Chapter 2
Age Before Beauty
TOMORROW WAS, AS a popular movie would later have it, another day. Still damp, but not so wet. Though the rain had eased, the streets were puddled and the sidewalks were sweating. It was the sort of day when deciding what to wear is like planning a military operation. Believe me – I have considerable experience of both.
Fortunately, I like dressing up almost as much as I like dressing down. So I spent a pleasant couple of hours in my apartment with a variety of blouses, skirts, suits, shoes, hats, and – let’s face it – lingerie. Plus a mirror. The secret is not just to be stunning, which I find comes rather easily, to be honest. The tricky thing is getting exactly the right level of stun for the occasion.
A launch party for a new Starlight movie was, I reckoned, pretty high on the stun-counter. That said, the trip across New York to get to the party was probably not. A long, stylish raincoat in a fashionable cut, topped off with my favourite fedora therefore completed the ensemble.
I spent a few moments practising my entrance to the event – easing out of the drab grey coat and allowing the imagined guests to behold the contrast of my lovely lace and suggestive net and adorable satin. Quite a few moments, actually.
I’ve never been very good at looking helpless. But there are times when needs must, and one of those is when you require a cab in the rain. Several gentlemen were kind enough to allow me ahead of them into a taxi. The driver’s eyes lingered longer in the rear-view mirror than was strictly necessary as he asked me how far I was going.
‘All the way,’ I told him, giving the address. I’ve never been one to resist a single entendre.
‘Your accent – you British?’ he asked. Perceptive as well as cheeky.
‘Only my accent,’ I assured him. ‘The rest of me is… cosmopolitan.’
He nodded knowingly, swerving round a pedestrian. ‘Never been there myself.’
‘You have missed so much.’
Evening was drawing in and the cars had their lights on, cutting through the inevitable rain. I watched the drops paint clear lines down the grubby cab windows. We drove in binary fashion – either stop or go. Go was fast, and stop was sudden. The journey was punctuated by a liberal use of the horn, presumably to make up for the complete avoidance of the indicator lights.
Finally the cab drew up at the kerb with a jerk. The jerk stayed behind the steering wheel as I eased myself out.
‘You need a ride later?’ he asked, apparently serious.
I found the exact fare and told him: ‘Oh, I hope not.’ If he wanted a tip, then I was ready with: ‘Stop for red lights.’ But he didn’t comment on the money I handed over and was soon disappearing in a cacophony of horn and brake pads.
Lower East Street was closed to traffic, so he’d dropped me on a nearby corner. The rain had eased, but even so I decided I’d tipped him too much. I turned my collar up and pulled the brim of my hat down before heading towards the venue.
Intriguing case or not, I was looking forward to the party. It was at Nick’s which as anyone who is anyone will tell you is the place to be seen. Nick’s is where millionaires go for breakfast, where top fashion models call in for lunch, and where senators and mafia bosses have to book well ahead if they want a table for dinner.
I could see the awning further down the street. The remains of the rain was running off it at the edges forming a translucent curtain round the red carpet and uniformed doormen. A trickle of well-dressed people flowed under the awning, doing their best to avoid being dripped on while maintaining their dignity.
Across the street from Nick’s was a small park, surrounded by iron railings. The statue of a woman and an angelic-looking child, holding hands, stared out across the road and into the front entrance of the restaurant. I watched it for a moment, then looked away. When I looked back, the statue had not moved.
I guess that’s what you’d expect. But you can never be too careful. And especially not where statues are involved.
My high heels clicked impressively on the paved sidewalk as I approached Nick’s. I paused for a moment to take out a compact and check my make-up in the mirrored lid. Lipstick can be so important when properly applied. It’s one of my most formidable weapons. A quick check that my other weapons were properly deployed and I stepped forward again.
Right into the path of a tramp – a hobo – who staggered out of a dark alleyway in front of me. He was obviously headed for a very different destination. Most likely one suffixed with ‘gutter’.
That said, he was wearing a nice suit. I had a good view of the herringbone weave of the right sleeve. The suit was torn and stained and about three sizes too big, but I could imagine the old man’s elation at finding such a prize discarded in someone else’s trash.
The reason I had such a good view of the sleeve was because the old man had grabbed the front of my raincoat. I shuddered to think what he might have been aiming for, but right now he had a handful of button and weatherproofing clutched in his gnarled, arthritic fingers.
‘I knew you’d be here.’ His voice was a throaty rasp that sounded like it had been through a cheese grater on its way from his larynx to the outside world.
‘Excuse me?’ This was both an exclamation of surprise and an escape gambit as I attempted to push past him. The smell was… interesting.
But he still had hold of my coat and, despite his frailty, he wasn’t about to let go.
‘You have to help me – please.’
‘All right,’ I conceded, reaching for my clutch bag. ‘How much?’
He seemed confused for a moment. I know confusion when I see it, and I was looking at it right now.
‘I don’t…’ He paused to cough violently, jolting my raincoat up and down as his chest spasmed. Mine too, under the onslaught. ‘I don’t want money,’ he finally managed to gasp.
Well that was a first. He probably knew confusion when he saw it too.
‘I want my life back,’ he rasped. ‘I used to be someone…’
‘Didn’t we all, honey.’
I finally managed to extract his curled fingers from my coat. Hopefully the wrinkles would drop out in time. From my coat, I mean, not his hands. There was no remedy for them, and the problem was Anno Domini.
He was weakening. ‘You said you’d help.’ What hope there was faded from his eyes.
‘I offered you money,’ I corrected him. ‘I’m sorry, really I am, but I can’t help you turn back time. Not without calling in many more favours than I currently have saved up.’
‘You promised.’ He was going for my coat again, but I managed to step aside. ‘Yesterday,’ he went on. ‘You promised yesterday that you’d help.’
‘Sweetie – I’ve never seen you before in my life. Or yours.’
Then he really surprised me. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled out handfuls of money. He had small hands, but they were big handfuls. Ten-dollar bills, crumpled and creased as much as his weather-beaten face. He threw the money at me, right there in the street. It blizzarded round my head, caught in the breeze and swirling through the evening. People stopped and gawped and grabbed.
I just watched. Watched the money spin and fall. Watched the last hope fade from the old man’s eyes as his knees buckled and he fell to the sidewalk. Watched his hand flop into the gutter where the rainwater running into a storm drain washed the dust and grime from his cuffs.
Under the layers of age and the wrinkles and pockmarks the man was almost unrecognisable. Almost. But I recognised him now. Just as I recognised the suit he was wearing, the pattern and the colour bright and restored where the water rinsed away the dust and the dirt.
It was the same suit that Rock Railton had been wearing when he called on me yesterday and I promised to help him.