The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy (38 page)

“Is there any other kind?”

“She seemed to recognize him,” Very mentioned, scanning the pages. “He says he gets a lot of that. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. I wondered about it myself.”

Very shook his head in amazement. “Damned thing’s full of chewy little morsels. Makes me want to scream. Like this G.T. thing of yours. And the mention of the hot plate. That tells us SRO hotel. Used to be a whole bunch of ’em in the low hundreds, west of Broadway, until the developers moved in. There’s still a few. And look at this—he’s buggin’ here on the no-smoking laws. Those kicked in April of ninety-five. Where’s he been? Was he in jail? Was he in a drug treatment facility? He
sounds
like a recovering addict, way he dumps all of that sugar in his coffee. Or maybe he’s just plain wiggy. He’s got this business here about the doctors letting him out. Could be he was just released from a psychiatric hospital. Could be he
escaped.
We got the Manhattan Psychiatric Center sitting right out there on Ward’s Island with all kinds of security problems. Guy walked right out of there a while back and shoved a grandmother under a train at Herald Square. We got Kingsboro in Brooklyn, Creedmoor in Queens. Maybe he was in one of them. He and Friend E both. Who
is
Friend E? Does he exist? We got to check all of this shit out. Every goddamned morsel. Each one’s a potential lead. Could be he works in a restaurant. Could be he’s a social worker for the city—”

“Could be none of the above,” I interrupted. “Could be it’s all a product of his imagination—planted there so as to drive you off the scent. Or crazy.”

Very shuddered. “Fuck me, this is strange.”

“Very.”

“Yeah, dude?”

“It’s very strange.”

“You got that right.” The lieutenant’s eyes were still on the pages. “He’s got this here reference to the Young Urban Shitheads. Why does that sound so familiar?”

“It’s an expression of mine. You’ve probably heard me use it.”

Very looked up at me suspiciously. “You coined it?”

“Naturally.”

“Like it’s your trademark or something?”

“Or something.”

“So how did he pick it up?”

“Read it somewhere, I imagine. He says in the letter that he’s a fan of mine. I do have a few, you know. Some that aren’t even related to me.”

Very got to his feet and went over to the counterman and asked him for a clean pair of tweezers. There’s nothing better than tweezers for removing the small bones from a fish—or for gathering up the pages of a manuscript you don’t want to touch. Very worked the pages back inside the envelope and then dropped it in a shopping bag.

I picked up the check. Least I could do for getting him out of bed.

“What happened to you?” he asked, noticing my limp as we headed out.

“Ran into a Stickley.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

Outside on Amsterdam Avenue, a cold, Canadian wind had picked up. Trash swirled in the gutter. Shivers shot up and down my spine. And I noticed now just how frail and frightened those elderly people looked as they fought their way down the block, narrow shoulders hunched against the Arctic blast. And suddenly I wasn’t feeling so good about the coming of Christmas. I was feeling gloomy and depressed. Much of New York life is like that, fleeting personal moods held together by the flimsiest of illusions, easily shattered and strewn. The city can turn on you in an instant. Not that
it
changes. It doesn’t. Your perception does, the details your brain picks up and how it processes them. In a New York instant, pleasant anticipation becomes dark foreboding. Positive energy turns into frenzied, pointless desperation. Contentment gives way to a powerful desire to be someone, anyone, else. In a New York instant the air that was brisk and invigorating can freeze you to the marrow of your bones. The city will do that to you, especially when a killer who calls himself the answer man has written you for literary advice.

Very stood there next to me on the sidewalk with the collar of his old leather trench turned up against the wind, looking like a hipster spy. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth, his jaw working it. He was chewing Beeman’s that season. “Sure you’re okay, dude?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because I know you. Shit like this goes down, you get just like a dog with a bone.”

Lulu snuffled at this in protest. Not that she’s much for bones. Prefers strips of salmon jerky. We have them shipped to us from Alaska. Write for details.

“I’m fine, Lieutenant.”

“Just don’t get stupid on me, okay? I don’t want to see you outlined in chalk somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. What
do
I do?”

“Hope we get lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“Lucky like the answer man contacts you again. Tells you how you can reach him back.”

“I see.” I pulled my coat tighter and my hat down. “I hate to break it to you, Lieutenant, but that’s not my idea of lucky.”

I SPENT A LOT
of time that afternoon sitting in front of plates of food listening to people who had been born after the Tet Offensive tell me what was wrong with my novel. I suppose there was a time, long ago, when the prospect of logging serious face time with two genuine New York editors would have been cause for jubilation. But back then those people were grown-ups. Where
did
all of the grown-ups in publishing go, anyway? Did they die off? Or are they merely in hiding? If so, who could blame them? Not me. All I know is I was not in the mood for this. I was not in the mood for Michael’s, a large, airy eatery on West Fifty-fifth Street where the walls are lined with unimpressive paintings and even less impressive mid-level editors, which is to say editors who are on their way up or down or nowhere. This one seemed to be on his way up, judging by his ponytail, his roster of snotty, overrated baby writers and his frequent use of the word “bullshit.” My novel was “totally bitchen,” he assured me, but I still had to turn it into “something a sixteen-year-old boy will buy, enjoy and pass on to a friend.” “What, you mean like a joint?” I said. “It needs
urgency,”
he said. I said, “What, you mean like moving it to the bridge of a nuclear submarine that’s about to blow up and take half the world with it?” I didn’t hear a word he said after that. His lips moved, but all I could hear was the roar of a No. 1 train hurtling by. A small blond woman with a nice smile was on board, reading a book about a cat, unaware that she was about to be strangled and stuffed into a garment bag.

From there it was on to the lobby of the Algonquin, which was crowded with English Christmas shoppers who had flown over to take advantage of the weak dollar and to complain about how crass and money-conscious we Americans are. Frank, our waiter, brought Lulu her usual plate of pickled herring and raw onion, which she devoured while I listened to another editor explain how hard it would be to position me on their list now that I was no longer an “enfant terrible.” When I suggested she try on “idiot savant” for size, she responded with a blank stare.

Followed by “I just have two little words for you: Robert James Waller.” I drank my tea and shivered, chilled to the bone. What I really wanted to do was take two aspirin, gargle and get under a nice warm bed.

What I did was walk uptown to Osners with my hands in my pockets and my mood foul, Lulu trailing a step behind me, nose, ears and tummy to the ground. Something had started to gnaw me about the answer man. Something about the way he wrote—his tone, his style, his voice. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. It was just a vague itch. But I don’t like vague itches. They frequently lead to scratching, followed by excessive bleeding.

Who was he? Why had he chosen me? Why
me?

Osners, which is on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam, is one of my vital lifelines. If they ever close their doors I’ll probably have to give up writing altogether. Because there’s nobody else left anymore who can keep a fifties vintage Olympia solid-steel manual portable up and running and in serious enough shape to pound out a book. Just Osners, where the old manual typewriters are stacked on shelves to the rafters and the whole place smells of lubricating oil and ink, pungent scents of a bygone era. Stanley Adelman’s widow, Mary, runs the place with an air of aristocratic, old-world dignity. Three full-time repairmen work the bench, taking apart two dozen antique machines a week, piece by piece, giving them chemical baths in vats down in the cellar, lubricating them, reassembling them. Parts are hard to come by. Some they have to make themselves. I bring them my Olympia twice a year. They keep it for a week. When I get it back it is like a new machine. A new machine that is forty years old.

If you want to know anything about a typewriter you ask Mrs. Adelman.

“I have a lovely Olympia just in, Mr. Hoag,” she informed me crisply. Mrs. Adelman was always looking to sell me a backup. “Same vintage as yours. Excellent condition. It’s a Scandinavian model, with accents, but it would serve you quite well. Just ignore what you don’t understand.”

“That’s certainly gotten me through life so far,” I said, grinning at her.

“You should do that more often, Mr. Hoag.”

“Do what, Mrs. Adelman?”

“Smile. You have a very nice smile.”

“I had them bleached.”

“Bleached, Mr. Hoag?”

“My teeth.”

“Ah,” she said doubtfully. “I see.”

I unbuttoned my coat and got out my copy of the answer man’s cover letter. I hadn’t told Very I’d made a Xerox of the whole thing. I saw no reason to. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d be surprised. I laid the page out on the counter and said, “What can you tell me about the machine that typed this? They’re thinking of selling.”

Mrs. Adelman reached for a magnifying glass and examined the page carefully. “It’s a pica machine, Mr. Hoag. Not in good condition. The letters need cleaning. Also realignment. They’re not striking evenly. No doubt needs a new roller, too. I can only imagine the condition the carriage is in. I’d say a complete overhaul is called for. We’d be honored to do it for you, but it would run you at least a hundred-fifty, plus parts.”

“Do you know the machine?”

“I should say not. It wouldn’t be in such sad condition if I did.”

“What kind is it?”

“Why, it’s an Olivetti Studio 44, of course.”

Her reply shot through me from head to toe. So that explained the itch.

“You can tell by the graceful quality of the characters,” Mrs. Adelman explained. “The lower-case
A
in particular. See the way it curls in upon itself? There’s not another machine like it. The vintage is early sixties. I would guess sixty-two, but I would not swear to it. It’s a steel machine. One of their more handsome designs. Sleek, streamlined profile. Pale green body with black keys. Flip-down return handle. Red leather case with brass hardware. An exquisite machine, really. Not as sturdy as your Olympia, but a classic nonetheless.”

“What can you tell me about the person who typed this?”

“They have excellent taste.”

“What else?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Strong hands. It would take someone with strong hands to produce a legible letter on a machine that is in such dreadful condition.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “You are trying to track down a secret admirer, perhaps?”

“Something like that.”

“Does Miss Nash know about this?”

“It’s not that kind of secret admirer.”

“I see,” she said, with a shrug. Mrs. Adelman was used to responses that made little or no sense. She’d dealt with a lot of writers in her day. “Do let me know if I may be of service. If they wish to sell, I can find them a buyer in a second.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Adelman.” I pocketed the letter and turned for the door. “Oh, Mrs. Adelman? In case anyone asks, not that they will …”

“Yes, Mr. Hoag?”

“I was never here.”

“Yes, Mr. Hoag.”

THERE WAS LIGHT.
I could see. This meant Merilee was still at rehearsal.

Voices and laughter came from the kitchen, where I found Pam giving Vic Early a baking lesson under Tracy’s watchful gaze. Somehow she had gotten flour all over her nose. Tracy, that is. Pam seemed semi-frazzled, which was most unusual for her, but then, she wasn’t used to having a hulking, sandy-haired giant in her kitchen, especially one who wore a frilly apron over his knit shirt and slacks. They were building a lemon cake together, step by step. Vic likes to cook but has always been intimidated by desserts. Right now he was intently creaming his butter. I could think of no better candidate for the job of beating a bowl of butter into submission. Vic Early was six-feet-six, 250 and all muscle. Once, he had anchored the UCLA Bruins offensive line. Would have been a first-round NFL draft pick, too, if he hadn’t come back from Nam with a steel plate in his head. I first met him out in Los Angeles when he was bodyguarding Sonny Day, the comic. Vic could still work on either coast whenever he wanted to. He remained, at age forty-five, one of the best celebrity shadows. But he cared for that life less and less. And for the life on our farm more and more. He wasn’t the only one.

I hoisted Tracy into my arms and wiped the flour from her nose. She seemed happy to see me. She’d noticed that I’d been gone all day. Sure, she had.

“Lieutenant Very rang up for you, dear boy,” Pam announced, swiping at a tuft of silver hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “His number is there on the counter.”

“Thank you, Pam.” To Vic I said, “Could you stick around for a few days? Things may start getting a bit weird around here. Or, I should say, weirder.”

Vic’s manner changed instantly. He was on alert now. “Be happy to, Hoag,” he said in that droning monotone of his. “Anything in particular I should watch out for?”

“As a matter of fact there is. It seems I have myself a new pen pal. He’s a murderer. If you get any unusual calls or letters or packages, if someone comes up to you on the street—anything out of the so-called ordinary—call Lieutenant Very immediately. I’ll fill you in when I know more, okay?”

They exchanged a look. Pam seemed frightened. That was a first. Pam was normally the most unflappable person I’d ever come in contact with. Perhaps it was because we had the baby around now.