Smart Moves (9 page)

“They won’t believe that,” he said, following me back into the room. “Hey, there’s a hole in your window?”

“You noticed. Another reason to get another room.”

“And I can help you with this case you’re on,” he said, hurrying over to the far side of the bed to retrieve his case.

“We’ll see, Shell. We’ll see.”

While Shelly went off, I put on a dry pair of socks and my last clean shirt, packed, and checked my watch. It still didn’t tell me anything, I called the desk and found out that it was getting close to six. It was still dark outside but the thunder had stopped. Maybe it wasn’t raining. I didn’t know how far it was to the place where Albanese was rehearsing. I needed an umbrella.

Shelly came back ten minutes later, pink and glowing and dangling a key in front of my nose.

“I got two of them.” He tossed the key to me. “I told them I was Roosevelt’s polio therapist. See, I can think on my feet too.”

“You sure can, Shell. Let’s go.”

I didn’t take Carmichael up on his offer to pay my bill. I wasn’t through at the Taft. Carmichael had laid down a challenge. Besides, Povey had taken his shot at me here and Albanese was staying here. I got a receipt and checked out after leaving a message at the desk for Carmichael. It was simple: “Watch your back and your pension. I checked out.” I went out the front door. It was drizzling but lightly. I went around the block, went into the side entrance, and took the service elevator up to the twelfth floor. When I went into Room 1234 I could hear Shelly singing off-key and loud. I dropped my suitcase on one of the beds and looked into the bathroom. Shelly was sitting in the tub smoking and scrubbing the top of his head with Ivory soap. He was also singing “When you’re in love with New York” to the tune of “Begin the Beguine.”

“I’ve got to go out for a few hours, Shell. When I come back, we can go out for dinner.”

“Chinese,” he shouted. Suds flowed down his forehead covering his glasses. “The native food of our allies.”

His voice was raised in song as I closed the door.

7

The rain had stopped but the sky was dark when I stepped out on Seventh Avenue. The Taft doorman checked my clothes and motioned for a cab. I got in and told the driver where I wanted to go.

“That’s near the Village,” he said, shooting into traffic.

“Right,” I said.

He took the corner of Fiftieth, almost killing a guy who looked like Herbert Hoover. Maybe it was Herbert Hoover.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said.

“Then you’re the only one these days who ain’t,” said the cabbie. “You want to know what’s wrong with the world?” he went on, looking over his shoulder at me, instead of at the traffic we were heading for on Fifth Avenue. He had a sagging face, covered with bristly white hairs, to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. He squinted at me painfully as if I were the sun.

“No,” I said. “Just drive.”

“A philosopher,” he sighed with a giant shrug, turning around just as we were about to run a light and collide with a milk truck caught in the intersection on Fifth. He hit the brakes and turned to me again. “What’s the matter, Jackson? You think you can’t learn anything? You think you’re too old? I’m sixty-five. Can you believe that?”

“I’m seventy,” I said.

“I can’t believe that,” he said, giving me a sour stare. “Hey, you wanna talk sense or you wanna talk sense?”

“I don’t want to talk at all,” I said, pointing over his shoulder at the light that had just turned green. The guy in the car behind us hit his horn, and the guy behind him hit his horn, and the traffic tied up behind us all the way to Detroit hit their horns, but my cabbie didn’t move.

“Hold your horses,” he shouted over my shoulder through the rear window. There was no way anyone outside could have heard him. Only I was given the chance to go stone deaf. “Can you imagine that, Jackson? The Krauts decide to hit us tonight, they can come in on the noise. Patriotism, where is it? What happened to it?”

“Drive,” I said. “Now.”

I can be very persuasive when my nose is almost touching someone else’s and the scent of breakfast overpowers that of my tooth powder. He drove, making a sharp right, and kept quiet for about ten blocks.

“Kids,” he mumbled as he raced through lights, missed elusive pedestrians, and banged the heels of his hands on the steering wheel. I didn’t answer him so he repeated, “Kids.”

“Kids,” I said.

“Yeah, whether you like it or not kids are what’s wrong with this world,” he bellowed. “Am I right or am I right?”

“You’re right,” I said, wondering how many more blocks we had to go and trying not to look at the cabbie. I watched the stores roll by, their reflections in the jigsaw puddles of rain on the street, pedestrians leaping over or dashing around the water traps.

“I’ll say I’m right,” the cabbie whispered to himself. “Kids. They go around saying ‘solid’ and ‘jive’ and when they like something, you know what they say?”

“I like that,” I tried.

“I like … Funny. No, they say ‘murder.’ Does that make you feel like puking right in the street? I ask you.”

“I’m offended,” I said.

“Sure you are. Who wouldn’t be?”

“What about the kids in the army?” I asked, trying to catch some addresses so I could figure out where we were. We shot past 1023.

“Oh, the kids in the army. Well, you’re gonna get technical on me, huh, Jackson? The kids in the army,” he told God, his eyes looking upward through the roof of the cab. God would understand and support him.

“I’m not talking about them,” he spat. “I’m talking … here we are. Two bucks even.”

I looked around and didn’t see anything, no people on the street. There was a doorway just opposite where the cab had stopped, lit by a single bulb. I began to think that Albanese had given me a fake address. “Hold it,” I said, getting out.

“No, you don’t,” the cabbie said, reaching for something in his glove compartment. I knew what I kept in my glove compartment.

“I may not be staying,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Here’s the two bucks. You want a tip? You wait.”

He shut up, took the two bucks, and I got out and slammed the door. He took off without the tip, but—like Santa—as he drove out of sight he pulled down his window and shouted, “I hope they cut off your gazingas in this neighborhood is what I hope.”

Above the light bulb’s dark metal shade I could make out the words
BERT WILLIAMS THEATRE.
There was a single wooden door under the light. I turned the handle and went in. A stairway, worn wooden steps. I went up it toward the sound of voices. It reminded me of a gym I knew back in Los Angeles. At the top of the steps of the L.A. gym sat an old pug who knew how many letters there were in every president’s name. After he collected his dime, he’d let you work out or watch the war rejects waltz a round or two. There was no pug at the top of the stairs, just a dark open floor, uncarpeted and smelling a little moldy. A partly open door about twenty feet ahead let out enough light so I could see a darkened box office to my left and some benches and ash trays to the right. There were posters on the wall. I could only make out the one nearest the open door. It read I
N
D
AHOMEY
and had two black stick figures dancing. There was something sad about it but I couldn’t tell what.

And then, from the dark shadow near the inner door a voice came, deep and a little familiar. It scared hell out of me.

“Arise, black Vengeance, from the hollow hell!
Yield up, O Love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous Hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For ’tis of aspics’ tongues.”

“Hey,” I said, looking up for someone in the shadows, “take it easy.” I let my hand ease up to my jacket, ready to go for my holster, though I had no reason to expect anything but disaster if I had to go for my pistol. About half the time I’ve used my gun, I was the one who got shot.

“O, blood, blood, blood!” the deep voice answered as a figured moved forward out of the shadows, a sword in his hand catching the first glint of light.

“Hey,” I said, my hand inside my jacket touching the reassuring pebbled steep of my .38, “I’m looking for Alex Albanese, not trouble.”

The man with the deep voice stepped into a thin yellow path of light from inside the theater. I could still see only his dark outline and the sword in his right hand.

“What?” he said.

“No trouble,” I countered, holding up a hand. “Just tell Albanese I’m here.”

He stepped further into the light, and I could see that he was a couple of inches over six feet and wearing dark trousers and a grey turtleneck shirt with long sleeves. He looked as if he could take care of himself even without the sword.

“There’s a rehearsal going on here,” he said. “This theater is closed to everyone but cast and crew.” He took a step to his right and hit a switch. A trio of bulbs tinkled on overhead and I recognized the man with the sword.

“I saw
Sanders of the River
,” I said, letting my hands go back to my sides. “
The Emperor Jones
, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul Robeson said. “I try not to see them whenever possible. I must have startled you. I was rehearsing some lines in the corner when you came in. Who did you ask for?”

“Albanese, Alex Albanese,” I said. “He’s in your cast.”

Robeson looked at me and at his sword before answering. “Oh, the Clown,” he said.

“That’s him,” I agreed.

“No,” Robeson corrected with a deep laugh. “He plays the Clown. Are you his agent?”

“No,” I said. “It’s a little complicated. I’m working for Albert Einstein and …”

The door to the theater swung open and a woman stuck her head out and looked at us. Then she said, “Paul, I think we’re ready to try again.”

“Just a moment,” Robeson said, holding his hand up without turning to face the woman. His eyes were fixed on me. She turned and went back into the theater.

Robeson walked over to the small table in the corner, placed his sword on it, and sat on its edge. He was somewhere in his forties, but age hadn’t caught up with him as it seemed to be doing with me. I had his attention and I explained the threats to Einstein, the trail to Albanese, the shots through my door, Gurko Povey. I left out Pauline Santiago and Frank Sinatra.

Robeson folded his arms, shook his head, and when I finished looked to his right, where no one was standing, his eyes on the
In Dahomey
poster. “Do you know who Bert Williams was?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

“‘Nobody,’” I answered.

He looked at me, his eye movement followed slowly by his head, a gesture I figured he was trying out for Othello. “Nobody,” he said sadly.

“‘That’s Life,’” I said.

A smile touched the corner of Robeson’s broad mouth. “You have a sense of humor.”

“‘I Wasn’t Prepared for That,’” I answered, and Robeson laughed, a deep laugh that rolled like a song. “That about exhausts the Williams songs I know.”

“More than most, Negro or white,” he said. “Should I trust you, Mr.…”

“Peters, Toby Peters. I don’t know. Why not give Einstein a call and ask him?”

“I will,” he said. “Spies, murder attempts. It sounds like Shakespeare.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, “I’m more a Bert Williams type.”

“No,” sighed Robeson, “I’m the Bert Williams type. Did you know that Williams was forced to put on blackface to perform in Broadway shows, a Negro forced to put on blackface? That’s what I had to do when I was in those movies. Oh, not literal blackface, but the mask of the noble savage. I’m sorry, I’m a bit weary. You know that Einstein and I are doing a benefit on Sunday to raise money for refugee children?”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t want to scare you, but I think the Fahre or whoever Povey is with wouldn’t mind taking both you and Einstein out with one shot.”

“A prominent Jew and a prominent Negro,” he said, with a shake of his head.

“Maybe the most prominent Jew and Negro in the world right now.”

“And maybe you think I might need some protection too?” he asked, pushing away from the table with a knowing look and taking a step toward me. “And maybe I might retain your services?”

It was my turn to shake my head. “Einstein is picking up the tab. Two for the price of one. I’ve got my assistant here with me, in case things get a little too spread out.” I tried not to conjure up images of “my assistant,” the thick-lensed Shelly in a bath full of bubbles, singing war songs.

Robeson looked at me against with something that might have been cautious respect. “What do you know about Othello?”

“A hell of a fellow?” I said. “Shakespeare, a rhyme. A small joke.”

The cautious respect faded a bit and I could see him considering a new course of action. He looked a little tired as he rubbed his forehead and glanced toward the door to the theater. Voices came through, echoing, “Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away. Go, vanshing into air, away!” It was Albanese.

“He’s not very good,” I commented.

“No,” agreed Robeson, “he is not. We’ll probably have to replace him. I find it difficult to do such things, but the show is too important to tolerate even one minor mediocre performance. I’ve done
Othello
before, a decade ago that felt like a century. It means something different to me now. The Shakespeare scholars tell me about love and obsession. I see a dark-skinned man who is used by his society, honored by his society, treasured by his society for his skills, praised to his face and schemed against behind his back, hated for his love of a fair-skinned woman, driven to madness and despair. A man who can fight and love but who is too naive to understand the hatred his very presence brings. And yet he stands forth, enters the land of the stranger, suffers the hatred, proves himself, and kills himself when the world of hatred overwhelms him.” Robeson paused, looked up at me, cocked his head to one side as if it were my turn.

“Remind you of anyone?” I asked.

“Remind you?” he asked back.

“Joe Louis,” I said.

Robeson laughed again, louder than before, and a trio of actors, two men and a woman, came running into the alcove to see who the comedian was. They looked at Robeson and looked at me. They didn’t see anything funny in me. I shrugged, agreeing with them.