Alongside Night(20)
WE WANT IT?” The marchers responded, “Now!” Elliot noticed as many middle-aged demonstrators as he did students, though the latter distinguished themselves by wearing black scarves wrapped around their foreheads.
The bullhorn stopped, the chanting quieted, but soon there started a new voice. It began chanting softly, and soon the marchers joined in, raggedly at first, then unifying and building up to a crescendo, “LAISSEZ-FAIRE! …LAISSEZ-FAIRE!
…LAISSEZ-FAIRE!”
“Hey, Vreeland! Elliot Vreeland!” a voice cut through the chanting.
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Elliot froze, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in the hope that whoever had called him would believe he had experienced a case of mistaken identity. It was not to be.
“Hey, Vreeland! Elliot!”
Elliot saw that the voice belonged to his classmate, Mason Langley. Asshole, Elliot thought. He doesn’t even understand what this march is about. Elliot started praying that no one else would pay any attention in the midst of all the chanting, but it was already too late. He saw a New York policeman start looking around at mention of the name “Vreeland.” His only hope would be if Langley would just continue marching…
No such luck. Langley started pushing his way through the marchers trying to get to him. Elliot saw the policeman speaking into his helmet transceiver and knew he only had seconds; he slid under the barricades, and nonchalantly slipped into step with Langley and the marchers.
“I thought it was you,” Langley said. “Why didn’t you—”
“Shut up,” Elliot whispered savagely, “or you might get us both killed. Quick—give me your picket sign.”
Langley did so, somewhat confused, but it was already too late. The policeman shouted, “There! It’s the Vreeland boy!”
and started running toward him. Elliot thought quickly, knew his one remaining chance, and kept marching.
As the policeman caught up to Elliot and grabbed him, Elliot looked up innocently, shouting, “Hey, what the hell d’ja think you’re doing?”
The reaction was as expected. The policeman realized his mistake too late to prevent several marchers from clobbering him with their picket signs. The cardboard did not do him very much damage, but it did cause him to release Elliot, who took the opportunity to push through the marchers in the confusion and emerge on the east side of Columbus Circle. Then, picket sign and all, Elliot bolted into a full run up Central Park West.
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When he felt he had run as far as he could without bursting his lungs, he slipped into the outside front basement of a brownstone building and sat on the steps, catching his breath. Then he examined the picket sign he had been carrying. It read, “FREE THE AGORA!”
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73
Chapter 8
“I can’t serve you without proof-of-age,” the bartender said, not without kindness. “Sorry.”
Elliot placed a thousand blues on the counter. “Just coffee. In the back, please.” The bartender took the bills, nodding. Rick’s Café Américain was now on Columbus Avenue near Seventy-first Street.
The proliferation of videodiscs and wallscreens—combined with an ever-increasing nostalgia mania—had caused a revolution in nightlife. Gone were most stand-up comics, mimes, dance bands, and dinner theatres; they had been replaced by cinema cabarets. On weekends the cafe was the domain of Ansonia students, who came to watch continuously run Humphrey Bogart films. Elliot had been there with Marilyn and Phillip on several occasions; a few minutes ago he had remembered it as an intimate place with secluded rear booths where a person could be undisturbed a long while. Not very much after Elliot had settled himself in, the bartender brought Elliot his cup. Elliot took a sip, suppressing a choke. “There’s whiskey in here,” he said hoarsely. The barkeep looked surprised. “Irish coffee. Isn’t that what you ordered?”
Elliot was about to tell him that when he said coffee he just meant coffee, but cut himself off. “Not exactly, but this will do fine. Thanks.” The bartender left, shaking his head slowly, leaving Elliot with the thought that this might just give the man incentive to divert any nosy police.
Soon Elliot felt more collected than he had been in a day. Even his shoulder did not hurt quite as much. He got down to some serious thinking.
One. Each time he was now seen in public would be at the 74
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risk of impromptu arrest. As inefficient as the police were, the long-term odds were stacked in their favor.
Two. It seemed to Elliot that the possibility of proceeding through legal channels was, if not closed entirely, at least sharply restricted. Especially since he did not even know what charge he was being sought on. What if it were for his father’s murder? In any event, he knew no lawyer he was willing to trust at the moment.