Night-Bloom (24 page)

“Sure you do, Dominick.”

“No. I’m tellin’ you, I don’t.”

“Come off it, Dominick. Don’t be simpleminded. He must have had someone he spoke to.”

“No. Now, I already told you. My old man spoke to no one. He was like … very private. See?”

“Not a friend? Not a close buddy? Not even your mother? Listen, if you knew you could save a life by recalling the name of a pal of his. Someone he drove with.”

The notion appeared to spark something in the young man’s imagination. “You sayin’ this guy in the back of my old man’s cab was some kind of killer?”

Mooney shrugged. He knew he’d hooked him. “More than likely.”

The silence that followed was portentous. Mooney watched his quarry weaken.

“Well, there might’ve been some guy he drove with …”

“Yeah?”

“Nothin’ you’d call a close pal, see.”

“Sure—I understand.”

The young man stretched his neck and gave it a sharp half-turn as if the collar were too tight. He rattled off some more Italian in the direction of the kitchen where Mooney could hear the old lady stir and start to shuffle about.

“There was a guy he used to drive with by the name of Harry Rothblatt.”

“Rothblatt, Harry,” Mooney scribbled the name into his pad.

“If there was a guy my father used to talk to a lot— real buddies sort of—it was him.”

“I got you.”

“Used to drive for Acme when my old man was there. Now I think he works with some outfit out in Queens.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know which one?”

“No, but if you’re lookin’ for him, just go to the Belmore Cafeteria on Twenty-eighth and Park Avenue South. If he’s not there, they’ll know where you can find him.”

Even as he drove down over the 138 Street Bridge, making his way west to Park Avenue South, he struggled to suppress a sense of gathering momentum. It was a bit like betting a horse who’d been out of the money his last six races, then suddenly makes an unexpectedly strong move coming out of the eighth pole.

Mooney knew the Belmore by reputation only. Occasionally, a garment manufacturer off his track might stumble in, but the ninety-year-old caféteria was a landmark frequented by virtually every cabdriver in the city. Open seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, it was a lighthouse to all those tired, angry men crisscrossing the city every day in yellow cabs, driving through the long reaches of the night, drawn there by the temptation of strong coffee and sweet pastries, hot meals at any hour. And, of course, always the raw, bitter, funny conversation—gossip from all the comrades of the road. There was about it more the raucous flavor of a clubhouse than that of a caféteria located in the grimy, drably commercial section of Park Avenue South.

“Where would I find Harry Rothblatt?” Mooney asked a blowsy, overweight cashier, spilling out of the cramped little area behind the register. She ignored him pointedly and went about her pencil computation. He waited, until at last she looked up regarding him through rhinestone-framed sunglasses. For reply she nodded in the direction of a tall, bald counterman with his shirt open to the third button, proclaiming a hairy chest upon which the Hebrew letters for
LIFE
glittered in gold plate.

“Harry Rothblatt,” Mooney inquired a moment later, and watched the man flip potato pancakes into a huge skillet of sizzling fat. The rancid smell of fried food wafted up about his face.

“Who wants him?”

Mooney flashed his badge over the glass counter. The man gave it a quick impassive glance and poured more pancake batter into his skillet. “He’s not here right now.”

“Does he come in regular?”

“Every day.”

“When do you expect him?”

The counterman glanced at his watch. “Between six-fifteen and six-thirty. Just before he goes on. He drives at night.”

Mooney glanced up at the caféteria clock which read 6:10.

“Fifteen minutes or so,” the counterman said. “You had your supper yet?”

Mooney gazed wistfully at the huge, pink corned beef and hams, the freshly made, still warm, brisket glistening with beads of brown burned fat. He had barely eaten all day. Now the warm, heady odors of roasts and frying food were merciless.

“Not yet,” Mooney made a sheepish, pathetic face and started to back off.

“What can I offer you, my friend?”

He put his hands up as if he were warding off a blow. “Nothing, thanks. Not a thing …”

The counterman watched the detective’s wistful gaze fall upon the crisp, lacy-fried potato pancakes. “What about a couple of these little beauties?”

“I can’t, really. Thanks all the same.” Mooney was weakening and the counterman saw it. He heaped a half-dozen pancakes on a plate, along with a dollop of sour cream and one of apple sauce. “How about a nice slice of brisket? Fresh out of the oven. To go with the pancakes?”

Mooney smiled queasily. The stern, disapproving gaze of Fritzi Baumholz flashed before his eyes. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Who says?”

“I’m supposed to be on a diet.”

“Who’s telling anyone? I didn’t see a thing.” The counterman winked and passed the plate along to Mooney, who took it with trembling hands. “Take a seat over there. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll let you know when Harry comes in. Coffee’s in the urn. Iced tea, if you prefer. Help yourself.”

Mooney threaded his way across the floor, to an empty table beneath the caféteria clock. In a little under six minutes he had jettisoned every rule of calorie conservation and was more ravenously hungry than ever. More than anything now he craved strawberry shortcake or an eclair, oozing custard and dark chocolate. The fact that he was so intimidated by the mere thought of Fritzi made him even more recklessly defiant.

Mooney was just about to rise and seek out sweets when he caught the eye of the counterman nodding at him, and then toward the door. As he turned he saw a gray, sixtyish, bearlike figure, with a dome of gauzy white hair shamble through the doors.

He sat back down in his chair and watched the man lumber across the floor waving to people, pausing occasionally at tables to chat with other drivers.

Once he reached the counter Mooney watched him lean quickly forward while the counterman whispered something in his ear and pointed to Mooney. The man turned and looked quickly at the detective, then turned back to the counterman who proceeded to serve him.

With his tray full, the man turned once more, and without looking at Mooney, made his way directly toward him.

“Hold on,” he said, placing his tray at the same table opposite the detective. “Be with you in a minute. Just wanna get some tea.”

The man turned and lumbered back to the big aluminum urns. He walked as if his feet hurt him. Mooney’s jaded eye rambled over a tray full of salad, cottage cheese and stewed prunes.

“Ulcers,” the big man remarked, returning to the table. He set his cup of tea down and took the seat opposite Mooney. He’d caught the look of repugnance on the detective’s face. “Not exactly the food of the gods. Harry Rothblatt,” he said. “I understand you’re lookin’ for me.”

Rothblatt was a gloomy, talkative man. He’d lived in Flatbush all his life and driven a cab for forty years. His wife had died several years back and now he spoke ruefully of ungrateful children and rapacious relatives. But of course he had known Rudy Uliano. “Knew him for years. Sweetheart of a guy. We used to drive together for Washkowitz, that ‘cheap, chiseling kike.’ Then Rudy moved up to the Bronx and started driving for Acme. But how’d you find me?”

“It’s a long story. Actually, I just went around to about forty garages. Finally hit one where the injury and date appeared to coincide. They gave me Uliano’s name and that led to you.”

Harry Rothblatt chewed lettuce with a weary air of obedience. “And you say this guy was injured in Rudy’s cab?”

“Not in his cab. Outside. But he was probably spilling a lot of blood and flagged your pal. Bled all over the back of his cab.”

Mr. Rothblatt nodded eagerly. “Oh, sure. Now I remember.”

Mooney leaned forward in his chair. “You
do
remember?”

“How could I forget? Couple of years ago, wasn’t it? What a night. Poor Rudy. Blood all over his shoes and trousers.”

Outwardly calm, something like a locomotive roared full speed inside of Mooney’s head. “Did Rudy tell you about it?”

“Sure. Well, you couldn’t stop him. He come down here right afterward. I was sittin’ over there at that table.” Mr. Rothblatt pointed to a table across the caféteria, presently occupied by a pair of voluble bag ladies who kept berating each other. “He was pretty shook up. I took him right into the men’s room and we got him washed up. Then I brought him back out and gave him a cup of black coffee and he just started talking. Sure, I remember.”

“Did he tell you how the guy happened to get the injury?”

Mr. Rothblatt closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Nope. I don’t think so. Least I don’t recall nothin’ about that.”

“Did he happen to say where exactly the guy was injured?”

“You mean where he was injured on his body or where the accident occurred?”

“Both,” Mooney snapped, unable to suppress his impatience.

“Lemme see.” Mr. Rothblatt’s spoon of sour cream paused midway between bowl and mouth. “It was somewhere over in the theater district. I think he said it was around Fortieth or Forty-first.”

“Forty-first and where?”

“It strikes me it was pretty far west. Like Ninth Avenue.”

Mooney’s heart leaped. “You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. We talked about it for some time that night.” Mr. Rothblatt spooned prunes into his mouth, chewed intently and let the pits slide back onto his spoon.

“And what about the injury,” Mooney pressed on. “What about that? Like, where was it on the guy?” Mr. Rothblatt pondered a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think he said.”

“How d’ya suppose Rudy got all that blood on him?”

“Probably helping the guy in and out of the cab.”

“Sure. Then if Rudy had blood on his trousers and shoes,” Mooney reflected aloud, “it stands to reason this guy’s injuries were below the belt rather than above.”

“Could be.” Mr. Rothblatt appeared unimpressed. Mooney turned sharply back upon him. “Tell me. This is important. Did Rudy happen to say where he took the guy?”

“I think he said some hospital on the East Side.”

“Yes?”

“But I can’t remember the name. That’s one of the things about getting older. You don’t remember names so well anymore. Just places.” The thought of that made him suddenly sad.

“Was it New York University Medical Center?”

“Nope. That wasn’t it.” Mr. Rothblatt drummed nervously on the table. “People get in my cab all the time. They ask me the names of places. I can never remember, but I know exactly how to get there.”

“Was it Beth Israel Medical Center?”

Mr. Rothblatt thumped the table triumphantly. “That’s it. That’s the place. Beth Israel.”

Mooney was at the edge of his chair. “You’re sure now?”

“Course I’m sure. I remember because poor Rudy couldn’t say it right. He kept calling it Bett Israel.” The old driver laughed nostalgically. “He was one sweetheart of a guy, that Rudy. Give you the shirt off his back. But listen, ain’t all this in the emergency report?”

“Should be, but Rudy never filed one.” Mooney rose and took Harry Rothblatt’s punch ticket off his tray. “This one’s on the city.”

Mooney’s day had been a binge, a procession from one excess to the next. Having saturated himself at the Belmore Cafeteria, he wanted to go directly down to Beth Israel. It was only a matter of ten minutes by car. But it was Sunday night and, of course, the administrative offices would be closed. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Still logy from gluttony, he could not bear the thought of facing Fritzi. Actually, the image of her silent reproach made him decidedly uneasy. One glance at him and she’d know all. On the way home he drove up Lexington Avenue past the gay Victorian gaslights outside the Balloon. Inside, the lights glowed—warm and festive. He felt more desolate than ever.

It was no doubt that feeling which drove Mooney up onto the roof of his apartment house that evening, seeking the solitude of the nighttime sky and the cold, nonjudgmental indifference of the stars. That, of course, plus the uneasy fact that the solstice was near at hand. No more than a week or ten days off, and from the point of view of his own theories, the calendar was rapidly approaching the most critical phase for the Bombardier.