In the Midst of Death

I was getting the day started at Armstrong's, doing my usual balancing act with coffee and bourbon, coffee to speed things up and bourbon to slow them down. I was reading the Post and I was sufficiently involved in what I was reading so that I didn't even notice when he pulled back the chair opposite mine and dropped into it.

Then he cleared his throat and I looked up at him.

He was a little guy with a lot of curly black hair. His cheeks were sunken, his forehead very prominent.

He wore a goatee but kept his upper lip clean shaven. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, were dark brown and highly animated.

He said, 'Busy, Matt?'

'Not really.'

'I wanted to talk to you for a minute.'

'Sure.'

I knew him, but not terribly well. His name was DouglasFuhrmann and he was a regular at Armstrong's. He didn't drink a hell of a lot, but he was apt to drop in four or five times a week, sometimes with a girlfriend, sometimes on his own. He'd generally nurse a beer and talk for a while about sports or politics or whatever conversational topic was on the agenda. He was a writer, as I understood it, although I didn't recall having heard him discuss his work. But he evidently did well enough so that he didn't have to hold a job.

I asked what was on his mind.

'A fellow I know wants to see you, Matt.'

'Oh?'

'I think he'd like to hire you.'

'Bring him around.'

'That's not possible.'

'Oh?'

He started to say something,then stopped because Trina was on her way to find out what he wanted to drink. He ordered a beer and we sat there awkwardly while she went for the beer, brought it, and went away again.

Then he said, 'It's complicated. He can't be seen in public. He's, well, hiding out.'

'Who is he?'

'This is confidential.' I gave him a look. 'Well, all right. If that's today's Post, maybe you read about him. You would have read about him anyway, he's been all over the papers the past few weeks.'

'What's his name?'

'JerryBroadfield .'

'Is that right?'

'He's very hot right now,'Fuhrmann said. 'Ever since the English girl filed charges against him he's been hiding out. But he can't hide forever.'

'Where's he hiding?'

'An apartment he has. He wants you to see him there.'

'Where is it?'

'The Village.'

I picked up my cup of coffee and looked into it as if it was going to tell me something.'Why me?' I said. 'What does he think I can do for him? I don't get it.'

'He wants me to take you there,'Fuhrmann said. 'There's some money in it for you, Matt.How about it?'

WE took a cab downNinth Avenue and wound up onBarrow Street nearBedford . I letFuhrmann pay for the cab. We went into the vestibule of a five-story walkup. More than half the doorbells lacked identifying labels. Either the building was being vacated prefatory to demolition orBroadfield's fellow tenants shared his desire for anonymity.Fuhrmann rang one of the unlabeled bells, pushed the button three times, waited, pushed it once,then pushed it three times again.

'It's a code,' he said.

'One if by land and two if by sea.'

'Huh?'

'Forget it.'

There was a buzz and he shoved the door open. 'You go on up,' he said.'The D apartment on the third floor.'

'You're not coming?'

'He wants to see you alone.'

I was halfway up one flight before it occurred to me that this was a cute way to set me up for something.Fuhrmann had taken himself out of the picture, and there was no way of knowing what I'd find in apartment 3D. But there was also no one I could think of with a particularly good reason for wanting to do me substantial harm. I stopped halfway up the stairs to think it over, my curiosity fighting a successful battle against my more sensible desire to turn around and go home and stay out of it. I walked on up to the third floor and knocked three-one-three on the appropriate door. It opened almost before I'd finished knocking.