Lawrence Block - A Dance at the Slaughterhouse

" Jamaican Blue Mountain. The price is outrageous, of course, but look around you." He indicated the masks and statues. "The price of everything is ridiculous. Black, right? Arthur, could you bring us some coffee? And then you'll want to get at those invoices."

He had first served me Jamaican coffee at his home, a converted firehouse on a quiet street in Greenpoint. His Polish neighbors thought the house belonged to a housebound retired physician named Levandowski, and that Chance was the good doctor's houseman and chauffeur. Instead Chance lived there alone in a house with a full weight gym and an eight-foot pool table and walls lined with museum-quality African art.

I asked if he still had the firehouse.

"Oh, I couldn't bear to move," he said. "I thought I'd have to sell in order to open this place, but I found a way. After all, I didn't have to purchase stock. I had a house jammed full of it."

"Do you still have a collection?"

"Better than ever. In a sense it's all my collection, and in another sense everything I have is for sale, so it's all store stock. Do you remember that Benin bronze? The queen's head?"

"With all the necklaces."

"I overpaid for her at auction, and every three months when she didn't sell I raised the price. It finally got so high somebody couldn't resist her. I hated to see her go, but then I took the money and bought something else." He took my arm. "Let me show you some things. I was in Africa for a month this spring, I spent two full weeks in Mali, in the Dogon country. A sweetly primitive people, their huts reminded me of the Anasazi dwellings at Mesa Verde. See, that piece is Dogon. Square holes for eyes, everything very straightforward and unapologetic."

"You've come a long way," I said.

"Oh, my," he said. "Haven't I just?"

When I first met Chance he was successful, but in another line of work. He had been a pimp, though hardly the traditional figure with the pink Cadillac and the floppy purple hat. He'd hired me to find out who killed one of his girls.

"I owe it all to you," he said. "You put me out of business."

That was true in a sense. By the time I'd done what he hired me to do, another of his girls was dead and the rest were off his string. "You were ready for a career change anyway," I told him. "You were having a mid-life crisis."

"Oh, I was too young for that. I'm still too young for that. Matthew? You didn't just drop in to be sociable."

"No."

"Or for the coffee."

"Or that either. There was somebody I saw at the fights last night. I thought maybe you might be able to tell me who he is."

"Somebody with me? Somebody in Rasheed's corner?"

I shook my head. "Somebody sitting first row ringside in the center section." I sketched a diagram in midair. "Here's the ring, here's where you were sitting right by the blue corner. Here's where Ballou and I were. The guy I'm interested in was sitting right about here."

"What did he look like?"

"White man, balding, say five-eleven, say a hundred and ninety pounds."

"Cruiserweight. How was he dressed?"

"Blue blazer, gray trousers. Blue polka-dot tie with large dots on it."

"The tie's the first thing that doesn't sound like everybody else. I might have noticed a tie like that, but I don't believe I ever saw it."

"He had a boy with him. Early teens, light brown hair. Might have been his son."

"Oh, I did see them," Chance said. "At least I saw a father and son in the front row, but I couldn't tell you what either one of them looked like. The only reason I noticed them at all is he might have been the only child in the place."

"But you know who I mean."

"Yes, but I can't tell you who he is." He closed his eyes. "I can almost picture him, you know what I mean? I can just about see him sitting there, but if you asked me to describe him I don't think I could do it, beyond parroting back the description you just gave. What did he do?"

"Do?"

"It's some kind of case, isn't it? I thought you were in Maspeth just to watch the fights, but I guess you were working, weren't you?"

On another case, but there was no reason to go into all that. "I had business there," I said.

"And this fellow's a part of it but you don't know who he is."

"He might be a part of it. I have to identify him in order to know."

"I get you." He considered it. "He was right up in front," he said. "Must be a real fan. Maybe he goes all the time. I was about to say I haven't seen him at the Garden or anywhere else, but the truth is I've only been getting to the fights regularly since I bought an interest in Rasheed."

"You have a big piece of him, Chance?"

"Very small, what you'd call minimum participation. You still like him? You said you did last night."

"He's impressive. He got hit too much with the right hand, though."

"I know he did. The Kid was saying the same thing. That Dominguez, though, his right came over the top very quickly."

"He was sudden, all right."

"He was indeed. And then, suddenly, he was gone." He smiled. "I love boxing."

"So do I."

"It's brutal, it's barbaric. I can't justify it. But I don't care. I love it."

"I know. Have you been to Maspeth before, Chance?"

He shook his head. "Way at the ass end of nowhere, isn't it? It's actually not that far from where I am in Greenpoint, except I didn't leave from Greenpoint when I went out there, and I didn't go to Greenpoint when I left there, so it didn't make me a whole lot of difference. I only went there because we had the fight there."

"Will you be going back?"

"If we get another booking there, and if I don't have something else requiring my presence. Next bout scheduled is three weeks from this coming Tuesday in Atlantic City." He smiled. "Donald Trump's place, it should be a little more luxurious than the New Maspeth Arena."

He told me who Rasheed was matched up with and said I ought to come down. I said I'd try. They wanted Rasheed to fight every three weeks, he said, but it was working out more like once a month.

"I'm sorry I can't help you," he said. "I could ask around if you'd like. The people in Rasheed's corner, they're at the fights all the time. You still at the hotel?"

"Same place."

"If I hear anything-"

"I appreciate it, Chance. And, you know, it's nice to see how everything's turned out."

"Thank you."

At the door I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Do you know anything about the placard girl?"

"The what?"

"You know. Prances around the ring holding up the number of the next round."

"They call that a placard girl?"

"I don't know. I suppose you could call her Miss Maspeth. I just wondered-"

"If I knew anything about her. I can tell you she had long legs."

"I noticed that myself."

"And skin, I seem to remember she had a lot of skin. I'm afraid that's the extent of my knowledge, Matthew. I'm out of that business, thanks to you."

" 'Out of that business.' You think she looked like a working girl?"

"No," he said, "I think she looked like a nun."

"One of the Poor Clares."

"I was thinking a Sister of Charity. But you could be right."

There's a saloon called Hurley's on Sixth Avenue, diagonally across the street from the glass and steel tower where Five Borough Cable Sportscasts had a suite of offices. People from NBC have gone there for years, and Johnny Carson made the place famous back when he did his show live from New York; it was the site of all of his Ed McMahon drinking jokes. Hurley's is still in its original location, housed in one of the only older buildings still standing on that stretch of Sixth. Television people still patronize the place, to kill an hour or an afternoon, and one fairly frequent visitor was Richard Thurman. He often came in at the end of the workday and stayed long enough to have one drink, sometimes two, before heading on home.