Agnes Among the Gargoyles (20 page)

   When Agnes and Sarah get home, the telephone is ringing. Agnes answers it. She hears a vortex of street noises that indicates a pay telephone.

   "This is Wayne Torrence," she hears.

   "Who?"

   "From 44th Street. The other night, remember?"

   "Oh hi," says Agnes with forced ease. "How are you?"

   "Fine, thank you. I think I saw that person you were looking for tonight."

   Agnes stops breathing. "The Pinboy?"

   "I think so. I'm almost sure. He's in a bar right around the corner."

   "What's the name of it?"

   "I didn't notice," says Wayne. "Hang on."

   Agnes can hear him asking the other homeless people. He gets back on the phone. "No one knows."

   The money in the pay phone drops.

   "Please deposit, or your call will be interrupted."

   "Wayne! Give me your number."

   "There's none listed here."

   "Can you call me back?"

   "I'll try."

   He is gone.

    Agnes and Sarah wait by the telephone for twenty tortuous minutes. Sarah paces the floor. She is just as eager to bag the Pinboy.

    Finally, the phone rings.

    "What took you?" says Agnes.

    "I had to get another quarter," he says. "The place is called Barnett's."

    "Are you at Hippodrome Lanes?"

    "I'm going back there now," he says.

    "Okay. Wait there for me."

    "For us," says Sarah.

    Agnes calls Tommy at work. She gets Whitey. He tells her that Tommy had the night off. "He went to Carnegie Hall to hear Beethoven or something. Hey, I thought you were going together. He said he was going to ask you."

    Agnes never gave him the chance.

    "I couldn't, Whitey," says Agnes.

    "Are you all right? Is something up?"

    "Oh, probably not," says Agnes.

    Agnes doesn't know much about classical music, but she knows that having your beeper on during a concert is considered bad form. She calls it anyway and leaves her number, but there is no response. He's got the thing turned off.

   Sarah has her coat on. "Agnes, you're the only one who's seen him."

   "Just me and Dov," says Agnes. "And I had a clearer view."

   "It's spooky," says Sarah. "I'm scared."

   Agnes tries to be rational. "I'm sure Wayne is mistaken, but if he's not, I can call Whitey Walker from there."

   Sarah grabs her video camera. "Admit it, Agnes. You want to catch him yourself. And I hope you do, because I'll have it on tape. I can sell it to every TV station in the city." While Agnes gets her coat, Sarah shakes some food into the turtle tank.

   "Manna time, boys," she says.

* * *

"He was with a crowd of young professionals," says Wayne drily as they walk from Hippodrome Lanes to Barnett's. "They were having a splendid time. I made a mental note of what he's wearing: dark gray Italian-cut double-breasted suit, pinpoint Oxford, solid puce tie, Brooks Brothers tasseled loafers. His overcoat is navy blue with a tight check pattern. He's wearing one of those awful Claddagh rings."

    "That's him," says Agnes. She remembers the ring.

    The three of them enter Barnett's.

    Barnett's used to be a sedate old relic. Now, it's renovated and packed, art deco and lavender neon and a CD jukebox. In seconds Wayne is shaking hands and laughing with one of the bartenders.

    "Unbelievable," Wayne says to Agnes. "Darryl and I did summer stock together in the Catskills."

   Darryl greets her. "Fi
ddler,
Fantasticks,
Forum—a
new show every three weeks. Brutal."

   Darryl grabs a passing manager and gets a cash register key from him. He punches in an elaborate code and buys drinks for Agnes and Wayne. Sarah is busy fooling with her equipment.

   "What are you up to?" asks Darryl.

   "You know me," says Wayne. "Always trying new things. I've been living on the street for a while."

   Darryl is shocked. "I'm so sorry. Jesus."

   "It's no big deal. What about you?"

   "I'm not working in the theater, obviously," says Darryl. "But I've got nothing to complain about."

   Wayne asks Darryl about the Pinboy's group.
Those
guys? says Darryl, incredulous. What could you possibly want with those power-tied assholes?

   "One of them is an old friend of Agnes's," says Wayne.

   "They're a bachelor party. They're not here anymore. They went to Dallas Alice's on Waverly for dinner."

   By this time, the manager of Barnett's is escorting Sarah out of the restaurant.

   "The decor is not to be photographed," he tells her.

   "She wasn't photographing the decor," says Agnes. She looks around her with distaste. "And who'd want to see it anyway? This is a corporate idea of what a New York restaurant should look like. It's an empty recreation. It doesn't have an ounce of soul or vision. It's studied and planned and safe. It most definitely isn't New York."

   "But it is copyrighted," says the manager, "and you can't take any pictures."

* * *

Agnes and Wayne and Sarah jump into a cab.

   Wayne is the first homeless person with whom Agnes doesn't mind coming into contact. He actually seems—and she is a bit devastated by this—cleaner than she does. Agnes is forgetful about deodorant; Wayne smells of bay rum and cloves.

   "I couldn't wait to get away from him," says Wayne.

   "Darryl?"

   "I can't stand seeing people I knew before my diagnosis," he says. "I have AIDS, you know."

   Agnes doesn't know what to say. She nods lamely and sort of shudders.

   Wayne takes off his leather gloves and folds his hands in his lap. When he notices Agnes's staring at them, he holds them up. "Aren't they beautiful?" he says. His hands are covered with a galaxy of warts. "My immune system has gone haywire. I'm getting a new virus every ten minutes. I've done everything to get rid of these but swing a dead cat over my head at midnight."

   He puts the gloves back on. "The warts confirmed my suspicions. And my bout of shingles. And the fact that my throat was turning more colors than the Painted Desert. But I knew it anyway, even before all that. You don't do what I did and come out alive."

   They get out of the cab on Waverly Place.

   "You got out of the cab very elegantly," Wayne says to Sarah.

   Sarah shrugs. "You open a door, you get out of a cab. What's the big deal?"

   "Some people do it well. That's all."

   Before it was Dallas Alice's Truck Stop, 18 Waverly Place was, for about a hundred years, the site of Marty Terwilliger's Chop House. Marty Terwilliger, he of the derby and unlit cigar and the growths in the corners of his eyes that made him look vaguely Asian, had two catch phrases: "Get this cocksucker anything he wants" (delivered with a skyward rolling of the eyes), and "Whatever" (accompanied by an existential shrug of the shoulders). Terwilliger's was the favorite restaurant of the notorious Indian mobster V.D. Garg, and it was there that he met his end, a pistol hole in his forehead like a caste mark, his hands severed and roasted in his personal Tandoori oven.

   Terwilliger himself discovered the corpse.

   "Whatever," he said, shrugging.

   Dallas Alice's is one big room. Thousands of young people eat Cajun food beneath the logos of defunct gasolines: Esso, Sinclair, Flying A, Socony. The tables are set on three levels. The diners are well-scrubbed; looking at all the razor cuts and sweater sets reminds Agnes of the New Christy Minstrels.

   This time, Wayne and Sarah wait outside. The hostess leads Agnes to a wobbly table next to the waitress station and the bathroom.

   The menu is as big as the Mosaic tablets. Agnes pretends to read it while scanning the room. An overworked waitress skids into the waitress station. She juggles a tray of cheesecakes and coffee cups and two steins of beer. She picks up the coffee pot and nearly loses everything.

   "Oh shit," she says. "Could you grab that?"

   Agnes looks up. "What?"

   "The coffeepot," says the waitress urgently. "Could you...."

   Agnes jumps up and rescues her.

   "Thanks," says the waitress, shaking her burned hand. "I'll have it together in a minute, and then I'll work on some food for you, okay?"

   The waitress hurries off, leaving Agnes holding the coffeepot. A man with a red goatee and an earring comes over to her with his empty cup.

   "If the mountain won't come to Mohammed," he says. "Would you mind terribly?"

   Agnes obliges him, then moves around the restaurant, coffeepot in hand, in search of the Pinboy. Dallas Alice's is far too hip to put its waitresses in uniforms, so Agnes blends right in. She wanders all over the restaurant without seeing Jack. She meets Wayne near the bathroom, and together they go downstairs, where a private party is in progress.

   "I'm sure that's them," Wayne whispers.

   They look like brokers or investment bankers, not the sort of group Agnes would expect the Pinboy to associate with. They are in the early stages of drunkenness. A waitress tries to decant a bottle of wine. She has no idea what to do with the candle. There is much discussion of sediment.

  "Young peckerheads on the rise," Wayne comments.

   An empty chair is soon taken by someone returning from the bathroom.

   "Well fuck me," says Agnes. "It's him."

   She fishes out her address book and gives it to Wayne. "Call Whitey Walker at the hot line number. I'm not letting this prick out of my sight."

   It's Jack the Pinboy, all right. He looks smaller than Agnes remembers him, but that seems natural—thoughts of his monstrousness have swollen him in Agnes's imagination.

   The Pinboy's main course is delivered to him. He cuts his sirloin steak down the middle to check its temperature. His lip curls. The steak is not cooked to his satisfaction. He summons the waitress by flexing his index finger. She takes the meal away. Now he has nothing to do. He seems instantly bored. His eyes wander around the room. He looks toward the doorway. He spots Agnes, but she makes no impression. Then he looks back. He stands up and smiles.

   "Hi," he says.

   Did she hear him correctly?

   Hi?

   He comes over to her, napkin in hand. "Remember me? John Speer. We met at Smitty's. Arlene, right?"

   She is too stunned to do anything but correct him. "Agnes."

   He snaps his fingers. "Damn, I hate when I do that. So what's been happening? How are the Wegemans? Have they corrupted you completely?"

   Agnes takes a step backward. "If you're trying to play with my head, you're doing a great job."

   He shoves one hand in his pocket. "That was a horrible thing that happened to Babs. No one felt worse than me."

   "I would think not," says Agnes grimly.

   He doesn't care for her implication. "Now look. I read some things that said I did it. I was sleeping with her, so, okay, maybe it makes sense. But come on. I don't even step on ants in the street." The waitress returns with his steak; he nods at her. "I was very glad when the whole thing blew over."

   "Blew over! Every cop in the city is looking for you."

   "It's not like I've been hiding," he says.

   "You could have gone to them."

   He comes closer to her and lowers his voice. "I thought about it. But I would have gotten shitcanned when all the details came out. Do you think my boss knows that I play in a band until three or four in the morning? You know how it is in the corporate world. You've got to keep your life in order. You've got to control things you can't control. To be screwing someone who turned up murdered—do you know how that would look for me?"

   "You're not a pinboy," says Agnes.

   "That story just got out of hand," he says mournfully. "But if Babs knew I worked for White & Cheevers she would have spit on me."

   Speer's table is calling him.

   "I'm glad we had a chance to straighten this out," he says to Agnes. "I have to go now. I have a steak to eat. Don't make a big thing out of this, please. It's not worth it."

   The guy who made the waitress decant the wine joins them. He has a shock of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. "Is there a problem here?"

   "I can handle it," says Jack.

   "That's what I'm here for, Johnny," he says, frowning at Agnes. "I'm Mark Rennet. I'm the best man. This is one of my ushers you're talking to. And this dinner is for gentlemen only. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

   "That's impossible," says Agnes.

   "Then I'll have to speak with the management. You really are disturbing us."

   "Let me take care of this," Jack pleads.

   "Whatever you say, buddy. We all get ourselves into this kind of jam every now and again. But make it quick. We just cracked a '79 Lafite."

   After Mark Rennet sits down, Jack, now very upset, says, "I'll go to the police first thing in the morning."

   "Tonight," says Agnes.

   Jack shakes his head. "No. Tomorrow's better for me. I can't leave now, obviously."

   "Come eat your frigging steak!" cries Mark Rennet.

   Speer takes out his wallet. "If you don't believe I'll go to the police, here's some security. Take my driver's license. Take my credit cards—all of them. Just leave me the cab voucher so I can get home."