At length he came to an escalator. Its treacherous and infernal metal steps tumbled endlessly away in front of him; he had no free hand to hold on to the dirty rubber banister. He froze an instant, hoping no one would notice his absurd humiliating terror. He bit his lip and stepped tremulously forward; the tread grabbed his sole and carried him away; he swayed as though standing on a boat in heavy seas. By the time he stepped off he was sweating inside his mohair suit.
He went through an electric door and out into the cold. His breath steamed, his nostrils stung. Little puffs of vapor came through the grating of the dog carrier.
The taxi line was a hundred yards away, and a lot of people were hurrying toward it. Bert knew he should stop to put his coat on, but he was caught up in the hurry now, he didn't want to let everybody get ahead of him. He pressed on through the freezing air that stank of jet fuel and bus exhaust. He looked vaguely off toward the skyline under its dome of soot. By the time he got a taxi his damp chest was clammy and chilled.
The cabbie was a Haitian with red-rimmed eyes and a green wool porkpie hat. He drove badly, chattering a noisy patois with other Haitians on the radio, but he made no objection when Bert opened the carrier, took out the chihuahua, and held it on his lap. The little dog was shivering with cold or with bewilderment; it looked up at its master with lost and glazed eyes, then licked his hands imploringly with a hot and pasty tongue. Stark white hairs shook onto the old man's dark gray suit.
Bert had asked to be taken to the comer of Astoria Boulevard and Crescent Street, in Queens. There was an old Pugliese hangout there called Perretti's luncheonette. It wasn't a headquarters, exactly— you didn't go to a headquarters unannounced— but it was a good place to find people, or to find out how to find them.
The cab picked its way down the Van Wyck to the Grand Central Parkway. Bert looked out the window at the naked trees, the lingering patches of filthy snow, and tried to tell himself he was at least partway happy to be in New York again. An espresso with anisette would taste good, would warm his gripped and chilly insides. It might be nice to see some guys—Sal Giordano, Tony Matera. And besides, it wasn't a pleasure trip, it was a trip of duty, a kindness to an old friend who would do the same for him.
The Haitian cabbie jerked across three lanes of traffic to exit at Astoria Boulevard. He crawled from traffic light to traffic light, and something almost like excitement began to build in Bert. New York— OK, he was over it, but the city had been good to him. He'd had respect, friends, made money. Now he had the warming thought that he would be remembered, embraced, that a couple of guys, at least, would make a fuss, would treat his visit as a real occasion. He petted his dog, dropped it back into the carrier.
The taxi neared Crescent Street, and Bert tested his memory of Perretti's. A long counter, green, with faded pink and yellow boomerangs. Torn stools with horsehair coming out. Old-fashioned phone booth, with pebbled metal walls, a curved seat, and a fan. . . .
The cab pulled off into a bus stop, the driver threw it into park. Bert looked out the window, and now he was confused. "This ain't the place," he said.
The driver didn't answer, just pointed at the street sign.
Bert looked again. Astoria and Crescent. But the place that used to be Penetti's was not Perretti's anymore. It was a place for fruits and vegetables. Pyramids of oranges and grapefruits and half a dozen kinds of apples were neatly piled on staggered crates that cascaded toward the sidewalk. A Korean in a down vest and earmuffs sat on a box and stoically, tirelessly, shelled peas.
"Oh Christ," Bert said aloud.
The cabbie said nothing, just turned his back and drummed lightly on the steering wheel. The meter clocked off waiting time, Don Giovanni whimpered in his cage, and Bert the Shirt tried to figure where'd he go and what he'd do in this freezing town that suddenly seemed foreign as Calcutta.
36
At lunchtime, halfway through the chore of putting his office back together, Arty Magnus ordered in a sandwich and found he couldn't eat it. His stomach was telling him what his brain still denied; along the continuum of fear that runs from vague misgivings to utter panic, he was moving to ever queasier regions. Finally, around three o'clock, he could no longer keep his worries to himself. He called Joey Goldman at work.
"Joey," he said, "remember yesterday, you told me something was going on, there was a problem in your family?"
"I remember," Joey said, a little guardedly. Friend or no friend, it wasn't any of Arty's business.
"Well, whatever it is, it seems to be contagious."
"Say wha'?"
"All of a sudden, I got a problem, Joey. Coupla problems. And I'm wondering—"