Ed McBain - Downtown

He looked up at the street sign on the corner.

He was on Vandam and Avenue of the Americas.

So where was St. Luke’s Place?

Downtown, Albetha had told him. Between Hudson and Seventh. But where was Hudson? Or, for that matter. Seventh? He studied the empty avenue ahead as he would have studied a suspect trail, and then he looked to his right and looked to his left and decided it was six of one, half a dozen of the other, and began heading east, never once realizing that St. Luke’s Place was to the north and west.

He walked for what seemed like miles.

Not a numbered street anywhere in this downtown maze. Sullivan and West Broadway and Wooster and Greene and Mercer and now Broadway itself though it did not seem like the Great White Way down here in lower Manhattan except for the snow in the streets. Kept walking east, although he did not have a compass and did not in fact know he was heading east. No sun up there in the sky. Just a cold, dead moon and stars that told him nothing. He turned corners, seemed at times to be doubling back on his own tracks, coming to the same street sign again and again, thoroughly lost now. He studied the sign on the corner. Mulberry and Grand. He looked up Mulberry. It was festively hung with welcoming arches of Christmas lights. Blinking. Beckoning. Surely there was a telephone somewhere on this beautifully decorated street.

He began walking.

Italian restaurants, all of them already closed for Christmas. Hand-lettered signs in some of the windows, advising that they would not be open again till the fourth of January, which, come to think of it, was when Michael had planned to head back to Sarasota. If he’d ever made it to Boston. He decided that if he found an open restaurant or an open anything, he would first call his mother to let her know he wasn’t dead even though she didn’t have any of his clothes she could give away prematurely, and then he would call China Doll Limo to see if Connie Kee was yet free to take him to St. Luke’s Place, wherever the hell that was.

The awning over the restaurant read:

The sign in the door read:

But there were lights blazing inside, and the sound of music — the Supremes singing “Stop in the Name of Love.” The early Sixties came back in a rush. Boston before he was drafted. Sixteen-year-old Jenny Aldershot sitting on a wall overlooking the Charles River, her blonde hair blowing in the wind. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it a crack. The music was louder now. He opened the door fully and stepped inside, and then he almost ran right out into the street again because the place was full of cops!

Beautiful young women wearing garter belts, panties, seamed silk stockings, and high heels — which was just what Detective O’Brien had been wearing earlier tonight. Dancing with men in business suits. As he started for the door again, someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a short-roly-poly man who looked a lot like both Tony the Bear Orso and Charlie Bonano.

“Help ya?” the man said.

“I’m looking for a telephone,” Michael said.

“This is a private party,” the man said.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I thought this was a restaurant.”

“It is a restaurant, but it’s also a private party. Dinn you see the sign in the door? The sign says ‛Closed.’ ”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it.”

“It says ‘Closed’ whether you seen it or not.”

“All I want to do is make a phone call, it won’t take a...”

“Are you a cop?” the man asked.

“No,” Michael said.

The man looked at him.

“What are you then?”

“An orange-grower.”

“My grandfather grew grapes,” the man said. “I’m Frankie Zeppelin.” He extended his hand to Michael. “What’s your name?”

“Donald Trump,” Michael said.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump,” Frankie said, and shook hands with him. “Come on, I’ll get you a drink. What do you drink, Mr. Trump?”

“You can call me Don,” Michael said.

“Well, that’s very nice of you, Don. And you can call me Mr. Zepparino. What do you drink, Don?”

“If you have a little scotch...”

“We have a little everything,” Frankie said, and grinned as if he’d made a terrific joke. Putting his arm around Michael’s shoulders, he led him toward the bar. “You look familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you from the neighborhood?”

“I’m from Minnesota,” Michael said at once, just in case Frankie had seen the earlier news broadcast.

“A lot of the girls here come from Minnesota,” Frankie said. “These very dumb blonde girls with blue eyes, they must drink a lot of milk out there in Minnesota.”

“Yes, it’s called the Land of the Lakes,” Michael said.

“I thought it musta been,” Frankie said. “Kid,” he said to the bartender, “pour Donny here some scotch.”

The bartender picked up a bottle of Dewar’s Black Label, and poured generously into a tall glass.

“Anything with that?” he asked.

“Just a little soda,” Michael said.

“Hello?” a voice said over the loudspeaker system. “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? One, two, three, testing, can you hear me? Hello, hello, hello, hell...”

“We can hear you already!” Frankie shouted.

Michael looked over to where a man wearing brown shoes and what looked like his blue confirmation suit was standing behind a microphone set up near a big copper espresso machine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I want to wish you first, one and all, a very merry... is this thing on?”

“It’s on already!” Frankie yelled.

“Hello?” the man at the microphone said. “Can you hear me?” He began tapping the microphone. “Hello? If you can hear me, please raise your hands please. Hello? Can you hear me?” Frankie threw up both his hands. All around the hall, people were putting their hands up. “Looks like a police raid in here,” the man at the microphone said, which not too many people found funny, including Michael.

A redheaded woman wearing a black negligee over a black teddy and black garters and black silk stockings and black high-heeled patent leather shoes came over to the bar, said, “Hello, Frankie,” and extended her glass to the bartender. “Just vodka,” she said.

“I think I can safely say, at this our annual Christmas party here,” the man at the microphone said, “that this year was a better year than any year preceding it. And I think I can say without fear of contradiction that next year is going to be an even better one!”

There were cries of “Tell us about it, Al!” and “Attaway, Al!” and “Let’s hear the figures, Al!”

“Hi,” the redhead said. “I’m Hannah.”

“How do you do?” Michael said.

“You look familiar,” she said. “Have I ever seen you on television?”

“No,” he said at once.

“Aren’t you the one who used to do the Carvel commercials?”

“Yes,” he said, “come to think of it.”

“No kidding? I love your Cookie Puss cakes.”

“As an example,” Al said, “in hotel encounters in the midtown area of Manhattan alone, revenues were up seven percent from last year for a total of...”

“Who’s this?” a voice at Michael’s elbow said.

He turned. He was looking at a very large man wearing a brown tweed suit, a yellow button-down shirt, a green knit tie, and an angry scowl.

“Jimmy, this is the man used to do the Carvel ice cream commercials,” Hannah said.

“No kidding?” Jimmy said, immediately disarmed. He took Michael’s hand, began pumping it vigorously. “I love your Black Bear cakes,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Fingers.”