Elsinore (17 page)

“No, Sid. My insurance policy. I couldn't come with an army. It would have given my hand away. I had you.”

“Had me, huh? You gutted my dad, you took my wife from me, gave her to the Swiss, and encouraged Paul Abruzzi to lend my sweetheart to Judith Church.”

“I had to get her out of your system. She was always having breakdowns, Sid.”

“That's a lot of crap. You figured I'd never go on the road with you if Fay was around. So you had Paul grab her from me. It was your idea.”

Holden had to keep himself from smashing the cantor in his monk's bed. His mouth started to twitch.

“Go on,” the cantor said. “Do it. I'd rather be bumped by a real bumper than Bibo's little shits. They'd botch the job. And I'd be an invalid for the rest of my life.”

“What the hell did you want with me, old man? Why did you bring me out of retirement?”

“Ain't it obvious, Sid. Bronshtein, Bibo, and the Swiss need handling, Holden style. I'd include Swiss' bride in the package, but I know you're sentimental about the twig. I am too.”

“She's not his bride,” Holden said. “She's a bigamist.”

“No disparagement intended. None at all. She's been meddling, but I'll forgive her. Holden, it's Bibo or me.”

“Afraid of the boy general?”

“I'm talking business, not the shakes.”

“Well, I'm not buying your little package. You can dance with Bibo all by yourself.”

“Then kill me, Holden. End it here. I'm your employer. I'd like the job done.”

“I couldn't bump a cantor,” Holden said. And he left the emergency room. But there were funny people outside, men in surgical masks and hospital gowns. And Holden wasn't crazy about their eyes. They must have been MDs from some forbidden synagogue or school where healing wasn't much of an art. He could imagine the kind of hardware they had under their gowns. He wasn't going to leave the cantor to them. Phippsy wouldn't survive the night.

He found an office with a phone, two floors above the foundation. He got little Judith on the line. “I want to hire you and your mama. I need an installation.”

“You can't afford us, Holden.”

And he had to whisper around all the masks who paraded in front of the door, winking at Holden, because they had all the time in the world. Holden returned to the emergency room.

“Changed your mind, Sid?”

“Quiet.” The monk's bed had no wheels, and Holden couldn't trundle the cantor around, use the bed as a battering ram. The masked men serenaded Holden from the other side of the door. But they couldn't warble like a cantor. There was too much bile.

“El Presidente, we're waiting for you. Bibo sends his love.”

All right, Holden thought, there were worse ways to die than in the company of a cantor.

“Phippsy, sing for me.”

“I can't. My voice is gone.”

“I never admired your millions. Or the Supper Club … Morton Katz is a lucky devil. He sang in your choir.”

“Singing won't get us out of here, Sid.”

“It's hopeless. I can't carry you on my back. And Bibo has a dozen men in masks. With automatics under their gowns. I might sock a couple. I might squeeze their necks. But I couldn't bring you out alive.”

The door opened and Holden saw a little circus of policewomen. The Manhattan Mimes. With pistols and badges and hair in ponytails under their hats. Holden could swear a few of the women were men. That was Judith's genius. To scare these phony doctors with lady cops. They were all roly-poly in their big black shoes. Judith had given them that perfect pitch of menacing clowns. Even Holden was worried, and he understood who they were.

The tallest clown must have been Judith. How much could he tell from her taut, rubberized face? Was she staring at the cantor? Holden wasn't sure. The cantor couldn't have known what these crazy policewomen were about. And then Frog did catch Judith's eyes. She was looking at the great Hirsch as if he were some kind of pet snake. Love, Holden thought. Love itself was a snake. A little garter snake that could bite like the Devil.

The masked doctors were gone. The presence of so many Mimes in police uniforms had driven them out of the building. Frog dressed the cantor.

“Where are we going, Sid?”

“Where it's safe.”

“But this is all mine. I'm the king here.”

“That's the problem. You're an easy target. Too many people know about you.”

The policewomen accompanied them to the elevator, handcuffs dangling from their trousers like obscene toys. Little Judith was in the lobby. Frog had to laugh. His phone call hadn't brought the Mimes. Little Judith must have prepared this installation long before Holden got on the line.

He stepped around the cantor for a moment to whisper in little Judith's ear. “It's complicated, isn't it? Your affairs with Phippsy. You ruin him and you save his life.”

“I work for Howard Phipps.”

“Yeah, his lawyer lady. You want him hurt but not dead. I'm in the middle of some weird romance. And Mrs. Vanderwelle, I don't like it.”

Then he took Hirschele away from the Mimes. “Thank you, but Mr. Phipps is my responsibility now.”

He shoved the cantor into a taxicab. They drove north, then Frog switched cabs and shuttled downtown. The journey was like a row of jagged teeth. They arrived at the Esterhazy Houses in their sixth cab.

Frog created a furor at the front desk. The nurses wouldn't admit a new patient off the street. Frog scratched a check for three hundred thousand dollars. He knew now that he could never bankrupt Aladdin. Aladdin was one more of the cantor's money drops. Dollars flowed in and out, in and out, and Frog's checkbook was irrelevant to the whole machine.

The head administrator of the golden-age club pondered with the check in his hand. “But he has no references.”

“I'm telling you, this is Hirschele Feldstein, the foremost cantor of his era.”

“Holden,” the cantor muttered. “Shut your mouth. You're giving my secrets away.”

“I do recollect a cantor named Hirsch,” the administrator said. “But he can't bully his way in here … even with your donation. I need a reference.”

“Then call Morton Katz, for Christ's sake.”

Morton appeared in his pajamas.

The administrator appealed to him. “Is this the cantor Hirsch?”

“No,” Katz said.

The administrator returned the check, his face a shallow color.

“Morton,” Holden said, “look again.”

“This isn't Hirsch,” Katz said.

The cantor smiled, cleared his throat, and started to sing some aria out of the synagogue service. Or at least Holden thought it was an aria. The melody froze him to the floor. Morton fainted. The nurses blew air into his mouth.

The administrator seized the check.

“Hirschele,” Katz said, terrible tears in his eyes.

The cantor stopped singing. “Choirboy,” he said. “You could never follow a tune.”

And Holden slipped out of the Esterhazy Houses.

15

Frog went back home to his office. He had a rage, but against whom? The cantor? The Mimes? Little Judith? It was twilight hour at the fur market. There wasn't a soul out on the streets. He entered Aladdin with his own key. Frog's fur coats were missing. The forest had been picked clean. He knew it was no ordinary burglar. And Frog was without a .22 long to pop whoever had to be popped.

“Bronshtein,” he said, “come on out.”

The furrier emerged from Holden's office with half a dozen jackals. Frog could read their eyes. They were the same phony doctors without masks.

“Bronshtein, where's my. two million for this month?”

“Holden, your accounting is rotten. You ought to think of your own life.”

“I'll think about it later. Where's my money, please?”

“I'm surprised you didn't catch on to my hatbox trick. Did Howard accept the hatboxes?”

“No.”

“Because he knew they were filled with funny paper.”

“I'm speechless,” Holden said. “Everywhere I go I walk into a swindle.”

“Holden, you swindled yourself the day you started working for Howard Phipps.”

“Don't preach. Just tell me how you got into my office.”

“Money,” Bronshtein said. “It works miracles. Everybody is bribable. Except maybe you and your dad.”

“Leave my dad out of this.”

“Holden, Holden, he was a very great artist, your dad. I shivered while he was alive. I offered him millions and a Swiss chalet. But he died a chauffeur.”

“Bronshtein, I'm sick of talking. Tell your jackals to shoot.”

“We're not assassins. Bibo thinks the world of you.”

“I'd be happier if he liked me less. And why does he send such animals to attack Phipps in his own building?”

“Howard didn't leave us much of a choice. All our pacts mean nothing to him. We sweat and he sits in his Supper Club. He ought to retire. We can't be his boys for the rest of our lives.”

“He's not even ninety,” Holden said. “And you shouldn't have made a move on him.”

“Holden, he's the one who made the move. He bought Aladdin out from under Swiss. He comes to Pescadores with his new canceler, asking for bonds. He withdraws cash from all our French accounts. I've had to shut two of my fur shops.”

“Don't cry. You have another fifty. And all of Aladdin's coats.… Bronshtein, if you wanted to chat, why didn't you come alone?”

“In the middle of a war? I couldn't take the chance. Have I threatened you, Holden? Have I hurt you? I had to join up with the Swiss. Howard's been brutal. Holden, you can reason with him. He can't walk through us like a hurricane and expect us not to fight back. Howard has a daughter, I hear. A certain Mrs. Vanderwelle. Illegitimate, but a daughter nonetheless. We'll be obliged to—”

Frog slapped Bronshtein on the mouth. The jackals drew their guns and grinned. “Good-bye, El Presidente, good-bye, good-bye.”

“No,” the furrier said with a handkerchief over his mouth. “No violence. Not today.”

“Bronshtein, maybe you hooked yourself to the wrong star. Bibo got ambitious. And you figured to stuff the old man, give him heartburn for his ninetieth birthday. He was having some money problems, so you got together with the Swiss and decided to pounce. And you were my favorite furrier.… Get the hell out of Aladdin. And take your dogs.”

The furrier left, and Holden's teeth started to chatter. He wasn't frightened of Bibo. Whatever revelations Frog had about his dad were like a lousy dream. He couldn't have had a career without Holden Sr. His dad was the prince of bumpers, a man who never circulated much. And Frog had his picture in
Vanity Fair
.

He went uptown to little Judith. She wasn't home. Frog visited her Chinese restaurant on Third, figuring he'd grab a midnight meal. But he didn't have to eat alone. Little Judith sat at her window seat, looking forlorn. She didn't seem like some architect or general who could hurt or help the cantor according to her own calendar. She had Frog's whole history in her computers at the foundation. She could summon up the cantor's enemies, friends, associates, and silent partners. Frog wondered what the printout would be on his dad.

He joined Judith at her table. She was having lobster Cantonese. “The kitchen just closed,” she said. “But I'm a regular. I can ask them to prepare something for you.”

“Not hungry,” Frog said. “Do you always eat alone, Mrs. Vanderwelle?”

“You know my habits. You've been following me around long enough. Besides, I have a beau.”

“Who's that?”

“Sidney Holden.”

Frog touched his lip. He wasn't clever enough to contain little Judith. “We spent one night together.”

“You're still my beau. That's the way I'm built. When I like a man, I can't let go.”

“I thought you haven't been with anyone but your husband.”

“Not until I met you.”

“Can we stop this?” Holden said. “There's a furrier out on the street who's very interested in you. He has six jackals behind him. His name is Bronshtein.”

She started to laugh. “Bronshtein of the hatboxes. He's harmless.”

“Mrs. Vanderwelle, I know my business. It isn't smart to have a window seat. Suppose I was one of the jackals and I snuck up on you like this.”

“Holden, you wouldn't have a chance.” She pulled a .22 long out from her lap, with a silvered grip, the kind of gun Frog might have used.

“I've dealt with Bronshtein,” he said. “The man can be dangerous. How did Bronshtein meet your father?”

“No one knows who my real father is, not even my mom.”

“I wasn't trying to be technical. I need a fix on Bronshtein. Did he meet Howard on some paquebot?”

“You're confusing him with the Swiss. He was a petty criminal in Alsace until Howard picked him up and turned him into a furrier with a Parisian address.”

“Another one of Phippsy's protégés.”

“He betrayed Howard several times.”

“And you? What the hell is your relationship with Howard Phipps?”

“I keep him alive … and wound him as often as I can.”

“Maybe you like him more than you think.”

“No. It isn't much fun wounding a dead man.”

“And what happens after you leak all the liquid out of him? Will you defend him in bankruptcy court like a good little girl?”

“I might,” she said, “if he can still pay my salary.”

“I'd pay it with an Aladdin check,” Holden said, reaching across the table to grab her hands. “He didn't kill Kronstadt. He told me. It was some pimp named Marcus Reims.”

“You poor Frog,” she said. “Marcus Reims is one of the aliases he used. Kronstadt worked with him. Hirschele Feldstein was a cantor and a thief.”

“Jekyll and Hyde,” Holden said. “I don't believe it.”