Geoffrey Bartholomew - Manhattan Noir 2 - The Classics

She must have thought he was dead, or so close to it, because she turned her back to him and went to the phone. She was pressing the 9 and didn’t see Bob Geissendorfer take three breaths and put his hand over the big new lump on his forehead. Only when he began to rise, lifting himself off the floor with surprising ease, and emitted only a soft “ug” of effort — not a word precisely, but also not a sound made by a dead body — did Chrissie turn.

He was moving toward her, not lurching at all. In seconds he was beside her, grabbing the phone from her hand, slamming it back into its cradle. She took a step, a prelude to running from him, but his hands were already around her throat. “I’m going to kill you!” he blared, perhaps unnecessarily, as his thumbs began compressing her larynx. “Choke to death? You want to see choke to death? I’ll give you choke to death!” He thought of her vicious “Mr. Hyena Breath” and he bellowed, “Choke to death, fatso!”

The doorbell rang, but naturally in the heat of the moment neither Bob nor Chrissie heard it. He was too intent on strangling her and she was engaged, unsuccessfully, in trying to knee him in the testicles. Then she attempted something she must have seen on a self-defense segment of Oprah , putting her thumbs into his eyeballs, but he simply stretched out his arms further and continued to snuff out his wife’s life.

“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you...” Chrissie and Bob stared, huge-eyed, at each other. Two voices moved from the front door toward the kitchen. His thumbs lost their strength and his hands fell to his sides. Chrissie took a step back and massaged her throat. Bob comforted the lump on his head with gentle pats. “Happy birthday, dear Dad...” Only one voice on the Dad, Jordana’s, and a moment later, she and her boyfriend Clark entered the kitchen, holding hands.

“Oh my God,” Jordana said, shaking her head so her long, dark blond hair fanned out prettily. Clark, his shirt open at the collar to afford a view of a triangle of hair of the sort found on black poodles, put his arm around her. She was gazing at the table and chairs and not at her parents. “What happened?”

“There was something slippery on the floor,” said Chrissie, “and Daddy got up for a second and—” Somehow she got out a giggle and in her squealiest voice went on: “—he started to slip and I ran over to catch him and—”

“We kind of knocked over the chair and then Mom landed on the table and most of the stuff went flying off.”

“Well,” Jordana said, “I’m glad everybody’s okay. Because here—” She rooted inside her pocketbook which, to Bob, looked like a tan leather laundry bag. He swallowed. His throat hurt. “—is your birthday gift. From both of us.”

Together, they handed him a wrapped gift... a book. People always got him books. He tore off the paper and, sure enough, it was that new book about the lives of ordinary Afghans in Kandahar province. He’d read half the review and decided that was more than enough, but now he’d have to read it and enthuse. His head hurt and he wanted to vomit. “Do you know, I’ve been dying to read this. The review was terrific. Thank you. Great gift.”

“And we have one other gift for you.” He glanced at Chrissie for a second. She was rubbing her fingers gently over her throat. She looked him straight in the eye and he turned back to his daughter. “Actually, this is a gift for both of you. I guess you can call it a gift.”

“I hope you’ll call it a gift,” Clark added. As always, Bob had to strain to hear what he was saying. Nobody else seemed to have that problem, but Clark spoke in some decibel range that was beyond Bob’s ability to decipher clearly. “It’s a gift to me.”

“We’re engaged!” Jordana announced.

Chrissie squealed with joy and ran over to embrace them. Now he had to go and kiss Jordana and offer Clark a manly handshake. Maybe grasp his shoulder too as they shook. That would show warmth, but kept Bob from actually having to give him a hug.

“This is the happiest news ever!” Chrissie declared.

As he took the three steps to them, he noticed the rest of the steak had bled all over the tile. Well, if you like gorillas, Clark was all right, and he was certifiably smart. Harvard undergrad and law school, yet egalitarian enough to get engaged to a girl from Swarthmore and NYU Law School.

The happiest news ever. Except now Bob could not kill his wife in cold blood, or indeed in any other fashion. They had a wedding to plan. Then James would be graduating. Then — who knew? — grandchildren. There was so much the Geissendorfers had to look forward to.

Geoffrey Bartholomewhas tended bar at McSorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan since 1972, when East 7th Street still resembled the setting of a noir novel. Upon publication, his 2001 volume The McSorley Poems became the best-selling poetry title at St. Mark’s Bookshop in Manhattan, and it still enjoys robust sales from behind the bar at McSorley’s. He is currently working on a memoir and a second volume of McSorley’s poems.

Lawrence Blockwas born in Buffalo, New York, and first came to Manhattan with his father. In a whirlwind weekend they stayed at the Commodore Hotel, saw Where’s Charlie? on Broadway, went up to the top of the Empire State Building, and rode the Third Avenue El down to the Bowery. The year was 1948, and the future author, ten years old at the time, never got over it. He returned eight years later, and has lived in the borough ever since, but for brief sojourns in Ohio, Florida, and Brooklyn. The editor of Manhattan Noir and winner of many writing awards, he is nevertheless thrilled to share space in an anthology with Edith Wharton, Irwin Shaw, Stephen Crane, and Damon Runyon. His mother would be so proud...

Jerome Charyn’snovel The Green Lantern was nominated for a PEN/Faulkner Award. His most recent novel, Johnny One-Eye, is about a double agent during the American Revolution. He lives in New York and Paris, where he teaches film theory at the American University. He has written ten novels about Isaac Sidel, the first four of which are being turned into graphic novels.

Stephen Crane, born on November 1, 1871 in Newark, New Jersey, was a journalist, poet, and author. His first novel, Maggie, A Girl of the Streets: A Story of New York (1893) was self-published and unsuccessful. Crane attended the College of Liberal Arts at Syracuse University, after which he moved to the Bowery district in New York where he wrote sketches and short stories for newspapers. Crane became ill and died at the age of twenty-eight on June 5, 1900. His other works include The Black Riders and Other Lines (1895), “The Little Regiment” (1896), “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky” (1897), The Third Violet (1897), “The Blue Hotel” (1898), “War Is Kind” (1899), The Monster and Other Stories (1899), and Active Service (1899).

Horace Gregorywas a poet and critic, born on April 10, 1898 in Milwaukee, and died on March 11, 1982. He graduated from the University of Wisconsin in 1923 and was a professor of English at Sarah Lawrence College in New York. In 1965 he won the Bollingen Prize for Poetry for lifetime achievement. His works include Chelsea Rooming House (1930), Pilgrim of the Apocalypse (1933), Poems, 1930–1940 (1941), and Dorothy Richardson: An Adventure in Self-Discovery (1967).

O. Henrywas a reporter, columnist, and great American short story writer whose works explored the daily lives of the people of New York City. Born William Sydney Porter in Greensboro, North Carolina, O. Henry moved to New York City after serving three years in a penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio for embezzlement. He was released in 1901 and changed his name to O. Henry. He wrote for the New York World as well as other magazines. His works include Cabbages and Kings (1904), “The Last Leaf” (1907), The Heart of the West (1907), and “The Ransom of Red Chief” (1910).