Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

— Beverly! he says. Beverly Starr. How good of you to come.

Stan Seifert. The advertising guy who asked her to do the painting and invited her here.

He takes her elbow and leads her inside, saying: Your painting is just awesome.

She thinks: Please don’t say “like.”

7:28 p.m. Bobby Fonseca. Aladdin’s Lamp.

He walks four feet into the loud, thumping room, the others behind him, and he wants to turn around. It’s music for shouting, not talking. Tonight, of all nights, is for talking. For us, anyway. Or singing. He looks up the stairs, sees a dark painting on an easel, people pulling coats off suits and dresses, a tall guy smiling in welcome. That must be the benefit. Maybe they’ll let us in. Gotta be quieter than this.

— I’ll go up and check it out, he says to Helen Loomis, who looks pained and lost. She nods. The others are squeezing a path to the bar, all except Barney Weiss. No cameras allowed inside. He’ll take some shots outside, he said, while they find out the deal.

Fonseca goes up the stairs. A white bouncer in an Arabic costume stops him at the top. Built like a safe. Fonseca takes his press card from his jacket pocket, attached to the cheap chain around his neck.

— Press, he says.

— No press yet, the bouncer says. Fonseca thinks he looks like a guy from one of those ultimate-fighting shows.

— We’ll let yiz know, the bouncer says. They got stuff to do first in there. Hit the bar, we’ll find you.

Fonseca turns to go back. He leaves the press card dangling.

8:05 p.m. Sandra Gordon. Her apartment, Manhattan.

She undresses in the bedroom. The lights are out but the drapes are open to the falling snow and the room is filled with a luminous blackness. She sees herself in the mirror. Thinks: My kind of blackness. The same blackness that drew so many white men to me. Including Myles. The blackness of night and all its secret promises. Or so they think. Blackness can be banal too, baby. Ask a black woman.

In the living room, the telephone rings. She pulls on a robe and goes out into the large chilly space. On the fifth ring, the answering machine takes over. Then she hears her friend Janice. Fired five months ago. Self-medicating ever since. Booze and pills. They were supposed to have lunch that day but Sandra called her to cancel, got the machine, left a message. Her voice is clear.

— Hi, Sandra, it’s me. Janice. I just got your message. I was suicidal in the morning, went to the shrink, and she prescribed some goddamned pill. I slept for ten hours. I’m okay, I hope. But hey, there’s some kind of gig in the Meatpacking District. I’m inside now. For the homeless. Lots of dancing and some hot guys. I got an extra ticket, you want to come here. Call me on the cell and I’ll bring the ticket outside to the smoking shed.

She clicks off. Sandra stares at the phone. Thinking: Thank God I didn’t pick it up.

Thank God I can be here alone, while the snow falls silently and sleep comes quick.

8:10 p.m. Ali Watson. Muhlenberg Branch of New York Public Library.

Malachy Devlin pulls up in front of the library. The lights are turned off. Ali opens the door, turns to Malachy.

— She said she’d wait in the Chelsea, right?

— Yeah. I’ll stay here, watch your back.

Ali closes the door and starts across the street in the falling snow. He pauses in the center lane while an empty bus goes by, heading east. A taxi follows the bus. Then he hurries to the entrance. He brushes the snow off his shoulders and slams his hat against his thigh. He goes in.

Against the wall on the left, an old man sits on a banquette with a large black dog at his feet. The dog looks up, but doesn’t growl. At the desk, a fifty-ish black man leans on the counter, reading a newspaper. To Ali’s left, beside a fireplace, is a middle-aged white woman, her large handbag on her lap. Ali goes to her, peeling off his gloves.

— Mrs. McNiff?

— Miss McNiff, she says.

— Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Watson. May I sit down?

— Of course.

She takes a manila envelope from her bag and lays it on the low table before Ali.

— I used gloves when I picked it up, Officer, so it—

— Thank you.

He puts his gloves on again and slides the yellow pad out of the envelope. The top page is blank. He holds it up to the light. And sees indents in the paper. Thinking: You dumb son of a bitch.

— Excuse me, ma’am.

He rises again. The dog’s eyes follow him. The old man doesn’t turn his head. Ali walks to the desk at the rear of the lobby. The night clerk looks up.

— Excuse me, brother, Ali says. Do you have a pencil?

— Sure thing.

The clerk fumbles under the counter, comes up with a yellow Eberhard Faber pencil.

— Thank you, Ali says.

He moves a few feet away and starts lightly rubbing the side of the lead point across the paper. Words emerge. Repeated four times. Like a chant. He shakes his head, turns back to the night clerk, and hands him the pencil.

— Thank you, Ali says.

He walks back to the woman.

— Thank you very much, Miss McNiff. This might be very helpful.

— Hey, you never know.

— Can I help you get home?

— Oh, I live way out in Bay Ridge.

— Wait here, if you can. We’ll have a squad car take you home.

— Oh, that’s okay. Not necessary. This weather, the subway’s faster.

She stands as Ali writes down her name, address, and phone number, away out there in area code 718. He thanks her again and rushes out the hotel door.

8:15 p.m. Beverly Starr. VIP Room, Aladdin’s Lamp.

She thought she’d be gone by now. But here she is in this soundproofed room up a flight of stairs from the main floor. The only evidence of the place outside the door is the physical thumping of a bass line. They had waited for a while to start the night until all the invited guests could arrive in the awful weather. Beverly went up the stairs with them, glancing at her painting of the homeless to the left of the door. Inside, the door finally closed, Stan Seifert had them all take ten seconds to remember a woman he said had done so much for this city and its less fortunate people. Cynthia Harding. Many seemed to know her, and bowed their heads. A few even looked teary. Beverly used the shutters of her eyes to record them. And stood through a politely furious speech by an advocate for the homeless. Someone must have warned the speaker: Don’t mention Goldman Sachs or AIG or Lehman Brothers. And Beverly thought: They must be hoping for contributions fueled by guilt.

Then Stan Seifert made one of those eloquent pleas for the homeless fund. He mentioned the homeless men right across the street from where they all were gathered. He reminded the group that there were far more in the outer boroughs. He applauded the gathering for their decency and for braving the fierce weather. They applauded themselves. Seifert gave special thanks to Beverly Starr for the gift of her painting. The crowd clapped with what she chose to believe was enthusiasm. Finally, he reminded them that the result of the silent auction of Beverly’s painting would be announced in fifteen or twenty minutes.

A few people began moving to the door. Those who had made no bid. Each time the door opened they could hear the pounding music. Beverly wanted to leave too, but Seifert said, Please, no, we want a photograph of you with the winner.

So she waits. Looks for great faces. Blinks.

8:20 p.m. Josh Thompson. Across the street from Aladdin’s Lamp.

He’s against a wall, out of the falling snow, looking at the gathering crowd outside Aladdin’s Lamp. Cold. Thinking: That Old Guy was right. Told me to stay away from here. The cobblestones making cars skid and women slip and the goddamned chair go every which way. But I’m an asshole. This ain’t no mosque. It’s a disco or something. Kind of place they’d never let me in.