’em?”
“Swede,” Tony whispered to me, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. This is the last straw.”
I only half-listened to him. I was paying more attention to Fay, who went on, “And tell him the other ones are hungry, too. The ones up at a Hundred and Third. Tell Lenny we need some money right away.”
The desolate cats set up a wailing chorus.
“Oh, I can’t stand it when they cry!” Fay whined, stuffing the spoon back into the cart and starting to move off. She called back to us, “You tell Lenny, if he can’t come out here to leave some money in his apartment! I’ll go and pick it up!”
I rushed over to her, keeping up with her surprisingly energetic pace. “Just a minute!” I said. “Lenny has an
apartment
?”
Fay snorted. “Now look here, sister! Lenny is a gentleman! You ever know a gentleman who didn’t have a place? Why, he’s got a mansion! A big, blue mansion. I know . . . I been there.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cats slowly moving off. The signal for food had sounded. They’d been called to supper. But they were going away hungry.
Chapter 15
While Fay was giving me directions to the “blue mansion,” Tony just stood nearby, whistling to himself. When I told him where we were off to he said this whole thing was getting insane, but I insisted we go looking for the apartment, which was reportedly on upper Broadway, on the border of Harlem.
We stopped at one of the many new watering holes “gentrification” had brought to the vicinity—this one at One Hundred and Twelfth Street. Tony wolfed down a hamburger while I had soup. The barstools were plush and comfortable, and the place was soothingly lighted. A jukebox in the back was playing a woman vocalist’s unusual—in fact, downright acidic—version of the old classic “Stay as Sweet as You Are.”
Tony’s skeptical head-shaking had only increased by then. It was as if he had a mosquito trapped in his ear.
“I know, Basillio, I know,” I told him. “We’re in Never-Never Land. But you said you were going to stay with me on this.”
“I’m staying!” he protested, chuckling. “I’m staying.”
We sat drinking for a while.
“You know what’s bothersome?” he asked a few minutes later. “I mean, what
else
is bothersome, putting to one side our close encounters of the third kind today.”
“What?”
“Isn’t it weird how all that stuff his so-called friends said about him is turning out to be worthless?”
“Explain what you mean,” I said, sipping my Bloody Mary, which was too sharp for my taste.
“Well, for openers, they all just
knew
that he had been a homeless derelict for the past three years. It turns out he had an apartment—excuse me, a ‘blue mansion.’ ”
“We don’t know that for sure, not yet, anyway. We’ll find out in a few minutes whether Fay was telling the truth about that.”
“Humph. And what about the money? The money everybody said he didn’t have. The friends told you he’d squandered it all—didn’t have a dime—that he hit them up for money. But he had enough for a mansion. He had enough to buy cat takeout from the Russian Tea Room!”
“You’ve got a point there, Tony.”
“And the way they all said he was an egotistical maniac, a user who lived only for his own perverse gratifications, whatever the hell they were. Turns out he went out of his way for some of these . . . poor unfortunates. Lavishing chicken Kiev on a gang of stray cats, for god’s sake! Sounds to me like he was on his way to sainthood.”
I nodded, not sure whether he was right on that last point. After all, as every actor knows, people are endlessly complex and contradictory. One trait does not a whole character make. A man can, theoretically, be a self-involved bastard yet still care about stray animals.
I gave up on my drink and ordered a cup of coffee. I thought of the cats in the park who had so suddenly appeared when Fay rasped that spoon across the
“Swede,” Tony whispered to me, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. This is the last straw.”
I only half-listened to him. I was paying more attention to Fay, who went on, “And tell him the other ones are hungry, too. The ones up at a Hundred and Third. Tell Lenny we need some money right away.”
The desolate cats set up a wailing chorus.
“Oh, I can’t stand it when they cry!” Fay whined, stuffing the spoon back into the cart and starting to move off. She called back to us, “You tell Lenny, if he can’t come out here to leave some money in his apartment! I’ll go and pick it up!”
I rushed over to her, keeping up with her surprisingly energetic pace. “Just a minute!” I said. “Lenny has an
apartment
?”
Fay snorted. “Now look here, sister! Lenny is a gentleman! You ever know a gentleman who didn’t have a place? Why, he’s got a mansion! A big, blue mansion. I know . . . I been there.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cats slowly moving off. The signal for food had sounded. They’d been called to supper. But they were going away hungry.
Chapter 15
While Fay was giving me directions to the “blue mansion,” Tony just stood nearby, whistling to himself. When I told him where we were off to he said this whole thing was getting insane, but I insisted we go looking for the apartment, which was reportedly on upper Broadway, on the border of Harlem.
We stopped at one of the many new watering holes “gentrification” had brought to the vicinity—this one at One Hundred and Twelfth Street. Tony wolfed down a hamburger while I had soup. The barstools were plush and comfortable, and the place was soothingly lighted. A jukebox in the back was playing a woman vocalist’s unusual—in fact, downright acidic—version of the old classic “Stay as Sweet as You Are.”
Tony’s skeptical head-shaking had only increased by then. It was as if he had a mosquito trapped in his ear.
“I know, Basillio, I know,” I told him. “We’re in Never-Never Land. But you said you were going to stay with me on this.”
“I’m staying!” he protested, chuckling. “I’m staying.”
We sat drinking for a while.
“You know what’s bothersome?” he asked a few minutes later. “I mean, what
else
is bothersome, putting to one side our close encounters of the third kind today.”
“What?”
“Isn’t it weird how all that stuff his so-called friends said about him is turning out to be worthless?”
“Explain what you mean,” I said, sipping my Bloody Mary, which was too sharp for my taste.
“Well, for openers, they all just
knew
that he had been a homeless derelict for the past three years. It turns out he had an apartment—excuse me, a ‘blue mansion.’ ”
“We don’t know that for sure, not yet, anyway. We’ll find out in a few minutes whether Fay was telling the truth about that.”
“Humph. And what about the money? The money everybody said he didn’t have. The friends told you he’d squandered it all—didn’t have a dime—that he hit them up for money. But he had enough for a mansion. He had enough to buy cat takeout from the Russian Tea Room!”
“You’ve got a point there, Tony.”
“And the way they all said he was an egotistical maniac, a user who lived only for his own perverse gratifications, whatever the hell they were. Turns out he went out of his way for some of these . . . poor unfortunates. Lavishing chicken Kiev on a gang of stray cats, for god’s sake! Sounds to me like he was on his way to sainthood.”
I nodded, not sure whether he was right on that last point. After all, as every actor knows, people are endlessly complex and contradictory. One trait does not a whole character make. A man can, theoretically, be a self-involved bastard yet still care about stray animals.
I gave up on my drink and ordered a cup of coffee. I thought of the cats in the park who had so suddenly appeared when Fay rasped that spoon across the
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