J. Cunningham - Comfort Station

Unfortunately, just as he was about to deliver the final draft of the manuscript, some of the mob bigwigs found out about the book — publishers and mob bigwigs play bridge together all the time, that’s how they found out — and got it into their heads it was an exposé. Fingers tried to explain it wasn’t an exposé, it was simply a matter of trying to demonstrate to the general public some of the problems and difficulties being faced by their men in organized crime, but the mob bigwigs couldn’t see it that way, and Fingers had just narrowly escaped with his life and his manuscript.

And now he was on the run. If he could get to his publisher’s office, he knew he’d be safe. In the meantime, he had taken cover here in the Bryant Park Comfort Station, where he would lie low for an hour or two until the boys drifted away to look for him in some other part of the city.

Looking around, Fingers saw nothing very interesting. Through a door, he could see one bozo sitting on a chair in a closet, counting paper towels. Another bozo was standing at the sinks, his hands in warm water, his expression glazed as he mumbled at his reflection in the mirror.

What about the stalls? He could see feet under the doors of numbers 1, 2, and 5. Down at the far end was Number 8: he went down there, toting the attaché case, and locked himself inside.

An overview of the Bryant Park Comfort Station would be a difficult thing to achieve, though one might climb one of the none-too-sturdy-looking trees in Bryant Park. But still, there would be the roof in the way. And today, with the third day of rain drenching an already-drenched city, the people inside could be grateful for that roof, you may be sure of that.

But let us, in imagination, strip away that roof and view the Bryant Park Comfort Station from above, seeing all the actors in today’s drama at once, each in his or her specified place in the scheme of things, in the construction of a tapestry the complexity of which probably isn’t at all appreciated or understood by the general public.

Well. Be that as it may. Looking down at this point from on high, we see below us the magnificent central office of the New York Public Library, with its stone lions out front. And behind: Bryant Park, extending from the rear door of the library westward to Sixth Avenue, and from the south side of West 42nd Street southward to West 40th Street. (There is no West 41st Street here, though there is elsewhere in Manhattan, which really gets the out-of-towners. Such fun!)

However. Narrowing the range of our bird’s-eye view, we see, along the northern perimeter of Bryant Park, just off the West 42nd Street sidewalk, the small square stone building we have come to know and love during these many months together, the Bryant Park Comfort Station. Without its roof. Or that is to say, with an invisible roof, so the people inside don’t get rained on.

Ah, the people inside. Gazing down through the invisible roof, we see Mo Mowgli hard at work in the storage closet, back bowed with responsibility. Out in the main operations area, Arbogast Smith has switched his station back to the “urinals” again and is standing there with his forehead pressed against the cool tile as he mumbles to himself. In Stall Number 1, clutching his satchel to his chest and wondering when on earth Floozey is going to arrive, is the absconding bookkeeper, Herbert Q. Luminous. Unknown to him, in the very next stall, the one numbered 2, clutching her valpack to her chest and wondering when on earth Roland is going to arrive, is Carolina Weiss, former Russian countess now A & E mechanic, who has no idea of the existence of Herbert Q. Luminous one scant partition away. Stalls 3 and 4 do not concern us, but in Stall Number 5, clutching his diamond-studded chest to his chest and wondering when it will be safe to amscray out of here, sits onetime dictator now amateur transit specialist General Ramon San Martinez Tortilla, knowing nothing of the occupants of stalls 1 and 2. (And what is that he is writing on the stall walls, over and over, his expression wistful and sad? GUACAMOLE.) Tippy-toeing past stalls 6 and 7, we come to Stall 8, where, clutching his attach case to his chest and knowing nothing of any of the other dramas being played out in this small building today, Fingers Fogelheimer waits for the protective blanket of darkness to blanket him protectively so he can make his life-and-death dash for his publisher’s office over on Third Avenue.

But what is this? The scene shifts to the street outside the Comfort Station: the Crosstown bus has once more safely threaded the perils of Metropolis and is coming to a safe and sane stop at the curb. Fred Dingbat, still filling in for the absent Seward Looby, has completed his thirteenth consecutive hour at the controls of the mighty GM Citycruiser, and is ready to go on as long as the emergency requires him to stay in the driver’s seat. Pride and training tell, as they always do.

But what is this? Off Fred Dingbat’s bus, this trip, and into the rain which is pelting down onto the city from the sky, which is above the city, drenching an already-drenched city, step four swarthy men in London Fog raincoats. All have pencil moustaches. They stand on the soaked sidewalk as Fred Dingbat steers the mighty omnibus back into the swirl of evening traffic. Rain dribbles down the backs of their necks.

But what is this? A shadowy figure separates itself from the shadowy figures of trees in Bryant Park. A swarthy man in a London Fog raincoat with a pencil moustache, he hurries quickly to the little group of swarthy men in London Fog raincoats with pencil moustaches, and the five converse together in rapid undertones. In Spanish .

But what is this? The five figures turn as one man. They move as one man to the entrance to the Bryant Park Comfort Station. They enter as one man. Then they become five men again, separating, spreading out in all directions through the room like a group of men spreading out through a room.

One of them bumps inadvertently into Arbogast Smith, whom he had taken to be a phantasmagoria. “It was a long time ago that I remembered my mother got the phone call ...” Arbogast began, but the man cut him off with a guttural “ Por favor, gringo .”

Within Stall Number 5, General Tortilla, half-dozing, came suddenly alert at the sound of his native tongue. Bending way down, a tough thing for a little fat guy like that to do, he peered under the bottom of the door. “ Madre Dios !” he exclaimed under his breath when he saw the five swarthy men in London Fog raincoats with pencil moustaches who had spread out in all directions through the room.

Sitting up again, General Tortilla pondered his future, which was beginning to look shorter than his past, and much less imponderable. What to do?

Well, the first thing to do was get rid of the diamonds. They would definitely prove he’d intended to run away. Without them, he just might be able to talk his way out of all this.

To think was to act. General Tortilla at once ripped all the diamonds out of all the decorations spread all over his chest, and when he was done he had a thick fistful of diamonds. But what to do with them? Swallow them? No: it would take too long, and might be dangerous to the digestive tract.

Hide them, then. Looking this way and that in the narrow stall, General Tortilla discovered that at just about head height in the wall behind him one tile was loose. Swiftly removing it, he discovered behind it an open space just large enough for the diamonds. Swiftly placing the diamonds in the open space, he swiftly returned the tile to its original position and swiftly assured himself the tampering did not show. Perhaps, he promised himself, someday he would be able to return for those diamonds.