Davidian Report (12 page)

She was hesitant. “I don’t know. I’m not dressed.”

At this hour was she still hoping Haig would call? Or did she have to clear through him? “We aren’t fancy. Say about seven, Musso Frank’s.” He wouldn’t mention how she was to get there. Let her figure that out. “Okay?”

He barely gave her a chance to say, “All right,” before he hung up. He was out of the room at once. He’d have to move fast.

The sidewalks were beginning to jostle. And there were cops all over the place. Steve ducked down the nearest side street and proceeded to Oriole’s. The door was opened before he could ring. The parade must be important, Mr. Oriole had washed his face and was wearing a jacket over a clean shirt. He didn’t invite Steve into the parlor.

He spoke hurriedly. “This information you wish—”

From the dining room came the quelled voices of youngsters. Steve wondered how many little Orioles were waiting there and if they all looked like Pop. “Where would I find friends in Hollywood? Our friends.”

Mr. Oriole didn’t believe it was this easy. He began with the bookstore and Steve suddenly remembered Llewellyn and Pam, the job he’d set them on. “Ring them for me.”

“The store will be closed at this hour.”

“Not until they hear from me.”

Mr. Oriole’s face drooped but he was obedient. While he put his coin into the slot and dialed, he continued the tally. A record shop, a small café, a magic store. His eyes rounded at an answer to his call. He passed the phone to Steve and stood on one foot then the other.

Steve questioned, “Llewellyn? What did you find?”

“None of the other shops have had our experience.”

“What about the desk?”

“Nothing. Nor any notation.”

Steve mumbled sounds.

“Is there anything further, sir?”

“Not tonight. Enjoy the parade.”

He could hear the smiling condescension. “I’m not going to the parade, sir. I have a committee meeting.”

“Enjoy the meet. And thanks for hanging around.” He banged up the receiver.

Mr. Oriole continued as if there had been no interruption. “And there is, of course, the popcorn man.”

Nothing but bad breaks, that pattern hadn’t been disturbed. Albion had not thrown away that ruble; 100 to 1 he’d had it in his pocket when he went to the airport to meet Steve. “What about the popcorn man?”

For the moment Mr. Oriole forgot his anxieties. “He has a little cart with glass over and about it to keep the popcorn warm and clean. He pushes the cart himself and there is a lantern in it with such a nice yellow light. It is a real lantern that burns, not electric. And a little whistle, such a nice whistle.” His smile was nostalgic. “Once I was the popcorn man.” He added too quickly, “It is much better the work I do now and this big house.”

Steve asked, “Where do I find him?”

“He walks the streets at night selling his popcorn. And meets many people.” The small eyes were shrewd. “If his feet get tired, he sets down the wagon on any corner he chooses and the people come to him.”

There wouldn’t be a much safer way to deliver messages. It didn’t sound like the efficient Schmidt; it would take someone before his time, someone with more imagination and romance to invent the popcorn man.

“He is easy to find because of his nice yellow lantern. And the little whistle.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded thoughtfully. The dining room was becoming impatient. He hurried. “Where did Albion live?”

Mr. Oriole didn’t withhold the address this time. “It is a rooming house.”

“Friends?”

“No. Mr. Albion preferred not. It was safer, he believed.” Oriole wasn’t as sure as Schmidt that Albie was a traitor. He spoke as of a friend.

“Who took over his things?”

“Temporarily it is Llewellyn who is in charge of the store.”

“I mean his personal stuff, his clothes, that kind of thing.”

“I do not know this. You may ask Mr. Schmidt.”

Steve said, “I will. Better get those kids off to the parade.” He went to the door, opened it.

Mr. Oriole could smile again. “Always they enjoy the parade. There is Santa Claus—” The smile disappeared as if it were Cheshire. “You understand, they do not believe this superstition,” he said carefully. “It is only—” He extricated himself. “It is Hopalong Cassidy and Roy Rogers they wish to see.”

“Yeah, kids are all alike.” He was sorry for the old boy. Trying to live up to Schmidt’s standards and yet give his children a happy life.

He had time to visit the gathering places, or some of them, and still beat Feather to the restaurant. There were cops all along the boulevard by now, cops and family parties with innumerable children. The adolescents were even more numerous, they paraded on the sidewalks, boys and girls in jeans and bright wool shirts, shrilling cryptic messages to attract the others’ attention. The spirit was holiday, Steve hadn’t seen anything like it since he was a boy. The spirit was so good it was contagious. He didn’t want to be on his gritty little errands, he wanted to be one of these people, just having fun.

A job was a job. He took the far address first. This wasn’t one of the clean, shining record stores of the boulevard, it was no more than a hole in the wall, a front. It was open but not patronized. A young man was lolling on a folding wooden chair behind the cash register, reading the evening paper. He looked up at Steve. He didn’t rise.

“Is this your place?” Steve didn’t like the sullen face.

The fellow flickered an up-and-down glance. As if he’d sized Steve for a plain-clothes cop, he asked with open insolence, “Yeah. What about it?”

Steve gave him more rope. “I’m looking for a guy who’s giving out phony rubles.”

The smile jeered. “No kid?”

“Has he been in here?”

“Nope.” He resumed the evening paper.

Steve let him have it, cold and ugly. “I’m from New York. Mr. Oriole sent me here.”

The paper dropped. The fellow was on his feet, stammering something about not knowing.

Steve eyed him. “Now suppose you answer my question.”

The slack mouth became voluble, sweat was breaking out on the unwashed face. But the answers added up to a negative. Small wonder. Davidian couldn’t have any fun in this dump. Nor would he waste his handiwork on a lout.

Steve said coldly, “I shall recommend you to Mr. Schmidt.” He walked out while whey-face was still stammering about being sorry. It took him a couple of blocks to get back to the crowd’s good humor. He should have clouted that one across the mouth when it first opened. It was better to see that the guy was pitched to the lions along with Schmidt.

He had to pass Musso’s to retrack to the magic store. The usual dinner crowd overflowed the small vestibule. Steve pushed through to the head waiter. He gave his name for a table for four, watched it written at the foot of an already long list. It would be at least thirty minutes before he came to the top of the list.

He ducked out, threading through the ever-increasing street crowd towards his second goal. It was a poor edition of the boulevard’s better magic stores but it was busy tonight. Two middle-aged men, much like junior Orioles, were doing their best to take care of things. Steve waited while Tweedlededum sold false noses to five shrieking teen-age girls. The man was giggling as heartily as the girls. He wiped his eyes with a fat little finger as he turned to Steve. “And now, what can I do for you?” His accent wasn’t as heavy as Oriole’s.

Steve said, “For a gag, I need a ruble. Do you have any?”

If the man was uneasy, he covered up. “We do not have any real money. Only the phony, you know, stage money.”

“I hear there’s a fellow in Hollywood making phony rubles. He hasn’t tried to sell any to you?”

“No.” The man tapped his shiny head and thought some more about it. While he was wondering what Steve was truly after. “No, I have not heard about him.” He glanced upward slyly. “I don’t think this man, he’s very smart. This is America, Mister. Rubles are not wanted here, not even bad ones.” He wasn’t going to be caught out by any undercover investigator. “Anything else I can do for you? A false nose, maybe?” He laughed as if he’d made a wonderful joke. He was still laughing when Steve went out.

There wasn’t sufficient time remaining to check the café; it was past seven. He didn’t mind keeping Feather waiting but he’d hate to be pushed down to the foot of the reservation list again. Feather was there, standing just inside the door, trying to peer through shoulders. Steve came behind her and touched her elbow. She swerved a little fearfully.

“Been waiting long?”

She said, “Oh,” before she recognized him. She needed those glasses. “No, only a minute or two. It was terrible getting through traffic. And finding a place to park.” She wasn’t dressed up, just a blue knit and small hat to match, a cream-colored tweed jacket about her shoulders. She’d fluffed her hair a bit, she looked quite pretty.

He said, “Hold it while I check the reservation.” He edged through the crowd. The list showed only two names on top of Steve’s, plenty of others beneath it. He’d timed it just about right. He reported back to Feather. “Not much longer.”

She gave him a quick smile. She would prove tonight that she wasn’t afraid of him. “Where’s Reuben?”

“Coming. Unless he’s already here and holed up in the bar.” He doubted it; there’d scarcely been time for a round trip to town, even without the delay of convincing Janni. “Do you want to shove through for a drink?”

She said no, with a glance at the stolid ranks blocking them,

“Suits me.” He eyed her. “You’re looking very pretty.”

She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.” She didn’t like personal attention, at least not from him.

“Seen Haig today?”

“No. Have you?”

“I had a drink with him here this afternoon. He might still be around.”

She perked up on that.

“I suppose this big parade’s old stuff to you.”

“I haven’t seen it in years. Not since I was in high school.”

“You don’t go for such mundane pleasures?”

She defended herself. “I haven’t been here much. I’ve been studying in New York.”

“That explains the hat. The New York touch.”

She leveled a glance at him. “You don’t like me very well, do you?”

“Because I mention your hat?” He laughed. “Hollywood girls don’t use them, I’ve noticed. Not often.”

“You don’t,” she repeated.

He heard his name called as she spoke. “I’ll break trail.” By pure chance they rated a good semicircular booth midway in the narrow room. She slid in at the left, leaving room for him beside her. He didn’t follow. He sat on the right where he could watch for Reuben. He told the waiter, “We’ll have a drink while we wait. Feather?”

She said, “Just a sherry.”

“Make mine a Manhattan.” He didn’t know why he’d gone fancy, devil-may-care to show Miss Prisms? He picked up the conversation. “Let’s put it this way. I don’t think you go for me. You’re afraid. Why?”

“I’m not!” she denied with heat.

“Maybe it’s this. You don’t go for young men. Not that I’m so young, but Rube is. Most girls would think he was a pretty good shake, nice-looking kid, easy to be with, and if you’re the kind who thinks seriously, the family’s okay, your uncle said so. Instead of making time with him you play up to Haig Armour, who’s old enough to be your father. Why? Because he’s old enough to be safe? Or is it an uncle complex?”

She was furious. “I didn’t play up to Haig any more than to anyone else. And if I did, you of all people—” Her lips pressed into a rigid line.

The waiter set down the drinks. He was old and splay-footed, the waiters here were all comfortably old. “You must order your dinners early if you do not want to go hungry to the parade.” Paternalism was one of the attractions of Musso’s. “At eight the lights will come on. It starts! But it will be eight-thirty,” he confided, “before it gets to us. Even later.”

“As soon as the others get here,” Steve promised. The stem of a cherry curled over the rim of his squat glass. It was the night when Janni foraged the jar of cherries that he’d concocted the Manhattans. Maraschino cherries in the rubble of Berlin. He drank and he told Feather, “Forget it. If Haig’s what you want, go after him. But you’ve got competition, Feather; you’re pitted against the best there is.”

She said thinly, “I don’t want Haig. I don’t want any man. I haven’t time for any man. I have my work.” She sounded like a fifth-grader reciting from memory.

And he couldn’t tell her what a little fool she was. That work was a cold island on which to isolate yourself, while all the warm, beautiful realities surged by. Because Reuben and Janni were pushing past the barrier.

Janni wasn’t expensive like Feather. Her raggedy hair was tumbled, her scarlet dress was cheap, and her coat red, the same red coat. She was lucky to have one coat. But she didn’t need sleek grooming; she was the quickening of your heart and the racing of your blood. The throb of your loins. The anger for her which had strengthened him was no more.

Reuben could have let her go over to Steve. He wasn’t stupid. He slid her into the booth and himself after her, shoving Feather over to Steve. Steve had sent Rube after her, he couldn’t hate the kid for it. He’d known the risk. Rube was young and alive. Steve said factually, “Feather, this is Janni, and vice versa.”

Rube said gaily, “Hello, Feather,” not a kid out of it tonight. The guy with the best girl, sure of his prowess. “What are we drinking?”

“Make mine Manhattan,” Janni said.

For a brief instant her eyes haunted Steve. Or maybe he was just hoping that the curve of a stem on his glass had stirred her memory too. The silly little phrases that returned to slice the heart in your breast. A jar of cherries that lasted a week or was it two? A jar of cherries and a mean attic room.

The drinks came to bridge the moment, to blot out days which were better forgotten. After the dinner order was given, no memories remained. There was no love or hatred, only a job to be done. Steve waited his turn. He waited until Reuben finished making a good yarn out of his adventures in finding Janni’s place. Then Steve tossed it out, as if it, too, were the beginning of a funny story. “What do you think, Janni? Davidian’s in Hollywood.”