Part 3 (1/2)
”I'm sure you are. Okay. It's a deal.”
”No, it's not. Told you: I'm not taking money from you.”
”But you've told me you never do freebies. It's against your religion or something.”
”It's just a policy. But let's forget about money for now. Let's first see if this is something I can deliver on.”
”Fair enough.” She was staring at the TV screen. ”Why do I know that actor?”
”He's Dwight Frye. You've seen him before.”
”Didn't he play that guy in Dracula Dracula who was always eating flies?” who was always eating flies?”
”Until he graduated to 'big, juicy spiders.' Yeah. He played Renfield.”
Gia buried her face in his shoulder. ”I can't believe I know that. I've been hanging around you much too long.”
”And getting educated in the process. Now... where can I meet this Dr. Clayton?”
”In her office.”
”When?”
”This afternoon at four.”
”How do you know she'll be there?”
She smiled that smile. ”Because you have an appointment with her then.”
Jack laughed. ”You were that sure?”
”Of course. And I'll be there with Vicky to introduce you.”
He frowned. ”Do you think that's wise?”
”Introducing you?”
”No. Taking Vicky down there.”
”Are you kidding? She loves helping with those kids.”
”Yeah, but they've got... AIDS.”
”No, they've got HIV. There's a big difference. And you can't catch HIV by holding a baby in your arms. How many times have I told you that?”
”Lots. But I still...”
”When you see, you'll understand. And you'll see at four o'clock, right?”
”Right.”
They kissed, but Jack felt a chill. His list of things that scared him was a short one, but the HIV virus was top on the list.
Jack took a walk over to Amsterdam Avenue.
After slowing temporarily in the late '80s and early '90s, gentrification was back in full swing on the Upper West Side. New brownstone renovations, new condos, and of course, new eateries. In a few hours the streets and the host of new restaurants, trattorias, and bistros would be crowded with yuppies and d.i.n.ks out for their Friday night fling to initiate the weekend's respite from buying and selling.
As individuals, Jack didn't have anything against them. Sure they could be empty-headed when it came to one-upsmans.h.i.+p in the conspicuous consumption arena and the endless panting after trends, and as a group they tended to suck the color out of the neighborhoods they invaded. But they weren't evil. At least most of them weren't.
Jack checked his watch. Getting near three. Abe would be ready for a mid-afternoon snack just about now. He stopped in at Nick's Nook, a mom-and-pop grocery-a vanis.h.i.+ng breed in these parts-and picked up a little treat.
Next stop was the Isher Sports Shop. The iron grate was pulled back, exposing the blurry windows. Beyond them, an array of faded cardboard placards, dusty footb.a.l.l.s, tennis b.a.l.l.s, racquets, basketball hoops, backboards, Rollerblades, and other good-time sundries basked in the sunny display s.p.a.ce.
Inside was not much better organized. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, weight benches over here, SCUBA gear over there, narrow aisles winding past sagging shelves. ESPN meets Twister Twister.
As Jack entered, Abe Grossman was just finis.h.i.+ng with a customer-or rather, a customer was finis.h.i.+ng with him.
Abe's age was on the far side of fifty and his weight was in calling distance of an eighth of a ton, which wouldn't have been bad if he were on the right side of five-eight. He was dressed in his uniform-black pants and a white half-sleeved s.h.i.+rt. A frown marred his usually jovial round face, a face made all the rounder by the relentless retreat of his gray hair toward the top of his head.
”Hooks?” Abe was saying. ”Why should you want hooks? Can you imagine how that must hurt a fish when it bites into it? And those barbs. Oy! You've got to rip them out! Such damage to the tender mouth tissues. Stick a fish hook in your own tongue sometime and see how you like it.”
The customer, a sandy-haired thirtysomething in a faded Izod stared at Abe in wonder. He made one false start at a reply, then tried again.
”You're kidding, right?”
Abe leaned over the counter-at least as far as his considerable gut would allow-and spoke in a fatherly fas.h.i.+on.
”It's an ethical position. Baiting a hook, or using those flas.h.i.+ng little spinners to catch fish, it's deceitful. Think about it. You're dressing up a nasty little hook to look like food, like sustenance. A fish comes along, thinks it's found lunch and wham wham! It's hooked and pulled out of the water. Is that fair? You're proud of such a thing?” He straightened and fixed the guy with his dark brown eyes. ”I should be a party to such a so-called sport based on treachery and deceit? No. I cannot.”
”You're serious!” the guy said, backing away. ”You're really serious!”
”I should be a comedian?” Abe said. ”This place looks look like the Improv to you maybe? No. I sell sporting goods. Sporting Sporting. That means something to me. A net is sporting. You wait for the fish to come along and then scoop it up with a net. The fastest one wins. That's That's a sport. A net, I'll sell you. But hooks? Uh-Uh. You'll get no hooks from me.” a sport. A net, I'll sell you. But hooks? Uh-Uh. You'll get no hooks from me.”
The guy turned away and headed for the door. ”Get out while you can,” he said as he hurried past Jack. ”This f.u.c.ker is nuts!”
”Really?” Jack said. ”What makes you think so?”
As the door slammed, Jack stepped up to the counter. Abe had positioned himself, sitting like a toad on the high stool that was his perch for most of his workday. He sat with his hands on his spread thighs, a middle-aged Humpty-Dumpty.
Jack placed his offering on the counter.
”Entenmann's brownies?” Abe said, hopping off the stool. ”Jack, you shouldn't have.”
”I figured your stomach would be rumbling about now.”
”No, but really you shouldn't have. My diet, you know.”
”Yeah, but they're fat free.”