Part 16 (2/2)
”Connected?”
”Why, sure.” He lowered his voice confidentially. ”Model agencies. Heavy demand for small people. You know those ads where some little girl is standing by a big bottle? Compact cars. Campers.
Makes things look roomy. You probably saw them in those 747 jet commercials.”
”That figures,” I admitted. The new brand seemed to be helping. My condominium friend carefullycut a morsel of onion into his next thimble of gibsons.
”Going to get stoned in there,” I warned him.
”Ah, they're sweet kids. They want some to keep for the others.”
I watched the little arm zip out again. Believe it, the nails looked gold now. I started to say something dirty and then changed it.
”How do they make out? I mean, you don't see many guys five inches high.”
”You don't?” He sounded surprised. ”Oh lord, I don't pry. Girls in the city, you know. Lot of them have friends back home most likely.”
My gla.s.s kind of slipped then and the scene flowed into a series of hold shots in which my wallet wouldn't come out and he was boosting my arm and saying, ”There's some eats down the way.” I was working up to resent that when I noticed we were going out.
The door muttered to him as we went through.
”Thanks.” He fixed his zipper. ”It's a friendly city.”
A blast of cold dark smog made me concentrate on my stomach. We floated along.
”Wait.” We were at a corner. My high-rise companion was sorting through his change. He picked out a half-dollar, reached up and laid it on a ledge of the brick wall.
”Borrowed it last week,” he explained as we crossed the street.
”Who leaves money on buildings?”
”Well, I don't know who exactly. Tall people's bank, you know. Streets with two r's in them.
Comes in handy.” He thought a minute. ”Isn't there one for short people?”
”Not to my knowledge.” Cool look. The scene was stabilizing, I could make out the next street sign: Harrison.
”Try here,” I told him.
”Oh, I have all I need now.”
”It has two r's. Show me.”
He went to the brownstone ledge and stretched up. His fingers came back holding a dime.
”Pigeons,” he said apologetically, cleaning his hand. He started to put the dime back and said, ”Hey.”
He unfolded a note and showed it to me. One wavery little word in pencil: ”Help.”
”I know, the windows write letters to you.”
”Don't be ridiculous.” He frowned at the side of the old walk-up. ”Human people write notes. Real young or real old,” he muttered. ”Look up there. Somebody feeds birds.”
Without another word we dashed around the corner to the-front entrance and up the stoop.
”That's locked,” I warned him. But we seemed to be going inside. As I pa.s.sed the door it said excitedly, ”When's the inaugural?”
”Some of those old fellows get muddled,” he commented over his shoulder, going upstairs like a helicopter. I couldn't imagine why I was cantering after him. I caught him on the third landing.
”Fourth from the corner... second door. Here.”
He knocked. Nothing happened.
”h.e.l.lo?”
He knocked again. Something very faint pattered inside.
”Wh-who?”
”I found your note,” he called. ”We came as fast as we could.”
A chain rattled and a c.h.i.n.k appeared. He held up the note.The door opened another inch and I saw a small fist over a lot of collarbones. She was one of those waifs that look as if any clothes are too big for them. Blue temples. Nothing hair. One big naked eye you could stumble into and drown yourself.
She let go her coat and quick put gla.s.ses over those naked eyes.
”Oh, that was silly of me,” she said, very dignified from about the level of his belt.
”I'm not so sure, ma'am.” He frowned over her into the room. ”Would you mind if we looked around?”
I was breaking up at my stupid two-story friend thinking some woman in this city would invite strange males into her place, when I noticed we were in the middle of her bedroom.
What a freezer. One dim light, one foldbed, one fungus carpet, one big wardrobe, one chair. Sure enough, a box of birdseed by the window. But no TV or radio, no tapes, no book by the chair, nothing. I had the idea she'd been sitting there in her coat under that dun bulb for a month.
My impulsive companion was looking over everything in silence. He sniffed. Then he walked over and slapped the big wardrobe.
Surprisingly, the light went bright. He sniffed again. Then he grabbed the wardrobe by both sides and wrestled it, boom, sc.r.a.pe, away from the wall. It was a monster-house, dark wood with claw feet and a carved bat pie on top, or maybe it was a vulture. I couldn't tell which because my friend dived behind it and the light went out.
The chick and I stood gaping at each other in the flashes of a sign outside. He was doing something with a hand torch.
The light came on again and he unfolded himself in a shower of dust and held out a piece of wire. I could smell the scorch.
”Rubbed the insulation off against the plug,” he said. ”That thing has paper backing, too. About ready to go up.”
He horsed the wardrobe back and stood squinting at it. Then he hauled off and gave it a thundering kick. We jumped. The wardrobe's bottom drawers sucked in and the piece kind of stood to attention.
”That'll straighten it out for a day or so, ma'am. First thing in the morning you go find another place to live. Time to eat now.”
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