Hollywood and Levine (27 page)

BOOK: Hollywood and Levine

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Friday. Dingy Pennsylvania skies and snow falling over acres of smokestacks and power plants. Helen and I had breakfast in our room, just coffee and buttered toast. The approaching arrival in New York was pinching our appetites and I knew why. Sure, we were nervous about trying to get the story of Walter and the FBI man into the papers but the real crunch was what to do about each other.

Helen planned to stay with me in Sunnyside for a few days before visiting her kin in Utica, at which point I would have to answer a barrage of questions from my curious neighbors: “Jack, who's the woman?” “Jack, what happened to the shoulder?” I'd fend them off and then go sit in my empty apartment, waiting for a call from Utica. The reality of a New York winter, of the set and dusty patterns of my lifeâapartment, subway, officeâreassured and oppressed me all at once. I didn't know what the hell to do. At age forty I liked my little routinesâmy small-stakes poker games, my silent breakfasts and solemn perusal of the box scoresâand after the mad week in California they loomed like mirages of peace and normality. Wasn't this woman nearly a stranger? What would I do with her?

And God only knows how many stews were boiling over in Helen's mind: Walter's murder, her own near-death, her sudden relationship with this bald detective, the upcoming visit to Utica. The lady's slate had been wiped clean in one week. So she held on to my arm for support and her grip grew tighter as we descended beneath Park Avenue for the final slow, dark miles to Grand Central.

We got up to organize our baggage, swaying as the train rocked ever so slightly. Helen looked so terribly nervous that I stopped what I was doing and went to hold her.

“God, Jack, what a couple of weeks.”

“It's all gravy from here on in,” I told her.

“You think so?”

I shrugged.

“What do I know. But I do know that you're my friend and that is a fine new event in my life.”

Helen beamed.

“You're my friend, too, Jack. No matter what.”

I think it was the “no matter what” that made us both feel a lot better. We smiled, relieved of the insane responsibility of “proving something” in the next couple of days. We were friends. We would always be friends, regardless of what else we might be to each other.

The train stopped. I tucked a small bag beneath my right armpit and picked up a suitcase. Helen took a valise in either hand.

“We'll flag down a redcap and then take a cab home,” I told her.

“Okay, kiddo,” Helen said happily. “You first, you're the cripple.”

We got out of the train and delivered our luggage to a waiting porter. He followed as we made our way down the Twentieth Century's long red carpet. Ahead was the terminal. It was noon and thousands of people were criss crossing the huge floor, cocking their heads to hear announcements, racing to catch trains and taxis and block-long limos, waiting to greet wives or mistresses or the deal of their lifetime. A blind woman played the accordion and a pair of nuns sat with open cigar boxes on their laps. It was bedlam and it was home. I took Helen's arm and steered her toward the door.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com