‘Sure he will,’ I told him. ‘He’s not a paper doll. He won’t fold.’
‘If you say so.’
Upstairs at the Harding, we went to his room. He fixed us drinks. We kicked off our shoes.
‘Where are you from, Jack?’ I asked him.
‘Originally?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe.’
‘Sure I would.’
‘How about a good Irish-American family in Boston? Sister a nun and both brothers priests. Father and uncles in city politics. Plenty of cops in the family, too. How does that grab you?’
‘You’re the black sheep?’
‘Blacker than black.’
‘Ever go back?’
‘To the family? Now and then. The prodigal son returns. They kill the fatted calf. Always glad to see me. No questions asked. We have a ball.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘They think I’m going to hit it big one of these days.’
‘Sure you are,’ I said. ‘On Friday night.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘We’ll see.’
He seemed vulnerable, sapped by the memories. Failure dogged him. Suddenly I felt guilty.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ I said.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON HERE
I had a large-scale map of Manhattan and a handdrawn map of East 55th Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. The homemade one showed every store and hotel front on the block. I included taxi stops, a construction site, and the location of traffic lights, no-parking zones,
Then I began drawing up a schedule: What time the car should start from the Hotel Harding. How long it would take to drive south to East 55th Street. Where the car should be parked. How long the robbery itself would take. The getaway.
I knew that Brandenberg amp; Sons should be invaded the moment the front door was opened for business at 10:00 A.M. With that as my start, I scheduled time for parking the car, time for getting downtown from West 94th Street, time for the mob to assemble at a predetermined point. I allowed for plenty of slippage in case of late arrivals or unexpected traffic jams.
Gradually, over those two days, I evolved what I thought was a reasonable and efficient plan of action: preparation, advance on the target, assault, and withdrawal. I plotted the most efficient routes.
I also planned personnel deployment. I would drive the getaway car. I would stay outside, doubleparked, motor running, while Fleming, Donohue, and the other two thugs we recruited would pull the actual job. Mask or no mask, I thought I might be recognized by Noel Jarvis. And he had my real name and address. The others would be strangers to him. He had seen Dick Fleming once, briefly, but I doubted if he’d recognize him in a mask.
I went over my marvelously detailed scheme again and again, eliminating, adding, refining. I thought it took every possible eventuality into account, and, as written, was ready for word-for-word transferral to the next Big Caper novel I’d write.
Most of this literary work was done in my East 71st Street apartment. When the details of the Brandenberg amp; Sons ripoff were complete, I transcribed the entire thing into my journal, the Project X that was fattening into a full-length manuscript.
Then, on Thursday night, 1 prepared for my dinner date with Noel Jarvis. He had called, and I had accepted. The femme fatale of East 71st Street — and points west!
That dinner turned out to be something special. We went to an Italian restaurant way over between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. The walls were white tile and there were paper flowers in plastic vases on the tables. But the food was scrumptious.
Noel Jarvis was treated like he owned the joint. I mean, the staff
Two hours and two bottles of wine later, I sat back groaning, staring at the remnants of my warm zabaglione with glazed eyes.
‘You eat like this every night?’ I asked Jarvis. ‘Don’t answer that. If you said yes, I might move in with you.’
‘Yes,’ he said promptly, beaming. He had demolished most of the wine, but seemed reasonably lucid and steady. As a matter of fact, I was sipping delicately at a small Strega while he was working on his second brandy stinger.
He wasn’t paying for this; other diners had sent over the wine and after-dinner drinks. And when Jarvis asked for our bill, the headwaiter assured us it had been taken care of.
‘Courtesy of Mr Smith,’ he said.
‘God bless Mr Smith,’ I said. ‘Long may he wave. Friend of yours, Noel?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said. ‘A good customer. It was very kind of him. I must reciprocate. Well, my dear, it’s time for us to move on. What would you like? A disco? A piano bar? A nightcap somewhere?’
‘You’re the working man,’ I said, ‘who has to get up early in the morning. Let’s save the disco and piano bar for a weekend. A nightcap in some quiet place would suit me fine. Anyplace I can kick off my shoes.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I knew you were a woman of discernment the moment I saw you. If I make a suggestion, I hope you won’t be offended.’
‘Your apartment?’
His ruddy face positively glowed.
So we rose to depart. Noel Jarvis passed out the green stuff to maitre d’, headwaiter, waiters, busboy, and then excused himself to dart into the kitchen where, I presumed, he rewarded the chef. His largesse no longer surprised me.
He lived on East 21st Street, near Gramercy Park. His apartment turned out to be a somewhat seedy palace. Two bedrooms, two baths, and a living room that looked like the lounge on the QE2. The furnishings were heavily baroque: lots of crystal, porcelain, velvet sofas and armchairs, gilt-framed paintings, marble cupids. It didn’t look exactly like an auction gallery, but almost.
The place threw me. I had figured him for a man of some taste. This overstuffed apartment was out of character. It came awfully close to what a longshoreman might buy after winning the New York State lottery. Everything was expensive and everything was awful: The colors were a bedlam, the paintings atrocious. There was a floor lamp in the shape of a giant striking cobra.
I murmured the expected compliments, and Jarvis seemed pleased. He showed me through the entire museum. The bedrooms were visions in glimmered pink and purple satin. The bathroom had little guest towels that had never been touched. The kitchen was the best, all business with stainless steel copper pots and pans.
‘You like to cook?’ I asked him.
‘Love it,’ he said, coming alive. ‘I hope you’ll come for dinner some night. I’d like to show you what I can do.’
I said I’d like that.
We went back into the living room and I kicked off my shoes. It was pleasant scrubbing my toes into those buttery
Oriental rugs. He had told the chauffeur to wait for me, I wouldn’t be long, and to drive me to my door and make certain I was safely inside. So I really had no fears of a heavy come-on. He was a perfect host, and a fascinating conversationalist — until he passed out.
It happened so quickly that at first I wasn’t aware of what was going on. I was nursing a brandy. He had
