Everything there is.'
For five bills? Haven't you heard? Everything costs more these days.'
Then that would be everything including an address, for maybe a little more.'
I'm not sure I can write you an envelope with a zip code. But for fifty I could do the next best thing. Take you there. You see, mostly, Marty would come here. I only went to his apartment once.'
When was this?'
Summer shrugged. The summer, sometime. Seems like a long time ago, anyway.'
And where?'
Somewhere on Riverside Drive.'
You're not telling me much, are you? Have you got a cross street, or were you planning to look for footprints?'
But Nimmo was grinning. His chest was tight with excitement, just the way it had been when Summer had taken his finger and put it inside her. This not-so-stupid little street-walker actually seemed to know where Tom Jefferson lived. It was beginning to look as if New Year was going to be a lot better than Christmas.
It was close by the Ninety-sixth Street viaduct. I'm almost sure I'd recognise the building again.' She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in a little glass ashtray. So? Have we got a deal?'
Okay, deal. Another fifty on top of the twenty-five I already gave you. Half up front. The rest when you show me the building. That's seventy-five dollars in total.'
You do have another fifty, don't you, mister?'
Nimmo gave her another five bills from the fold he was carrying.
Good.' Summer pulled up Nimmo's vest and began to kiss his chest, then his stomach, and, finally, his penis. Looking up for a moment, she said, Would you care to make that an even hundred?'
Tree-lined Riverside Drive is one of the city's loveliest and longest streets. Between 72nd Street and Inwood Hill Park, which borders the Harlem River and separates Manhattan from the Bronx, Riverside Drive runs for almost ten miles along the banks of the Hudson. Much of the dignity and elegance that characterised the drive when first it was built has gone, but it still rivals 5th Avenue as one of the most fashionable addresses in town.
Later that morning, Summer McAllum took Nimmo to a spot a little south of the 96th Street viaduct, to West 93rd where, on a slight crest overlooking Riverside Park, stood the Joan of Arc memorial statue.
She is the reason why I remembered where it was,' explained Summer. Joan of Arc. I've always identified with her. On account of the fact that French was always my favourite subject at school. Also, when I was fifteen, I nearly burned to death in a house fire. I used to come here a lot when I was working at Chez Joie. The pedestal underneath the statue contains fragments from Rheims Cathedral, and the Tower at Rouen. They were places in France that were important to Joan.'
Nimmo tried to affect interest in the rather Gothic-looking statue, and the charismatic life it memorialised. But it was bitterly cold. An icy wind blowing off the Hudson River sharpened his desire to finish his search. Hard as he tried to imagine the horror and injustice of it, an enormous pile of burning faggots heaped around a nineteen- year-old virgin could only feel attractive to his freezing fingers and numb nose.
That's the building, there,' she said, pointing across the drive. Number two hundred. I remember now. The apartment was on the tenth floor, I think. Only I don't recall the number. But it had a good view of the Palisades. And that Spry sign, of course.'
Nimmo took hold of Summer's arm and, walking her across the road, and past the large building that was 200 Riverside Drive, he glanced in at the doorman, wondering if Jefferson was living there as the third President of the United States, or the eighth, or something else again. Zachary Taylor, perhaps. But for the fact that Paul Ianucci had checked his identity with various government departments, he might have wondered if Tom Jefferson was a real name at all. He kept walking them north along Riverside Drive, and then east, on to Broadway. In the Adlo Book and Card shop on the corner of 106th, he bought two large envelopes and two copies of the New Yorker. He stuffed the magazines into the envelopes, sealed them, and then wrote out two addresses, one in the name of Mr T. Jefferson and the other in the name of Mr M. Van Buren. Then they walked back to 200 Riverside Drive, and went inside the building.
It could, he thought, have been his own grandfather standing there, behind the little redoubt that was the doorman's desk, an impression enhanced by the memory that upon his retirement George Nimmo had been a doorman at the long-forgotten Pabst Hotel, on 42nd Street. This was now the New York Times Tower where, in a matter of a few hours, enormous throngs of revellers would gather to welcome in the New Year.
Nimmo took out his glasses and, with pen poised, made a little pantomime of getting ready to complete the addresses on the two manila envelopes.
Pardon me,' he said in an effete, Mittel-European accent of the kind that is heard a lot on the Upper West Side, in places like Eclair, an excellent Viennese pastry shop on West 72nd. But I cannot remember the right apartment numbers. Could you help me, please? Which number is Mister Jefferson?'
Putting down his cigarette, the small, elderly doorman, whose face was smoked back to the skull, frowned. Jefferson? No sir, there's no one of that name here.' For a moment he was distracted by two people exiting the elevator and heading towards the door. He nodded to one of them and smiled.
Strange,' said Nimmo. Well then, what about Mister Van Buren?'
There's no one of that name either, sir. I'm sorry.'
Are you quite sure of that?'
The doorman kept on shaking his head. He said, I've been the doorman here for eleven years, sir. I know everyone in this building.'
How very odd,' exclaimed a perplexed-looking Nimmo, and politely handed the doorman both envelopes. Tom Jefferson? Martin Van Buren? You see, their names are written here.'
Not so odd, sir,' said the doorman. These are addressed to number two hundred and ten Riverside. This is two hundred.'
It is?'
Yes sir.'
How very stupid of me,' sighed Nimmo. I'm very sorry to have wasted your time.'
Outside the door, Nimmo confronted Summer McAllum with Van Buren's non-existence. You wouldn't be trying to take me for a sucker, would you?' he asked.
Summer shook her head. I swear, this is the building. I don't remember there being a doorman. But it was late when we came here, after midnight, so it wasn't like he had to use his name, or anything. There wasn't even a night man. I remember we took a self-service elevator up to the tenth floor. And I do remember the statue. And the place he took me for breakfast, in the morning.'
Breakfast? You didn't mention that before.'
Rosenblum's on Broadway. I got the impression he went there a lot. They seemed to know him. And that's all I know. Honest. Can I have my fifty bucks now? Please. I'm cold. I'm tired. And I want to go home.'
What, and miss out on a nutritious breakfast?'
Rosenblum's Kosher Deli on Broadway, near 100th Street, was large and full of people, most of whom were fat and old, which was why they probably remembered someone as young and beautiful as Summer McAllum.
Nice to see you again,' said the obviously enamoured waiter.
Miss Goldberg,' she said, without missing a beat. This is my boss, Mister Meyer.'
Nice to meet you, Mister Meyer,' said the waiter, hardly taking his eyes off Summer.
I told him about this place,' she said spiritedly. He's one of those Stage or Carnegie people, you know? But I told him what a friendly place this is. And how good the pastrami is.'
Your other friend certainly thinks so,' said the waiter.
Who?'
Who. The guy you were here with last time. How could I forget? What am I saying? The guy who was here with you, that's who. Franklin Pierce.'
Oh, Frankie,' gushed Summer. Of course. Now I remember. It was him who brought me here, wasn't it? Frankie's the guy I was telling you about, Mister Meyer. How is Frankie? I haven't seen him in ages.'
He was in here just before Christmas, on his way down to the library, I think.'
I'm sorry to have missed him. Tell him I said hello.'
After they had ordered breakfast, and when the waiter finally left Summer alone, Nimmo said, You missed
