The Letter Writer (12 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
“You should have let me know you were coming,” Danziger said, a little irritably. “When you told me yesterday of your nuisance assignment, I went ahead and booked myself fully for the rest of this week, and these are not appointments that can be cancelled upon a whim.”
“Sorry.”
“Perhaps we can meet on Monday.”
“Okay.”
“At your office?”
Cain was about to assent, until it occurred to him that if he returned here he might at least have a remote chance of bumping into Beryl.
“I'll come here instead,” he said. “Ten a.m.?”
Danziger frowned, then nodded. “As you wish. Oh, and before I forget. I made a few inquiries in the matter of Mr. Albert Kannerman.”
“Who?”
“Your con man at large. Your punishment detail.”
“Who told you his name?”
“Here. Try this.”
He handed Cain a folded scrap of paper which contained an address on Grand Street. Nothing more.
“My understanding is that your best chance of finding him at home is between the hours of two and three a.m. I am also told he is a heavy sleeper.”
Cain was about to ask how Danziger had learned this when the door opened. For a moment his spirits leaped, but it was an older woman with a baby in her arms and two toddlers in tow, their faces smeared with bread crumbs.
“Ah, Mrs. Stern,” Danziger said, his voice rising an octave. “What a pleasure to see you. My visitor here was just departing. Come right in and I will retrieve your latest correspondence. One from each of your sisters!”
Cain slipped out the door as they entered. He headed back toward the maelstrom of Delancey Street, where he forded the crowds until reaching the stairway down to the subway. When he reached the platform he dug into his pocket for the address Danziger had given him for Kannerman. He chuckled to himself, wondering once again at the old man's resources. Maybe the info was worthless, although he doubted it. Another act of sorcery by Max Danziger. Or was it Sascha instead?
Information, indeed.
The Kannerman address wasn't far from here. Perhaps he should try it now, or at least scout out the best ways of entry and exit. He was on the verge of heading back up the stairs when he spotted Beryl, leaning against a support pylon maybe thirty yards down the platform, again reading her book.
Cain carefully worked his way toward her, weaving through the crowd while hoping she didn't look up and spot him. He stopped about ten yards short, wondering awkwardly what he could say to break the ice, when the train pulled in. He watched her board before he entered the same car at the opposite end. Peering between the heads and bodies he saw her take a seat just beneath an ad for Old Gold cigarettes, printed with the words of the jingle he'd heard that morning on his neighbor's radioâ
Not a cough in a carload!
âwhich somehow made the moment feel fated. Then he picked his way forward through the standers and strap-hangers until he stood just in front of her bench.
She looked up, noticing him right away. He feigned surprise.
“Oh, hi! What an unexpected pleasure.”
She looked annoyed, as if she'd instantly figured out his entire maneuver. Not a frown, but something close. “Hello,” she said curtly.
She looked back down at her book. Cain was beginning to feel quite resentful of Pearl S. Buck.
The train lurched into motion, lights flickering. At the first stop it took some effort to hold his position as more people boarded. He wondered if he should try to speak to her. Twice she glanced up at him. The first time he looked away, embarrassed. The second time she frowned and spoke up.
“Do you mind?”
She said it sharply enough that half the car must have heard. Heat rose in his cheeks, and when Cain glanced left an older woman was scowling at him. Public enemy number one, at least on this car. Suitably shamed, he worked his way back toward the other end of the car, where he spent the next few minutes staring at an advertising placard for the March of Dimes China Relief Fund, which only reminded him of Pearl S. Buck.
So, then. Was this what the city inevitably did to the lonely? Turned them into furtive stalkers in futile pursuit of companionship? In the course of a day he saw so many passing faces that he supposed he was bound to run across one now and then that would light something inside of him, a face that would inexplicably hit him just the right wayâor just the
wrong
way, considering how idiotic he now felt. He was behaving like a lecherous old man on a park bench with a runny nose and a bottle of hooch in a paper bag.
Between the next two stops the lights again went out for several seconds at a time. When they came back on Cain saw that an older Japanese manâmid-fifties, dressed head to toe in British tweedsâhad taken a seat on the opposite side. The seats to either side of him were empty, even though at least a dozen people were standing. People near him were frowning with even more hostility than they'd exhibited toward Cain. Germans and Italians could blend in, Cain supposed, but not Japs, and the assumption of course was that none could be trusted, not since Pearl Harbor. He had been mildly surprised to see this theme turn up even in a recent
Times
review of Gilbert and Sullivan's
Mikado,
in which the critic praised the libretto for “depicting the Japanese in the light that history now recordsâsly, witty and deceitful, unconsciously corrupt, and treacherous.” But did that also go for this poor fellow? He looked like nothing more than a weary businessman, briefcase in his lap.
The man stood to get off at the next station, which was also Cain's stop. Cain paused to let him exit first, only to have a glowering young tough shoulder past him along with a friend and then several other people.
The moment Cain stepped onto the platform he knew something was wrong. From just ahead he heard the sound of grunting, a loud gasp, a tumble of bodies. When the crowd cleared Cain saw the Japanese man on his knees at the edge of the platform next to his open briefcase, which was spilling papers into the breeze created by the departing train. Passersby moved briskly on their way, ignoring him, although one or two bumped his shoulder as if determined to add to his misery. One such bump caused him to teeter alarmingly at the edge of the platform before he steadied himself.
“Fucking spy,” someone muttered.
“Why isn't he locked up?” said another.
Cain stepped forward and began picking up loose papers. Then he knelt by the man, who, recoiling instinctively, held up a hand to protect himself.
“It's okay,” Cain said. “I'm here to help. Speak English?”
“Of course!” the man hissed, no trace of an accent. “I'm an American. I've lived in this country for thirty-nine years!”
“Hey, pal!” It was the young thug from the subway car, with his buddy. “Let the rest of us take care of this.”
Cain turned to see both boys grinning, hands in pockets. The first one cocked a leg, as if preparing to kick a football. Cain sprang from his crouch, grabbed the foot as it came forward, and then twisted the leg to tumble the boy onto his back.
“Whose side are you on, asshole!” the second one shouted, already in motion.
Cain released the boy's foot and pulled out his shield, flashing it in their faces.
“I'm a cop,” he said. “Get a move on.” Then, to the gathering crowd. “Everybody move it. This man's an American citizen on his way to work. Nothing more to see here.”
The last part was a New York cop's line if Cain had ever heard one. All that was missing was the local accent. As it was, the two young thugs seemed as shocked by Cain's drawl as by his actions. But the badge did the trick, and they eased slowly toward the exit.
When Cain turned back around a young woman was helping the Japanese man to his feet. It was Beryl. This time she didn't frown or look away.
“Thanks for doing something,” she said. “I've seen far too much of this kind of thing. No one ever raises a finger to stop it.”
The man clasped the briefcase to his chest. It was scuffed but intact, and so was he.
“Thank you,” he said to Cain.
“Don't mention it. Take care of yourself.”
Bystanders, already back on the move toward their destinations, frowned in disapproval, but none seemed perturbed enough to intervene. The man brushed himself off and was on his way, which left Cain and Beryl standing side by side. He glanced at her, and caught her glancing back. He still didn't even know her last name.
“Sorry about being, well, so rude,” he said. “It's just that⦔ He ran out of words. He was going to blow it again.
“Well.” She brushed a lock of hair from her face. “I should get to work.”
“Me, too.”
She turned and strolled away, the opportunity gone. He was an idiot, a fool.
Then she abruptly wheeled around, and almost before he knew what was happening she blurted out the most vital information he'd heard in days.
“Beryl Blum,” she said. “No
e
on the end. Cadman six, two-four-three-seven. The phone's shared by the whole building, so ask for Beryl in 2C.”
Before he could answer she turned toward the stairs and was swallowed by the crowd.
For several blocks Cain repeated the phone number over and over to himself so he wouldn't forget. Finally he stopped just outside the station house and took out his notebook to scribble it onto a blank page, along with her name.
Seeing it in black and white reassured him. Yes, he would see her again, and possibly soon.
He breezed into the building and climbed the stairs two at a time.
EARLY ON THE THIRD SATURDAY
of every month, unbeknownst to neighbors and friends, I treat myself to a personal metamorphosis, briefly shedding the drab trappings of my current existence in order to spread the bright butterfly wings of my distant past. It is a sort of therapy, I suppose, a means of reminding myself of a time when life was not quite so fraught with need.
I begin this transformation shortly after rising, by packing a small leather suitcase. Then, at around eight a.m., bag in hand, I set out from my doorstep dressed in my usual shabby clothes. I nod politely to passersby. Many of them are already walking to synagogue, to devote themselves to higher pursuits on this morning of the Sabbath, and I am happy to let them believe that I am doing the same.
Instead, I proceed west on Delancey until I reach the Bowery, with its rogues' gallery of gin mills and flophouses, deathly quiet at this early hour. I then head uptown, walking all the way to Astor Place. I prefer to be well north of my usual environs before boarding a subway, lest some believer catch me in the act.
Deceiving neighbors and clients is not my only motive. My precautions also protect them from knowledge which might only bring them harm. Their lives have become important to me, and to visit calamity upon their houses through some careless disclosure or unwanted entanglement from my own fading history would be unforgivable.
Upon arrival at Grand Central Terminal, I visit two fine establishments owned by the recently retired James P. Carey, a master entrepreneur of an earlier era. The first of these, located in the men's waiting room, is a once grand barber shop with an adjoining public bath. There, for the rather steep sum of fifty cents, I luxuriate in the heat and fog of a Russian steam bath, letting the cares and labors of the previous month rise like a vapor from my sweating pores.
Suitably refreshed, I unpack my suitcase and change into the laundered clothes folded neatly withinâcharcoal gray suit, with wide lapels and pleated pants, smelling faintly of mothballs; a starched white shirt; striped silk tie; black wool socks; and a polished pair of lace-up wingtips in black and white Italian leather, even though in recent years they have begun to pinch my toes.
I adjourn to the spacious barber shop with its sixteen chairs, tile walls, and marble basins, where my regular barber, Sandro, trims my graying locks with scissors, and then shaves a week's worth of stubble with a straight razor. He finishes by applying a layer of steaming towels. I remain silent throughout, content to eavesdrop on the political gossip of neighboring patrons. Before continuing on my way, I visit Mr. Carey's baggage check service, where I drop off the suitcase with my old clothes packed inside.
From there I catch an uptown subway, emerging into the part of Midtown which always reminds me of the music of Gershwinâbouncy, optimistic, and brashly American, with a human pulse beating deep within its many layers of noise. After the crowded lanes around Rivington Street these boulevards feel as spacious as the canyons of the American West, and I exult in the vista of skyscrapers with their clean and rigid lines stretching all the way to an open sky, with nary a clothesline in sight. If any of my current contemporaries were to pass me on the sidewalk during this final leg, I doubt they would recognize me. Even my posture is different. Shoulders back, chest forward, a longer and more confident stride.
My footsteps carry me deeper into Midtown, to the Longchamps restaurant on 57th, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, where I take a seat, order breakfast, and, with a flourish worthy of a banker, shake open my broadsheet newspaper.
I confess that Longchamps is a fallback destination. My first choice would be Lindy's, on Seventh, where my old employer used to hold court almost every night at his regular table, with his usual entourage. But even after all these years, an appearance there would feel too risky, too foolish, for someone who has become as careful as I. And it is not as if I set out on this monthly excursion in order to re-create history. I am engaging in harmless nostalgia, if only to remind myself of a time in which I believed in a future without war and without want, a more enlightened age in which the concerns of the Old World would no longer matter in this brash new country of ours. Such is the foolish optimism of youth and easy powerâa foolishness that seems especially acute when I also recall the manner of people I worked and played with at the time.
So, I settle instead for my secondary location, the 57th Street Longchamps, with its art deco air of elegance, from its murals to its menus. It, too, was once popular with my old crowd, particularly with one fair friend who has long since passed from my life, her face a mere memory. From time to time the place still attracts a few holdovers from those days, so I suppose that even my fallback choice comes with an element of calculated risk. That may even be part of its charm.
The current waitresses, however, know me only as a quiet, uncelebrated man who wishes to be left in peace as he reads his paper and enjoys his poached eggs on toast, with plenty of refills of coffee.
Usually I take a table in the back. Today it was occupied. Business has been picking up. During the first months of the war the place was practically empty. Now people are spending money againâthose who have it, anyway. Or maybe Longchamps is succeeding with its new ad campaign, which I recently spotted in the
Times,
a crass appeal to patriotism that proclaims sit-down dining to be a key element of overseas military success: “Don't be a âsandwich grabber.' Make every meal a VICTORY meal at Longchamps.” Ludicrous puffery, of course, but what could possibly be more American?
I was just tucking into my eggs when three customers walked in whose presence made me pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. One I recognized from the newspapers as a prosecutor from the district attorney's office. His face jarred loose a recollection from the recent past, but I was unable to identify its nature before the second gentleman commanded all of my attention. I had last seen him when I was much younger, and the sight of his face prompted me to drop my fork to the plate and duck behind the pages of my newspaper. One reason is that he is the sort of fellow who never forgets a face, no matter how much that face may have been altered by the passage of time. The other is that he is one of those people “who you see, but you do not watch,” as a wise man once said of my former employer. I knew him best by an old nickname, the Little Man, and the sight of him immediately reminded me of why I have always taken such scrupulous precautions in these monthly transits between one era and another.
For a few perilous moments I dared not even move the protective curtain of my newspaper. Only when I finally mustered the nerve to take another glance did I clearly see the third member of the party. His face was not familiar to me, and when the others spoke his name I did not recognize it, although I soon gathered from the way he was dressed and the words he favored that he was a lawyer for a client of dubious reputation.
They took seats at a nearby table, and although they endeavored to keep their voices low I was able to make out a fair amount of their conversation. Had I not done so, I would not even be relating this incident to you.
After a few minutes of small talk, in which they discussed General MacArthur, Herr Hitler, and the pitching staff of the New York Yankees, I began to lose interest. One of them then mentioned the name of someone in the same line of work as the Little Man, a name which would have been recognized by almost anyone in the restaurant. I snapped to attention and raised my newspaper into a position of even greater privacy.
Even then, it was not until several minutes later that I became convinced of the meeting's importance with regard to my own circumstances. Because that is when I heard them discuss, albeit briefly, the current status of Lutz Lorenz. Astonished, I strained my ears for more. When the waitress approached with the coffee pot, I waved her away with uncharacteristic rudeness. It then occurred to me why the fellow from the DA's office seemed so familiar, even beyond the fact of having seen him in the papers. The realization left me feeling quite troubled.
At that point I knew that this day would not proceed like any other third Saturday of the month. Usually I conclude these meals with a full stomach and warm memories. On this Saturday I was already thinking ahead to Monday, when I would be obligated to report my findings to Detective Cain, and in doing so would risk revealing a side of myself that I had hoped to conceal from himâfrom practically everyoneâfor the remainder of my days. Mr. Cain is a man of abiding curiosity, and I was certain he would ask many unwelcome questions. I would have to tiptoe through my answers, while avoiding any stumbles. My immediate concern, however, was to gather as much intelligence as possible.
I watched and listened closely, hoping for more. More is what I soon got, although not without some extra effort requiring the use of skills I have not employed in ages. And so, for the second time in as many weeks, I contemplated the inexplicable ways of old and submerged secrets, while wondering how many more of them would soon be rising from the deep.
The war was here. It had come right to my table. And on Monday I would be carrying a fresh dispatch from the front to Woodrow Cain. Further casualties now seemed inevitable.
