A Manhattan Ghost Story Read online

  I got a call from Serena Hitchcock soon after I got back to Art’s apartment. She was concerned about me.

  “I really do want to talk with you about other books, Abner. That wasn’t bullshit.”

  “I know it wasn’t bullshit, Serena. And I appreciate the offer.”

  “But?”

  “But I have other things I want to do.”

  “Have you gone to another company, Abner?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

  “I haven’t gone to another company, Serena. I merely have other things that I want to do.”

  “In the way of photography, you mean?”

  “No.”

  “Am I meddling?”

  “No. I appreciate your concern, believe me, I do—”

  “But mind my own business?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Are you going to stay in New York?”

  “I think so. It depends.”

  “Oh? On what?”

  “On a couple of things. On what I find here, I suppose.”

  “And what are you looking for?”

  “I’ve got to go now, Serena.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Really. I’m just a little confused—nothing manic. Just a little confused.”

  “Abner?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you ever need someone to talk to, think of me. Okay?”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “I mean it, Abner.”

  “Yes. Good-bye.” And I hung up.

  It came to me that I had to go about my search scientifically. It came to me that I had to make a list of all the things that I knew about Phyllis Pellaprat. A numerical list of things. So I got a pen and sheet of paper from Art’s desk—a sturdy-looking, three-drawer, dark cherry library desk that he’d set up on the east wall of the living room, opposite the fireplace—and I sat down at the desk and made my list:

  1. Phyllis Pellaprat is a black woman, 28-30 years of age.

  2. She’s very, very attractive.

  3. Tall. Nicely put together.

  4. Intelligent.

  5. A games player.

  6. Her parents live on East 95th Street.

  7. Their names are Thomas and Lorraine Pellaprat.

  8. Lorraine Pellaprat looks much like her daughter.

  9. Phyllis was once Art DeGraff’s girlfriend. He beat her up early in December.

  I got stuck there. I think that I sat grinning stupidly at the list for quite a few minutes, and then I crumpled the paper up in my fist.

  Supersleuths didn’t make lists. Supersleuths had brains, for Christ’s sake.

  I was drawn very quickly onto the street again. I remembered what Phyllis had said to me and what Madeline had said to me: “You’re not going to like it out there, Abner.” I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to make my way down Fifth Avenue, past all the little specialty shops on Madison, through the little knots of people waiting for buses or going to work, and I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to prove Phyllis wrong, and Madeline wrong, and Barbara W. Barber wrong. I wanted to jostle people and get angry when they jostled back. I wanted to enjoy the crazies, ogle the women in tight jeans, be annoyed by the noise of traffic; I wanted to convince myself that Manhattan was a place where the living played out their lives, went about their business, saw sons and daughters born, made careers, got in the way, did stupid things and marvelous things and then died, and were buried. I didn’t want to believe I was a part of anything more than that.

  But I was, of course.

  * * *

  It was 12:15 P.M., on the sixth of February, and I was out in front Art’s house, with my back to it and my eyes on the house across the street. There was nothing special about it. It was very much like Art’s house. But someone was watching me from a second-story window: a child, I supposed—a young girl with long hair who was holding the curtain aside with her right hand and apparently did not care much if I saw her looking at me.

  We watched each other for quite some time. Eventually I got the idea that her hair was dark—it was difficult to be sure because the sun was creating a glaze of light on the surface of the window—that her skin was very pale, and that she was dressed in a pair of pants and a shortsleeved shirt.

  Eventually, someone came up behind her—an adult, I imagined, who looked out the window at me, too, for half a minute. Then, together, they backed away from the window and the sun put a heavier glaze of light on it.

  I remembered then: “And they are all out there, Mr. Cray. All out on those streets, and in those houses. They are driving taxis, jaywalking, shoplifting, watching soap operas, weeping. They are all there.”

  Phyllis, too. And I remembered: “I used to go to where we put him, where we buried him, and I used to stare at the place he is, and I have no idea what I saw there. Or what I felt.”

  Phyllis, too, I thought. I can go to where they put her. It was an idea that made me queasy, and I found myself sitting down slowly on the snow-covered front steps of Art’s house and then grabbing hold of the iron railing to steady myself.

  I was looking at the sidewalk in front of my feet when I saw another person’s feet appear there, in front of mine—a man’s feet; he was wearing highly polished red oxfords and gray suit pants. I looked up and saw that he was chunky, red-cheeked, and his eyes and mouth were smiling. He had a small notepad and a pencil in hand. He said to me, in a voice that was high-pitched, but efficient, “I can help you now.”

  I glanced down at his feet and saw that he had left footprints in the snow. I thought, This isn’t one of them. This is a crazy. He leaves footprints in the snow. I looked up again, at his face. I said, “No, I don’t think so.” He jotted something down on the notepad, his smile softening as he did it. Then his smile strengthened again, and he said, “If you tell me who you’re looking for, I can help you.”

  “No,” I repeated, “I don’t think so. Please leave me alone.”

  He nodded to his right. I looked. I saw a green and white 1961 Chevy Biscayne—the kind with the flat fins—parked down the street. The man said, “I have a car. Not many of us do, but I do. Could you come with me, please?!” It sounded like a command, which made me angry.

  I said, “No, I won’t come with you.”

  He jotted something down again on his notepad, then looked at me, still smiling. “You have to come with me,” he said, sounding petulant.

  I stood then. My strategy was simple. He was maybe five feet nine or ten, a little overweight, not really very healthy looking, despite his ruddy cheeks, and I stand six-foot-two and weighed, then, almost two hundred and ten pounds. I was trying to intimidate him. I smiled a kind of tight, warning smile.

  He smiled back, a smile of gratitude. “Good,” he said, and started for his car. He got a few steps, stopped, looked back. “Well, c’mon,” he said, and continued walking. I followed him, watched him go around to the driver’s door, open it—it creaked pitilessly—get in. And I found myself standing beside the passenger door. I bent over and told him through the closed window, “I’ll call a cop.”

  He reached across the seat, opened the door. “I know who you’re looking for,” he said. “And I can help you.”

  I got in, but left the passenger door open. The inside of the car smelled of beer. Directly in front of me was a cheap compass on a small suction cup stuck on the inside of the windshield. In the dashboard itself, there was a hole where a radio had once been. I said, my eyes straight ahead, “What do you mean you know who I’m looking for?”

  The man started the car. It was noisy; the muffler was going. “Close the door, please,” he said. I hesitated, uncertain, then closed the door softly. We pulled away from the curb and started toward Fifth Avenue. I repeated, “What do you mean, you know who I’m looking for?”

  “How do you like my car?” he said. “Pretty cherry, huh?”

  “I asked you a question,” I said, trying hard for a tone of fi
rmness.

  “Madeline told me,” he said. He came to a stop at Fifth Avenue, waited for the light. It changed to green almost at once. He stayed put. A car came up behind us; its driver leaned on the horn. “Uh-huh,” he said, “Madeline told me all about it, about how you got this little girlfriend, this little black girlfriend and how you wanta—” the driver behind us was still leaning on the horn—”how you wanta get hold of her again. Can’t blame you for that, those black girls—”he shook his right hand in the air—”minga.” He glanced back, leaned out the window, threw the bird to the driver behind us. “Blow it out yer ass!” he hollered, then stomped on the accelerator and took a squealing left-hand turn. He hit the brake hard; I straight-armed the dashboard. There was a truck just ahead. He stared at it. “Goddamned, for crimey’s sake!” he muttered. He stuck his head out the window again. “Hey shit-for-brains-get that freakin’ piece a tin outa the way!”

  I put my hand on the door handle; he glanced over, smiled. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said. I tried the door. It wouldn’t open. I felt the sharp whisper of panic inside me.

  “You scared?” he asked.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Sure you’re scared,” I heard him say. Then I heard him yell, “I said get that fuckin’ piece a crap off a the fuckin’ street!” There was a short pause, then he whispered, “Oh Jesus!” I opened my eyes.

  The driver of the truck, a beefy, dark-haired guy, was walking very slowly toward the car with a big, shiteating grin on his face. When he got to the car he leaned over, looked in the driver’s window—which had been hastily rolled up—and said tightly, the shiteating grin still on his face, “Your ass is grass, my friend, and I’m the mower.” The man I was with put his hand inside his suit jacket; I saw something gleam darkly in there. He said to the truck driver, “I don’t want any trouble here.?

  “You already got it!” bellowed the truck driver.

  ” ‘Cuz I’m on an errand of mercy,” said the man I was with, and nodded at me.

  The truck driver bent over and looked at me; his grin broadened. The man I was with grabbed hold of the thing inside his jacket.

  And I frantically tried the door again. It opened. I looked dumbly at it a moment and scrambled from the car.

  I saw a woman coming my way. She was wearing a long, red wool coat and carrying a large, black purse, and she was staring disapprovingly at me. I stared back a moment, then looked at the Chevy again. I saw that it was down on the right front end, as if one of its springs was broken, and that its right rear tire was going flat. When I leaned over, I saw that the car was empty, and I realized that it could easily have been just one of the thousands of junked cars that litter New York City’s streets.

  “I’d find a decent home if I were you,” said the woman in the red wool coat.

  I turned to her. “Yes,” I said. “I have one,” and she turned her head and quickened her pace to get away from me.

  I saw no truck, either, and no murderous driver with a shiteating grin on his face.

  I saw Madison Avenue.

  I saw, across the street, a furniture store called Rick’s Rattan and Wicker, and next door to it a little bar called Raoul’s, and next to it a place that sold cigars and men’s magazines.

  And I saw people moving purposefully about, eyes straight ahead usually, heads down a little. It is the way New Yorkers walk, as if they’re going someplace and are already late getting there.

  Go, answer the door, peer through the little security peephole at whoever has come to call. You see a face, a smile perhaps, a pair of eyes. And they tell you—open the door. Or they tell you—do not open the door. But if you have shut yourself up on the wrong side of that peephole for too long, they tell you very little. Only what is within arm’s reach, not what is above, or below, or to the sides, or behind that smiling face.

  At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965

  “Hey, Joe Hammet, Joe Hammet, come to us, Joe Hammet.” Sam was trying to speak the way he’d heard mediums speak on TV, in a kind of high sing-song voice but he couldn’t help grinning at the same time, which got me to grinning, too. “Hey, Joe Hammet,” he went on, and glanced slowly about the room as he spoke, “you old fruit, come on, tauuulk to us, tauuulk to us.” He stopped, listened a moment, went on, “Give us a sign, Joe Hammet, anything, give us a sign.” He looked at me. “What you grinning at, Abner? This is fucking serious business, here.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and forced myself to stop grinning.

  “Good,” Sam said, and went on, “A sign, Joe, a sign. Tell us it’s a nice day.”

  “A nice day, Sam?”

  “Sure, he said it all the time. Coulda been raining buckets and he woulda said, ‘Boy, it’s a nice day.’ “

  “Oh.”

  “So if we hear ‘It’s a nice day,’ we’ll know it’s him. Habits, Abner, like I said.”

  “Uh-huh, then how do you know you won’t get a nun?”

  “A what?”

  “A nun—you know, a sister.”

  “Whose sister?”

  “A nun, Sam. A Catholic nun.”

  “Why would I get a Catholic nun?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you got a sense of humor like a stone, Abner?”

  “Yeah. You have.”

  “Well, you do. You say these incredibly dumb things, and you think they’re so fucking funny, and they’re not. I’m only tellin’ you this ‘cuz I’m your friend, Abner—”

  “Okay, okay, can we get on with the seance?”

  “This ain’t a seance.”

  “Whatever it is—can we get on with it; I gotta get home.”

  “Sure, Abner. In a moment.” He lifted a cheek, grunted; nothing happened. He smiled. “Must be all dried up, Abner.”

  “Could be,” I said. “That’s disrespectful, you know.”

  “Joe Hammmmmet, Joe Hammmmmet!”

  “Christ,” I whispered.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Is it a nice day, Joe? Is it a nice day over there?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I saw Phyllis, too. I saw a black woman anyway, across Madison Avenue, near the corner of East 80th Street. A patch of sunlight was on her, and she was wearing what Phyllis always wore—a white, waistlength fake mink coat, white, stacked heel boots, and a green silk, mid-calf-length dress.

  Her face was obscured by sunlight, I guessed, but I got the idea that she was staring at me, and I stared back. After several minutes, I said her name to myself. “Phyllis.”

  She turned away.

  “Phyllis!” I called.

  She vanished down East 80th Street.

  “Phyllis!” I called again, and made my way around the front of the Chevy, moved cautiously into the street with my arm extended, palm out. A big Lincoln came to a quick, reluctant halt inches from me, it’s driver cursing.

  “Please,” I murmured. “Please.”

  Traffic was slow and I made it easily across the street to the other side, then to the corner of East 80th. I saw the woman I hoped was Phyllis half a block away, and I smiled and ran hard to catch her.

  “Phyllis!” I called repeatedly as I ran.

  She did not turn her head.

  I gained on her very quickly. She was starting up the steps of a brick apartment house when I caught up with her; I stopped at the bottom of the steps.

  “Phyllis!” I said.

  She turned. She said to me, smiling a big, willing smile, “Whatchoo want with Phyllis, honey, when you can have some time wif me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Her face was lined and aged, the nostrils flared, the mouth hard, the eyes flat and tired.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, and added, “I thought you were someone else.”

  She smiled again, playfully. “I ain’t no one else, honey—I ain’t never been no one else.”

  Her voice was Phyllis’, almost. It was brassier, less appealing and, like the eyes, a little tired. She went on
, “But I can be whoever you want me to be.”

  “No,” I said, not unkindly. “No. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  She shrugged, turned, walked up the steps and into the apartment house. I stood in front of it for quite some time waiting for her to come out: That is Phyllis! I told myself. That is my Phyllis! Coming apart.

  I waited quite a while for her. Fifteen minutes, at least.

  But she did not come out.

  So I went in.

  My odyssey began there, I think. In that house.

  The front door—solid oak painted a dull violet, which put it in sharp contrast with the red brick of the building itself—was unlocked. It opened onto a long and dimly lit hallway that appeared to run the entire length of the building. There were six doors on either side of this hallway, each painted the same dull violet as the front door. Beside each of these doors stood a spindle-legged, dark wood washstand with a white porcelain wash basin and matching pitcher. Several women dressed in bra and panties were washing themselves—around the pubic area especially, and when they did this, they pulled the waistband of their panties down—when I came in. A short, blonde woman with a large nose and an excess of makeup looked up, smiled in the same way that the woman I’d hoped was Phyllis had smiled, and said, “You want me? I ain’t taken.”

  “I’m looking for someone,” I told her. She was wearing a pair of black lace panties, a black garter belt, bra. The effect would have been appealing, had it not been for a large, blue-black bruise on the inside of her right thigh and the fact that her skin was very pale, almost white. “I thought I saw her come in here,” I went on.

  The woman dried herself off with a cream-colored towel from the washstand, come over to me, put her hands flat on my chest. She was even shorter than I had first guessed, no more than five feet tall, and she smelled strongly of soap.

  “You won’t find better than me,” she cooed, and made a show of licking her lips; I noted that her tongue was nearly as pale as her skin and that it apparently was dry, too, because it left no sheen of moisture on her lips. “I’m tight; I’m good—you come with me and find out. I want you come with me and find out.”