They were just passing the bricked-up entrance to the perpetually unfinished Central Park Shuttle, a subway that was to have linked eastside and westside IRT lines as Sixty-ninth Street, when Denise tugged at Elliot’s arm, stopping him. Behind them, unnoticed among years’ worth of graffiti and handbills, was a recently put-up poster announcing Dr. Vreeland’s appearance at a Citizens for a Free Society rally the next morning.
“Elliot, I’m sorry but I had to,” said Denise.
“Well, you didn’t have to pull off my arm. I would’ve—”
“That’s not it,” she interrupted. She paused, biting on her lower lip. “Daddy’s not dead.”
Elliot’s expressions changed from confusion, through relief, to anger as cold as the wind whipping through his hair.
“Ell, it’s not what you think. Mom told me to tell you that. She called me out of Juilliard.”
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Elliot regarded his sister as though she might still be lying. Her habitual truthfulness stilled this thought. “Then what the—”
“No time to explain now. We have to get home. Fast. Which is our first problem.” Denise referred to a total transit strike in the city that encompassed not only all subways and busses but medallion taxis as well.
Elliot thought a moment, considering and rejecting an illegal walk across Central Park, then motioned Denise to follow. It took only a few minutes to walk Sixty-ninth Street the two blocks over to Broadway. They crossed to the west side, stood at the curb and waited. They waited five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes later they were still unable to find anything resembling a gypsy cab.
“Are you sure you know what a tzigane looks like?” asked Denise.
“No,” Elliot admitted. “That’s the problem. When you’re cruising illegally, you try not to look like anything in particular. A dozen might have passed us already.”
“Then how do we find one?”
“We don’t. We wait for one to find us.”
To prove his point, within a minute a black sedan stopped at the traffic light they were opposite. The tzigane—a heavyset black man—waved out the window. Elliot waved back to the driver, then told Denise in a low voice. “I’ll parley the price.”
Presently the light changed, the sedan pulling alongside. The tzigane reached back, opening the rear curbside door.
“Climb in.”
Elliot shook his head just enough for Denise to catch, then walked around to the driver’s side. “First,” he said, “how much?”
The tzigane twirled a plain gold band on his right hand—a nervous habit, Elliot supposed. “Where you headed?”
“Park Avenue between Seventy-fourth and Seventy-fifth.”
“Two thousand blues—up front.” Elliot winced. The price 26
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was four times what a medallion taxi had charged for the same run several weeks earlier. The tzigane continued twirling his ring back and forth. Elliot walked around the car, gesturing Denise to get in, and a moment later followed her; the car remained motionless. The tzigane turned to him and said,
“Blues first.”
Elliot removed his wallet and handed bills forward. They were blue-colored notes, no engraving on one side, on the other side hasty engraving proclaiming them “legal tender of the United States of America for all debts, public and private.” More than anything else, it resembled Monopoly money.
“This is a thousand,” said the tzigane.
“That’s right,” Elliot replied. “You’ll get the other thousand when we arrive.” The tzigane shrugged, revved his turbine, and with a jolt the sedan started down Broadway. Not a minute later, when the car passed Sixty-fifth Street, Elliot suddenly leaned forward. “Hey! You missed the turnoff to the park.”
“Relax, there ain’t no meter runnin’.”
Elliot began contemplating ways for Denise and himself to jump from the car. “But why aren’t you taking the shortcut?”
“Only medallions and busses allowed through—and this is a private car, right?”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay, bro.”
Elliot did not relax, however, until the sedan pulled up in front of his address, a luxury high-rise. A uniformed doorman, Jim, came out of the building to open the car door for them. After paying his balance—with an extra three hundred New Dollars as tip—Denise and he got out. “Thanks,” Elliot said.
“Any time, my man.” The tzigane smiled then added, “Next time maybe you won’t be so tight. Laissez-faire.”
Elliot began to greet Jim with his usual smile, but Denise nudged her brother, who remembered himself at a point ap- Alongside Night 27