The Biology of Luck (18 page)

Larry leads his entourage on a skin-deep tour of the community from Seward Park to the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge, then consigns his charges into the hands of the local merchants. The younger couples will take photographs of themselves crossing Delancey Street and load up on designer brand knockoffs imported from Hong Kong. The older couples will purchase leather goods and accessories for grandchildren, belts and ties and purses, before recessing to a Kosher sandwich at Katz's Delicatessen or a more expensive but legitimate entrée at Ratner's. Although this downtime is not part of the official itinerary, it suits both shepherd and flock. The Dutch are tired of Larry's blather. He is fed up with their boredom. This separation ensures that when they reassemble at four o'clock in front of the old police headquarters and board the coach for midtown, neither party will resort to violence. So it is a happy arrangement. Except that Larry has two hours to kill among the remnants of his heritage and not enough time to wander too far afield. For a brief while, long before Larry's affiliation with Empire Tours, there was one oasis east of the Bowery that could draw him down to this Ashkenazi Sahara: a hole-in-the-wall deli called Napthali's Noshes. The inauthentic ambience and decidedly gentile clientele made the sojourn tolerable, while the
well-done brisket and extra-lean pastrami elevated him to gustatory heights. But this Disneyfied eatery went the way of all preserved flesh, so Larry usually passes his Wednesday afternoons hiking up to Tompkins Square Park and back down again. Today, however, P. J. Snipe is waiting for him at the bridge entrance.

Larry greets Snipe and brandishes his bouquet as evidence of his date. The tour supervisor shakes his hand and then waits for the Dutch to disperse. Rita Blatt hangs back at a distance of several yards, but makes no effort to leave him. Snipe inspects her warily like a high priest warding off a leper and then discharges a thick wad of phlegm onto the pavement.

“Did you hear the news, Bloom?” Snipe asks. “We're up shit's creek without a paddle.”

“About this morning?”

“Yes, about this morning. It's absolute dog piss.”

“I don't see why it's such a big deal,” says Larry. “I think these Dutch actually enjoyed it.”

“Who cares about these cretins? They've already paid for their tour. But after what happened this morning, we won't be able to lead a group of armed robbers through Fort Knox. You did hear the news, didn't you?”

“I'm not sure,” Larry answers with trepidation. “What news?”

“That middle-aged broad with the Dutch consul turns out to be the wife of some big-time manufacturer. The television crews ran a short clip of the riot on the noon newscasts and they caught her on camera. They didn't even know what they had their hands on until the husband saw the coverage and ran out of his office shouting that his wife was porking a Fish Head. He made it as far as Municipal Plaza and dropped dead of a heart attack in the parking lot. Say, you must have passed right by there. You didn't see anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“Anyway, Bloom, now Empire Tours is front-page news. And you know what that means. That means we're shoulder deep in dog piss.”

“I see your point.”

“Don't see my point,” growls Snipe. “Eat, breathe, and shit my point, okay? Every two-bit journalist in this city would love an exclusive with the Dutch tourists who helped expose the scandal of the millennium. That's what they're billing it. That and Nethergate. Do you hear what I'm telling you, Bloom? You're a wanted man. You need to keep these cretins as isolated as possible. Make sure they stay far away from trouble and get them back to their hotels in one piece. We've already taken the liberty of rescheduling their flights. They're on a KLM charter out of Kennedy at ten thirty this evening. No need to hold them here overnight and give the media a crack at them. So be on the lookout, Bloom. And whatever you do, don't talk to any reporters.”

Larry glances at Rita Blatt. She has retreated into the shade of a sickly poplar. She smiles at him when he looks at her and waves her fingertips.

“What about her?” Larry asks.

“Who the hell is she?”

“The reporter from the
Downtown Rag
. The one doing a feature on historic tours. She showed up at Castle Clinton and said you had okayed it. “

“Dog piss,” says Snipe. “Just our screwy luck. But you know what to do, Bloom. Act like a man and ditch her.”

“Ditch her?”

“That's right. Lose her. Scram. Gone. Good-bye. Make it look like an accident.”

It would be my pleasure, Larry thinks. But easier said than done.

“And Bloom—”

“Yes?”

“I'll see you up in Riverdale at seven o'clock. Here's the destination.”

Snipe gives him a business card with the grandmother's address printed on the back. Larry is about to object—he needs to meet Starshine in the West Village at eight thirty—but his boss is too quick on the draw. He numbs Larry's fingers with a ruthless handshake and
immediately hails a passing cab, leaving his employee speechless at the curbside. The move is just like Snipe, Larry thinks. Act first, ask later. It makes Larry's blood boil, but it works. The self-serving prick will earn brownie points with his floozy of the week while Larry's dream date dines alone. He wishes he could call Starshine and postpone by an hour, but then she might outright cancel. She keeps a busy social calendar. His only hope is to drive like Big Louise and hope for the best.

Larry lights a cigarette and sets off for Tompkins Square Park. He has walked half a block before he senses Rita Blatt strolling beside him. She has stowed both her notepad and her umbrella inside her heavy canvas bag, so she no longer resembles an uptight journalist. Yet liberated from the protection of her professional disguise, the newswoman appears all the more undesirable. Her so-called shtick is her only redeeming grace. It justifies her appearance in a way that a circus sideshow legitimizes dwarves and bearded ladies. Without it, she appears haggard and spent. Like a plywood puppet, Larry thinks, crowned by a papier-mâché head.

“Where to?” she asks.

“Just walking.”

“Then you won't mind walking me up to my flat, Larry, will you? It's not terribly far. Avenue A on the park. I want to phone the office to let them know that I have a story. My angle is going to be romance and tourism—putting the
guy
back in tour
guide
. I have a camera up at my place. You won't mind a photo, will you? And we'll need to put those flowers in some water. “

Larry tenses and instinctively clutches the bouquet to his chest.

“You can knock off the act. Just because I'm into this angst-ridden high-strung journalist shtick doesn't mean I'm not also a woman. I can tell when a guy has a thing for me. Call it a sixth sense. So there's no point in us wandering around the city all afternoon, playing cat and mouse games, and then exchanging phone numbers like characters in some 1950s romantic comedy, when you find me attractive and I don't think you're half-bad yourself. I know I'm very forward, maybe even a wee bit presumptuous, but it saves a lot of
unnecessary grief in the long run. So I'll put the flowers in water and you'll get the grand tour of my place and we'll take it from there. But I have to warn you. I'm seeing somebody else, and I'm not ready to give him up. I believe I already mentioned that, but I want to put all of my cards on the table. So, anyway, what are
you
thinking?”

“I don't know,” answers Larry.

He lets Rita Blatt lead him up Essex Street and onto Avenue A. She prattles endlessly about the gentrification of the neighborhood, about why she didn't attend journalism school, about her considerable experiences with psychiatric treatment and relationship counseling and New Age “personal enhancement” at the Society for Secular Harmony. Some people leap from one form of self-examination to another; Rita Blatt prefers the synergistic approach. The more varied the therapeutic techniques, the better her prospects for overcoming her insecurities. And she is unquestionably a woman with an insecurity for every occasion. Larry knows that he owes it to Rita Blatt to set her straight about the flowers, to inform her point-blank that he's both psychologically and probably biologically incapable of meeting her expectations, but he lacks either the heart or the courage. Most likely a combination of both. He has limited experience rejecting amorous proposals. The few times he has turned down an advance—the blind receptionist at Empire Tours who resembles a porcupine, a broad-shouldered alcoholic neighbor in her late fifties—the spurned women have turned hostile. Larry understands their rage. One had to swallow a lot of self-respect to proposition an ugly person; finding out that even someone you find unattractive won't date you is a damning blow. So Larry truly sympathizes with these poor creatures. He has been on the other side of the conflict and suffered his own slights at the hands of marginally passable females. The last thing he wishes to do is wound Rita Blatt's already fragile ego. He would also like to avoid a drubbing with an umbrella. So he walks and listens, desperately searching for a plausible escape, until they arrive at Tompkins Square Park.

Rita occupies a sixth-story walk-up at the far end of a constricted passageway. The lighting in the corridor is poor and it does not
improve inside the confines of the journalist's dreary flat. Her porcelain lamps cast somber ringlets of light from under thick gray shades. The only window in the main room looks out onto a narrow air shaft. Larry surveys the apartment from the vestibule while Rita rummages her kitchen cabinets for a vase. Her walls are plastered with travel brochures and posters from classic films. Katharine Hepburn smiles over Athens. Marlon Brando and Karl Malden keep watch on either side of Milan. A small wooden table stands in one corner, supporting an old computer and a stack of neatly folded undergarments. A futon mattress abuts the far wall. The greater portion of the cramped room is occupied by cardboard boxes heaped high with manila folders. The sparse decor suggests a stage set from an off-Broadway play—ones of those gritty, working-class plays touting frugal living that Larry's father finds so edifying. This is a home without joy. It reminds Larry of his own apartment.

“Take a load off while I pour us some drinks,” Rita calls from the kitchen. “I'm sorry there are no chairs. I used to borrow a couple from a friend, but then she moved to Astoria and took them back. So what's your poison? Cheap red wine or cheap whiskey?”

“Nothing, thanks. I'm on duty.”

He sits down on the mattress and rests his feet on the faded linoleum.

“You have to have something,” says Rita. “It will loosen you up.”

“I'll have a glass of water.”

“Water it is,” agrees Rita. “Draft or on tap?”

The journalist emerges from the kitchen carrying two paper cups. She cozies up beside Larry on the futon, much too close, and swizzles her wine with her pinkie. He inches away and looks pointedly at his watch.

“We should be getting back,” he says.

“We have plenty of time,” answers Rita. “Don't be so uptight.”

A crash behind the plaster cuts off any further discussion. It is rapidly followed by the distinctive sound of human bodies compressing springs. Katharine Hepburn's smile appears suddenly indecent.

“What's that?” asks Larry for no particular reason.

“Every Wednesday,” says Rita. “It only lasts about ten minutes.”

The sound intensifies. It is punctuated by masculine grunts and feminine moans.

“It gets to me sometimes,” says Rita. “Some people have no respect for other people's personal space. But I imagine I make just as much noise, so I never say anything. My guess is that the crackpot next door has a standing appointment with a call service.”

“Whatever,” says Larry. “It's still outrageous.”

And all the hostility he has been nursing toward Rita Blatt now shifts to the indecent sound behind the plaster. What right do these people have to torment this single, funny-looking woman every week? Their lovemaking seems spiteful and cruel. They must be driving poor Rita mad. Their duet is already driving Larry to the brink after only a few seconds. And he won't tolerate it. He'll fight fire with fire. Larry thinks of the nasty old biddy who used to live below him in Morningside. If he so much as walked to the bathroom after midnight, she would pound on the ceiling with a broomstick. He couldn't fathom her obsession with silence. Why couldn't she have just accepted that some friction is an inevitable part of life and that certain irritations are beyond human control? Now Larry understands. He removes his loafer and hammers the plaster behind the mattress.

“Don't bother,” says Rita. “It's not worth it.”

“It will send them a message.”

“Please, Larry. It's really not worth the effort.”

Larry keeps pounding. The slap of leather against plaster fuses with the gasps and groans of human passion, producing a cacophonous fugue of eroticism and outrage. The combination is almost symphonic. It rattles the porcelain lamps and the cardboard boxes. Larry's shoe leaves a cuffed outline on the defoliated wallpaper. Shut up, goddamn it! Larry thinks. It is impossible that they don't hear him. And yet the sound of their debauchery increases, as though fed by his own clamor. He throws all of his weight, all of his anger, into his jack-hammering. Their lust soars like a tidal breaker. The universe's two most savage
forces have been unleashed. This is a battle of unyielding wills—desire versus desperation. Although nature will tolerate the illusion that this is a competition between equal combatants, the match has been fixed from the outset. Eons of evolutionary biology favor desire. While Larry's hands are locked in a life-and-death struggle with a stranger's wall, Rita Blatt's find their way to his groin.

“Jesus!” he shouts.