The Finder

19

Yes, there are a million great places to eat in New York City, the steakhouses, the celebrity chef halls of worship, the places to see and be seen (at Michael's: "There's Henry Kissinger! There's Penelope Cruz!"), the stuffy theater district joints with timed seatings, Italian-Chinese-French-Vietnamese-Indian-nouvelle-fusion-whatever trend is next, the taverns and bars and clubs and eateries and saloons and bistros and cafes and sushi places frequented by skinny women and coffee shops and bookstore cafes filled with geniuses and depressives and bodegas and snack bars and pizza joints and espresso bars and fast-food places and emporiums of fish and tearooms and Thai noodle shops, absolutely every possible taste catered to, not to mention the Oyster Bar, where businessmen have been knocking them back for decades before taking the train home-and be sure you try their New England clam chowder. Yet not to be forgotten and in fact to be specifically remembered is the Primeburger, on the north side of Fifty-first Street off Fifth Avenue. Not a high-class joint, but not a low-class joint, either, rather a real old-time Manhattan luncheonette. Hamburgers have been served there since 1938. Last remodeled in 1965. You enter to a long counter on the right, single seats with once-futuristic swing-trays on the left, a few crowded tables in the back. Tuna melt, Boston cream pie. Jell-O with whipped cream. Prune juice, if you want it, heh. All the waiters are older guys in white jackets and neckties, with their names embroidered on the jacket. The menu is not expensive. Your basic burger is $4.50. You heard right: $4.50 in midtown Manhattan. Gray-haired businessmen like the place, some of them rich guys who the world forgot twenty or thirty years ago. But they stayed on, oblivious to being disremembered, getting to their little offices by eight a.m. each day, making a few phone calls, watching the price of something on a screen: pork bellies, spot oil, the Brazilian crop report. Not retired, just working an easy schedule. Don't run anything anymore, no titles, no pressure. Take the early train home, money made. Men of habit, not only do they eat at the same time each day but generally eat the same thing, and thus the Primeburger waiters grunt intimately at them as they arrive, mouthing again the order that never changes. "Ham chee, Swiss'n'rye, Co-no-ice."

Sometimes these old men meet each other at the Primeburger, and if you pretend to be deaf and never look at them, you can hear their conversations. He got a great price on that lot on 56th Street… They were once a very fine firm… I heard the painting might be available for a private buyer… The margins are way too tight, he needs to unload…

Like that, millions being rearranged among the tuna salad sandwich, the coleslaw, the baked apple.

This was where Martz was headed. Far chair at the counter. He eased down on a rotating stool. An old black waiter drifted over, eyes unblinking. "Menu?"

Martz waved it away. "Turkey club, orange juice, apple pie."

The sandwich appeared in less than two minutes.

"You remember me?" Martz asked.

"Depends who's asking," said the waiter.

"I'm asking."

"Then yes, I do remember you."

"Thought so. You seen Elliot around?"

"Expect he'll be here for lunch in about half an hour."

Martz nodded. He knew this, of course, though it had been years since he'd seen Elliot. One of the consolations of age: your friends didn't change their habits. They died but they didn't change.

When he was done eating, he picked up a packet of sweetener, tore off the corner, emptied the white powder onto his plate, and then took out a pencil and underlined five letters in the word NUTRASWEET: the T, R, S, and double E, then drew an arrow from the S to the end of the word. What did you get? TREES. He handed the empty packet to the waiter. "I would take it as a great favor if you would give that to Elliot."

"Yes, sir." The waiter betrayed no reaction at the oddity of the item and instead tucked the packet into his breast pocket.

"Appreciate it," said Martz. He finished his apple pie, then slipped a fifty-dollar bill beneath his empty plate. He checked the waiter's face. But he was writing up the tab, which he set down on the counter, the big bill and the plate already gone.

As, a moment later, was Martz, toothpick in his mouth, shambling along Fifty-first Street, teeth set, hating everyone, especially himself.

Colin Harrison

The Finder: A Novel