Smoke

There was one civilian Freddie had particularly in mind to help him make his move out of this place, and here she comes now. Accompanied by a tall suave pale man in black whose languages seemed to include Dutch, Yiddish, German, French, and a heavily Dutch-accented English, she was a compact woman in her fifties, as round and solid as a beer keg, with madly curled hair the color of Pepto-Bismol and clothing so bright and sparkly you could read by her. This woman had either at one time been the toast of Broadway or with the help of a therapist had raised a submerged false memory of having been the toast of Broadway. Her whiskey voice was large, the gestures of her jeweled hands larger, her enthusiasms strong enough to knock over a horse. As she made the circuit of the sales floor, she would point, cry out, bend to study, rear back to gain perspective, and all the while her companion would speak to the dealers in his languages, consult briefly with the woman in his broken-spring English, and make notes in a small pad, sometimes handing a memo to a dealer on the way by.

Here was Freddie's escort. Of course, if this woman and her companion decided to take the elevator to some other floor, it could make an awkward moment for Freddie, but sometimes you just have to take a chance, and this was one of those times. (It seemed to Freddie, in any case, that for the Toast of Broadway, after this appearance, the only possible exit was grandly out the front door to the public street, not meekly into a tiny elevator box.)

Here she was, with her tall man. Nothing at the counters of Freddie's two dealers interested her. She barely slowed, turned her cotton-candy head to look at the dealer on the other side of the aisle, and kept going. Freddie watched her feet. If she'll take the elevator, that foot will angle to the right . . . now.

It didn't. Relieved and excited, with the woman past him, about four feet away toward the front door, Freddie reached with both hands to the trays of diamonds, made a double dip, and scampered. The dealer who'd just been robbed, deep though he was in tense negotiation, nevertheless caught movement from the corner of his eye, looked quickly around, frowned, stared this way and that, then had his attention snagged by something the other dealer said, and turned back.

Freddie meanwhile had tucked in close behind the Toast of Broadway, holding his double-fist of diamonds close to the back of her glittery sparkly dress. Gazing at these rocks from above, and up close, Freddie could clearly see that he'd done well. He smiled as he looked down at the diamonds floating there, inside his invisible hands. For anybody else in the room, involved as they all were in their own concerns, the diamonds would be barely visible, if at all, against the shiny statement of that dress. So long as they kept moving . . .

The woman halted, barely ten feet from the door. Freddie damn near ran right into her, but stopped himself just in time, teetering off balance. 'That aquamarine,' the woman said, with the plaintive loudness of someone bemoaning the loss of a loved one.

The tall pale man bent over her. 'No, no, Marlene,' he said, soothingly, 'I don't tink so. Dot flaw—'

'Couldn't it be set so we could hide . . .'

This was going to go on. Now that the woman was not moving, and with that security guard so damn close, these diamonds would soon become noticeable. Freddie looked all around, becoming desperate, and near the front door he spied a fairly large trash can with an open top and black plastic liner. It was just a few feet away. Freddie leaped over there, stuck his hands down in among all the papers and plastic cups, and waited while the woman and her guide continued to discuss whether or not the flawed aquamarine was worth a return visit.

This was a bad situation. Of course, Freddie could merely open his hands and permit the diamonds to fall away into the trash, then saunter off unseen to try again, but he was so close. If only this woman would forget the aquamarine, just forget it.

In the meantime, people were coming in and going out, many of them brushing very close to Freddie. He didn't dare tuck in behind any of those exiting black coats, not with these handfuls of electric light, to stand out against the black like moons in the night sky.

At last, the tall pale man's views prevailed. He and the gaudy woman moved forward, and as they passed Freddie he yanked his hands out of the trash, causing a minor volcano in there, and put them back close to the woman's dress, where they belonged. (The Security guard glared briefly at the trash can, knowing something had happened but not sure what.)

But now there was a real problem. Three in the vestibule was a rather tight squeeze, and the security arrangements here included that the street-side gate, which opened outward, would not work until the inner door, which opened inward, was closed. Also, the tall pale man, being a gentleman, held the inner door open for the lady, then followed her through the doorway, much too close for Freddie to sandwich in between. Freddie had to duck under the gentleman's door-holding arm, scoot through the narrow space between the gentleman's left leg and the closing door, hold the glittery little sausages of diamond right down at floor level, and remain hunkered in the same position in the corner until the door closed and the gate opened.

The woman had some sort of problem getting through the gate. She stuttered and skipped, the tall pale man backed up, Freddie bounced off him, and the man turned to frown directly into Freddie's face from one foot away. Then the woman called something and the man turned back, expression bewildered and dissatisfied as he moved forward through the gate to the sidewalk, where he promptly and firmly slammed the gate shut before Freddie could get through.

Well, shit. That was vindictive. Freddie stood there, looking out at the sidewalk, but there was nothing to be done, no way to got out there until someone else came along, to persuade the guard to hit that button. In the meantime, waiting, Freddie stood with his hands in the corner next to the hinged side of the gate, hiding the diamonds from passersby, while nothing at all happened for minute after minute.

Come on, will ya? Somebody's got to pass through here, in or out, either way. In the meantime, since this was merely an iron-barred gate that the breeze (if not Freddie) could go through, he was beginning to get a little chilly (June is June, but naked is naked), while the bottoms of his feet were chafed and sore (who knew what they might have picked up?) and his hands were tired of making fists. Looking catty-corner through the gate, he could see the van down there, just beyond the fire hydrant and the roofing- company truck, and from time to time he could even see Peg move her head inside there, looking back, wondering how he was doing, looking for him even though she knew she wouldn't be able to see him.

A customer. An Arab, in a white head towel and a long gleaming gray robe. He had appeared just outside the gate and stopped to press the button there.

Freddie looked at him, and his heart sank. This was a large Arab, a hugely fat man who, in the pearly gray robe, looked mostly like a diving bell. He would fill this damn vestibule all by himself. How was Freddie to get by him and out of here?

The hell with it, that was how. The nasty buzzer sounded, but before the Arab could pull on the gate Freddie pushed against it, shoving it out forcefully, holding it wide open as he sidled through between the iron bars and the very large customer.

Who looked at the door in surprise, and then in pleasure. An innovation, since last he was here! A self- opening door, as in the supermarket! Very good!

Smiling, the Arab entered the vestibule, as Freddie released the door and ran for the van, juking and jinking through the broken field of pedestrians, his hands with their packs of diamonds held down at his sides at thigh level, where people were not likely to be looking when he went by. And when that Arab left DIAMOND EXCHANGE, he'd probably whomp his big belly a good one against that gate when it didn't open, wouldn't he? Ah, well.

Freddie reached the van. He bunked the window with his elbow bone, not wanting to raise a visible cluster of diamonds to window height, and inside he saw Peg leap, startled, then stare at him — through him, around him — and push the button to lower the window.

Freddie turned to the van and raised his hands. He knew there was no point in shielding the movement with his body, it was just habit; nevertheless, he shielded the movement with his invisible body as he lifted both hands, stuck them through the open window, and dropped a lot of diamonds onto Peg's lap. 'Yike!' Peg said.

Passersby would have seen, if anything, a flash, come and gone. 'Hide them,' Freddie advised.

Peg brushed at her lap with both hands, while saying, 'Should I open the side door?'

'Not yet.' She couldn't see him grin, but he grinned anyway. Maybe she'd be able to hear the grin in his voice. 'I'm not done,' he said.

She stared toward his voice, which meant that actually she looked at his mouth. 'Freddie? Why not?'

Now that all the disasters had been avoided, now that he'd been freed from the vestibule, now that no one had seen the floating diamonds and grabbed him by the wrist, Freddie was feeling a sudden elation. The