had been converted into small, ritzy, furnished apartments—the kind you pay two hundred a month for. The janitor lived in the basement of another house down the block. A quiet, middle-aged man who liked to talk, he studied the picture, told me, “Tell you, mister, I've only been on the job less than a year and I never saw her. But people don't move around much, far as I know, we've only had one vacancy in last two years, apartment 3F, and I sure remember the last tenant there, Miss Margrita de Mayo!”
My face showed the name didn't register and he added, “Margrita, the TV sensation!” A silly note of pride crept into his voice, the way nobodys talk about a celebrity.
“Sure, girl with the fine, fine legs,” I said. “Still live there?”
“No, sir, moved to a big suite in some hotel. But when I first came she was a struggling young actress and...”
“Got any old rent records here?”
“No, sir. But when she got her big break, it made me feel right good that a nice, quiet, young woman like her...”
I left and called my buddy in the electric company, dialed him back ten minutes later. “No record of any Marion Lodge in 3F, Hal,” he said. “Bills were sent in the name of a Mary Long. After four months it was changed to Margrita de Mayo, with a letter from Miss Long requesting her deposit be applied to Miss de Mayo's account.”
“What's all that mean?”
“Probably sharing the apartment and then this Spanish one took it over, often happens when people who share a place split up. You know: the Long girl took the table radio, or something, instead of the deposit, or... Say, isn't that Margrita the...?”
“Yeah, the owner of the world's best legs. Thanks. See you.”
Mary Long and Marion Lodge—same initials, and when a person takes on a phony name they usually keep the same initials. The next step was to see Margrita—which would be a pleasure. But it was nearly six and I was pooped. Going to the office, I read the evening paper as I kept the edges of my hands hard by hitting them against a rubber pad. The ads said Margrita was singing at the Emerald Club, a swank spot, and I decided to drop in on her later.
At six-ten Anita called and when I asked what was new, she said, “I got a date for supper. Some joint at 60th Street and 1st Avenue.”
“Well, eat well.”
“You never ask me out for supper...”
“I do better—I pay your salary.”
“And that's nothing to brag about. One of these days I'll stuff an apple in your puss and eat you.” She sounded excited.
“I'd be tough chewing. See you in the morning, early and belching,” I said, hanging up.
Before closing the office, I made the usual check of the safe and one of my three guns was missing—a .38 special, I was so mad I nearly busted the glass slamming the door.
I drove over to the construction job Bobo was guarding. Although he had a permit to carry a rod I never let him —his face was all the protection he needed. No sense packing a rod unless you intend to use it.
Bobo was sitting in a chair propped against the shack that was the contractor's field office. He had his nightstick across his lap, an old cigar in his mouth—the picture of a guy with a snap job. When I started bawling him out, he asked, “What gun, Hal? I wouldn't take a rod without telling you.” And his rough, tan face showed real surprise.
When I mentioned that only he and Anita knew the safe combination, Bobo said, “Cheez, Hal, I wouldn't pull a dumb trick like that. Maybe Anita took it, she's wacky enough.”
If Bobo said he didn't have it, that was that And Anita would most likely be in the movies—she went every night —I could stop at her house before I turned in.
I drove to the yacht basin and Pete, who was just coming on duty as night man, called out, “Hal, looking for you. Be there in a minute.”
He finished gassing up a small cruiser, then came down to the floating barge that was the landing dock, pointed to my dinghy. The seat was busted. “One of those fat-assed drunks off the big sloop out there was horsing around, fell into your dinghy. Have it fixed by morning. He gave me a ten spot to do it. Sorry but...”
“Forget it,” I said, as we both stepped into the 16-foot inboard launch, and Pete gave her the gun, telling me, “Yell when you want to go ashore.”
“Yeah. Right now I'm going upstream after some shad.” Pete licked his thin lips. “I go for a juicy broiled shad.”
“Catch you one,” I said, leaping aboard my boat. I opened the hatch, waited for a moment till the stuffy cabin air went out. I changed to bathing trunks, put on my running lights, and started the old Packard. The tide was coming in fast and when I untied the boat, I had to race like a rabbit back to the cockpit, throw the clutch in, give her a sharp rudder to avoid the craft anchored upstream from me.
In the spring, shad come up the Hudson from the Atlantic to spawn. The silverbacks run in deep water, in the center of the river, and while I might have battled the six-mile current while trying to fish, instead I ran up to a point just below the George Washington Bridge. There, on the New Jersey side, there's a neat cottage that is a fishing club. Due to an irregularity in the bed of the river, the water is deep right up to the shore line, and shad can be caught from the bank. A few old duffers knew of this spot, fenced it in, and set up this fishing club.
In the darkness of early evening, I saw the lights of a couple pipes and cigarettes on the porch of the club as I put the anchor over, waited to see if it caught, then shut off my engine. I hooked a sleek blue and silver two- pounder within a matter of minutes. The fish put up a good battle, but like the guy said, “I ain't here to fight 'em but to eat 'em.” Then it took me nearly a half hour and two eels before I got the second one—a big three-pounder.
I cleaned the fish and on the way back to the mooring at 80th Street, I put the smaller one on the stove with some corn. After I tied up, I ate, sat around and listened to the radio over a couple of highballs, then showered,
