Little Doors (15 page)

“O’Malley, Johnson, how about letting me through?”

“Sure thing, Weegee.”

Somehow, Weegee senses that Tara’s trailing along behind him. The cops make no move to stop her.

When Weegee breaks through into the charmed circle, he spots the corpse.

He’s seen him somewhere before, another shabby figure roaming the streets, at the edge of the crowds, maybe watching a fire or bumming change. So familiar is the dead man that Weegee even imagines he’s some former public figure fallen from favor, some guy who once towered on the courthouse steps years ago, but has long since been consigned to a wino’s belly-dragging existence.

But then the sight of some of the man’s spilled wares fixes his ID.

It’s Tobacco Jack, the pencil-seller. The chaw that gave him his nickname now contributes a brown runnel out of the corner of Jack’s slack lips to the larger flow of blood.

Weegee’s attention is suddenly drawn to half a dozen pencils still poking from the inner pocket of Jack’s coat. Their erasers are a shiny pink, brand new, so unlike the weather-scoured, blood-dappled gangrenous gray of Jack’s own flesh—

The camera is tugging at his arm, insistent. Shaking himself, Weegee tries to move in closer, thrusting aside all memories of Jack as a once-living individual, now eager only to get the demanded shot.

A sergeant shoves him back. “Not this one, Weegee. Detective Trevino don’t want no press on this one.”

“Whadda ya mean?” demands Weegee. “It’s just another bum murdered for his spare change.… Ain’t it?”

An ambulance has arrived. Stretcher-bearers are now approaching the corpse, along with a useless priest from the parish church that towers across the street.

The sergeant’s attention is diverted by the newcomers.

Weegee seizes his chance.

Going below the cop’s broad back, Weegee kneels along with the bearers in the brutal street, oil or blood soaking into his pants leg. He lifts his lens and sights through it numbly, letting the camera have its way. It’s dark inside the viewing glass—even darker than the street. Then he sees a cop’s flashlight roving the crumpled body, snagging on its features, isolating bits of the corpse, giving them an importance they might actually deserve.

The stretcher-bearers move in closer, as if to cradle the man in their own arms, to bear him away in his old tweed coat like ascending angels. One of the bearers lays a hand on the stiffs hip and rolls it onto the stretcher.

A cop shouts, “No, not that way!”

The crowd sucks in a collective gasp of horror.

Weegee shoots.

His flash freezes everything.

The body is tumbling into the stretcher.

But Tobacco Jack’s head remains behind, rooted to the sidewalk.

There it is, fixed forever by Weegee’s intervention, the ultimate violation.

The cop who warned Weegee off breaks the spell. He drags Weegee to his feet, pushes him away, yelling, “Geddoutta here, you snoopy bastid! I should smash that goddamn camera of yours!”

Weegee needs no further prod: scramming is all he wants to do.

The crowd and the cops now close in around the corpse, shutting out the sight, spinning Weegee blinded into the night.

He leans against his car, gasping, winded, frightened, still seeing Jack’s head like the trophy of some saloon Salome. His feelings of revulsion and pity are tremendous, even greater than when he shot the woman watching her daughter and granddaughter perish in flames. Yet at the same time, with a deep sense of shame and disgust, he wants to study the image more carefully, to see the moment he captured on film. He wonders if he should open the trunk and get to work developing the neg. Before he knows it, he’s halfway there, the key out of his pocket

Then Detective Trevino strolls up.

The dick wears a weary face. The brim of his fedora looks mashed, like he’s been working it between his hands.

“Weegee. How’s tricks?”

“Not bad. Till just now.”

Trevino sighs. “I know. This is a nasty one. Ever heard of the Human Head Cakebox Murderer?”

Weegee feels a sickening pang, deep in his gut. Another memory is wrenched out of the cold muck and freezing mire like a week-old drowned man being hauled from the East River—hardly recognizable. He can’t let on that the name alone makes him nervous. Something fearful is developing but it’s nothing to do with him.

He forces a grin for the cop’s benefit. “Nope.”

Trevino smiles wryly. “Finally, a case we managed to keep secret from Weegee the All-knowing. I’m pleased as punch, as you can tell from my joyful mug. Well, you just saw some of his handiwork. Appears he was interrupted before he had a chance to stuff the head into a cakebox like he usually does. But his signature’s all over the job. Not only that, but the description given by the witnesses who spooked him tallies with what we already knew. The nutcase who does this wears some kinda weird getup, a regular ten-cent comic book villain.”

Trevino pauses. Weegee suddenly notices Tara sitting on the hood of the Chevy, legs splayed immodestly, her cat beside her. Absentmindedly, Trevino reaches back and strokes the kitten. Weegee almost chokes on the dead butt of his stogie.

Trevino stops petting the cat and sighs. “We can’t let you use that shot, Weegee. At least not right away. Number one, we don’t want to encourage any copycat killers. Number two, we don’t want any false confessions, so the fewer details out there the better. Number three—”

“That’s enough numbers, Tony, I get the picture.”

“That’s what I’d expect from the famous Weegee.”

“Ha. You know
Life
’s paying thirty-five bucks for a good murder, don’t you?”

“You want it outta my pocket?”

“Just thought I’d mention it.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll get it eventually, just not right now. Be patient. Listen, I gotta move. Jesus, I don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna get to sleep when my shift’s over.”

“At least your shift’s got an end.”

Trevino looks at him nervously, as if Weegee has just brought up something forbidden. “Of course it does. Of course.…” But there’s a question in his voice.

As soon as Trevino turns away, Weegee tosses the Speed Graphic down on the seat and climbs in. Tara’s already there. He jabs the starter button, twisting the key, and the car rumbles to life.

Moving again, he feels oddly at ease, as if he’s on a barge drifting effortlessly with the current. Forget about ghosts, or strange powers pushing him. No need to reach for wild explanations. The fact is, Weegee knows this night city better than the inside of his eyelids. Prop the camera on the dashboard and let it scout the streets, let it do the driving. If he were to go blind, he would never be lost; he could probably keep driving with both eyes poked out.

Or with his head missing.

7

The Bowery

At 267 Bowery, sandwiched between missions and quarter-a-night flophouses, is Sammy’s, the poor man’s Stork Club. There is no cover charge nor cigarette girl. Neither is there a hatcheck girl: patrons prefer to dance with their hats and coats on. But there is a lively floor show … the only saloon on the Bowery with a cabaret license.

After midnight, some odd types always drop in for a quick one. There’s a woman called “Pruneface,” a man called “Horseface” … Ethel, the queen of the Bowery, generally sports a pair of black eyes nature did not give her. A gent with a long white beard continually claims he is looking all over for the man who stole his wife forty years ago. Old-timers wonder whether, when thief and victim meet, the wife-stealer will get beat up or thanked.

Tonight, as on many nights, Weegee is one of the early morning drop-ins.

On the stage, in front of the gallery of framed photos, some of them Weegee’s, a 250-pound woman named Norma, in yards of satin and pounds of makeup, belts out “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree.” A tuxedoed man is drunkenly nuzzling a live pig lying on a tabletop. Two female imposters have picked up an unwitting sailor.

There’s a burly dwarf standing at Weegee’s left, dressed in nothing but a paper hat and grubby diaper while quaffing his foamy draft brew. There were numbers on the hat once, 1940-something, but now only the peeling “1” remains. The costume is a leftover from a New Year’s Eve party, but here it’s always the stroke of midnight, always the edge of the same old New Year, and even that turns stale and flat, like the blackened confetti trodden thick as sawdust underfoot.

Although the floor is a throng of bodies packed cheek by jowl, and although all the seats at the gingham-covered tables are taken, no one moves to occupy the spot at Weegee’s right where Tara stands, her chin barely clearing the bar. No one acknowledges the presence of the half-bare waif either.

Sammy brings Weegee his customary boilermaker.

Reaching for the beer stein, Weegee finds his hand quivering.

Over the hubbub, Sammy says, “Take a photo with those jitters, and it’ll look like ya shootin’ an earthquake.”

“Tell me something new.”

Sammy’s face grows concerned. “Ya okay, Weegee?”

“Yeah. I just need some rest.”

“Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?”

“My camera.”

“Ha! That’s a good one!”

Weegee downs his shot. Then he rests his head on the bar.

Behind his back, the raucous life of the saloon continues. Sounds convey the scenes he knows so well. Two old broads, Mabel and Flo, are hoofing it on stage, decked out in dresses that were old when vaudeville was young. Pretzel and hot dog vendors have entered, making their pitch.

Weegee feels half dead. Is the only time he’s alive when he’s looking through his camera? He’s forgotten what he does during the day. Sleep, mostly.… Or does he? Maybe he just goes into some kind of Buck Rogers suspended animation when the camera doesn’t need him. He can’t be sure.…

From his right elbow comes a too-familiar voice.

“What would make you happy?”

Weegee raises his head. Tara’s standing on the brass rail, bobby-soxed feet arched over it. Her cat’s drinking slops on the mahogany bartop.

“I just wanna sleep,” he says.

“So why don’t you?”

“Do you do whatever you want? For instance, did you ask to show up on my front seat tonight?”

She shakes her head solemnly.

“You did.”

“Me?”

She leans forward and touches his hand, speaking more urgently now. “Why can’t you sleep, Weegee?”

“Jesus, what do you think? It’s the goddamn camera!”

Everyone stares at him for a second; Sammy’s should never be so quiet. He sinks into his shoulders, embarrassed, while the sound level creeps back up again.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he mumbles, close to the girl’s pretty pink ear. “I don’t mean to snap at you. It’s just … the camera won’t let me stop. Ever since I got it, I feel like I’m its damn slave. It wants shots, you know? Vivid, heartstopping, bloody, tragic shots! If only I could find the ultimate shot, then maybe it would let me be. Maybe then I could rest.”

“I know what it wants,” she says, with such confidence that he believes her instantly.

“How could you?” he says.

“Because I came out of it. Just like you.”

“You came—what are you talking about?”

“What if you could photograph the Cakebox Murderer? Catch him in the act?”

Again, at that name, Weegee feels revulsion like vomit rising up in him. Something horrible is being invoked—a murderer, out there, wandering the city, severing heads. Nothing to do with him—but then why does he take it so personally?

“I know where to find him,” she says.

“You’re full of shit.”

“No I’m not.”

Despite himself, Weegee finds himself believing her. After all, she’s a spook, isn’t she? In touch with the night city. One of them.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“I’ll tell you when you screw me,” she says flatly. Weegee cringes and glances around nervously, but no one looks their way. He might as well be standing at the bar talking to himself.

Weegee hangs his head again. When he lifts it, he prays Tara will be gone.

She isn’t. And in her eyes is something that makes her look very old, as old as the eternal city, the endless night. As if this childish form is not her true one, but only a facet of it, something to win his confidence.

“Well … I know a place,” he says.

8

Subcellar Ball

Two walls of the basement are brick; two are raw, unfinished rock. Gurgling waste pipes run across the walls like cell bars. In one corner crouches the huge bulk of an asbestos-clad furnace, giving off a stink of heating oil like Manhattan’s own minor Moloch. The furnishings of the basement consist of some tin pails and bushel baskets, an old steamer trunk and a water-spotted mattress.