French Kiss

Chapter 13

A man’s voice isn’t angry, just loud. “What’s with the littering, mister?”

Littering? That’s a new word in my English vocabulary.

The speaker is a white-bearded old man wearing brown work pants and a brown T-shirt. It’s the kind of outfit assembled to look like a uniform, but it isn’t actually a uniform. The man is barely five feet tall. He holds an industrial-size water hose with a dripping nozzle.

“Littering?” I ask.

The old guy points to the dead cigarette at my feet.

“Your cigarette! They pay me to keep these sidewalks clean.”

“I apologize.”

“I was making a joke. It’s only a joke. Get it? A joke, just a joke.”

This man was not completely, uh…mentally competent, but I had to follow one of my major rules: talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

“Yes, a joke. Good. Do you live here?” I ask.

“The Bronx,” he answers. “Mott Haven. They always call it the south Bronx, but it’s not. I don’t know why they can’t get it right.”

“So you just work down here?”

“Yeah. I watch the three buildings. The button place, the animal place, and the eyeglasses place. They call me Danny with the Hose.”

“Understandably,” I say.

“Good, you understand. Now stand back.”

I do as I’m told until my back is up against the optician’s doorway. Danny sprays the sidewalk with a fast hard surge of water. Scraps of paper, chunks of dog shit, empty beer cans-they all go flying into the gutter.

“Danny,” I say. “A lot of pretty girls around here, huh? What with the fancy hotel right here and the fancy neighborhood.”

He shuts off his hose. “Some are pretty. I mind my business.”

A young man, no more than twenty-five, comes out of the pet-grooming shop. He has a big dog-a boxer, I think-on a leash. Danny with the Hose and the man with the dog greet each other with a high five. The young man is tall, blond, good-looking. He wears long blue shorts and a pathetic red sleeveless shirt.

“Hey,” I say to him. “Danny and I have just been talking about the neighborhood. I’m moving to East 68th Street in a few weeks. With a roommate. A German shepherd.”

“Cool,” he says, suddenly a lot more interested in talking to me. “If you need a groomer, this place is the best. Take a look at Titan.” He pets his dog’s shiny coat. “He’s handsome enough to be in a GQ spread. I’ve been bringing him here ever since we moved into 655 Park five years ago.”

My ears prick up. I go into full acting-class mode now.

“Isn’t 655 the place where that lady cop got killed?”

“They say she was a cop pretending to be a hooker. I don’t know.”

“Luc…Luc Moncrief,” I say. We shake.

“Eric,” he says. No last name offered. “Well, welcome. I said ‘pretending,’ but I don’t know. Women are not my area of expertise, if you know what I mean. All my info on the local girls comes from one of the doormen in my building. He says all the hookers hang out at the Auberge.”

“That’s where I’m staying now,” I say.

“Well, anyway, Carl-the doorman-says most of the girls who work out of the Auberge bar are clean. Bang, bang, pay your money, over and out. He says the ones to watch out for are the girls who work for the Russians. Younger and prettier, but they’ll skin you alive. I dunno. I play on a whole other team.”

“Yet you seem to know a great deal about mine,” I say. “Nice meeting you.”

The guy and the dog take off. Danny with the Hose has disappeared, too.

I look at my watch. I should be meeting up with K. Burke.

But first I’ll just go on a quick errand.