Geoffrey Bartholomew - Manhattan Noir 2 - The Classics

“Okay if I take a few minutes off, Charlie?” Simms said. He could see Debbie’s mother sitting by the coffee-shop window with a cup in front of her.

“Sure, take a break,” Hosey said, winding up his extension cord.

Simms trotted over to the coffee shop and went to the table where Debbie’s mother sat. “Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked.

She looked up from a folded section of classified ads. “What about?”

Simms sat across from her. “I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for what happened about the gum. I guess I wasn’t thinking. I mean, it was just a natural thing to offer the kid a stick of gum. It never occurred to me how it might look.”

“Just stay away from her, okay?” the woman said firmly.

“Yeah, sure I will,” Simms assured. “I just wanted you to know I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was only trying to be friendly.”

“Okay, but don’t let it happen again.” She sighed wearily. “That place over there—” she bobbed her chin at the hotel “—is a sewer. A mother with a kid can’t be too careful.”

“I know, I realize that now. I’m sorry, okay?” He took a pack of gum from his shirt pocket. “How about you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “ You want a stick of gum?”

She half smiled in spite of herself. “Why not?” She took a stick and put it in her mouth.

“Looking for a job?” Simms asked, nodding at the classifieds. “Yeah. Soon’s I find one, I’m getting out of that dump over there.”

“Listen,” he told her, “I go to this place at night, it’s kind of a community center, and sometimes I hear about job openings over there. If I hear of anything I think might interest you, I’ll let you know.”

Her eyes flashed suspicion. “What do you think that’ll get you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t sleep around, man.”

“Hey,” Simms said righteously, “I’m just trying to be a nice guy. Lighten up a little.”

She sighed again. “Well, you just never know. Seems like everybody’s out to get something.”

“I know. It’s hard to tell who’s being straight with you sometimes.” Simms drummed his fingers on the tabletop. After a moment, he asked, “So where’s Debbie?”

“She’s in daycare until three.”

“How’d you happen to give her a name like Debbie?” he asked. “I mean, that’s kind of an all-American girl-next-door name.”

“Maybe I’d like her to grow up to be an all-American girl-next-door. Anything wrong with that?”

“No, not at all. No offense intended,” he said quickly. “Hey, speaking of names, what’s yours?”

“Lupe Mercado,” she told him.

“I’m George Simms,” he said. He extended his hand and, after first hesitating, she shook it. “If you ever need anything fixed in your room,” he said, “just let me know. You don’t have to fill out a form and wait your turn, I’ll do it for you right away.”

Lupe shrugged. “Okay.” There was a tiny pinch at the top of her nose.

“I better be getting back,” Simms said, rising. “Thanks for not being mad at me anymore.”

Outside, as he waited to cross the street, he looked back and saw her watching him suspiciously. He smiled and waved. She still doesn’t trust me all that much, he thought. But for his purposes, that was okay. All he needed was a little trust.

For a week, Simms watched Lupe Mercado come and go. Her routine never varied. First thing in the morning she took Debbie to daycare, then she spent the rest of the morning job-hunting. At noon she was usually back at the hotel for the free meal served by Help for the Homeless. After lunch she’d sit in the lobby or go across to the coffee shop and read the classifieds again to see if there was anything she missed that morning. Sometimes Simms would see her using one of the pay phones in the lobby to call about jobs. Then, just before three, she’d leave to get her daughter from daycare.

Now and then Simms would speak to her in passing or wave to her across the lobby, but he didn’t intrude on what she was doing or in any way act as if he was presuming a friendship. All he wanted to do was keep her aware of him until he was ready.

He picked Thursday as the day. Thursday: late in the week when people were tired, not as alert, laboring toward the weekend. Simms had already selected the boiler-room door that led to the alley as the way by which he’d leave the hotel. He knew he’d have to move fast — Max Wallace would be after him very quickly.

At three-thirty, Simms was on the seventh floor when Lupe Mercado got off the elevator with Debbie and came down the corridor to 704. Simms pretended to be in a hurry.

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he said in a rush of words. “I only got a second — there’s a bad leaky pipe in the basement I got to tend to.” Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a slip of paper. “This lady’s got a dress shop down in the Village. She wants somebody to work in her stockroom — says she’ll train somebody with no experience, says it’s good pay plus a discount on clothes. Give her a call as soon as you can, the job might still be open.” Pressing the slip of paper into her hand, he hurried down the corridor to the fire stairs. He made sure his footsteps sounded loudly as he ran down to six, and halfway down to five. Then he abruptly turned and crept quietly back up to seven. Standing just around the corner from the corridor, he heard Lupe speaking to her daughter.

“I’ll be at the phone in the lobby — just for a few minutes. You stay inside until I get back. Don’t play in the hall.”

Hearing a door close, Simms peered around the corner. Lupe Mercado was hurrying toward the elevator. He waited until she got on the elevator, then walked quickly to Room 704. When he knocked, Debbie opened the door on a chain.

“Debbie,” he said easily, “call your mother to the door — I gave her the wrong phone number.”

“She went downstairs.”

“Oh. Well, let me in and I’ll wait for her. I have to give her the right number.”

He took a pack of gum from his pocket and put a stick in his mouth. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “Your mother and I are friends. You know I’m helping her find a job.” Unwrapping another stick of gum, he held it through the opening.

Debbie hesitated. Then she took it. Simms unfolded several work orders he had stuck under his toolbelt. “While I’m waiting, I want to check something in your bathroom that needs fixing.” He added just a hint of firmness to his voice. “Open the door now, Debbie, so I can get to work.”

Debbie took the chain off and opened the door. When Simms got inside, he closed and locked the door behind him.

In the lobby, Lupe hung up the telephone and stared at the slip of paper in confusion. It was the number of a dress shop in the Village, all right, but the sales clerk Lupe had talked to knew nothing of any stockroom job that was open. The clerk had called the manager to the phone, but the manager knew nothing about it, either. And the owner of the store was out of town on a buying trip.

Puzzled, Lupe started back toward the elevators. Charlie Hosey was near the elevator bank, repairing a drinking fountain. Max Wallace had just walked up to him. “Where’s Simms?” she heard Wallace ask the maintenance man.

“He went up to seven to do something,” Hosey said. “He ain’t come down yet.”

Lupe stopped and stared at them. “Oh, my God!” she said.

“What’s the matter?” Wallace asked.

Without answering, Lupe ran toward the elevators.

“Simms,” Wallace said tightly. “I knew it!” He ran after Lupe.

Hosey ran after both of them.

In the bathroom of 704, Debbie was sitting on the edge of the tub, watching Simms in fascination. He had emptied the medicine cabinet of all its contents, piling them in the sink. Then, with a power screw-remover, he had unscrewed four three-inch wood screws that held the metal medicine cabinet into the wall studs on each side of it. With a small chisel, he’d pried loose the top, bottom, and both sides of the cabinet and taken it out of the wall. Then he had stuck his arm far down into the opening between the walls and pulled up a pillowcase with Algiers Hotel embroidered across the hem. “Thanks, kid,” he said, tucking the pillowcase under one arm. “Tell your mother to call Maintenance to have this put back in.”