Who He? - (12)

"My God! I can't remember that. Where the hell did I go? Hey fellas!" Lennox called. "Any of you parked here last Saturday night?"
    The hack drivers poked their heads out.
    "Off and on, Mac," said one.
    "Hi, doll," said another.
    "Oh, hello," Gabby smiled.
    "Is he hedonistic or hasty?" Lennox demanded.
    "Behave yourself, Jordan. I told you I get around. Did any of you gentlemen pick up my friend last Saturday night? He was drunk and disorderly."
    "No Ma'am."
    "Could it have been another hack?" Lennox asked.
    "Could of been a dozen others, Mac."
    "Happen to know a hack-driver named Knott who uses this stand?"
    "Nope."
    "Then this looks like the dead-end," Lennox grunted.
    "Missa Lennox," the Shroff said. "I heah you te'l taxi man wheah to go."
    "You did! Can you remember?"
    The Shroff beamed in faraway recollection.
    "Oh please remember, Mr. Fu," Gabby said. "It's terribly important."
    The Shroff patted her arm, still immersed in memory. Finally he said: "Wassa ve'y funny place. Like a fiah."
    "A fire?"
    "Yes. Like ... Hudson fiah."
    "Hudson fire?" Gabby repeated, gazing at the Shroff perplexedly.
    "Hold it!" Lennox said. "Could it have been the Hudson School of Firearms?"
    "Yes. Yes."
    "What's that?" Gabby asked.
    "A shooting range over near the river. Oliver Stacy told me about it last week. I must have gone there Saturday night. Let's go."
    Lennox opened the door of the lead cab. Gabby ripped a page out of her sketch book and handed it to the Shroff. It was his portrait.
    "Thank you very much, Mr. Fu," she said. "You've been so helpful."
    The Shroff gazed at his portrait with admiration and then at Gabby with more. "I go with you," he offered suddenly. "Be ve'y happy to help you and Missa Lennox find Missa Knott. Yes?"
    "I do like you, Mr. Fu," Gabby said. "You're not inscrutable at all. Please come. We can use all the help we can get."
    The Shroff entered the cab with them and they drove across town to the waterfront where a sign on a doorway between a chandler's store and a window filled with broken microscopes read: Hudson School of Firearms, Dn. 2 Flights.
    As the three of them trotted down the steps into the sub-cellar, they could hear the bark of guns. They came into a broad low-ceilinged vault. There was a glass cigar counter and a cash register on the right. The cigar counter was filled with revolvers and boxes of ammunition. Behind it was a high display case with heavy glass doors. Inside were more guns and six silver trophies.
    On the left, from wall to wall, was a line of open booths with waist-high shelves dimly lit by green shaded lamps. Through the booths was the vista of a sixty foot stretch of cellar, brilliantly illuminated. The far wall was the shooting butt, heavily pocked with bullet holes. Steel trolley wires led from each booth to the butt, and along several of these, cardboard targets were sailing out to the far wall. An intermittent barrage of shots came from the booths where men were silhouetted against the light, standing with guns raised in their right hands, their left hands resting jauntily on their hips.
    A square-jawed gladiator in blue serge came around from behind the cigar counter and welcomed them. He was delighted to see Lennox.
    "Hey," he said in a soft, sweet voice. "It's the Philadelphia Fox again." He shook hands. "I thought you had to go home to the wife for the holidays. She come here instead, huh?"
    Lennox flushed and stammered. Suddenly he burst out: "You're the Killer. I remember now. The Killer."
    "Oh, that's not nice," Gabby said.
    "It's just his joke," the Killer grinned shyly. "He kept calling me that Saturday. My name's Hamburger, Mrs. Fox."
    "Jordan," Gabby began. "You'd better explain that--"
    "Oh no. No," the Shroff interrupted, beaming madly. "Ah nothing to explain, Missuhs Fox. Ah nothing."
    There was an awkward pause, then Gabby turned to the gladiator. "Why did my--Why did he call you a killer, Mr. Hamburger?"
    The Killer motioned to the silver trophies and turned red. "I won them in the Nationals, Mrs. Fox." He hung his head.
    "You're modest," Gabby laughed. "I like you, Mr. Hamburger. I always thought men who used guns were savage. Do you know, I've never fired a gun in my life?"
    "I'll show you," the Killer offered, without daring to look at Gabby. "Fill out a card."
    "Card?" Lennox asked. "What card?"
    "You know," the Killer said, leading them to the counter. "You got to register. Police regulations."
    "P'lice watch gun place ve'y close," the Shroff whispered to Gabby. "Doan te'l him Missa Lennox use othuh name. Be af'aid to help him."
    "I'm glad you came with us," Gabby murmured.
    She filled out a police registration card and accompanied the Killer to an empty booth where he ran out a target and began instructing her on the uses and abuses of the lady-like .22 revolver he placed in her hand. Gabby waited patiently until he lost his shyness and was able to meet her eyes. Then she came around a corner abruptly and asked: "Mr. Hamburger, will you help us, please?"
    The Killer looked at her uncertainly. "I don't know, Mrs. Fox. We got to be pretty careful here. What do you want?"
    "We'd like to go through the cards that were filled out last Saturday. We're looking for a certain name."
    "The police cards! Oh no, Ma'am. I couldn't."
    "It's terribly important, Mr. Hamburger."
    "I couldn't do it, Ma'am. I--" He flinched in alarm as Gabby gestured with the loaded gun. "Look out, Ma'am!"
    "Let me shoot this thing and get it out of the way," Gabby said. "Then I'll explain." She raised the gun, pulled back the hammer and squinted along the sights at the target. "I've got to impress him," she thought, "or he'll never listen to me." She took a deep breath, steadied the gun, and let off five shots in slow, stately succession.
    A two hundred watt bulb at the side of the range was shattered. One of the trolley wires went down with a shuddering whine. A large chunk of plaster was knocked out of the ceiling. Ten inches of the wooden partition was ripped into splinters, and from the adjoining booth came an angry yell: "Get the hell off my target!"
    "Oh dear," Gabby said.
    The Killer choked. "Bring her in, Whitey," he said in a voice that shook. The target in the adjoining alley was run in and handed over by the indignant Whitey. The Killer glanced at it and then showed it to Gabby.
    "Dead center in the black," he said. He lifted his eyes and gazed around at the destruction she had wrought and then gave her a look in which awe was mixed with dog-like devotion. "I'll do anything I can to help you, Ma'am. Just name it."
    After five minutes of earnest conversation, they returned to the counter. The Killer unlocked a drawer and took out a stack of registry cards while Gabby explained to Lennox.
    "You came here Saturday night. You registered but you were so drunk Mr. Hamburger wouldn't let you hire a gun. You hung around telling the best dirty jokes they ever--"
    "I deny that."
    "They ever heard. Mr. Hamburger invited you to go bear hunting with him in the Adirondacks. A man called The Chief wanted to take you skeet-shooting. There was a rifle club here and they asked you to join. A bank guard wanted to introduce you to his sister but you told him you were married."
    "Ve'y populah man, Missa Lenn--Missa Fox," the Shroff beamed.
    "I sound like the Life of the Smoker," Lennox groaned. "Was there anybody here named Knott?"
    "Nope," the Killer called from the counter. "Nobody named Knott. But here's the guy you left with."
    "I left with somebody? That's a break. I was afraid this would be the dead-end."
    "Fella named Norman. Eugene K. Norman up on 126th Street. Says here: Care of The Midnight Sun."
    "The Midnight Sun ... whatever that is. Looks like I put in a busy Christmas Eve. God rest ye merry gentlemen. Leave us hit the road."
    "You going up there now?" the Killer inquired.
    "We'll have to."
    "The missus?"
    "Of course," Gabby said. "Why not?"
    "Just a minute." The Killer disappeared into a back room and emerged wearing a hat and coat. "Hey Whitey!" he called. "Lock up for me. All right, folks. Let's be on our way."
    "You're going with us, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked in surprise.
    "Yes, Ma'am." The Killer placed himself alongside her like a bodyguard. "It's pretty late and it gets kinda rough in Harlem. I'll drive you up. I live around there anyway."
    As they left the range, the raucous voice of Whitey followed them: "Yeah. Just around the corner ... in Brooklyn."
    The Midnight Sun turned out to be a giant barn which nightly conducted a giant miscegenous barn-dance. It was on the top floor of a theater building and was apparently used for basketball games during the day. It was the sort of place to which no white woman in her right mind would ever go with her date because the competition was too strong. There is nothing more exotically beautiful than the mixtures of black, brown, white and yellow races you find on The Rock. The elite of these mixtures was on the dance floor of The Midnight Sun ... exquisite creatures with startling faces and exciting bodies.
    "Jesus Christ on filter!" Lennox marvelled. "Don't tell me I forgot this!"
    It was beautiful, chic, queasy. There was a wild orchestra competing with its echo. There were tourists at the side tables in evening clothes and ermine. Lennox noticed a sprinkling of celebrities. There were dozens of white men prowling the edge of the dance floor like wolves, stopping dark girls, dancing with them for a moment, entering their names in address books. It had the horrid atmosphere of a black auction, and over all hung the tension of race hatred.
    The manager of The Midnight Sun was making difficulties. He had a nervous, sprightly air, and his smile was almost hysterical. Admission was two dollars and a half, but The Midnight Sun dances were semi-private. The party must be guests of someone.
    "Didn't you manage the old Downtown Club?" Gabby asked suddenly.
    "Yes, Miss."
    "Don't you remember me? You used to send out for Italian cassata for me."
    The manager smote his brow. "The ice cream lady! All your guests, of course. Please sign the members book." He produced an ancient double-entry ledger which Gabby signed in pencil. Lennox turned the pages back to December 24th and looked for the name Knott. It was not there. Neither was his own name. It was difficult to decipher anything from the smudged entries hastily scrawled in the dark.
    "Does Mr. Knott come here very often?" Lennox asked.
    The manager smiled hysterically and knew no one named Knott.
    "Is Mr. Norman here tonight? Mr. Eugene K. Norman?"
    "Somewhere on the floor," the manager told Lennox. He led the party to a small table surrounded by cases of empty beer and coke bottles, and disappeared before Lennox could ask any more questions. The waiter who descended on them for their orders was no help. At the table on their left were two magnificent blonde women with upswept hair and sequined evening gowns. On their right was an alcove filled with brooms, mops, and two sullen girls in angry conversation. Lennox got to his feet.
    "Mind the store," he told the Shroff and the Killer. "I'm going to case the joint for Norman."
    He went around the floor, politely inquiring after Mr. Eugene Norman. No one could help. The first girl he questioned, a Congo Venus with a bosom like pears, froze him so regally and yet with such exciting challenge that he didn't dare speak to another woman. Just alongside the dance band he came face to face with Roy Audibon.
    Audibon slid his address book into his pocket and shook hands. He was a little drunk. "What? The Thinker in the fleshpots? No hunting here, Jake. This is my private jungle."
    "You can have it, Roy."
    "I already got it, son. What's the matter?"
    "I don't like it here."
    "Don't like it? Look around. Enjoy. What can't you like?"
    "Myself. We're intruding. Doesn't it make you feel cheap?"
    "Makes me feel one thing, son, and that doesn't come cheap. You alone? Let's bleed the lizard."
    Lennox hesitated. "I'm looking for a man named Norman."
    "Looking for a man? Here? Man, your loins need regrinding." Audibon left him abruptly and tapped a dark brown girl on the nape of the neck. She turned and revealed a classic Egyptian face with high cheekbones and wide deep-set eyes. Audibon spoke a few words and then swept her out onto the dance floor.
    Lennox went out to the foyer to enlist the manager in his search. He was informed that the manager was in the john. He investigated, but the john was empty. As Lennox was about to leave, the door opened and one of the upswept blondes entered.
    "Excuse m-me--" Lennox stammered. "You're in the--"
    "Hello Beulah," she said in a shrill fag's falsetto.
    "My God!" Lennox was appalled. "You're in drag? I never--"
    The fag blocked the door and regarded him seductively.
    "You're such a fast one," he said. "Miss Track Meet making her appointed rounds. Who were you looking for? Pretty me?"
    "Listen," Lennox said, trying to be patient. "You're cruising the wrong number, girl. Would you mind getting out of the way?"
    "Mary! She's in such a hurry," the fag giggled without moving. Lennox took his elbow and shoved politely. Suddenly he lost control and slammed the blonde violently against the wall. He let out a piercing, falsetto shriek. Lennox yanked open the door and ran.
    As he crossed the dance floor to his table, a large ebony hand reached out and stopped him. He turned and there was Gabby dancing with a powerful bald-headed gentleman whose skin was stretched so tightly across the big bones of his head that his face looked skeletal.
    "Cool, Clarence," he said in a foggy voice. "Here's yuh chick. No, honey, yuh haven't got it right. It's a one and a tuh and a zig-zag-zig!"
    "Mr. Norman?"
    "Eugene K. hisself."
    "He's a dance teacher," Gabby said. "I'm getting a free introductory lesson."
    "Got tuh educate Mrs. Clarence's rhythm," Norman said.
    "He says I dance Square."
    "Livin' is elation and elation's syncopation. We'll turn yuh cool, Cabbage." Still moving gently against the beat of the band, with his arm around Gabby's waist, Norman grinned at Lennox. "Where's that bull fiddle, man? Yuh welchin' on the bet? No, honey. Yuh zaggin' when you should be ziggin'."
    "A one and a two and a zig-zag-zig." Gabby frowned and moved her feet.
    "What bet?"
    "You came up here with Mr. Norman," Gabby explained, "And you bet him you could get a bass violin into a taxi on the first try."
    "I did? Not for even money!" Lennox protested. "You didn't sucker a drunk and disorderly man, did you?"
    "They wouldn't let you use the one in the orchestra so you went out to rent a bass violin. That's the last anybody saw of you."
    "So it's a dead-end, is it? What about Knott?"
    Norman shook his head. "Uh-uh. The Chick asked already, Clarence. Yuh gettin it now, honey. We didn't rub up against any Knotts while we was togethuh. That's it! Cool, Cabbage! Livin' is elation and elation's syncopation."
    He swung Gabby around deftly, chanting in off-beats. A hand pinched Jake's ear, and a falsetto voice whispered: "Want to dance, Beulah?"
    "Will you leave me alone," Lennox growled at the blonde. "Get lost, for Christ's sake!"
    "Oh come on girl, get gay."
    The blonde entwined himself around Lennox who struggled angrily, and then stopped aghast as he saw Gabby and Norman whirl in a circle and collide with Roy Audibon and the Egyptian girl. Audibon stared at Gabby and his face turned red. He let go of his girl so sharply that she at once disappeared into the crowd.
    "What the hell is this?" he said.
    "Hello, Roy. This is Mr. Norman. He says that living is elation and elation's syncopation."
    "Cool, pal," Norman said genially and extended his hand. Audibon ignored it.
    "I'm cutting in," he said.
    "Not yet," Gabby laughed. "Not until I've got the zig-zag-zig."
    "I'm cutting in," Audibon repeated. Without looking at Norman he said: "Get lost."
    Gabby turned pale. "Are you trying to insult my friend?"
    "He heard me," Audibon snapped. "Let him dance with his own kind."
    Lennox blew. "Look out!" he roared. "Here it comes." He shook off the blonde and belted him across the jaw. He took two steps, shouldered Norman aside and belted Audibon across the jaw. The blond shrieked and clawed at the nearest man who swung on him and knocked his wig off. Audibon got to his feet and came boring in on Lennox. Eugene Norman dropped him again with a solid chop behind the ear. The Egyptian girl appeared and kicked Audibon. The blond's friend appeared and swung on Gabby. Lennox knocked him down. In five seconds that spark of violence ignited all the violent hostilities in The Midnight Sun.
    "Get her outa here!" Norman bellowed in Jake's ear. He thrust Gabby into Jake's arms, threw three vicious punches, caught a blow in the throat and reeled back. Lennox steadied him and dragged Gabby and Norman toward their table, bulling through the fighting crowd with his chin on his chest. The band began riffing the National Anthem. Nobody who could hear it paid any attention. A series of crashes commenced and the wall lights began going out. There was a wild Chinese yell and the Shroff appeared, crouched low, beating his way through the mob with a mop he wielded like a bamboo staff. Behind him Lennox saw the Killer teetering on a chair as he hurled empty coke bottles with deadly accuracy. He was methodically smashing all the lights.
    "Out! Out!" Lennox roared. "Come on.... Out!"
    As they snatched their coats off their chairs, two very large men charged out of nowhere and laid violent hands on Gabby. Lennox turned with a snarl and clubbed one across the back of the neck. As he dropped to his knees, the second was felled alongside him by the Killer. Gabby bent over them.
    "This is not the way to do it," she said intensely. "You must organize. Organize!"
    Lennox yanked Gabby up. He wanted to kiss her and spank her. The four men formed a circle around Gabby and beat their way out to the foyer. Gabby was hurling pacifist denunciations at the riot but no one could hear her. As they started down the stairs, Norman, who was fighting a rear-guard action, whistled shrilly and stopped them.
    "Cool, Clarence," he croaked. "Not that way, man. The police'll be coming."
    He beckoned, slammed an anonymous assailant in the belly, and dashed around the corner to the rest rooms. As the others followed, the anonymous swung on Lennox who stiff-armed him back. The Shroff kicked him and spun him around in time for the Killer to finish him.
    Norman led them into the ladies' john. Three girls were standing there, unaware of the battle outside, trying to cope with a crisis of their own. They were holding on to a fourth girl who was screaming hysterically as she trampled on her dress. She wore a string of white pearls, white satin slippers, and nothing else. The black and white contrast was beautiful and worth closer inspection, but no one had time.
    "She main-linin' again?" Norman inquired. He flung open a door revealing narrow stairs leading up and squeezed himself in. The three girls began screaming too.
    "Her slip's showing," Lennox said. He propelled Gabby up the stairs.
    "She'll catch cold," the Killer said and followed.
    "Ve'y Happy New Yeah," the Shroff beamed and slammed the door behind him.
    They climbed through a skylight and emerged into the chill night air. The riot below them sounded distant and detached. Norman guided them across roofs to the dim stairs of a respectable apartment house. They descended and emerged on the street, around the corner and half a block down from The Midnight Sun. There they took stock.
    Norman grinned at the Shroff and the Killer. They grinned back and spontaneously shook hands. "Man!" he chuckled. "That bottle-bit and that mop-mop-massacre. We're a goddam Foreign Legion. Damn if we ain't!" All the men felt better after the scrap, but Gabby was very angry.
    "Shame on you," she said. "Fighting like that. Hurting people. Making fun of that poor sick girl. You're supposed to be civilized. You're worse than animals."
    "Honey," Norman said reasonably. "It was self-defense."
    "No it wasn't, Mr. Norman. It was bad boys on a spree."
    "We were protecting you, Ma'am," the Killer said.
    "No you weren't, Mr. Hamburger. You were enjoying yourselves. I thought you were all such nice men. Now I'm ashamed of you. I hate fighting. There's no excuse for fighting ... ever!"
    "Gabby," Lennox said gently. "Get off the soap-box."
    She turned on him. "And you started it all, Jordan. Why did you hit that poor blond man?"
    "He was a fag and he was bothering me."
    "That's no excuse. He's as sick as that poor naked girl. You've got to feel sorry for homosexuals. You shouldn't hate them. But you do. You like to hate and hurt."
    "Ah don't blame'm," Norman muttered. "Queens is poison. Make any man want to punch 'em."
    "You be quiet, Mr. Norman."
    Norman shut up.
    "And what about Roy?" Gabby stormed. "I know why you hit him. You hate him. You're jealous and--"
    "No. I slugged him because he passed a crack at Norman I didn't like."
    "He doesn't know any better. You have to reason with prejudice, not--"
    "Well he damn well ought to know better."
    "Do you think you taught him anything?"
    "Maybe," the Shroff said unexpectedly.
    "How?" Gabby demanded.
    "Chinese people ve'y ole-fashun. We have ve'y ole wise saying...." He paused as though making a translation from the original.
    "Well?" Lennox asked after a moment. "You've left us hanging, Mr. Fu."
    The Shroff beamed around. "I fohget," he said.
    They burst out laughing. They hooted and groaned with laughter as they lurched down the street to the Killer's car. There they parted affectionately from Norman who presented each of them with an engraved card that read: Eugene K. Norman, The Midnight Sun, Technique of the Terpischore, Living is Elation and Elation's Syncopation.
    "Come to the show Sunday," Lennox called after him. "The Venice Theater at nine o'clock. Ask for Jordan Lennox." He issued the same invitation to the Shroff and the Killer.
    "What show?" the Shroff asked.
    "A television show called 'Who He?'"
    "Who's Jordan Lennox?" the Killer inquired.
    "Him," Gabby said. "His pen name. A one and a two and a zig-zag-zig." They piled into the car. "Are we through, Jordan? Have we failed?"
    "You seem pretty cheerful," Lennox laughed.
    "I am. So are you."
    "Must be hysteria. I'm so loused up now that I don't give a damn any more."
    "That's a relief."
    "Why do you say that?"
    "You get so oppressive when you're filled with resolve."
    "You sound like Sam. Well.... There's one last chance. I'll give it a play after I take you home."
    "The blonde?"
    "Keep out of this part, Gabby."
    "Aimee Driscoll with two E's?"
    "Yes."
    "Do you really live in Brooklyn, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked.
    "Yes, Ma'am."
    "Could you drop Mr. Fu at Chatham Square before you go across the bridge?"
    "Sure, Ma'am."
    "And could you drop us on Third Avenue at.... What's the name of the place, Jordan?"
    "I don't want you in on this."
    "Where did you pick her up?"
    "I think it was Ye Baroque Saloon."
    "At ... you should excuse the expression ... Ye Baroque Saloon, please, Mr. Hamburger. It isn't a dead-end yet."
    The inside laugh on Ye Baroque Saloon is that it's named after the proprietor, Chris Barokotrones, who came to The Rock and shortened his name to Baroque before he understood enough French or English to know what he was doing. By the time he found out, he had enough money to buy a building on Third Avenue and build a saloon. He had it decorated in American Baroque ... the exaggerated theatrical style that was the vogue in saloons before the turn of the century.