“You’re really gonna lug that entire paper around?” Lorimer asked him.
“This, my dear, is for research.”
“You’re carrying it,” said Lorimer. “Okay, where to?”
Elliot thought a moment, then smiled devilishly. “I know just the place,” he said, tucking the paper under his left arm, taking Lorimer’s hand with his right.
Fifth Avenue on a Saturday night was like Fifth Avenue any night—only more so. As they were just entering the enclave, they were brushed aside by a pickpocket being chased by two FAMAS guards. As he ran, the pickpocket scattered a wad of blues into the wind. He kept the wallet, though. A four-block walk uptown brought the couple to a small club several doors from the Swissair office; the sign on the door said, “Ye Ole Rich Place,” and below it, “Welcome Darwin and Huxley Students.”
The maitre d’ met them at the door, wearing a huge set of eyebrows, wire-rimmed glasses, false nose with mustache, and carrying a banana-sized cigar. “What’s the password?” he asked.
Lorimer gave Elliot a dirty look. “You fink.”
“You better give him the password, or we won’t get in,” said 142
Alongside Night
Elliot.
“I’ll give you a clue,” said the maitre d’. “It’s—”
“Swordfish, swordfish!”
“True Marxists,” the maitre d’ said. “Table for two?” Elliot nodded; the man grabbed two menus. “Walk this way,” he said, imitating the Groucho stride all the way to their table. Elliot and Lorimer both did their best, but it was no contest. While the maitre d’ was leading them to their table, the real Groucho, as Rufus T. Firefly in Duck Soup, was on the wallscreen singing:
“These are the laws of my administration.
No one’s allowed to smoke
Or tell a dirty joke
And whistling is forbidden.”
Lorimer handed the maitre d’ a one-eurofranc note and whispered. “Do you take this credit card?” He looked at the bill, holding it up close in the dim light, then with sleight-ofhand made it disappear. He himself then disappeared with the menus. Before Elliot could say anything, Lorimer told him,
“You bought me lunch, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“If any form of pleasure is exhibited,
Report to me and it will be prohibited.”
The maitre d’ returned with new menus; the prices were in eurofrancs. Elliot nodded to Lorimer admiringly.
“I’ll put my foot down,
So shall it be.
This is the land of the free!”
After studying the menu and deciding on the “Zeppo,” Elliot Alongside Night
143
asked Lorimer to order for him, telling her he wanted to phone the rooming house and the friends he had mentioned. He walked to the telephone in the rear next to the rest rooms, closing the booth and punching in the first of the numbers Chin had given him. On the fourth ring a female voice said hello. “Mrs. Ferrer?” Elliot asked.
“No, hold on a second.” There was a muffled shout of “Mama, it’s for you,” and in a moment another voice took over—just the barest trace of an Italian accent:
“Yes, who is speaking?”
“Mrs. Ferrer, my name is Joseph Rabinowitz—you don’t know me. I just came into New York and was told you might have rooms available.”
“Who tells you to call me?”
Elliot hesitated the slightest moment. Chin had not said to use his name. But either she knew the name or she did not; it would not hurt Chin in either case. Any risk was his and Lorimer’s. “Mr. Chin.”
“I have rooms for friends of Mr. Chin. We go to bed here at ten thirty: I expect you before then. Good-bye.”
She hung up.
Elliot inserted another vendy, punching in Phillip’s number from memory. A strange male voice said hello on the second ring; Elliot considered the thought that voices change over the telephone. “Mr. Gross?”
“No, Morris stepped out for a moment. This is his brother Abe. Who’s calling?”
Elliot hung up, then sat in the booth a moment, shaking. Was it a Cadre recognition signal he had not been given?
Was there the slightest possibility that one of Mr. Gross’s brothers had somehow survived—to appear after locating his brother so many years later? Or was it what it sounded like: Mr. Gross and Phillip had been arrested—possibly killed—and their apartment turned into a trap?
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Alongside Night
Chin’s words suddenly surfaced in his mind. Elliot held his breath, picking up the receiver again as silently as possible. He listened a moment.
The telephone had not disconnected.
Elliot noiselessly cradled the receiver and left the booth. In a moment he was back to the table, whispering into Lorimer’s ear, “We’re leaving. Now.”