Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [92]
“Do I look like some kind of goddamn concierge to you or something? And you ignored me when I said you were late with your rent. Don’t think I didn’t notice that, Mr. Wise Guy.”
“Come on, Sternfeld,” I said. “Us New Yorkers have to stick together, right? Just tell me. You’ll get your money.”
“All right, asshole. A couple of days ago, a big guy stopped by asking for you, but I didn’t like the look of him, so I told him you had moved out. Looked like a fucking Nazi. He a pal of yours?”
“Not even close.”
I gazed at Sternfeld. He was two years older than water and had every disease this side of leprosy, but time was still having a hard time pinning him to the ground. He’d been a cabdriver in New York and had saved enough money over the years to buy first his own cab and then nine more. He’d bought the Lancaster Arms and retired to Florida after his wife died ten years ago. He’d been in North Africa during World War II and had the shrapnel in his right shoulder to prove it, and if you think he was gruff with me, you should only hear how he spoke to people he didn’t like.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he asked.
“Nothing. How are you feeling these days?”
He spit into the hedges to his right. “Swell. My youngest daughter just called to tell me she’s a lesbian now, but at my age I could give a flying fuck. Besides which, I got enough grandchildren anyway—every single goddamn one a halfwit. Other than that, though, everything’s jake.”
“Look,” I told him, “I’m just going upstairs and sleep for a week or two. After that maybe you and I will take the redeye out to Las Vegas and hit the buffets and the blackjack tables. You must be tired of playing bingo by now.”
Sternfeld perked up. “That sounds pretty good. Hey,” he said with a grin, “wouldn’t it be a riot if anybody I used to know in Vegas was still alive? And hey, by the way, you prick, your rent is due.”
“I heard you. Tomorrow, okay? I just need to sleep.”
“So sleep. See if I care. Just don’t die before you pay me.” With that he wheeled his walker around and tap-tap-tapped away.
I found the spare key I kept under the air-conditioning unit and opened the door to 206. It looked the same, and I was glad to be there, glad really to be anywhere. The books on the shelves looked down at me like the old friends they were: Montaigne and Dante and Shakespeare and Mickey Spillane—all the classics. I walked into the tiny kitchen and stared benignly at the dirty dishes in the sink. They were a welcome sight for some strange reason, a sign of human business left undone but still within reach of completion. I found a six-pack of beer in the fridge, and it seemed to me that I had indeed reached my own personal promised land, even if it was going to be a very brief oasis.
I went back into the living room, unplugged the phone, and closed the blinds. I turned on the A/C and set the ceiling fan on a light, breezy spin that swirled the air around like a straw swirling cold lemonade in a glass. I sat on the sofa, opened a beer, and waited for the room to get comfortable. I felt good. The whole trick was in not thinking too much. I put Williams’s gun under the sofa cushion and sat back and waited for something to shatter my peace. Let them come, I thought, not really caring whether they came or not, but holding out the hope that it would not be today or tomorrow, that I could finish this beer and possibly the next. I wasn’t ready for any more trouble yet, but the hell with that. The long, crazy summer was over, and I was too weary to care. Let them come.
I stayed fairly drunk for a day and a half and ordered take-out over the phone. I must have still looked a little crazy, because none of the delivery people would meet my eyes after their first sight of me, and one of them ran off without his tip. That’s what happens when you get behind in your shaving. Then, on Tuesday night, I came down with a bad case of cabin fever and realized I had to get out, so I put on my Nikes and a pair of shorts and