Trump Tower (56 page)

“And drank all his milk, he did.”

“All right then, someone get me a rucksack.”

“You're fucking daft,” Joey said to his father, pulling off his right shoe.

Ricky asked, “Where do we keep our rucksacks?”

Joey answered, “We don't have one.”

“Then get a suitcase,” Ricky said.

Neville worried, “How's Billy going to breathe in a suitcase?”

Ricky shook his head. “Obviously, we're going to poke holes in it.”

“Oh yeah,” Neville nodded. “Good thinking.”

“Wot, you want a rucksack?” The woman on the couch stirred. “You can take mine.”

“Where is it, luv?” Ricky asked.

She pointed toward the hallway, turned over, and went back to sleep.

“Where?” Ricky looked but couldn't find it.

“I got it,” the other woman said, pulling it from behind a couch.

Ricky saw it and said, “That's perfect.”

It was a Simpsons backpack, except it was obviously a bootlegged one, because the drawing on the side was Marge, naked on her knees in front of a naked smiling Homer.

Ricky studied it—“I love it”—then opened it to pull all of her stuff out. He found a small collection of sex toys, some underwear, toothpaste and deodorant.

“Your bird comes prepared,” he said to Joey.

“Not my bird. Never saw her before.”

Ricky looked at the other woman, “She your mate?”

That woman shrugged and said the same thing, “Never saw her before.”

“So then,” Ricky wanted to know, “how did she fucking get here?”

Joey said, “Don't have a clue, mate. Assumed she was your bird.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Ricky went to look at her closely and nodded to show the others that she wasn't too bad. “Here, take all this,” he dumped the backpack's contents onto the floor, “and put it on my bed. When she wakes up, if I'm not here, tell her to get into my bed and I'll be back.”

The woman nodded, “Sure, Rick.”

He sat down on the floor opposite Joey and took off his right shoe. Joey put his feet together with his father's, then twisted it so Ricky's right heel was touching Joey's right toes.

“Go on Neville,” Ricky said, and Neville bent down to slide the ankle bracelet over Ricky's heel and onto Joey's toes.

It was very tight, and scraped both their feet, but as it came off Ricky's foot, it slid snugly onto Joey's foot, then up his ankle.

“Got it,” Ricky said triumphantly, rubbing his ankle where the bracelet had been. “Don't know why they insist on making it so hard to get off.” He stood up and stepped back into his shoe, “My foot feels a stone lighter.”

He did a little jig to show the others that he was free of the bracelet, then said, “Get some of them cat biscuits, or whatever they are, and drop them in the bottom of the rucksack . . .”

When Neville did that, Ricky picked up the ocelot and slipped him into the backpack.

“It works,” Neville said.

“Of course it works,” Ricky said. “Let's go.”

With the ocelot's head sticking out over the top, Ricky handed the backpack to Neville.

“Why me?”

“Because of me ankle,” Ricky said. “I can't put any weight on it . . . you know, after the bracelet being there and all . . . can I.”

Neville accepted the excuse.

The woman reminded Ricky that if he went outside, breaking the rules of his house arrest, and someone spotted him, he'd be in trouble. “You need a disguise.”

She gave him her baseball cap and big red sunglasses.

“And don't forget,” she said, “to put the cat's head inside the rucksack and keep it zipped up while you're out.”

“Right.” Ricky nodded to Neville.

“Right,” Neville said, hoisting the backpack over his shoulders.

“Right,” Joey said, “right fucking daft.”

T
HEY GOT
out of Trump Tower and headed up Fifth Avenue, and all the time Neville kept saying, “Do you think anyone's on to us yet, mate?”

Ricky kept answering, “Nah, mate, we're sweet as a nut.”

But when they got to the Central Park Zoo, two policemen were standing near the entrance.

Ricky quickly turned Neville around. “The Old Bill, mate,” and together they walked into the park.

“Phew,” Neville said, “that was close.”

“Yeah.” Ricky kept looking back to see if the cops were following them, which they weren't. “We'll never get past them.”

“So what do you suggest?”

He looked around. “This path . . . let's go.”

“Where does it lead?”

“Wherever it leads.” He started taking deep breaths. “It's really cool to be outside, taking a stroll like this after all that time being shut in.”

When they got to Eightieth Street, Ricky saw a little path turning off the drive to their left. Following it, they found themselves walking across a great expanse of lawn, near the Turtle Pond.

Ricky looked around and off in the near distance spotted some tall brush. “Over there,” he said. So they went there and Ricky decided, “This is as good a place as any.”

“But I thought . . . what about the zoo?”

“Can't do it, can we, not surrounded by coppers, like that. If they spot me out here they'll nick me and they'll nick you for stealing an animal from the zoo.”

“We didn't steal nothing,” Neville said.

“Tell it to the judge.” Ricky took the backpack from him, opened it and bent down to pour the ocelot out. “Go on, Billy . . . go on . . .”

First, it poked its head out, then it jumped out . . .

“Go on, Billy, scat.”

. . . then it raced for the bushes.

“Free at last,” Ricky said.

Neville looked at the bushes. “I kind of miss him already.”

“We better get out of here.” Ricky motioned. Neville didn't move. “Come on.” He tugged at Neville's arm, and the two of them hurried back to Fifth Avenue.

“Being able to walk outside is pretty good,” Ricky said.

“You don't have much time left now.”

“Not a lot. Eight or nine days? I should show you my countdown clock.”

As they stepped into the residents' lobby, Ricky took off the sunglasses and the baseball hat.

“Hey Mr. Lips, long time no see,” Jaime the doorman said.

“Look who's there.” Schaune, the concierge on duty, waved to him. “Nice to see you.”

Ricky waved back, “To see you, nice.”

Upstairs, Ricky and Joey put their feet together and slipped the bracelet back on Ricky's ankle.

“What did they say at the zoo?” Joey wanted to know.

Ricky looked at him, then at Neville, then back at Joey. “They said . . . free at last.”

“Free at last?”

“Yeah.” Ricky knew the rest of the famous speech because it was part of the lyrics to one of the Still Fools' songs. “Free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

A
ntonia paced the floor of her living room, looking at the clock in her tiny kitchen every few minutes.

She'd already checked the papers, but they only announced the time when the curtain went up, so she'd phoned the box office and learned that, on most nights, the show usually ended around 10:20.

It was now 9:30.

She went into her bedroom, turned on the television, but couldn't sit still long enough to watch anything. She came back into the living room, then went back to her bedroom. Eventually, she got it into her head that she should try again to rearrange the furniture.

If Antonia moves her desk from under the window and puts the couch there
instead, what should Antonia do with the bookcase on the wall where the couch is now?

She'd been through this before, several Saturday nights in a row, but was still not happy with the outcome. So she pulled the desk into the middle of the living room, shoved it off to the side, grabbed the couch with both hands, and dragged it from the far wall to the window.

It was facing the wrong way, but because it was so heavy, she needed to catch her breath before she turned it around.

She fell into it, sat there for a few seconds thinking about the apartment, then glanced up and began staring out the window.

From her fifth-floor apartment, she could see lights on in the apartments across West Eighty-Eighth Street.

A fat woman was carrying a baby. An old man standing in his kitchen was talking to someone. Two young boys in their room were arguing about something.

Fascinated, she leaned forward and began counting how many windows she could peek into.

There were those three, and there were another two a few doors to the left—in one she could see a wide-screen television hanging on a wall, and in the other it looked like there were bunk beds—and then a light came on to her right and she saw a man taking off his shirt.

She watched him. But once he had his shirt off, he moved away. She waited for him to come back. He didn't.

Then a light one floor below went on, and now a young guy—she figured he was probably eighteen or nineteen—took off his jeans and walked around in a pair of white jockey shorts.

She waited for more. “Come on, take it off,” she whispered.

But the light in his room snapped off and didn't come back on again.

This is fun
, she said to herself, looking at the clock in her kitchen and seeing that she had plenty of time before making her call.

Antonia needs to buy binoculars
.

Hurrying off the couch, she pushed it right up to the window, turned off all her lights, then crawled back onto the couch, sitting there on her knees, watching lights come on and go off all over the block.

A woman walked in front of a window, took off her bra, and moved away.

A couple kissed in the middle of a room, then disappeared. She figured they fell onto a couch or a bed, and she waited for them to reappear, but they didn't.

Binoculars. Where can Antonia buy binoculars? There must be a place on Broadway . . . the hardware store . . . Antonia can buy binoculars and be back real quick . . .

A light came on almost directly right across from her window, and a man with a towel tied around his waist went to a set of drawers and took out some underpants.

She held her breath, anxious to see what he was going to do.

He tossed the underpants onto something . . . she figured it was his bed . . . then turned around, with his back to her, and the towel came off.

“Oh . . .” She couldn't believe how exciting this was. “Turn around.”

She couldn't see what he was doing, but he stood there like that for a long time as she stared at his bare backside.

“Turn around . . . please . . .”

Then he did.

“Oh . . .”

He was standing there, naked.

Binoculars. Antonia must buy binoculars tonight
.

Her phone rang.

The man was still there, naked in the window.

The phone rang a second time.

Then, suddenly, the man shut the blinds.

He was gone and her show was over.

The phone rang a third time, and this time she lunged off the couch to grab it.

“Hello?”

“I told you to call me.”

“What?” She carried the phone back to the couch to watch the windows across the street.

“I told you to call me after my show.”

“Your show? Oh . . .”

She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was now nearly eleven. “Tommy. I'm sorry. I was busy. I was going to call . . .”

He asked, “What are you doing?”

“How did you get my number?”

“I can get anybody's number. What are you doing?”

“Ah . . . reading,” she lied. “I was reading. I was going to call you . . . really. Did the show go well tonight? What are you doing?”

“I'm in my dressing room,” he said. “What are you wearing?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you wearing?”

“Ah . . .” He flustered her. “A pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.”

“And where are you?”

“At home.”

“But where? In your bedroom?”

“In my living room.”

“What does your living room look like?”

She didn't know what to tell him. “It's . . . I don't know . . . it's square and there's a door . . .”