Make Room! Make Room! (17 page)

“Did you forget anything?” Andy asked.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll have a last look around.”

“Shirl, when you came here, moved in, I mean, did you bring any towels or bed linen or anything like that with you?” He pointed toward the rumpled bed and seemed uncomfortable about something.

“No, nothing like that, I just had a bag with some clothes in it.”

“I was just hoping that you owned some of these sheets. You see—well, I only have one, and it’s getting old, and they cost a fortune these days, even used ones.”

She laughed. “You sound like you’re planning to spend a lot of time in bed. Now that you remind me, I remember, two of these sheets are mine.” She opened her bag and began swiftly to fold and pack them away. “He owed me at least this much.”

Andy carried the suitcases into the hall and rang for the elevator. Shirl stood for a moment, watching as the apartment door closed, then hurried after him.

“Doesn’t he ever sleep?” Andy asked as they crossed the lobby toward Charlie, who stood at his post by the front door.

“I’m not sure,” Shirl said. “He always seems to be around when something is happening.”

“Hate to see you leaving, Miss Greene,” Charlie said as they came up. “I can take the keys to the apartment now, if you want me to.

“You better give her a receipt,” Andy said as she handed the keys over.

“Be happy to,” Charlie said imperturbably, “if I had anything to write on.”

“Here, put it in my notepad,” Andy said. He looked over the doorman’s shoulder and saw Tab coming out of the guardroom.

“Tab—what are you doing here at this time of night?” Shirl asked.

“Waiting for you. I heard you were leaving and I thought I’d give you a hand with your bags.”

“But it’s so late.”

“Last day of the job. Got to finish it off right. And you don’t want to be seen walking around this time of night with suitcases. Plenty of people will cut your throat for less.” He picked up two of the bags and Andy took the third.

“Hope someone does bother me,” she said. “A high-priced bodyguard and a city detective—just to walk me a couple of blocks.”

“We’d wipe the street with them,” Andy said, taking back his notebook and leading the way through the door Charlie held open.

When they went out the rain had stopped and stars could be seen through holes in the clouds. It was wonderfully cool. She took each of the men by an arm and led the way down the street, out of the pool of light in front of Chelsea Park and into the darkness.

It had been strange climbing the stairway in the dark, sweeping the light over the sleeping figures on the stairs while Andy carried the bags up behind her. His friend Sol had been asleep, and they had gone quietly through his room into Andy’s. The bed was just big enough for both of them and she had been tired and curled up with her head on his shoulder and slept so soundly that she didn’t even know it when he had gotten up, dressed and left. She awoke to see the sun streaming through the window onto the foot of the bed and, when she kneeled with her elbows on the windowsill, she smelt the clean, fresh-washed air; the only time the city was ever like this was after a rainstorm. With all the dust and soot washed away it was wonderfully clear, and she could see the sharp-edged buildings of Bellevue rising above the lower jumble of tar-black roofs and stained brick walls. And the heat was gone, vanished with the rain, that was the best part. She yawned pleasurably and turned back to look at the room.

Just what you would expect from a bachelor, neat enough—but as empty of charm as an old shoe. There was a thin patina of dust on everything, but that was probably her fault since Andy certainly had not been spending much time here of late. If she could get some paint somewhere, a coat of it wouldn’t do that dresser any harm. It couldn’t have been more gouged and nicked
if it had been in a landslide. At least there was a full-length mirror, cracked but still good, and a wardrobe to hang her things in. There was nothing to complain about, really, a little brightening up and the room would be nice. And get rid of those million spider webs on the ceiling.

A water tank with a faucet was on the partition wall next to the door, and when she turned it on, a thin brownish stream tinkled into the basin that was fixed on brackets beneath it. It had the sharp chemical smell that she had almost forgotten, since all the water in Chelsea Park was run through expensive filters. There didn’t seem to be any soap here but she splashed water on her face and rinsed her hands, and was drying them on the tattered towel that hung next to the tank when a clanking, squealing sound came through the partition in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what it possibly could be, though it was obviously coming from the room next door where Sol lived. Something of his was making the noise, and it hadn’t started until after he heard her moving around and running the water, which was nice of him. It also meant that, as far as sound went, this room had as much privacy as a birdcage. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She brushed her hair, put on the same dress she had worn the night before, then added just a touch of makeup. When she was ready she took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Good morning—” she said, and could think of nothing else to say, but just stood there in the doorway, trying not to gape. Sol was sitting on a wheelless bicycle, going nowhere—but going at a tremendous rate, his gray hair flying in all directions and his beard bobbing up and down on his chest as he pedaled. His single garment was a pair of ancient and much-patched shorts. The squealing sound came from a black object at the rear of the bicycle. “Good morning!” she called again, louder this time, and he glanced up at her and his pedaling slowed to a stop. “I’m Shirl Greene,” she said.

“And who else could you be,” Sol said coldly, climbing down from the bike and wiping the sweat from his face with his forearm.

“I’ve never seen a bicycle like that before. Does it do something?” She wasn’t going to fight with him, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Yeah. It makes ice.” He went to put his shirt on.

At first she thought it was one of these deep jokes, the kind
she never understood, then she saw that wires led from the black motorlike thing behind the bike to a lot of big batteries on top of the refrigerator.

“I know,” she said, happy at her discovery. “You’re making the fridge go with the bike. I think that’s wonderful.” His only answer was a grunt this time, no remarks, so she knew she was making headway. “Do you like kofee?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been so long since I tasted any.”

“I’ve got a half a can in my bag. If we had some hot water we could make some.” She didn’t wait for an answer but went into the other room and got the can. He looked at the brown container for a moment, then shrugged and went to fill a pot with water.

“I bet it tastes like poison,” he said as he put the pot on the stove. First he turned on the hanging light in the middle of the room and studied the glowing filament in the bulb, then nodded begrudgingly. “Just for a change we got some juice today, so let’s hope it lasts long enough to boil a half inch of water.” He switched on the electric heating element of the stove.

“I’ve only been drinking kofee the last couple of years,” Shirl said, sitting in the chair by the window. “They tell me it doesn’t taste a thing like real coffee, but I wouldn’t know.”

“I can tell you. It don’t.”

“Have you ever tasted
real
coffee? More than once?” She had never met a man yet who didn’t enjoy telling about his experiences.

“Taste it? Honeybunch, I used to live on it. You’re a kid, you’ve got no idea how things used to be in the old days. You drank three, four cups, maybe even a whole pot of coffee and never even thought about it. I was even coffee poisoned once, my skin turned brown and everything, because I used to drink up to twenty cartons a day. A champion coffee drinker, I could of won medals.”

Shirl could only shake her head in admiration, then sipped at the kofee. It was still too hot. “I just remembered,” she said, jumping up from the chair and going into the other room. She was back in a moment and gave the two cigars to Sol. “Andy said I should give these to you, that you used to smoke them.”

Sol’s air of masculine superiority fell away and he almost gaped. “Cigars?” was all he could say.

“Yes, Mike had a box of them, but there were just these two left. I don’t know if they are any good or not.”

Sol groped for memory of the cigar ritual that had once controlled a judgment of this kind. He sniffed suspiciously at the end of one. “Smells like tobacco at least.” When he held it to his ear and pinched the smaller end there was a decided crackling sound. “Aha! Too dry. I might have known. You got to take care of cigars, keep them in the right climate. These are all dried out. They should be in a humidor. They can’t be smoked this way.”

“Do you mean they’re no good? We’ll have to throw them away?” It was a terrible thought.

“Nothing like that, relax. I’ll just take a box, put a wet sponge in it along with these stogies and wait three, four days. One thing about cigars, if they dry out you can bring them back to life just like Lazarus, or better maybe, he couldn’t have been smelling too good after being buried four days. I’ll show you how to take care of these.”

Shirl sipped her kofee and smiled. It was going to be all right. Sol just hadn’t liked the idea of someone coming to stay with Andy, it must have upset him. But he was a nice guy and had some funny stories and a funny, sort of old-fashioned way of talking, and she knew that they were going to get along.

“This stuff doesn’t taste too bad,” Sol said, “if you can forget what real coffee tastes like. Or Virginia ham, or roast beef, or turkey. Boy, could I tell you about turkey. It was during the war and I was stationed at the ass-end of Texas and all the food was sent out of St. Louis and we were right on the end of the supply line. What reached us was so bad I saw mess sergeants shudder when they opened the Gl cans the stuff was shipped in. But once, just once it worked the other way around. These Texans raise billions of turkeys down there on ranches, then ship them north for Christmas and Thanksgiving, you know.” She nodded, but she didn’t know. “Well, the war was on and there was no way to ship all these turkeys out, so the Air Corps bought them for next to nothing and that’s what we had to eat for about a month. I tell you! We had roast turkey, fried turkey, turkey soup, turkey burgers, turkey hash, turkey croquettes….”

There was the sound of running footsteps in the hall and someone rattled the knob so loudly that the door shook. Sol quietly slipped open the table drawer and took out a large meat cleaver.

“Sol, are you there?” Andy called from the hall, shaking the handle again. “Open up.”

Sol threw the cleaver onto the table and hurried over to
unlock the door. Andy pushed in, sweating and breathing hard, closing the door behind him and talking in a low voice despite his urgency.

“Listen, fill the water tanks and all the jerry cans. And fill whatever else we have that will hold water. Maybe you can plug the sink, then you can put water in that too. Fill as many jerry cans as you can at our water point, but if they begin to notice you coming back too often, go to the other one on Twenty-eighth Street. But get going. Sol—Shirl will help you.”

“What’s it all about?”

“Christ, don’t ask questions, just do it! I shouldn’t be telling you this much—and don’t let on I did or we’ll all be in trouble. I have to get back before they find me missing.” He went out as fast as he came in, the slammed door an echo to his receding footsteps.

“What was all that about?” Shirl asked.

“We’ll find out later,” Sol said, kicking into his sandals. “Right now we get moving. This is the first time Andy has ever pulled anything like this and I’m an old man—I scare easy. There’s another jerry can in your room.”

They were the only ones who appeared concerned in any way and Shirl wondered what Andy could have possibly meant. There were only two women waiting in line at the corner water point, and one of them only wanted to fill a quart bottle. Sol helped to carry the filled jerry cans, but Shirl insisted on taking them up the stairs. “Work some of the fat off my hips,” she said. “I’ll bring down the empties and you can get back in line while I pour out the others.”

The line was a little longer now, but there was nothing unusual about it, this was the time when most people started to show up to make sure they had their water before the point closed at noon.

“You must be thirsty, Pop,” the patrolman on duty said when they reached the head of the line again. “Ain’t you been around before?”

“So what’s your trouble?” Sol snapped, pointing his beard at the cop. “All of a sudden you’re being paid to count the house? Maybe I like to take a bath once in a while so I don’t stink like some people I could mention, but I won’t….”

“Take it easy, grandpa.”

“… I’m not your grandpa,
shmok
, since I haven’t committed
suicide yet, which I would if I was. All of a sudden cops got to count how much water people need?”

The policeman retreated a yard and half turned his back. Sol filled the containers, still grumbling, and Shirl helped carry them to one side to screw the lids back on. They had just finished when a police sergeant pulled up on a sputtering motorbike.

“Lock this point up,” he said. “It’s closed for the day.”

The women who were waiting to fill their containers screamed at him and pushed forward around the spigot, getting in each other’s way and trying to get some water before it was closed down. The patrolman fought his way through the shouting crowd to turn the valve handle. Even before he touched it the water hiccoughed, died to a thin trickle, then stopped. He glanced at the sergeant.

“Yeah, that’s the trouble,” the sergeant said. “There’s a … broken pipe, they had to shut down. It’ll be all right tomorrow. Now break this up.”

Sol looked wordlessly at Shirl as they picked up the jerry cans, then turned away. Neither of them had missed the hesitancy in the sergeant’s voice. This was something more than broken pipe. They carried the containers slowly up the stairs, careful not to spill a drop.