Manhattan lullaby, p.15
Manhattan Lullaby, page 15
Finally, after hitting his thirty-second pothole of the journey—Maxine knew this because she had kept track—the driver let them off at the foot of Thomas Street.
Maxine got out of the cab, looked around and clutched her purse just a little more tightly under her left arm. With her other hand she grabbed hold of her son. In her mind there were all sorts of dubious lifeforms lurking in the alleys and the doorways they would have to pass to reach their destination. And she wasn’t about to take any chances. She wanted to survive her visit to New York’s netherworld with both kid and credit cards intact.
“Definitely a pink hair area,” she said to her son. And then, screwing up her courage, “Come on.” She started off down the street in the direction of what looked like a group of decrepit warehouses.
When they got to the right one, or rather the one with the right address, since none of these buildings could have been described as being even remotely “right” in any other sense of the word, Maxine took a deep breath, and being careful to keep her gloves on, cautiously reached up a finger and pushed a buzzer that looked like it had already been the victim of several thousand ungloved and grimy hands.
Bradley hung back, still unconvinced that this was the right or even the safe thing to do.
“Maybe nobody’s home,” he urged hopefully, tugging at his mother’s arm as she went to push the buzzer one more time.
But before she could reach it, a voice crackled over the intercom. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Maxine Kraft,” said Maxine, leaning close to the intercom but being careful not to inhale just in case any germs were lingering from whomever had last leaned this way.
There was a pause before the voice responded with a guarded, “So?”
This threw Maxine for a second. “My son and I would like to talk to you.”
Again there was a pause. “What about?” asked the voice with more than a hint of suspicion.
“Ah … It’s about Rogue.” It was the first time Maxine had willingly said the name out loud, and she made the sacrifice only now for the sake of expediency. If whoever was on the other end of the intercom knew anything about a certain baby, then this was the way to establish their connection. If not, then it was better to establish that now, while they were still outside and capable of beating a hasty retreat.
But a few seconds later the bleat of the door buzzer signaled that the disembodied voice did indeed know someone named Rogue.
“Well, come on,” said Maxine, sounding much braver than she felt. Anything could be on the other side of that door. Drug addicts, pimps, thieves, mice!
They went through the decaying, peeling door with its pollution-encrusted pane of glass, over the crumbling, sagging threshold and—into another world.
Maxine, though she may have suspected many things lay beyond the door, had not expected this hidden display of opulence. But she was not reassured. In fact, she was immediately on the alert.
“Look at this place,” she whispered sotto voce to her son.
“Yeah, isn’t it great!” cried Bradley, who had suddenly gained a whole new respect for the woman with the pink hair.
“Shush!” warned Maxine as they began to climb the stairs. She was sure now that there were videocameras and microphones hidden nearby to keep an eye on the comings and goings and whisperings of those who had witnessed the glories of this Manhattan version of Ali Baba’s cave. “There’s something wrong here.”
“Wrong? What’s wrong? This place is fantastic!”
“That’s what’s wrong. Fantastic places do not get hidden away inside derelict old warehouses. It defeats the point. Whoever owns this place is trying to hide something.”
“Ma, come on. Maybe they just like it this way.”
“Nobody in their right mind would like living this way in this area. If they like living this way, they should be living uptown where they can be in Architectural Digest. Unless they’re up to something.” She ran her hand over the expensive carved banister. “Drug money,” she mouthed the words to her son and nodded once to reinforce her point.
“Oh, Ma …”
They reached the top of the stairs, and Maxine was beginning to wish that she had let Bradley talk her out of coming here after all. A simple telephone call would have been enough. And, if a meeting had been necessary, a nice crowded public place—say, the third floor of Lord and Taylor’s during the pre-Christmas sale—would have been a much better choice than this.
Before they could even knock at the door at the top of the stairs, it opened with just enough of a creak that the hairs on Maxine’s neck stood up in spite of her turtleneck sweater. And the hairs stayed at attention when she saw that standing a few steps inside the doorway was a tall, muscular woman with short-cropped black hair. She was wearing a man’s white undershirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of black leather jeans, and cowboy boots with spurs.
“I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” murmured Bradley.
“Shut up,” hissed Maxine at the same time as she was smiling her hello to the woman with the spurs.
“Come in,” said the woman. And without smiling back she moved aside so they could both enter.
Bradley and Maxine sidled past her into the luxe interior of the loft. Neither one of them had any idea who this woman was, but neither one of them was about to challenge her right to be there—or anywhere else, for that matter.
Maxine spoke first. “We are looking for Pauline McCormick,” she said with more authority than she actually felt.
“Yeah,” said the woman and turned and walked over to the area that evidently served as a living room. Maxine deduced this because although the loft contained no interior walls, the furniture was grouped in the traditional manner. A bed was paired with night tables further down the open space and here, couches and chairs were mixed in with coffee tables, speakers, guitars and keyboards.
“You’re a musician!” cried Maxine, her voice displaying a note of relief because she could now account for both the location of the loft, the look of the woman and the luxury of the surroundings without having to ascribe criminal activity to any or all of the above—a circumstance that made her personal safety quotient soar to the highest level it had been since they had passed Herald Square.
“I know who I am. What I don’t know is who you are,” replied the woman aggressively as she took out a cigarette from the pack that had been rolled up in one short white sleeve.
“I’m Maxine Kraft, and this is my—”
“Yeah, we did that number already,” Paulie let out half a dozen perfect smoke rings in quick succession. “What I meant was, who the hell are you and what’s this got to do with Rogue?”
Maxine waved an errant smoke ring away from her face. “My son—Bradley—is the father of a baby named Rogue. We found an American Express receipt.”
Paulie nodded. “Oh yeah? I get it. Luba left the receipt in the bag when she took the kid to the synagogue. So much for keeping it anonymous. Jeez!” Paulie shook her head in amazement. “You know, she may have looks. She may even have talent. But sometimes when I look at her I can see that even though the lights are on, there’s nobody home. You know what I mean?” She took another deep drag on the cigarette and gave Bradley the once-over. “So you’re the father, eh?” was all she said.
Bradley wasn’t sure if he had just been insulted or not, and if he had been, what he planned to do about it since this woman looked like she could quite easily reduce him to a series of compound fractures without knocking the ash off the end of her cigarette. He decided not to pursue her opinion of his paternity.
Maxine picked up the slack. “He is the father, and Pauline McCormick is the mother. We’d like to see her. Is she in?”
“Yeah, she’s in,” said Paulie, who was beginning to enjoy her little game of cat and mouse with these two, who looked so straight they could be used as a level. “But she’s not the mother.”
“But the receipt …”
“I’m Pauline McCormick. And believe me, the only thing I ever gave birth to was an album. You want Luba. She’s the mother, but she’s out shooting right now.”
“I told you,” whispered Maxine out of the side of her mouth. “Probably holding up a bank.”
“She’s an actress. She’s got a role in this picture, Witches of Wall Street,” continued Paulie, who may or may not have heard what Maxine had said.
“Who are you, then?” asked Bradley, who was trying to get a better picture of what was going on here and just who his baby’s mother was.
“I was the father before you,” replied Paulie, a little ironic grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Oh,” was all Bradley could think of to say. He thought he had a pretty good picture now of what was going on. He felt his face begin to tinge with red.
“So how’s the kid?” inquired Paulie.
“The baby’s just fine … now,” answered Maxine.
Paulie picked up on the “now.” “Now? What happened to him?”
“I had to take him to the hospital,” said Bradley.
“That’s why we’re here,” added Maxine.
Paulie looked from one to the other and shrugged. “I don’t have a medical plan. But if you need some money …”
“No, no, it’s not that. We need to get some information about the baby. Birth weight, age, medical history.” Maxine ticked off the list on the end of her still-gloved fingers.
“And we need his birth certificate,” added Bradley, “for when he goes to school.”
“School? You uptown types like to plan ahead, don’t you?” Paulie laughed and relaxed a little. Her initial thought when she heard Maxine mention Rogue over the intercom was that they wanted to give the baby back, so she had decided to play dumb. She knew that Luba didn’t want the baby back. And had in fact signed a three-picture deal with TriStar only yesterday. The kid’s acting career was starting to take off. Probably because she had done what Paulie said and let her white-picket-fence side show through. With the right handling she could go far as the next Little Miss Middle America, especially now she had got rid of the pink hair, the mesh stockings and the army boots.
Paulie stood up. “Listen, I got a session in a few minutes and Luba won’t be home til later.”
Maxine took the hint and stood up also. Bradley followed suit. Paulie continued, “But I’ll tell her you guys dropped by and I’ll get her to get all the stuff she has about the baby together and get it to you, O.K.?”
“Fine,” said Maxine, grateful that Paulie hadn’t asked them to wait. It was getting dark outside and she didn’t like the idea of trying to get a cab “down here” in the dark. It would be bad enough in the daylight.
Paulie walked the two of them to the top of the stairs. Then she turned to Bradley. “So, how do you like being a father?”
“I think I like it,” answered Bradley with youthful candor.
Paulie nodded her approval and then turned to Maxine. “You’re Dear Maxine, right?”
Maxine nodded, surprised. Though come to think of it, from the letters she had been getting lately she shouldn’t have been all that surprised that her audience included the Paulies and the Lubas of the world.
Paulie clapped her on the shoulder. “Luba’ll be pleased her kid went to Dear Maxine’s son. She reads your column every month. Quotes you all the time.”
“She does?” replied Maxine, flattered in spite of the source.
“Yeah, are you kidding? She thinks you’ve got the answers for everything. That’s why when you said that it was O.K. for that woman who wanted to concentrate on her career to give her baby back to her ex-husband in last month’s column, Luba knew it would be O.K. to give Rogue back to his father. ’Course, we didn’t know you were going to turn out to be his grandmother.” Paulie laughed, showing off a row of perfect white teeth set in a bas relief of brown nicotine stains. “Life’s a riot, ain’t it!” And she clapped Maxine once more on the shoulder.
Chapter Fifteen
Harry was on cloud nine. He had to admit—and he did, at great length, to anyone who would listen—that although Joyce’s pregnancy was certainly not planned, now that it was under way he was pleased, even—yes, he had to say it—thrilled. Something about making a baby at his age made him feel younger, more energetic. He no longer saw himself as on the verge of tailspinning off into the Decrepit Decades, doddering along the final highways of his life doing the senior shuffle.
For the first time in years he was thinking about the future instead of the past. It was a whole new mindset. And added to that was the fact that Joyce’s doctor had told them it was going to be a girl. Or to put it another way, Rogue was going to have an aunt. Harry had never been the father of a girl before, so he just knew he was in for a whole new experience. He only hoped that Bradley would be able to handle becoming a brother after twenty-seven years of being an only child.
In order to break the good news to his son, Harry had invited him out for lunch. They had arranged to meet at twelve-thirty at The Chirp and Turf. Bradley showed up on time and Harry, who had arrived early because he was starving, waved to him from one of the booths, each of which was done up in a sort of wagon-wheel motif and ran the length of one barnwood-covered wall.
His son peered through the pale blue-white vaporous columns of cigaret smoke that punctuated the gloom provided by the hurricane-lamp light fixtures and waved back. Evidently the only no-smoking section at The Chirp and Turf was the alley that ran past the back door. Bradley gave a little cough as his lungs went on a pollution alert and gingerly picked his way between the formica tables and the captain’s chairs with the red plastic seats, being careful as he went not to step on any of the work-booted feet that were extended in a sort of obstacle course.
The place was hot and busy and loud, and a fine film of grease clung to everything, including the air. Bradley looked around and noticed almost immediately that the source of this oleaginous blanket was located behind the counter, where a bank of deep fryers was being pushed to the limit by a man whose arms were completely covered by either hair or tattoos.
As he passed the counter he saw the man shake the accumulated beads of sweat and grease from his brow like a dog divesting itself of water after a bath. He shuddered at the thought of where these little bacteria bombs were landing and then plowed on through the murk. Whatever else it may have been, The Chirp and Turf was one of Harry’s favorite restaurants, and since he needed his father’s advice and possibly his help, he determined to grin and cough and bear it.
He slid gingerly onto the banquette opposite his father. On the table between them was a small ceramic chicken, which, judging by the contents that had dribbled and hardened on the outside, probably contained ketchup. Next to it was a cow of similar design that evidently did the same for mustard. Each place at the table, which would have seated four if Harry hadn’t had some pull with the owner, was set with a paper placemat on which were pictures of the various dishes on the menu. And in between the salt and pepper shakers, which were actually converted beer bottles, there was a smaller sheet of paper with pictures of the beverages. Bradley was careful not to touch any of these.
“Hi, Dad,” he said, leaning forward slightly so he could be heard above the raucous din.
“Hello, son. Isn’t this a great place?” replied Harry, effusively smiling back. “Real food. Real people. None of that chichi bullshit in here. No siree. Just good hot food and plenty of it. And I’m ready for mine. Boy, am I ready. How about you?” And rubbing his hands together with anticipation, he looked down at his placemat.
Bradley glanced around the room. It looked like they were holding a casting call for a revival of “The Village People”. He had never seen so many hardhats and cops all in one place. He understood why the menu was printed in pictures as well as words.
Harry looked up from the placemat. “D’you decide yet?”
“Uh, no, not yet.” Bradley quickly surveyed the pictures of chicken and burgers which seemed to make up the bulk of the menu. “Uh … gee … everything looks so good,” he murmured, thinking that he could really go for a nice endive salad and perhaps a little calamari.
“I’m having the Coop Combo,” offered his father. “It includes wings, fingers and a burger. Why don’t you try that?”
“A Coop Combo,” said Bradley, slowly shifting the idea from his mouth to his mind and back again. “Mmm, sounds good.” It sounded like it would be all fat and feathers. “Can I get a salad with that?” he asked hopefully.
“A salad!” cried Harry, sounding appalled. “What’s up with you? You get fries. See, look at the picture.” He poked a finger at the placemat. “You can’t eat a salad with this stuff. All that grease’ll wilt the lettuce.”
Bradley decided to go with the flow. He had come here to ask his father for help with his life, not with his diet. And since this crowd looked like it thought DIET was an acronym for Double Icecream, Extra Twinkies, there was no point in trying to fight it. “O.K., Dad, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Harry called over Guido the waiter, an even larger, hairier version of Tessio, the guy manning the fryers. “Hey, Guido, two Coop Combos and—” he turned back to his son. “What do you want to drink?”
“Alka-Seltzer?”
“Two beers,” ordered Harry.
He turned back to Bradley. “So, how’s the baby?”:
“He’s O.K., Dad. Ma’s looking after him today so I can have lunch with you. Did she tell you we went to see the mother?”
“Yeah, lives down in Tribeca, right? With a roommate of the lesbian persuasion.” Harry shook his head. “What a world.”
Bradley nodded. “It seems that Rogue’s mother is a thespian.” Bradley had read the word in last Sunday’s New York Times, and this was his first opportunity to try it out. He thought his father would be impressed.
But Harry, who was still in his what-a-world frame of mind, was only listening with one ear and half his brain. “Have you developed a lisp or something? I thought your mother said she was a lesbian?”
