One Coffee With (10 page)

He slipped inside and closed the door even more quietly than he’d opened it. No one challenged his entry. No sound reached him at all, in fact, apart from the muted traffic noises from outside. He felt he could handle Mrs. Quinn, but it was simpler if the point didn’t arise.

Lamps had been left lighted throughout the house. The intruder glanced disdainfully at the paintings that had looked like cartoons to Sigrid, scrutinized their signatures,
then
passed down the entry hall into a spacious living room stale with the odors of cigarette butts and a spilled bottle of Scotch. Someone had made a stab at tidying up, had gathered dirty ashtrays and emptied cocktail glasses onto a large wood tray that had been left on an open liquor cabinet. There were still ice cubes in the silver ice bucket and open bottles of every persuasion stood about.

Everywhere he
turned,
there were more drawings and paintings. He circled the room like a nearsighted museum visitor,
then
toured the dining room, the butler’s pantry and, briefly, the kitchen. No sign of what he’d come for. He moved back into the living room and considered the stairs. Perhaps up there? But Mrs. Quinn was up there, too.

He hesitated, undecided,
then
noticed an inconspicuous door, paneled like the rest of the entry hall, just beneath the stairs. He opened it, groped in darkness, and lights came on inside Riley Quinn’s study.

The room was windowless, about fourteen feet square and had probably started life as a storage area. Whatever its origin, it now looked like something ordered from an office-furniture catalog: “one middle-class study, college-professor type.” A leather-topped desk stood before the rear wall. Nearby were a leather swivel desk chair and matching leather armchairs, a globe stand, a large dictionary on its own little table and several brass lamps. The door wall held framed diplomas and various certificates of honor interspersed with small engravings. The two side walls were lined with glass-fronted mahogany bookcases filled with books.

For all his posing, Quinn had been a diligent worker. On his desk were an electric typewriter and several folders with the nearly completed manuscript of his latest book. Behind the desk, on the fourth wall, was a section devoted to slide-sized wooden files, each drawer labeled by dates, artists or movements. Beside them was a built-in viewing counter of frosted glass, which could be lit from beneath whenever Quinn wanted to arrange the slide sequence of a lecture.

A bank of letter-size file cabinets three drawers tall formed a continuation of the counter. Again they were of the same dark wood, and on the front of each drawer was a brass-rimmed card holder with detailed labels of content. It was to these that the intruder was drawn after his careful examination of the bookcases yielded nothing tangible.

He found the section of the alphabet that interested him, set his crowbar in a corner and tugged at a drawer pull. It opened with a harsh squeak, and the man froze, listening for alarms.

From upstairs came only a muffled duet of snores.

Sandy Keppler’s apartment building was near Tompkins Square, and had been built around the turn of the century in a more expansive age when every household comprised several children and at least one live-in servant girl. Back then a single floor barely sufficed for a proper apartment. Now each room was a separate efficiency and considered spacious by modern standards.

Much of the original molding and all of the oak flooring, admittedly a bit scarred by now, remained. Sandy kept hers waxed to a glossy sheen and bare except for a few inexpensive scatter rugs. She had painted all the walls herself and had even installed the folding shutters that closed off a tiny kitchenette. Bright cushions were heaped on a blue couch that opened into a double bed, and since this had once been a front parlor, the room boasted a charming bay window whose curve was just big enough to hold a small table, two chairs and several hanging baskets of begonias, all in full bloom.

It was a cheerful, homey room, her toehold on New York, and Sandy hated the idea of leaving it. Idaho, for God’s sake! It would be worse than that upstate small town she’d escaped from two years ago.

Although she would insist it didn’t affect her, Sandy came from a long line of nest builders. One may shake from one’s feet the dust of a small town one considers provincial and stultifying; shaking off heredity is another thing altogether. Sandy’s father had worried about all the dangers—physical and moral—faced by a young girl alone in the big city; but her mother had come down, taken a good look at the apartment and relaxed, knowing her daughter’s values were unchanged.

A totally liberated woman, thought Mrs. Keppler, does not collect casserole recipes, buy furniture with an eye
toward how it’ll fit into a larger apartment “someday,” nor
after only a year on her own begin every other sentence with “David says. . . .”

Mrs. Keppler was quite confident that she’d dance at her daughter’s wedding yet.

As she cleared the last dishes from the table and blew out the candles, Sandy glanced over at David, who was correcting a batch of themes from one of Professor Simpson’s classes. He lounged on her blue couch, his glasses riding precariously down on the end of his nose, one foot propped on an old brass and wood trunk she’d bought at a thrift shop, and which served as both coffee table and linen closet.

He looked very domestic, and while washing up their few dishes, Sandy briefly considered mentioning that tonight’s spaghetti dinner had cost less than fifty cents a serving. Not that it would change his mind. No more than would the argument that he should go ahead and move in with her since he spent more time here than in his own apartment and could be saving that two hundred and fifty in rent. Maintaining certain
appearances was
part of David’s old-fashioned code of morality, though he was modern enough in other ways, she reminded herself with a satisfied grin.

The object of her thoughts suddenly exploded in outraged sensibilities.

“Listen to this!” he commanded, pushing his glasses back up where they belonged. “‘The ancient Romans were really hip to all kinds of modern jazz. Like their houses had central heat, hot and cold running water, and you could flush the johns, and since they dug being clean so much, they had great big public bathrooms where everybody grooved together a couple of times a day.’”

“Well, didn’t they?” Sandy teased. She put the last plate in the drainer, dried her hands and came in to join him on the blue couch.

“Technically, yes. At least the wealthiest classes had all that; but this jive-talking illiterate makes it sound as if everyone had oil furnaces in the basement and electric water heaters on every floor. And the Romans didn’t bathe every day just because they ‘dug being clean so much’!”

He scrawled a bitter comment across the top of the unfortunate theme and added a grade: C for facts; F-minus for composition. “And how the hell he ever passed English 1.1 is beyond me,” he muttered. From the lofty height of his twenty-four years came fretful predictions for the imminent demise of education.

Sandy knelt beside him and gently smoothed his hair as he picked up another paper and began to read.

“Sensuous old Romans,” she murmured.
“All that bathing just for the fun of it.”

Her fingers moved down to the nape of his neck and hesitated provocatively. David Wade’s breathing quickened, but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the papers before him.

She leaned away then and casually twisted her long golden hair into an enchanting topknot. “As long as you’re working, I think I’ll go take a shower myself.”

Her tone was innocent, but her dimples beguiled as she loosened the top button of her blouse. David abandoned his papers and pulled her down to him.

She laughed, pretended to pull away; yet all her struggles only seemed to twist her into more kissable positions. Somehow in the next few minutes his glasses became entangled in her hair, but neither noticed.

“Want me to soap your back?” he murmured, nibbling a dainty pink ear.

“What about those themes? What’ll you tell Professor Simpson tomorrow?”

“The truth,” he grinned, feeling a joyous virility rising within. “‘The woman tempted me, and the fruit I did eat thereof’—or however that quotation goes!”

As the subway roared away from Franklin Avenue, Harley Harris roused himself enough to wonder which Seventh Avenue express he was on. The evening rush hour was long past, and he nearly had the car to himself, but he’d been riding and changing trains so aimlessly these last few hours that he’d lost track. Flatbush or New Lots, which was it? The interior sign by the door was broken.
Jammed permanently at Pelham Bay.
No help there.

The door at the end of the car opened, and an emaciated drunk weaved through. Swaying with the motion of the train, he steadied himself on the pole beside Harley, and a fetid smell of cheap wine and urine settled around them. The drunk wore a dingy overcoat three sizes too large, baggy green pants and brand-new black-and-white sneakers. His gray crew cut was a month late for the barber’s chair, and he did not appear to have a shirt or teeth.

“Gimme a dollar,” he told Harley.

The boy slid down to the end of the empty bench.

The drunk
followed,
stumbling from one overhead strap to another till he dangled in front of Harley again. “Gimme a dollar,” he repeated.

Harley Harris stared straight ahead, ignoring him.

“How ’bout a quarter, then?” asked the drunk.

“Leave me alone!” Harley said shrilly.

The drunk lost his handhold and half lurched, half
fell
the length of the car, fetching up by a pair of well-dressed matrons who appeared to be coming home from an afternoon of shopping followed by dinner out. One carried a dress box from Lane Bryant, the other a smaller Saks box. Both regarded the unshaven, ill-smelling derelict with distinct disapproval.

“Gimme a dollar,” Harley heard him say.

“Go to hell,” advised the first matron.

The second followed with an explicit but anatomically impossible suggestion. Shocked, the drunk retreated to a corner seat, muttering to himself.

Harley looked at his watch.
Almost ten.
He’d had nothing to eat since a hot dog and bagel at Grand Central his third or fourth time through. When had that been? Two o’clock?
Three?
And there was his old man expecting
him at three to help lay out the summer display windows for the Susie-Lynne stores. He’d probably be standing on his head by now.

Every time he thought about what he’d done, Harley Harris felt queasy. Nauman had it coming to him, he told himself; but the anger that had fueled him earlier had dissipated, and now he was wondering if maybe he’d acted too hastily.
Too drastically.
If only he’d waited and made Nauman talk to him, artist to artist.

That’s what his old man was always saying: “Harley, you don’t think what you’re doing till you’ve done it.”

The train slowed down, stopped, and the two matrons got off.

“They weren’t
no
ladies,” the drunk confided to the car at large, but Harley Harris was twisting to look for signs.

Kingston. Good, he was on the New Lots train after all. Home was only five minutes away, and dinner would have been saved for him. Suddenly he felt like a small boy again. Mom would cry and smear her glasses; the old man would storm and rage, but Harley was too tired to care anymore.

I’ll tell pop, he thought. Pop’ll figure out what I should do.

All his life pop had told him what to do. Postgraduate work had been his first rebellion; and now his heart sank even lower, knowing what his stern father would probably make him do.

C
HAPTER
8

Madigan’s was another relic
of New York’s bygone days, a sort of unofficial memorial to a lustier, roughneck age. Located in a seamy section near the docks south of Fourteenth Street, the tavern had outlasted wars, depressions, recessions, Prohibition and several attempts at urban renewal. Its original customers had been sailors, draymen and Irish stevedores working on the piers; and for the first eighty years of its existence only one female had ever been served there: Madame Ernestine Schumann-Heink.

The famous opera star had just disembarked from the ship that had returned her to America for another season at the Metropolitan when the horse drawing her carriage went lame practically on Madigan’s threshold. It was late fall with a chill rain falling. His chivalry appealed to, Francis Madigan (son of “Daddy” Madigan, the founder) had reluctantly offered his tavern as a waiting room for her party while another horse was being fetched.

There were dark looks upon her entrance; two or three old-timers standing at the long mahogany bar had muttered into their ale about “petticoat patronage” and with ostentatious rudeness had given her their backs. But the great contralto was then at the height of her powers and had accurately sized up her “house”—child’s play to a woman who would still be able to sing in Das Rheingold when she was sixty-four.

She began with the few Celtic lullabies at her disposal and, when those were exhausted, switched to the sweetest German songs in her repertoire. The language barrier evaporated—sentimentality has never needed translation—and soon the most hardbitten stevedores were weeping into their glasses. (Empty glasses, one might add, since no one had wanted to break the spell to order.) For over an hour the majestic Schumann-Heink held them in the palm of her queenly hand until at last she expressed fatigue and impatience at the nonarrival of a fresh horse; whereupon a dozen strong men hitched themselves to her carriage and pulled it though the rain all the way to her hotel on Seventh Avenue.