Her eyes widened. “Where you say you’re from?” She gave me one of those number sequences which are pinpoint addresses in this extraordinary country. “Get over there, Lovejoy. People’l! be standing in line.
I thanked her, locked my door and left. She too was leaving, would have held back but I dithered so we left together, Zole trailing and bouncing a worn tennis ball. I warmed to her. Considerate. I just didn’t like the way she had me down as a prude. We walked a little way then she stepped into a doorway and wished me luck with the job. It might have hurt her feelings had I wished her luck with hers, so I merely said so long.
“So long, Rube,” Zole called with derision. What did Zole do while Magda took her clients upstairs? A New York problem. Unsolvable.
“LOVEJOY? Take the bar.”
“Right, Fredo.”
“And that jerk’s a chiseller. Watch the bucks.”
“Right, guv.“ He meant a man at the end might try to evade paying. I didn’t know quite what a jerk meant, but it isn’t praise.
Manfredi’s was as crowded as I’d yet seen it. I’d been lucky: Magda’s name had counted; Fredo gave me a chance because some employee had Monday bottle sickness. That first night I’d worked until closing time, frightened by the sense of this big city. I’d got myself hired, and threatened about behaviour.
The drinks were a difficulty, contents I’d never encountered before, but at least I could clear tables and wash the bar counter.
Fredo watched all dozen of us workers like a hawk. The first day I’d seen him fire two of the blokes for fiddling money and general slowness. It taught me New York’s message: earn your pay, or else. By the evening of the second day I’d memorized every drink, their prices, was hired on a daily basis.
“Guv? What’s with this guv?” Fredo asked.
Fredo often looked at me, amused by my strange speech.
“Ah, it means boss, Fredo. Picked it up from the, er, Limeys.”
He chuckled, an amiable man. “Sir yesterday, guv this. We’ll talk English, yet!”
I chuckled along, grovelling being my strong suit when poverty’s trumps. I’d stuck to the story I’d told Magda: I was heading back to California after years of studies in London. Lies come naturally to an antique dealer. I hinted I had a girl in New York, which was why I wanted this job.
The other bar hand was late this third evening and the rush about to begin, so I tidied things and got started. I couldn’t help looking for the girl with the antique amber brooch.
Tonight she was in early, eightish. Theatregoer? Meeting her bloke from work? She always—in NY three consecutive nights count always — placed herself away from the door. I gave her a smile. That amber Agnus Dei brooch again. I tore my eyes away and started my job, saying “Coming ride up!” and “Awl ridee” like I thought everybody else was doing. Mr Manfredi had this complex system of double invoicing, which caused me a deal of trouble. But I’d mastered it, because I’d seen what happened to waiters who didn’t. The idea in these American bars is there’s a counter where customers perch on stools, while elsewhere floor space has tables for a waitress service. It sounds a rum arrangement, but it works. A dozen tables, swing doors onto Eighth Avenue so you could glimpse those fantastically long motors everybody drives, a score of customers, and that was Manfredi’s Manhattan Style Eatery. Oh, I forgot to mention the talk—God, but Americans chat. And they do it to anyone, even though they’ve not been properly introduced, or have any reason. I’d never heard so many opinions—weather, politics, sport, traffic, the Middle East. That you might disagree counts nil. Strangely, I was starting to like it. You could say anything to anyone about anything any time. Surprising.
The chiseller proved no problem this particular evening. He was three parts sloshed and gradually slumped to a foetal posture less than three drinks and an hour after the boss had left. Josephus, our giant waiter who sang the livelong day, threw him out towards nine.
“Hey, Josephus,” I said soon after that interlude. “What time’s Mr Manfredi back?” At this social level, you start everything with Hey or Say-my-man. I was blending in.
“Doo any second, Lovejoy ma man.”
A bit odd. I remembered Fredo’s words: thirty minutes. He never missed checking the till money. I clocked the time. Two whole hours, and no sign.
But it was a normal evening otherwise. The punters came and went. I served the vodkas, learned two more drinks recipes for my armoury. People from work, offices, the shops disgorging folk into Manfredi’s. I can’t help looking at people, wondering why they’re in a nosh bar instead of home. The trouble was, three days and I’d seen nothing of America except that taxi ride from the airport, my grotty little pad with Magda plying her trade in the next room. And here.
“New Yorkers live on the hoof,” a woman’s voice explained.
“I was just wondering.” My words were out before I saw who’d spoken.
She’d finished her meal, an enormous salady thing of avocado and chicken in deep crisp-heart lettuce foliage. That’s another American thing, the meals. I’d never seen so much on a plate.
“Nobody home cooks.”
Her Agnus Dei wasn’t as ancient as some, but brooches like hers are unusual. Once, new Popes issued wax Lambs for wearing in silver discs. This wasn’t one, but could easily have been except for the amber. My chest bonged faintly the nearer I moved. Genuine antique. Norwegian? Swedish? She saw me looking. I went quickly to serve a lady’s martini in that fearsome high-gin New York formula.
“You like my brooch?” Persistent.
“The Scandinavians’ Agnus Dei pendants were usually silver. Amber’s such a Baltic thing.”
She was mid-twenties, shrouded against the autumn cool, and pale featured. Long hair, nothing spectacularly fashionable. Slight, quiet, always reading.
“You know about such things?” Her grey-blue gaze took in my lapel badge. “Lovejoy’s some kinda name.”
