Part 12 (1/2)
”That's not mano a mano, for Christ's sake; that means a face-off, one-to-one's what it means.”
”So, yeah.” Seeing his gla.s.s was empty, Candy lost interest in the bird. ”You want another one?”
”Yeah.” Karl picked up Solace. While Candy was at the bar, Karl checked on Ned's table, where the jukebox-playing, the ”Cry”playing woman was sitting down. She had dark hair done in that crazy curly way that was popular. Or maybe that was just the way it came. Christ, but her hair was black; it shone black as licorice. She wore designer jeans and a white silk s.h.i.+rt and a lot of jewelry. He couldn't tell what color her eyes were; he could only see her profile. Her hands were clasped on the table, fingers heavy with rings. He would recognize her now anywhere, just as he would Ned Isaly and the other guy. If one of them turned up off a tramp steamer in Port Said, he'd know him.
”That guy over there,” said Saul, ”three tables back, the one staring at you-no, don't look. Wait . . . now you can look; he's reading.”
Jamie looked. ”Yeah, he's kind of cute.”
”He and his buddy over there at the bar were in the park a few hours ago, sitting on that bench under the maple.”
”So?”
Ned said, ”I saw them, too. You”-he nodded at Saul-”were sitting across the walk from them.”
Jamie said it again. ”So?” She dragged out the syllable to register impatience.
”For G.o.d's sakes, Jamie, don't you have any imagination?” asked Saul.
”No,” said this writer of sinister sci-fi, this hacker of violent mysteries and hot romances.
Saul said, ”Go over and talk to them. Make up some excuse.”
”You go over; you're the one who thinks they're so weird.”
”I didn't say weird. Out of place, maybe.”
Jamie said, ”That's only because you've never seen them in here before. And don't trouble yourselves. I'll get my own beer.” Her tone was testy as she rose.
Ned always tried to be at least half a gentleman. ”I'll get-”
Jamie waved him down and went to the bar.
Saul said, his eyes still on the familiar duo, several tables away, ”The thing is, I don't think they're a couple. Do they look Chelsea to you?”
Ned shook his head. ”No. That's almost the last thing they look.”
Eyes not moving, Saul drank his beer. ”What's the first thing?”
”Mob,” said Ned, leafing through his pages.
”Oh, come on. Mob guys don't frequent this place. Maybe they're terrorists.” Saul frowned. ”They could be terrorists.”
”Sure. A couple of Italian terrorists in black leather.”
”But they're reading f.u.c.king books.”
”You don't think any made guys can read?”
”How do you know they're made?”
”I don't. It was just something to say.”
”Like 'mob.' ”
”No, I meant that. 'Made' was something else to say.”
”Jamie's walking by their table.”
”Good for her. Are they announcing the jihad on Swill's?”
”Ha, very funny.”
Jamie appeared at the table again. ”Here's something you might find interesting about these two. The tall guy's reading your book.” She smirked, for no discernible reason, at Ned, as if she'd won a bet.
Ned looked over at them, narrowed his eyes, but couldn't see enough through the fretwork of Swillians who kept moving like sea gra.s.ses, back and forth, rising up from tables, sinking down into chairs. The cover of Solace was easy to make out since it was white, totally white except for the word in black and his name in smaller black letters. (Tom Kidd had said, ”It's c.r.a.p, but what else would we expect from Mamie Fussel?”) ”Tell him,” said Saul, ”to come over and Ned'll sign it.”
”They're looking this way,” said Jamie. ”Maybe they've figured that out for themselves.”
”I don't wanna be pushy,” said Karl.
”Christ's sakes, K, that's one of the reasons for coming in here with the book, to get him to sign, so we can talk to him.”
Candy got up, then Karl did. They shouldered their way through the crowded room, stopping at Ned's table, which was in a nice window position. Beyond the window, it was raining. A Mayflower moving van was parked across the street, the two moving men unhappy with the rain.
”You're Ned Isaly, aren't you?” Karl opened the book to the inside back jacket and the small square picture of Ned that Ned still couldn't remember ever having been taken.
Ned smiled. ”That's right. And you're-”
”Larry Blank. Pleased to meet you. This is-”
”Uh, Paulie Givinchy.”
Karl glared at Candy, who went on to say, ”Almost like this guy, Giverney?” He held up the book he was carrying. ”Only, I can't write worth a double d.a.m.n.” Candy laughed.
They smiled. Jamie said, ”I don't think I've seen you in here before. You live around here?” She pushed out the two empty chairs. ”Come on, sit down.”
Karl and Candy sat. ”We live over on Houston,” said Karl. This, actually, was the truth. The two had gone together and purchased an old warehouse in the Village and taken on an extra a.s.signment or two to pay the extravagant sum needed for the remodeling. (Candy was fond of saying that Tony Giovanni and Fats Webber had died for that window treatment and that arrangement of j.a.panese screens.) ”How do you know?” said Ned.
”What? That we're over on Houston?”
”No. That you can't write.”
Surprised and, for some reason, pleased, Candy modestly waved away this suggestion. ”Oh, please.”
”You don't know unless you try.”