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NEW YORK, 1934
It was with regret and a dark breed of fatalism that I entered the door of the Broadalbin. My suitcase hung lightly in one hand, yet it was all that I owned; twenty-six years on this planet and nothing to show for it that wouldn't fit into an Oswald Traveler with speckled green sides. The cops had grown wise to me, I was sure, and disappearing for a while was the slick move. Sure, prohibition was over but heroin was still more than certain individuals were willing to put up with. At least without a handout, and I hadn't the dough to keep them happy.
I had tracked most of the blood off of my shoes. Danny got waxed in the back room at the AmHoTep on 33rd St. by a close personal friend of mine that I owed a lot of money to. Bad times; we were there just shooting up, two faggot junkies after the works, when light struck us like a slap as the door swung open. Tall man, bad man, in a dark suit had his arm outstretched and squeezed off two shots. Both hit Danny; I had my own piece out already (too bulky to sit with, good luck for me) and gave him what for. He stumbled back and made a noise like a sick kitten, but I could have cared less; Danny was wheezing and there were two small holes in his body that would do him in soon enough. I cursed and grabbed my suitcase, then started climbing out the back window. I heard shouts coming over the swing band playing in the AmHoTep ballroom. My gun buddy probably wasn't alone, and even if he was, the sight of one of Lenny's boys stretched out with a hole in his face was enough to stir up trouble, trouble I could do without.
Goddamn horse.
I rolled out down the alley, caught a cab with my piece barely inside my coat. Asked the driver for a hotel; then I was standing outside the Broadalbin, still panting heavily and a few bucks closer to broke. Never been there before but no sweat, gotta roll and get my ass off the streets before I was made. Place was a palace, no joke. But an old one-it was built once and then left to rot. The lobby was big, probably two stories tall. Directly ahead of me, about fifty yards off, the far wall held an iron-cage elevator, the shaft went up into the ceiling. Everything was peeling gilt and dingy velvet. To either side of me was a marble column, about half a man's height, on top of which were gilded gargoyles with a burning flame in each mouth. No fool I. Pulled out a cigar and lit it off a gargoyle, then kept taking in the scenery.
The front part of the lobby where I stood sported two big fireplaces, crackling even now. I guess there was a bit of a chill outside, though I'd been too hopped up to pay it heed. Bunch of big stuffed chairs scattered about; paintings of dogs in fields hunting quail; newspapers; shelves full of old books. I could smell cigar smoke (my own) but something else, a pleasant mustiness that reminded me of good thick food you got in restaurants you never went back to out of forgetfulness, or a desire to keep the memory as it was. A few old boys were here and there, reading and smoking. Spotted a bellhop by one fireplace, toasting bread. By him on a stand were plates, butter, jam, some meats and cheeses to go with the toasty bread. Sounded like a good meal to me; last thing I'd eaten you wouldn't want to tell your mother about.
I took a drag off my cigar, inhaled it, held it, let it out and took a woozy step forwards. Cigars were rare pleasures for me but welcome ones. I kicked on the dizzy feeling; people are too square or too straight as it is, I gotta find my own answers. Beyond this subdued sitting area, to the left of the elevator, I spotted the front desk. To the right, the windowed wall entered into a dining room. I headed left, to check in, somewhat surprised there'd been no bellhop rushing forward to help me with my suitcase yet. At the desk, I ran fingers over mahogany while a sallow-faced pretty boy behind the counter looked up at my approach.
"Room, sir?"
"Yeah, one. Whatta you run here?"
He paused, then smiled. "A hotel, sir."
"What's the rate, boy?"
He grinned wider; you could've played his teeth like piano keys.
"Ten dollars a night, sir. But should you be staying with us for any length of time we do have weekly rates, and longer for that matter."
"Let's start with a day and go from there." I slapped a ten spot on the desk.
"Keep it, sir. Payment when you're ready to leave." He pulled a key off a hook. "Room 411."
I slid the bill back into my pocket. It was half the money I had; with luck I could slip out when I was ready to roll and stick them with the bill. Suckers.
The boy hit a bell and another boy came forward, out of a small door past the desk. This one grinned pleasantly and picked up my suitcase. "Follow me, sir."
I turned left to follow him to the elevator; from the corner of my eye I saw the front desk was empty.
The elevator rattled and moved slowly. I got another good long look at the big lobby as we moved up, then the wall was before us.
"You'll enjoy your stay here, sir. I'm sure you'll find the Broadalbin meets your needs."
I nodded pleasantly. "How's the food, eh boy? What's a cup of coffee cost?"
"The food's fine, sir. Coffee's a dime. If you eat here we'll add it on to your bill when you're ready to go."
Sounded fine by me. I'd eat like a king, sleep like a baby, and leave like a thief in the night.
"In town for business, sir?"
"Personal business. I'm a writer. I'm here to write."
His eyes lit up. "Oh, sir, I'm sure you'll find the Broadalbin suited to a writer's temperament. We have a very colorful and engaging clientele, but I'll make personally sure that disturbances are kept to a minimum."
"That'd be fine. I don't plan on going out much."
"I understand sir. I'll instruct the maids not to enter. Just let me know when you'll be out for a bit and we'll fix your room up then."
That sounded like an excellent method to me. Shortly the elevator stopped and the boy slid the iron grill open. He picked up my suitcase and stepped out into the hall.
My room was partway down the left corridor, off the elevator. I followed the boy agreeably and waited as he unlocked the door.
The room we entered was clean, spare, and dim. The walls were covered in a sort of plush fibre, not quite velvet, of an earthen hue. A solitary bed rested near a desk and chair. Atop the desk sat a lamp and a phone. A slim door led to a closet, while another to the restroom. It was not overly large, but had a feel of comfort and sumptuousness, almost of reduced decadence, that I clicked to right away.
The boy set my suitcase down on the bed, moved by the door. "Do enjoy your stay, sir. And don't hesitate to call if you need something."
I placed some change in his palm and muttered something grateful. He turned and left.
Once the door was closed-and locked-I opened my suitcase. Clothes went into the closet, and soon after the needle went into my arm. I prepared the dose carefully at the desk, with the repressed enthusiasm of Michelangelo setting about to his careful work. When prepared, the syringe went with me onto the bed, where I stretched my legs and kicked the suitcase off. Then I slipped the needle into the vein in my left arm and closed my eyes.
It all washed away like dirt from an honest man's hands. The morning I'd spent with Danny, the aborted shoot-up that was shot up by the big dead guy. The flight from the AmHoTep, and all the hurried flights before that. I actually found myself missing Danny, for his sly wit and idle eye. The heroin in my veins moved through me like warm water in a good bath, and I decided my situation wasn't as bad as all that.
I'd come to New York six weeks ago. In Boston I'd left a woman dead; bad business all around. We'd been a cozy little couple, shooting up and screwing around. A buddy of mine got in on the action. We had an argument-something stupid, the horse was talking-and he'd knocked me out cold. I came to and my pretty little hen was done for; he'd taken a frying pan to her head and beaten one side of her face in. Her clothes were torn off, mostly, but I wouldn't swear to whether he'd raped her before she was dead or after.
The little bird was a big biddie; her pop had the money to buy souls, and there was no way I would slip out of this clean even if my hands weren't soiled. I grabbed what she had in her purse and made tracks for the train station.
Since then, I'd hooked up with a few folks here in the apple I'd known in the past. Kept my eye on the beantown papers; her obituary appeared, real tiny, real clean. Didn't say she'd been murdered, raped, or strung out; she died daddy's little girl, as far as the newsprint went. 16 it said; she'd lied to me about her age. I kept my needle clean and my nose dirty, I suppose, but the starter funds from Lenny had run dry. I used most of the stock he spotted me for myself, more to get off with those I got an itching for. Sales were dry; I sampled too much of my own merchandise. Dumb, dumb, dumb, I know. Can't help myself. I'm a creature of need.
* * *
Some time later, knocking at the door. I had a dim memory of calling for cheese toast and coffee not long before, but maybe that was from the last hotel I'd been at. I stumbled out of bed to my feet, which were less supportive than the mattress, and made my way to the door.
Opening it, a cart stood outside in the hall. A silver pot, steam from the spout; an empty porcelain cup, upside down; a dish cover; a napkin. I took a peek out the door down the hall. At one end I spotted a tall figure in dark clothing, moving jerkily away and around the corner. He walked funny; his movements were broad and exaggerated, but he turned the corner before I could see too much more.
I wheeled the cart inside and shut the door. I was still riding on the good stuff, but I got the dish cover off and wolfed down the cheese toast underneath. The coffee I brought to the bedside table; cream and sugar I left on the cart. Like it black; like Danny.
Doped up, strung out, in trouble again. That was me all over. Couldn't seem to help myself. So maybe I was going dead-end, maybe I was on a bad track. Life goes on. I still got a kick out of waking up in the morning, and there's nothing wrong with that, pal.
My mother had kicked off two years ago; dad ran when I was born. Had no brothers or sisters, just the other misfits on the street to keep me going. I couldn't help but become a strong runner; if I didn't run fast enough the others kicked me senseless. I rolled forward, leaned over the edge of the bed, and pulled a writing tablet and my pen from the suitcase. What the hell; I'm good for that. Uncapped it, cast my mind about for fish, caught one, started to write.
"Older than time," I wrote, then stopped. That wasn't it; I was going to write about my old bud Rinaldo. I'd sold one of his exploits to a cheesecake mag a couple months ago, thought it time to hit it again. I scratched out the words.
"Older than time," I wrote again. I cursed; what was this crap?
A sound caught my attention. I looked up; the light was dimmer. I reached out, a sanity check to see my own hand, silhouetted against the light. Waves washed over me like slow sand across closed eyelids, and I flexed the muscles in my body closest to my shoulders and felt them respond. I was sliding back, downwards into chaos, and the rush hit me head on, drums beating on my shoulders in time with the flexing of my muscles and I slid out of the chair onto the thin carpet, but one layer removed from the floor. My head struck the edge of the bed, the mattress, near where I sat, and I lay sprawled for a moment.
I listened to my heart for a while. So I knew I was still here. Went inside my head for a while and came out.
The paper was still in my hand. "Rinaldo bought the blond a drink. He knew what was next."
That's what I'd written; that's what I'd meant to write. Why the hell'd I think it was anything else?
I struggled my way back upright, into the chair. The rush; it was on me bad, but the worst had passed. Why now? I didn't care. I got busy again. Rinaldo was getting lucky with the blond, but what else was new?
Three pages into the tablet. Rinaldo had made his conquest; I'd spent half an hour working out the luscious details. They'd eat this up, down at the square little office of Spice. I took a moment, lifted my hand and the pen away from the tablet, ran back over the page.
Rinaldo was killing the blond. He was evening out the features of her face with a frying pan. He was getting o ff as he did so. All the words were right, the slang I always used like everyone else in the skin mag business, but he wasn't doing the right things. I had him slamming her all over the apartment. Some lug was out on the floor. I read over my words; it was me. I was on the floor; Rinaldo was doing my old girl. He'd yanked up her skirt, pulled down her panties. There was a bubble of blood forming between her lips.
So he did her as she was dying. At least that's the way I'd written it. It was what had happened to me in Boston, not long before.
The horse was giving me a wicked turn. I couldn't even write what I thought I was writing. I stood up, stretched, fell back onto the bed and comfort. Felt better there.
I wasn't alone. The sheets were wet and sticky; she lay there, her face a mess blush wouldn't make right. I jerked up, fell off the bed, clambered up again and she was gone. The bed was the way I'd left it.
Everything was fine. I told myself that. What the hell? I'd laid ahold of some bad stuff. Maybe Lenny was wise to me sooner than I thought; gave me bad smack to mess me up, before the tough came 'round to put me down. Whatever the case, I was in deep and sore at the thought.
A guy in a monkey suit serving toast and jam. When I came in. Sounded good to me; I rolled on my feet to the door. It was walking, but you might not recognize it. Turned the knob, put a socked foot out the doorway.
The hall wasn't empty. A woman stood nearby, in gauzy evening dress. Her skin was brown, like Danny's. She smiled white teeth. I felt like a backwoods cracker at a Harlem whorehouse.
"Evening," she said. So much has happened because of that word.
"Evening," I said back. I wondered what I looked like; in answer, I got a flash of how the scene looked from somewhere above. I was a tall man, solid and white like cheese. Tie undone. Hair unkempt. No shoes. One sleeve was rolled up past the elbow; a dot of blood there, at the crook of my arm. About as guilty as they come.
"I was about to head downstairs. Perhaps you'd join me?" she said pleasantly. I felt like a moron. She was beautiful. Full-bodied, slick hair straight the way white boys down south like to see it. She was a cracker's dream; salty toast, that was me all over.
I said something; she understood. As we turned towards the great iron elevator I was rolling my sleeve down, trying to get the wrist buttoned. She put both hands around my arm and drew close, like a memory.
"So. You here to kick a habit? Or looking to pick one up?" I wiped a hand over my brow, tried to get my sweaty locks in order. "Neither, I don't think. Just taking a little vacation." "Man takes a vacation to get away from troubles. What's troubling you?"
I cracked a smile. "Nothing a little rest won't fix. Just taking things easy." We were gliding down the hall, towards the elevator gate. I glanced down. The room we were passing-there was noise coming from behind the door. Things slowed; my vision grew indistinct at the corners and I stared at the crack at the bottom of the door. The noise in the room grew louder. It sounded like someone was getting it on; I heard low moans inside.
A soft hand on my shoulder; the woman was there, but I couldn't see her. The moans grew louder. I heard a cry. The hand on my shoulder grew stiff; the fingers tightened. I heard a sharp intake of breath. I glanced back for a moment.
The woman stood next to me, close. Her chin was up, her hair hung down straight behind her. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, leaving whites to greet my pupils. The sounds in the room grew more rhythmic. I could almost imagine. I could imagine; I remembered me with other women, with Danny, it was all there. The woman was moving beside me, undulating in a slow groove like a record. I heard someone call out again, and she gasped, and blinked. She looked at me, with her own eyes, and pulled me forward. We were walking toward the elevator again. I looked back. I knew if I stood in front of that room long enough blood would well up through the crack under the door. Whatever was going on in there wasn't going to be content if left alone.
But we weren't the audience, or so it seemed. The woman pulled me down the hall and we were in front of the elevator grate. The car wasn't there; we pushed the button and waited. She was breathing a bit heavy, and looking back down where we came. She shot me a look, then glanced back down the hall again.
The elevator was taking its own sweet time. The woman was tapping her foot, glancing from the hall to the elevator. "I'm a woman of little patience," she offered to my questioning look. A cry from down the hall; something thudded against the door. "Come on," she whispered to the elevator.
The door down the hall thudded again. I squinted; was that a discoloration against the rust carpet at the base of the door? I thought about my earlier expectations. Were they now coming true? I had to know.
Copyright © 1997 Peter A. Worthy
"Broadalbin" © 1993-1997 by John Tynes
