers could see me but I couldn’t see them. Koko and Povey were gone. On my left was Einstein in a little sailor cap, on my right Paul Robeson, still dressed as Othello.

“Too much light,” said Einstein.

“You can’t see when there’s too much light,” said Robeson.

“You can’t see when there’s too much light or too much dark,” said Einstein. “When there is too much of either in the spread of infinity, one imagines and tests the imagination. What do you see, Tobias Leo Pevsner?”

“Nothing,” I said with a dry mouth. And then I saw, or imagined I saw, two or three figures. I screwed up my face and strained into the light but I couldn’t make out the faces. One of the figures was tall. It moved forward holding something out to me. It looked like a club.

“Take it,” came the hollow voice of the figure.

I reached out to take it. Whatever it was I wanted it, even if it came from a killer, but before I could touch the thing in his hand, Koko shot in front of me, laughed, and said, “Back to the inkwell.”

“I know the ink well,” said Robeson at my side.

“Hold it,” I said, slipping backward away from the tall figure with the club. But they didn’t hold it.

My eyes opened. Pauline was looking down at me. “Hold what?” she whispered. “Are you having some kind of dream or something?”

I sat up and looked around, hoping to hold onto something from the dream, some piece of truth. My eyes hit the mirror, the empty beer bottles, our clothes in a pile on the chair, Shelly on his back, blanket drawn up to his chin, still snoring. He looked strange without his glasses.

“I’m okay,” I said. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know, morning. I want to get out of here before he wakes up.”

The morning light didn’t do good things for her. I was sure it didn’t for me either. I knew it did hell for Shelly. Pauline wanted to escape and I wanted to let her. We both felt guilty.

“I’ll get up and we’ll get some breakfast,” I said, starting to follow her as she crouched over to the chair for her clothes. She was not light but there was a nice softness about her across the room. Shelly stirred, opened his eyes, looked around, fixed on Pauline, blinked and fell back, lids dropping to snore again.

Pauline shook her head no to my breakfast offer and put her finger to her lips to indicate that I should be quiet. I was quiet, trying to hold onto the truth of the dream. Something I had seen in the room touched, worked, connected to the dream, almost woke up a truth. I watched Pauline dress quickly. She pulled on the black sweater, messing her hair even more. “See you later maybe,” she said.

“Later,” I said.

Then the door clicked and she was gone. The click of the door shot through Shelly, who sat up suddenly, yelled “What, What” and scrambled for his glasses. He found them next to his cigars on the night table and hurried them onto his eyes to see what was going on.

“A naked woman,” he said, looking around. “I saw …”

“What, Shelly?” I said with a yawn.

“I saw a … Forget it.”

I forgot it and tried to think, to imagine, but it was gone. Shelly was out of bed, staggering in his two-piece blue flannel pajamas and making unholy sounds in his throat. He made it to the bathroom door, turned on the lights, saw himself in the mirror, groaned, and staggered back to the door to look at me.

“And you,” he said, pointing a pudgy finger in my direction. “I’m not talking to you. I’m not forgiving you. Last night was …”

“Like a bad dream?”

“A nightmare,” he returned.

“Like a naked woman running by your bed.”

“Naked wo … I didn’t dream about … I’ve got to get in the bathroom.”

He closed the door behind him and turned on the water in the tub. Shelly would soak for an hour, maybe two, depending on what he had in there with him to read. I remembered the pile of dental pamphlets and looked around for them. They were gone, probably neatly stacked next to the tub. I got out of bed, examined black and grey hairs on my chest and the scars of half a century. The stomach looked reasonably flat, the legs reasonably strong. I got up, ready to meet the day and put on my underwear.

A church bell rang outside. I hadn’t heard one before. It seemed strange to hear a church bell in Manhattan, and then I realized it was Easter Sunday.

14

Pants, clean shirt with all the buttons, socks and shoes. I was looking at my unshaven face and wild hair in the mirror when a knock came at the door. I kept looking in the mirror, finding new strands of stiff, wild grey in the jungle of brown, and called, “Who is it?”

“Carmichael,” came the voice of the house detective, brogue back for Easter services.

“Who is it?” shouted Shelly.

“House detective,” I shouted. “Something about a naked woman.”

Shelly splashed wildly behind the bathroom door and I let Carmichael in. His suit was pressed, neat, dark. He wore a matching vest complete with watch fob, his tie silky with grey and brown stripes and his hair plastered back. He was also carrying a large white cardboard box.

“Natty,” I said.

“It’s a holiday,” he answered, stepping past me and looking around the room for bodies or contraband. “You should shave, brush your furry teeth and hair. It’s Easter Sunday.” He put the white box on the bed.

“Carmichael, you don’t need that Cheshire Cat of a brogue in here,” I said. “You’re among enemies.”

“Can’t help it. Gets in the blood. Package was delivered for you two this morning from Leone’s Costume Rentals. You boys planning to dress up as bunnies, are you?”

The bathroom door burst open and Shelly staggered out, soaked, a towel around his too-much waist. One hand held the towel in place. The other kept his glasses from sliding to the floor. He almost fell in a puddle of his own making. “There’s no naked woman in here,” he cried at Carmichael.

“No one said there was, you madman, you,” sighed Carmichael.

“I’m a dentist,” Shelly shot back.

“I hope not in this state or Kansas where my brother lives,” said Carmichael.

“I resent that,” cried Shelly.

“A healthy response,” said Carmichael approvingly. “Now if you’ll just slide back in the bathroom, I’ve got some business with your chum out here.”

Shelly gurgled, retreated, and closed the door behind him.

“Not the most festive of sights on a holy day,” whispered Carmichael.

“He fits in just fine on April Fools’ Day,” I said, finding a comb in my rotting suitcase and applying it to my reluctant hair. “Were you going to pass the morning insulting helpless dentists or is there something on your mind? If you’re going to try to …”

“Two gentlemen want to see you in room nine-oh-nine,” said Carmichael, watching my face for a reaction. “Room’s registered to a Mr. Orville Potts. Mr. Potts seems to be among the missing and, according to the maid on the floor, our Mr. Potts looks a lot like the gentleman you say tried to put a bullet hole through you. You wouldn’t know anything about where Mr. Orville Potts might be?”

“Have I got time to shave?” I said in answer.

“Make it fast. The gentlemen might get impatient.”

I went through the bathroom door without knocking and Shelly, deep in the water, pamphlet in hand, looked up in fear and then sullen anger. I wiped off the bathroom mirror with a clean towel and lathered up.

“God,” sighed Shelly. “A dentist right here in New York has a plan for replacing teeth. Pull out the bad ones, make a hole right in the bone under the gum, and stick in a permanent artificial one.”

“That’s sick,” I said.

“No,” Shelly said, splashing, “it works. It’s a great idea.”

“Might put you out of business,” I said, finishing off my face. “If everyone has permanent artificial teeth, they won’t need cavities filled. Chew on that one for a while, Shell.”

I could see Shelly in the mirror, worrying about the future of his dental practice. “I’ll be back in about an hour,” I said and left him to ponder his fate. “Why don’t you hang up the tuxedos?”

Carmichael was in a good mood as he led me into the elevator.

“Nice suit,” I told him again.

“Wife says it’s spiffy. Not as spiffy as a tux, though. You boys planning to crash a party?”

I didn’t answer.

The female elevator operator, a ringer for Una Merkel, examined Carmichael and didn’t seem to find him particularly spiffy. It didn’t bother him at all. On the ninth floor, Carmichael led the way to Povey’s room, knocked at the door, and waited till a familiar voice called, “Come in.”

We went in, with me first. Spade, whose name was really Parker, stood at the window, looking as if he had a piece of stringy meat caught in his dentures. He turned to be sure it was us, started to reach up to adjust his hairpiece, decided we weren’t worth it and turned back to his view of the street. Archer, whose real name was Craig, paid more attention to us. He sat on the edge of the single bed, as if he had just been awakened from a nap, which he may have been. “Thanks, Mr. Carmichael,” Craig said. “Your country appreciates your cooperation and your commitment to keep this business within your confidence.”

“That I’ll do,” Carmichael said. Then the house detective stood watching, hands behind his back, as if he expected a tip.

“We’ll give you a call if we need you,” Parker said from the window.

“Oh, right,” said Carmichael, losing his accent again. “I’ll be in the lobby till eleven, then I’m going to church.”

“A very good idea,” said Craig, standing up and grimacing as he massaged his lower back. “My partner will show you to the door.”

“I showed him to the door the first time,” Parker grumbled.

“You can show yourself to the door then,” the stork-shaped Craig said. Carmichael turned, walked to the door, looked back, hoping they had changed their minds but they hadn’t. He adjusted his vest, checked his pocket watch, and left.

“We’ve got no Pepsi or tuna to offer,” said Parker, turning to me slowly. “Just some information and advice.”

“We’ve lost track of Povey,” Craig said, still rubbing his back.

“That’s why I called you,” I said, leaning back against the desk at the foot of the bed, “He’s dead. Someone, probably your archenemy Zeltz, or one of his crew.”

“That’s why you called us?” said Parker, looking up at Craig.

“Right. It happened at the theater last night. Dress rehearsal for
Othello
backers. Povey showed up with a gun. Before I could get to him, someone put a knife through him. I went after the guy who did it and lost him. When I got back to the theater, Povey’s body was gone. No one even noticed he’d bought a one-way ticket to spy hell.”

“That’s when you called us at the Bureau,” Craig said.

The conversation was getting boring but I said, “Right. You said you had some information.”

“And advice,” Craig reminded me. “Povey’s being dead …”

“… if he is dead,” Parker picked up.

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Povey’s being dead complicates things a little,” said Craig, letting go of his back slowly, ready to grasp it again if it called for help. “Now we don’t know what the guy looks like who’ll try to kill Einstein and Robeson tonight.”

“Tonight?” I said, to keep the conversation flowing.

“Tonight, just at the break in the charity concert,” explained Parker. “He’ll …”

“Maybe she’ll …” Craig cut in.

“He, she, it, the Frankenstein monster, will blow them up or shoot them down when they’re together in public. New game plan seems to be to show how vulnerable the U.S. is, to show we can’t protect anyone they want to get rid of,” said Parker.