Manhattan Mayhem (25 page)

Emil glanced fuzzily at the boy. “How old is it?”

The kid bowed slightly, tattered though he was. “Eight years, sir.”

“Ah. Vell brought up,” Emil muttered, sounding like a growly dog. He wriggled closer to the statue’s base, shredding the seat of his old pants on the rough cement. I don’t know which took me aback more, the kid bowing or Emil growling.

Emil rearranged some phlegm in his throat and said to me, “Mr. Slick Nick! You are vell?”

“Just Nick, please. As well as you see me, so kind.” I snapped out my words, showing teeth for a smile. Emil’s eyesight was too poor to catch my true expression. I
despised
that moniker, stuck on me by some low rabble I no longer acknowledge. Jealousy, that’s all it was. Breathing deeply to calm myself, I managed to soften my smile.

“Zo, Mr. James.” Old Emil squinted at the small boy, then dropped his gaze to the five spot in the boy’s outstretched palm. “Ah. Dis is for me?” He didn’t reach for it. His gnarled hands stayed folded atop the old cane he held upright between his knees. The dough had triggered a memory, and as his watery faded eyes began to blink, Emil forgot he had an audience. Money did that to him. A five spot or a penny, no difference, and his mind would drift back to long-ago better days.

I’d warned the boy he’d do that, but not to worry. I frowned. He didn’t
look
worried. Maybe he believed me, or maybe … “Kid … you
sure
you’re not a Murphy? Y’look like one.”

The boy shrugged but avoided my gaze. Sure sign of a lie. I studied him, my toe tapping the bricks. Hm. Some Murphy had assuredly given him that distinctive shade of red hair. His mother, possibly. Thousands of Murphys filled the tenements, like barnacles on a barge. Dear God. I’d better treat him decently. No amount of money was worth the risk of upsetting Murphys. I shivered.

I myself, though not Irish, heavens no, have spent some few unlucky nights outside, to which I credit my most admirable virtue: acceptance of all men, no matter their circumstances. Besides, Jamey, who swore he was not a Murphy, had money. And I did not. Which was why I troubled to make his acquaintance and drag him over to Wall Street.

“Is this story worth a fiver?” James asked me with what I had to
admit was an admirable sneer for an eight-year-old. He’d obviously had dough chiseled out of him before. His palm was already drooping toward the safety of his jeans pocket.

I faked a scowl at him: “A cynic at your age? Tsk, tsk!”

“I don’t even know you!” He scowled back at me. Were I not so kindly natured, I’d say the boy actually snarled. I patted his cute round head, then wiped my hand on my trousers. Pests abound in our beloved New York, especially in spring.

I snagged his arm and peeled open the sweaty fingers, then pushed the hand back at Emil again. “It’s worth a fiver just to get him started,” I muttered to James. “Trust me.” I stroked my straggly goat’s beard and turned my moral back on the implications of a stranger telling a very small boy to “trust me.” I’d been a small boy once, too. A wry echo of my mother’s voice said in my head, “
But never so sharp as this one.
” Mothers. What do they know? Then I flinched, as if her ghost was hovering near with a rolling pin in hand.

We had to get old Emil to open up. Spare dough was rare these days, except among fat guys wearing diamond stickpins, who were more likely to swipe yours than share theirs. A gaggle of skinflints, to a man.

“Look here, Emil. This boy wants to hear the barmaid and the roller skate story. Don’t you, James?” The boy nodded somewhat doubtfully but then repeated, “… Roller skates?”

(
Hooked!
…) I touched my hankie to my eye to catch a falling tear over the gullibility of precious little tykes. Aw. Then I stuffed the rag out of sight. I’ve never understood the unfailing draw of roller skates. Baffling.

“You won’t regret this!” Pretending Emil had agreed, I hurried around to perch on the step next to the fellow. He liked to sit on the bottom steps of the Federal Building, dozing his old age away at the feet of the Father of Our Country. Well, not the father of mine, no indeed, but why quibble? George Washington, forever bronzed for the enjoyment of pigeons. In Emil’s position, he could lean his arthritic back against the sun-heated pedestal and keep a fond and comfortable eye on the Stock Exchange across the way.

“Emil used to work there.” I pointed at the exchange. “Before his, um, early retirement.”

James peered askance at the old man, whose mounds of threadbare tweed-draped corpulence seemed permanently bonded to the pediment holding up George. “Why’d you retire early, Emil?” His young voice seemed a bit rougher than it should for a tyke of his age.
Interesting. Did he possibly smoke? No. I refused to believe it.

After a silence, Emil answered. “To experience the glory of a thirty-year vacation, dear James. Near a river. The air was healthier there.”

James and I glanced at each other at the same moment. I knew better, and James did not believe him.

As my mouth opened to beg James to let it go, he blurted, “Sing Sing?”

Emil nodded.

“How much did you steal?”

Emil shrugged. “I can’t remember. I’m old now.”

“Poor fellow.” I turned aside from Emil and mouthed to James:
“Three hundred g’s.”

James’s eyes narrowed. He mouthed back at me,
“For that, he got thirty years?”

I made a face.
“Took it from the wrong fellow.”

James remained standing, but at eight, he was level with us, like a trio huddled round a burning oil drum in sleety weather. “So cozy!” I exclaimed. “All friends together, right, James? May I call you Jamey?” Emil swayed away from me as if the question was indelicate. Jamey gave me the fish-eye but nodded, willing to get along, probably due to the cash.

I leaned toward Jamey. “To be clear,” I whispered harshly, “if he remembers where he stashed his goods, I’ll be happy to reimburse your fiver. The rest is
mine.
Got that?”

His shoved his head toward me on his twiggy neck. “We’ll see,” he snapped.

I could’ve bitten him. But fortune smiled on Jamey, and Emil spoke up.

“Everybody vants to know about ze roller skater, poor lass,” mused
Emil in his high, slightly hoarse voice. He smacked his dry lips and eyed me. He must’ve calculated the contents of my wallet by the holes in my coat, because he instantly sighed and looked away. “
Ein bisschen bier
vould be pleasant.”

I couldn’t deny it. My beard was dripping like a wet rag. So unattractive. “April weather,” I muttered.

Emil settled his haunches more comfortably on the step and then looped his hands around his knees. He let his cane drop onto the broad sidewalk in front of us. Jamey leaped to retrieve it, but I shook my head at him. “It’s Emil’s game,” I muttered behind my hand.

Jamey looked at me, puzzled for only a second. He moved to make more room to allow Emil’s game to proceed, if it should happen. Shrewd child.

I’d seen Emil’s game in action and figured it was yet another reason why he spent his days on these steps, leaning on President Washington. Bankers and brokers were not just of the toffee-nosed “how dare you!” breed, but also usually flush. If they perchance tripped or, even better, fell over Emil’s cane, to a man they would bash and kick the poor old guy in revenge for injuring their dignity—that most fragile of body parts. That is, until Bull stopped the show and made the victim empty his pockets to soothe Emil’s pain. Then Bull would shove the patsy to move along, and he and Emil would split the haul. Speaking of …

A vast shadow cast itself over us.

“Hey, Bull,” said Jamey.

“Ah, heh, you know each other, what a surprise!” I used my best party voice.

Jamey shot me a patronizing look. “Everybody knows Bull.”

He meant this Wall Street Bull, who I’m fairly certain is human. The other one weighs seven thousand pounds and doesn’t move, although he seems ready to: gouging and snorting, his bronze horns lowered threateningly. Tourists had fallen hard for the Wall Street “Charging” Bull. His creator, the artist Arturo Di Modica, had parked him right in front of the exchange one night last Christmas, like a present under the big tree. City Hall had demanded the “gift’s”
removal. But tourists speak loudly with dollars. I heard the city refused to buy the Bull from Di Modica but, to keep the tourists happy, will soon shift him—the bull, not its creator—to Broadway in front of the small Bowling Green Park, but facing uptown. Both he and the copper we called Bull … well, certain resemblances, that’s all I’ll say in mixed company.

Emil shivered as his sun disappeared, then he glanced up to view the Bull blocking all light. Emil’s face glowed with delight! “Bull, my boy! Sit down!” (As if the Bull could fold his vast bulk and perch on a narrow step. Sometimes Emil doesn’t think things through.) “I’m just about to tell these two gentlemen about the roller skates!”

Bull nodded, as if impressed. Even his thin lips curved at the ends as if trying to remember smiling from his younger days. “Yeah? That’s a good story. You’ll like it, Jamey. Mind if I hang close ’n hear it, too?”

The Bull was big, as his name implied, and he also pursued the occupation implied—he was Wall Street’s cop. The NYPD kept the other Wall Street posts in rotation, but for some reason, Bull was permanent here. Maybe because he was due to retire soon? Just a guess. His name also fit perfectly, because if anything happened that he didn’t like, he’d beat the living bejeesus out of you. Never laid a fist on me, I assure you. But like some, the Bull couldn’t get enough of Emil’s stories. I figure that’s why he’s never more than twenty feet away from the old man. Touching, isn’t it?

The Bull, displaying rare affection, patted Emil on the shoulder. “Thanks, but I gotta stay standing, Emil. In case. You know. Duty.”

Oh, yeah. The Bull—protector of Wall Street—had to be ready on his feet to chase down wind-blown umbrellas or give directions to tourists.

Emil nodded in grave sympathy. “Always duty first, Bull. God bless you.”

I turned my head, suddenly happy I’d missed lunch.

“Enough of this. A stack of chores’re waitin’ for me.”

My eyebrows shot up. Was Jamey making demands? Of Emil? Of me? Kid had moxie. A bit of pride tickled my chest.

Jamey folded his arms, the bill still crumpled in his fist. He braced his thin legs and stuck out his chin. Kid meant business.

Bull’s eyebrows rose. He winked at Jamey. “He’s serious, Emil. Jamey delivers his mother’s mending every day over to the club girls. That’s how they get on.”

Emil smiled at Jamey. “I’ll try to hurry, then, son. A good boy.”

I patted Jamey’s shoulder. “All will become clear soon. Trust me.” Oh dear. I hated that phrase. “Give Emil the fiver.”

He almost didn’t … then he did. If he weren’t only eight, I’d have been fearful of crossing him in business. Thankfully, he
was
only eight.

Emil took the bill, sniffed at it.

I cleared my throat. “It’s a bill, Emil. Not something to eat.”

Emil bobbed his head gently. “Habit. Different times.” He chuckled at himself, then stretched his long arms and filled his lungs with air, and finally began. “Zis young woman—”

I interrupted, “Long time ago, right Emil?” Bull frowned at me, but I didn’t care. Emil needed direction.

“Oh, yass. Long ago. Forty years, I am tinking. Her name vas Rose. Because of her hair, I’m sure
you
understand.” He directed this at Jamey, who nodded as he shoved grubby red bangs out of his eyes. “See, this young lady vas truly a lady, believe me, but as ve all must do things to keep da beer on the table, so did she. She verked in a musical bar, and instead of valking around, she roller-skated on the vooden floor. It vas a novelty of da time.”

Jamey gasped. “Really? I’da liked to seen that!”

Emil leaned forward and grabbed one of Jamey’s paws. “A good son like you, I vould not lie.” He settled back again and sighed. “One day, she, uh … she died.”

I almost fell into the street. “She didn’t
die.
She married you. Remember, Emil?”

Emil looked at me, eyes unfocused for a few moments. Then they cleared. “Yass. You are right. Da lovely Rose consented to be my vife. She retired her skates and verked to make a good home for us. Ve both hoped for a son.” His voice trailed off in sadness. “Like zis dear boy …”

“And you had several, didn’t you?” I prompted. Bull frowned at me again. I lifted my hands to him, meaning, somebody has to keep him on track. Bull nodded. He knew about the loot lost somewhere in old Emil’s memory, and he knew I did, too. So he stayed pleasant and waited for more of the story to unfold.

“What were your sons’ names, Emil?” That might help, if he remembered them all.

“Mmm …” Emil looked at his feet. Thinking. I hope.

“Walter?” I started him off.

“Nah, not Valter, Giselle vas da first.”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Jamey stated flatly. He looked at me. “I know that much.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Bull. He nudged me with a toe. “Actually, Emil had all girls.”

I brushed dust from my shins resentfully. “Nix that. How would you know?”

“Of course Bull vould know!” said Emil, frowning at me. The frown faded. And when Bull sighed, I knew Emil’s memory was again derailed.

“Sorry I mentioned it,” I told Bull. And meant it.

Bull rocked on his massive feet and murmured to Emil, “Alice.” That galvanized Emil. “Yass, yass! Alice, my luffly Alice.”

He smiled up at Bull, who said, “She was very lovely. Who else do you remember?”

Emil breathed deeply, making an effort to remember for Bull. “V—um—Vanessa. Yass. Ah, my luffly Vanessa, she loved to dance, like her mother.” The memory evidently made him happy.

Bull shifted. “So Emil, how many daughters were you and the beautiful Rose blessed with, huh?”

Emil shook his head. “So long ago. Seven little girls we had. Little girls with pretty red hair and dresses. Shoes, dey needed. Dere feet, they grew and grew. Like the girls themselves.” He sighed. “Dey were angry with me always. Always needing stockings, school books I could not afford.… This is vy I hire my services to dem. Over dere.” He tipped
his head toward the exchange. “I vas a very good accountant,” he added heatedly.