Downtown

9

It was Christmas Day.

Cooking smells from the restaurant downstairs drifted up the stairwell and seeped under the door and wafted across the apartment into the bedroom where he lay with Connie Kee in his arms. It was still snowing. He guessed there had to be eight feet of snow out there by now. Maybe ten feet. It had to be Minnesota out there by now.

He had fallen asleep instantly, but now he was wide awake and a bit leery of waking up Connie, who might discover there was a stranger here in bed with her and go running out into the snow naked. The last time he’d been to bed with anyone was with a woman named Zara with a Z Kaufman in Miami, where he’d gone to an orange-growers’ convention. That was in September, it was still hurricane season down there in Florida, there were in fact hurricane warnings posted for southeast Florida and the Keys.

He had not been to bed with anyone since the divorce in March, but there he was with the palms rattling outside his motel window and the wind blowing at forty miles an hour and a fifty-year-old woman who grew oranges in Winter Haven teaching him a few tricks he hadn’t learned in Saigon.

Zara with a Z Kaufman.

A very lovely person.

He had never seen her again after that night. So here he was now with a Chinese girl dead asleep in his arms, afraid to wake her up because whereas last night there had been only two of them here in this bed, this morning there were three of them if you counted his hard-on, which Connie suddenly seized in her right hand, leading him to believe she hadn’t been asleep after all.

They kissed.

It was like their kiss last night under the stars in that snowbound backyard where telephone poles grew from an endless field of white and snow-capped fences ran forever. Except better.

Because although last night there had been the attendant if remote possibility that their lips might in fact freeze together—she always seemed to be worried about freezing, he now realized—the bed today was quite warm under the quilt, thank you, and there was in fact steam banging in the radiators, and no one was about to freeze, not today when Christmas was upon the world.

And whereas last night someone up there in a fourth-floor window had asked them what the hell they were doing and had threatened to call the police, which he or she had in fact later done, the bastard, there was now no one here in this radiator-clanging, steam-hissing room to hurl a challenge or to dial 911 to report a dire emergency. There was no dire emergency in this room. Unless the urgency of their mutual need could be considered an emergency of sorts, and a dire one at that. He could not recall ever wanting a woman as much as he wanted this one. Nor could he recall any woman ever wanting him as much as Connie seemed to want him.

They could not stop touching each other.

They could not stop kissing.

Her murmuring little sounds hummed under his lips.

His hands were wet with her.

When at last he entered her—

“Oh, Jesus,” they whispered together.

It was Christmas Day.

There were four Charles Nicholses listed in the Manhattan telephone directory, but none of them had an R for a middle initial.

Which meant that none of them was the Charles R. Nichols who was no relation to Jack Nichols the big movie star.

Charles R. Nichols, who had been on Mister Ed years ago, and who had played a ghost’s voice in Crandall’s latest, as-yet-unreleased film, Winter’s Chill. Connie suggested that perhaps the Nichols they wanted was listed in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, or Staten Island directories instead. In which case, she and Michael could run over to Penn Station and check out the phone books there.

“The police will be watching the railroad stations,” Michael said.

“Then I’ll go alone.”

“The police know what you look like, they saw you driving me away from Crandall’s office,” he said. “Connie … maybe I …”

“No,” she said.

“What I’m trying to say …”

“You’re trying to say you love me.”

“Well …”

“And you’re worried about me. That’s so nice, Michael. You say the sweetest things, really.”

“Connie, the point …”

“But I’m not afraid,” she said. “So you don’t have to …”

“I am,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Afraid,” he said.

She kept looking at him.

“The time to be afraid,” he said, “is when you don’t know what’s happening. And when you feel helpless to stop whatever is happening.”

“Then what we have to do is find out what’s happening. And stop it from happening. Then you won’t be afraid anymore and we can just make love all the time.”

He took her in his arms. He hugged her close. He shook his head. He sighed. He hugged her again.

“What was that other man’s name?” she asked.

“What man?”

“The one Crandall’s wife told you about. The one who put up all the money for his war movie.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“She told you he looked like a rabbi …”

“Yes, tall and thin and hairy …”

“Magruder!” Connie said.

“No.”

“Magruder, yes!”

“Connie, there are no rabbis named Magruder.”

“Then whose name is Magruder?”

“I have no idea. But that’s not his name.”

“Then what is his name?”

“I don’t remember. It had something to do with the movie.”

“Yes, he put up the money for …”

“Yes, but not that. Something about War and— Solly’s War! His first name is Solly! No, Solomon! Solomon something!”

“Magruder!”

“No!”

“I’m telling you it’s Solomon Magruder!”

“And I’m telling you no!”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gruber!” she shouted.

“Yes!”

“Solomon Gruber!”

“Yes!”

“The phone book!” she said.

“Be there,” he said. “Please be there.”

There were no Solomon Grubers listed in the Manhattan directory. There were a lot of S. Grubers, but no way of knowing which of them, if any, might be a Solomon. There was, however, a listing for a Gruber Financial Group, and another listing for a Gruber International, and yet another for a Gruber Foundation, all of which sounded like companies that might have had twelve million dollars to invest in a flop movie eleven years ago. Michael tried each of the three numbers.

No answer. This was Christmas Day. But in studying the S. Gruber listings a second time—

“Look!” Connie said.

“I see it.”

“This S. Gruber has the same address …”

“Yes.”

“… as the Gruber Financial Group.”

“But a different phone number,” Michael said. “Let’s call him.”

“Let’s eat first,” Connie said.

The S. Gruber whose address was identical to that of the Gruber Financial Group lived in Washington Mews, which was a gated little lane that ran eastward from number 10 Fifth Avenue to University Place. Connie explained that they were still in what she considered downtown Manhattan.

“As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “it’s all downtown till you get up to Forty-second Street. Then it starts to be midtown. This is the Sixth Precinct here. Driving a limo, I like to know where all the precincts are, in case I get some weirdo in the back. The precincts are funny in this city. For example, the First starts at Houston Street on the north and ends at Battery Park on the south. Which means if you get killed, for example, on Fulton Street, you have to run all the way uptown and crosstown to Ericsson Place to report it. Anyway, this is the Sixth, which is mostly silk stocking.”

They were walking up what could have been a little cobblestoned lane in a Welsh village.

Doors that only appeared to be freshly painted flanked the pathway, their brass knockers and knobs gleaming in the noonday light. The cobblestones had been shoveled clean of snow. There were wreaths in the windows, electrified candles in them. The twinkling multicolored glow of illuminated Christmas trees behind diaphanous lace curtains. Classical music wafting through a street-level window opened just a crack. Swelling violins. And now a clarinet. Or maybe a flute. Dying with a dying fall on a Christmas Day already half gone. Michael wished he could identify the composition. Or even its composer. There were so many things he wished. Down in Sarasota he read The New York Times all the time, and he listened to WUSF 89.7, which was the public radio station, but he never could tell one piece of classical music from another. To him, they all sounded like somebody practicing.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Connie said.

“I was just vamping till ready,” Michael said.

“I hope you’re ready now,” she said, “because here it is.”

A black door.

A brass escutcheon on it.

Solomon Gruber, engraved in script lettering.

To the right of the door, set into the doorjamb, a heavy brass bell button.

Michael pressed his forefinger against it.

Inside, chimes began playing a tune you didn’t have to be Harold Schonberg or even Newgate Callendar to recognize.

The tune was “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

They listened to it. It sounded nice on the frosty Christmas air.

When the chimes reached “fleece as white,” the door opened.

The man standing there in the doorframe was not tall and thin and hairy, and he did not look like a rabbi, either. The man standing there was wearing a red turtleneck sweater with a black velvet smoking jacket over it. He had a very bushy handlebar moustache, which may have been why Albetha Crandall had thought he was hairy.

Otherwise, he wore his hair in a crew cut that made him look like a German U-boat commander. Why she’d thought he was tall and thin was anyone’s guess. Perhaps she’d meant in comparison to her husband, who was short and chubby. Solomon Gruber, if that’s who this man turned out to be, was of medium height and build.

Compact, one might say. Chunky. Like a bulldog.

“Yes?” he said.

He looked as if he expected them to start singing Christmas carols. He looked as if he would close the door in their faces if they did. Or run up to the roof to pour boiling oil on them.

“Mr. Gruber?” Michael asked.

“Yes?” he said again.

“My name is Michael Bond, I’m with The New York Times, I wanted to talk to you about Winter’s Chill. This is Constance Keene, my assistant.”

Gruber blinked.

“Come in,” he said at once, and stepped aside to allow them entrance. “Mary!” he shouted. “Come quick, it’s The New York Times! Come in, come in, please,” he said. Michael wondered if it was a crime to impersonate a person from The New York Times.

Gruber’s townhouse was furnished the way Michael hoped one day to furnish the house in Sarasota, now that Jenny was out of it and living with her fucking branch manager. In recent months, he had browsed through enough home furnishing magazines to know that the extremely modern furniture here in Gruber’s living room was either Herman Miller or Knoll, all leather and glass and chrome and wood. The house in Sarasota was at the end of a dirt road that ran alongside the groves. Behind the house was a man-made lake that had been dug by the former owner of the groves. Sliding glass doors opened onto the lake. Modern furniture would look good in that house. He knew Connie liked modern because of the way her apartment was furnished. Now he wondered if she’d like the Sarasota house.

The walls in the Gruber living room were done in rough white plaster, except for the fireplace wall, which was done in black marble, with a chrome surround for the hearth. A painting that looked like a genuine Matisse hung on one of the white walls. Another that looked like a real van Gogh hung on the wall adjacent to it. A Christmas tree was in the far corner of the room, near the windows facing the lane outside. A woman came in through a rosewood swinging door that led to the kitchen. She was wearing a long red gown that matched Gruber’s red turtleneck sweater.

She was taller than Gruber, and she had blonde hair—but she was not the woman who’d conned Michael in the bar last night. It occurred to Michael that there were a lot of blondes in the city of New York. Just as there seemed to be a lot of Charlies. Which was why he was here.

“Mr. Gruber,” he said, “I …”

“Mary, this is Michael Bond,” Gruber said, “and his assistant, Constance Keene.”

“How do you do,” Mary said.

Which was why the doorbell played “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” Michael guessed.

“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Bond?” Gruber said.

“Some hot toddy?” Mary said.

She was smiling like one of the women in The Stepford Wives. Michael wondered if she had wires and tapes inside her.

“Mary makes a great hot toddy,” Gruber said.

He was smiling like a shark approaching a Sarasota beach at the height of the season. Probably because The New York Times was in his living room.

“I’d like to try a hot toddy,” Connie said.

“I’ve never had one.”

“One hot toddy coming up,” Mary said. “Mr. Bond, what will you have?”

“A diet Coke, if you’ve got one.”

“Will a diet Pepsi do?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“One hot toddy and one diet Pepsi coming up,” she said, and went out into the kitchen.

“From what I understand,” Michael said, “the Gruber Group put up all the financing for Arthur Crandall’s new film.”

“Boy oh boy oh boy, The New York Times,” Gruber said, shaking his head. “On Christmas Day, no less. You guys have sources not to be believed.”

“That’s true, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the Gruber Financial Group— it’s Gruber Financial Group, not Gruber Group.”

“Yes, sir, Gruber Financial Group.”

“Maybe you ought to jot that down,” Gruber said.

“Yes, sir, have you got a pencil and some paper?”

“I’ve got some,” Connie said, and reached into her shoulder bag and took from it a bill pad with the lettering CHINA DOLL LIMOUSINE across its top. She handed this to Michael together with a ballpoint pen that had tobacco shreds clinging to its tip.

“Gruber Financial Group, yes, sir,” Michael said, and wrote it onto the pad.

Mary came out of the kitchen. She was carrying a tray with a mug and a glass on it. The mug had a cinnamon stick poking up out of it like the periscope on a miniature submarine.

“Here you are,” she said, and extended the tray. Connie picked up the mug.

Michael picked up the glass.

Mary put down the tray and said, “We were in Japan last year, Miss Keene. It’s a lovely country.”

“Thank you, I’ve never been there,” Connie said, and sipped at the toddy. “This is very good,” she said. “Would you like to taste this, Michael?”

“No, thank you,” Michael said. “Mr. Gruber, do you know a man named Charles Nichols?”

“Huh?” Gruber said.

“Charles R. Nichols.”

“What part of Japan do your people come from?” Mary asked.

“I’m Chinese,” Connie said.

“Oh, dear,” Mary said.

Gruber shot her a look that said Now look what you’ve done, you’ve offended a Chink on the fucking New York Times! Mary started to shrink, as if he’d thrown water on a witch. Michael hoped she wouldn’t melt right down into the carpet, leaving only her red gown behind. Gruber turned back to Michael.

“Are you doing a piece on Charlie?” he asked. There was a look on his face that said there was no understanding the ways of The New York Times. Charlie Nichols, who had been on Mister Ed years ago, and who now played the voice of a ghost in Winter’s Chill? Of all the actors in the film, this was who The New York Times had singled out for a piece? Incredible.

“Do you know where we can reach him?” Michael asked.

“Is this for the Arts and Leisure section?” Gruber asked.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“That’s the approach you’re taking, huh?”

“We thought we’d like to talk to him.”

“I mean … look, I certainly don’t want to tell The New York Times what approach it should take. Far be it from me. But what is the approach you’re taking? I mean … why Charlie, of all people?”

“Because of his Mister Ed affiliations,” Michael said.

“He wasn’t the horse or anything,” Mary said.

“That’s right, thank you, Mary,” Gruber said.

“I mean, he didn’t do the horse’s voice, you know. He was just a regular actor.”

“He had a bit part, in fact,” Gruber said.

“This is all very good stuff,” Michael said, writing.

“It is?” Mary said, looking astonished.

“This begins to hit you after a while, doesn’t it?” Connie said, and took another sip of the toddy.

“You’re supposed to stir it,” Mary said.

“With the cinnamon stick.”

“Oh,” Connie said, and began stirring it.

“All he does is play one of the ghosts in Chill,” Gruber said.

“One of the voices,” Mary said.

“There are ghost voices,” Gruber said.

“Trying to make her crazy.”

“The character.”

“The woman Jessica plays.”

“Jessica Wales,” Gruber explained.

“They’re trying to make her crazy,” Mary said.

“Like in Gaslight,” Michael said, nodding.

“Oh no!” Gruber said at once.

“No, no, no,” Mary said. “Not at all like Gaslight.”

“This is a highly suspenseful film about a woman on the cutting edge of terror and deceit,” Gruber said, sounding like the headline of an ad for the movie.

“Is she mad or is she only too sane?” Mary said, sounding like another headline.

“This makes your fingers sticky, doesn’t it?” Connie said.

“A true departure for Arthur,” Gruber said. “I don’t know if you saw War and Solitude, but …”

“No, I didn’t.”

“A beautiful film,” Mary said, looking soulful.

“Wonderful, the man’s a genius,” Gruber said. “We lost a fortune, of course, but does this take away from the man’s genius? Does Jaws take away from the genius of Steven Spielberg?”

“But Jaws didn’t lose money, did it?” Michael said.

“Exactly,” Gruber said. “This beautiful film went down the tubes …”

“Not Jaws.”

“No, Solitude. Because of Vincent Canby’s lousy … excuse me, I bear no ill will toward the Times, believe me. I lost twelve million dollars plus another two million in advertising and promotion, but Canby is entitled to his opinion, would I deprive a man of his right to free speech? I notice, of course, that six years later he thinks Platoon is a masterpiece, but listen, bygones are bygones, we’re talking about Winter’s Chill now, am I right? Despite the fact, by the way, that in Cannes Solitude almost walked off with all the marbles and Cahiers called it the best war film ever made. This was six years before Mr. Canby decided to fall in love with Platoon, a genius before his time, Arthur Crandall, mark my words. And Chill is an even better film.”

“There are murmurings, however,” Michael said, and he saw panic flash suddenly in Gruber’s eyes, “that whereas Crandall’s last film was a class act”—quoting Albetha now—“this new one is crap, you’ll pardon the …”

“Nonsense!” Gruber said.

“Why, he’s being compared to Hitchcock!” Mary said.

“That’s right, thank you, Mary,” Gruber said.

“At the peak of his career! Hitchcock!”

“His Psycho days!”

“His Birds days!”

“Why, when people in the motion-picture community thought Arthur was dead last night …”

“Then you’d heard about that,” Michael said, suddenly alarmed.

“Yes, of course, it was all over television.”

“We were so relieved when he called,” Mary said.

“To say he was alive.”

“We couldn’t believe it was him calling. He was supposed to be dead. But there he was on the phone! It was a miracle!”

“Believe me,” Gruber said, “there was universal mourning in the motion-picture community when …”

“MGM, too,” Mary said.

“When his murder …”

“United Artists, Columbia, Disney. Not only Universal,” she said.

“When his murder was erroneously reported. Genuine and universal grief for this genius cut down in his prime, this new master of … excuse me, what did you say your name was?”

“Bond,” Michael said. “Michael Bond. No relation.”

“Because you look familiar.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Have I seen you in anything?” Mary asked.

“No, I’m just with The New York Times.”

“Exactly my point,” Gruber said. “Mr. Bond, I think you understand what I’m saying. I’m saying there is greed and malice everywhere in this world, but honesty and truth will prevail as surely as the cry of a newborn babe.”

“Do you write fortune cookies?” Connie asked.

“Do you understand me, Mr. Bond? Whoever told you that Arthur Crandall’s new film is … what did you say you’d heard?”

“I heard it was crap.”

“Crap, I can’t believe it,” Gruber said.

“The man’s a fucking genius,” Mary said.

“Crap,” Gruber said again, shaking his head.

“Who told you this?” Gruber asked.

“His wife, actually,” Michael said.

“That bitch!” Mary said, and her husband gave her a look that said, This is The New York Times here, so watch your fucking language.

“What she said, actually,” Michael said, “was that in television he’d been doing crap …”

“Absolutely,” Gruber said.

“… and he left television to do a really fantastic film …”

“Truly fantastic!”

“… that didn’t make a nickel …”

“Not a dime,” Gruber said.

“… but now he was back doing crap again.”

“False,” Gruber said. “Do you know how much this new movie cost to make?”

“How much?” Michael asked.

“Three times what Solitude cost.”

“Thirty-six million dollars,” Connie said at once. “This is very good, this toddy. Why do they call it a toddy?”

“Thirty-six million, correct,” Gruber said, “plus I have to figure at least another five, six million for prints and advertising, and it’ll come to forty, forty-five million before all is said and done. Now tell me something, Mr. Bond, how can a forty-five-million-dollar picture be crap? Can you tell me that, please? You don’t plan to print that, do you? His wife’s remark?”

“I mean, she is a bitch,” Mary said, shaking her head.

“What we planned to do,” Michael said, “was leave the review to the daily reviewer …”

“Who?” Gruber said at once. “Canby? Or Maslin? Don’t say Canby or I’ll have a heart attack.”

“I don’t think it’s been assigned yet.”

“It hasn’t been assigned yet? It’s opening on the second, we had screenings all last week, it hasn’t been assigned yet?”

“Not that I know of. But the Sunday section’s approach would be …”

“I’ll bet it’s Canby,” Gruber said to his wife.

“That prick,” she said.

“We thought we’d talk to Charlie Nichols, take an oblique approach to …”

“Why don’t you talk to Jessica Wales? She’s the star of the fucking thing,” Gruber said, “why don’t you talk to her?”

“Well, we wanted a unique approach …”

“I thought you said oblique.”

“And unique.”

“We’ve got some great stills of Jessica, you could use those with the story.”

“The scene where they’re coming at her with the knife, oooooo,” Mary said, and shuddered.

“The ghosts,” Gruber said.

“What she thinks are ghosts.”

“Don’t give it away, for Christ’s sake,” Gruber said.

“They aren’t really ghosts, don’t worry,” Mary said to Michael, as if trying to still the fears of a very small child.

“That’s right, tell him,” Gruber said, shaking his head. “Give away the whole fucking plot.”

“Are you really a rabbi?” Connie asked him. “What?” he said.

“Because I didn’t know rabbis talked that way.”

Gruber blinked.

Mary rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention Gaslight.”

“Very good, tell him not to mention Gaslight,” Gruber said. “That’s like telling somebody not to stare at somebody’s big nose. Did you see that picture?”

“No,” Michael said.

“The Martin picture.”

“Sheen?”

“Steve. Anyway, this isn’t Gaslight we did, this is an entirely new and original approach to psychological suspense. Jessica Wales gives the performance of her career and Arthur Crandall has never been …”

“I wonder, Mr. Gruber, do you think you could let me have Charlie Nichols’s address, please?”

“You’re determined to do this interview with Charlie, huh?”

“That’s my assignment, sir.”

“Who thinks up these crazy assignments? Gussow?”

“I’ll bet it’s Canby,” Mary said.

“Do we even have his address?” Gruber said.

“I mean, he’s a bit player. Why the hell do you want to interview him?”

“I just take orders,” Michael said.

“Oh, sure, everybody just takes orders,” Gruber said. “The Nazis just took orders, Canby just takes orders, you just take orders, where’s the address book?” he asked Mary.

“I’ll get it,” she said, “don’t get excited. He gets so excited,” she said to Michael.

“Maybe I oughta just call Arthur, he’s probably got the address right at his finger …”

“No, I don’t think you should do that,” Michael said.

“Why not? You said you want to talk to Charlie …”

“We’d like to surprise Mr. Crandall.”

“Oh, he’ll be surprised, all right, don’t worry. An interview with Charlie Nichols? Oh, he’ll wet his pants, believe me. When’s this thing gonna be in the paper?”

“Next Sunday.”

“You work that close, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Here it is,” Mary said, and handed the address book to her husband.

The chimes suddenly began playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

“I love this song,” Mary said.

Gruber waited until the entire little song had played.

Then he said, “Who is it?”

And a man answered, “Police.”