“It’s all I have, miss.”
She rocked with silent laughter and mouthed: Miss? I went a bit red, stepped down the counter to punish a suited gent with a treble bourbon. I’d quickly learned that Americans drink booze through shovelfuls of ice, God knows why. Even their beer has to be freezing. No, honest. It’s quite true. Go and see for yourself.
“Sorry, Lovejoy,” she said when I drifted past her end. “I’m a New Yorker. Rose Hawkins. Can you price it?”
See what I mean? Straight to essentials. In sleepy old East Anglia getting down to a valuation would take a fortnight.
“I’d need a good light. But it’ll keep you a month. Around 1800 AD.”
“That fits.”
She looked at me curiously. For a few minutes I had to hear about baseball from three geezers, regulars in for the bar telly. Baseball—an unknowable ritual resembling our women’s rounders—is as baffling as American rugby, which is all I ever hope to say about them for ever and ever. These fans kept explaining the ins and outs of the damned thing since they’d spotted my ignorance. Every religion craves converts.
“It was my great-grandmother’s,” she told me next pass.
“Don’t give me provenance, love, not without documentation. I’ve…” I caught myself.
“You’ve…?”
“I’ve heard it’s safer. Never mind what dealers and auctioneers tell you.”
“Been to the exhibition, Lovejoy?”
“Exhibition?” I was casual, doing the mystique with ice and gin for a newspaper vendor. He called every second hour.
“Antiques. It’s only two blocks, if you’re interested.”
Interested? I’d give almost anything. “I haven’t time off. I’m new here… I mean, I’m new back.”
For a second I was proud of my vernacular, shortening my adverb; or whatever it is, American fashion. She began to ask me where I was from, all that. I gave her the Californian back from England, desultory patter between hurtling orders for drinks.
Then I noticed the kitchen was being closed. Last orders for grub. Lil the elderly boss waitress was collecting the invoice chits. Ten o’clock? Only nearby Apple Jack’s stayed open later than us. No Mr Manfredi.
“Hey, Josephus,” I asked the big bloke. “Fredo back?” Dunno, man. I’m zoomin’, Lovejoy.”
“Doan look at me, honey,” Lil called.
A couple of customers gave amused advice. A lass left the kitchen, calling goodnights. The mousey-haired brooch girl stayed, said she was from some place called Greenwich Village. Like a nerk I asked politely how often she went home to visit. She seemed puzzled. I hoped it wasn’t anywhere near California. Being merely one more illegal immigrant working for the Almighty Dollar makes you edgy. Fredo had twice asked for my social security number. Not having any idea what that was, I’d told him I’d bring it in tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Outside the traffic was still hard at it, zooming to and fro. Police sirens were a standard feature, I knew by now. The first night I’d twice got up from my pit to see what was happening, but by my second night I was impervious, by today oblivious. New York’s siren song, always there.
Josephus had called closing several times. Finally the brooch made to leave, smiling.
“Goodnight, Lovejoy.”
I was wiping the counter, washing glasses, keeping an anxious eye on the door for Fredo, not knowing what to do. Delia, our cash-cheque lady, was locking up her pedestal and handing me the keys and donning her coat. I told Rose goodnight.
She left in the same door-swing as Delia. Everybody was yelling goodnights to me, people giving me keys. Josephus was singing his folksy way out. I was desperate. He declined Delia’s keys.
“Dowan tra me, Lovejoy. I’m singin’ in ma club tonight.”
“Oh, aye.” I’d forgotten. His big chance, some melody he’d written.
Which left worried me, the customers all departed, the greasy keys from the kitchen’s street entrance on the counter. And Manfredi’s Manhattan Style Eatery empty. Except for two cash registers loaded with money. Waiting. Gulp. Hurry back, Fredo.
Outside, sirens whooped. I stood there by my clean bar, wondering what to do. I went and turned off the lights in the kitchen. Only one storey, thank God, so no upstairs to worry about. I called a feeble inquiry into the Ladies’ loos, checked the Gents’ for lurking figures. I was alone.
With all that money.
Fredo’s home number? I hunted high and low. I tried the New York telephone book, my first experience. Its size took my breath away. There was a Greenwich Village actually here in New York. And a Bronx! No wonder Rose stared when I’d asked her what state she hailed from… Well, might as well look for an Italian name in a haystack. I gave up, took off my apron, stood there like a spare tool, thinking worried thoughts.
My doss house hotel was a couple of miles southwest, so no chance of popping round to ask guidance from the dozy old bloke. Magda I’d hardly glimpsed since my arrival. Lock up? Last night Fredo’d winkled out some tipsy customer with vigorous expletives and mucho muscle. Bums had to be slung out no matter what, and everybody was a threatening bum until proved otherwise. This morning I’d heard Delia telling Josephus how she’d been mugged in broad daylight, her purse stolen with its credit cards. Danger land.
I bolted the door, but its lock was electronic—tap its buttons in the right sequence or it doesn’t obey — so I achieved nothing more.
