I leaned closer and put my arm around her trembling shoulders. “I don’t know, Ethel,” I said, a jolt of fresh energy shooting up my spine, “but I intend to find out.”
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME I LIMPED BACK TO SEVENTH AVENUE and made my way down to Times Square, my energy had evaporated. Just putting one foot in front of the other was a strain. My bag of office stuff felt as heavy as a bag of bricks. I tried to jump-start my engine at Nedicks-rapidly consuming a chili dog and an Orange Crush at the sidewalk counter-but the food (if you could call it that) just made me feel queasy. And the blinking neon lights of the movie and peep show marquees- coupled with the loud pops, whizzes, bings, and bangs of the surrounding penny arcades and rifle ranges-did nothing to soothe my frazzled soul.
On the verge of another crying jag (were my days at Daring Detective really over?), and too weary to seek out Tony Corona at the Plaza Hotel as I’d planned, I staggered down the steps to the 42nd Street subway station and caught a downtown local for home.
Emerging from the subway at Sheridan Square and walking the few blocks down Seventh to Bleecker, I was praying to God (and Jesus and Allah and Vishnu and Buddha, et al.) that Abby would be home. I needed a good friend to talk to. I needed to sit down, take my shoes off, and unbosom my dreadful new troubles and secrets. I needed a drink.
When I reached our building and saw that the lights in Abby’s living room-cum-art studio were on, I yelped with joy and darted up the stairs to the landing between our apartments. My prayers had been answered! Relief was at hand!
Oops. Not so fast.
Abby’s door was wide open, and she was standing at her kitchen counter mixing up a batch of cocktails as usual-but she was not alone. A lean, dark, outrageously handsome young man stood right behind her, pressing his body close to hers, pulling her long, thick black hair to one side and planting a string of steamy kisses on the exposed nape of her neck.
Rats! It was Jimmy Birmingham, Abby’s sometime lover-a wildly popular Village poet whose work, I thought, was downright dopey. Likewise, his personality.
“Cut it out, Jimmy!” Abby said, giggling. “You’re getting me hot. If you don’t stop, we’ll have to strip down and do it right here on the floor.”
“Ahem!” I croaked, hastening to announce my arrival before the strip show started. “I hate to interrupt, but the door was open and I-”
“Oh, hi, Paige!” Abby butted Jimmy off her back and turned her smiling face toward me. “What’s tickin’, chicken? I was wondering what happened to you. I’m making a pitcher of martinis. Do you want one, or are you still drunk from last night?”
“Ha, ha,” I said, setting my bag of belongings on the floor near the door and taking a seat at the kitchen table. (Had my boozy breakdown been just last night? It seemed more like a month ago. No wonder I was so tired!) “I’d love a martini,” I confessed, ignoring the possible consequences. “Make it a big one.” I slipped my arms out of my jacket and tucked it over the back of the chair. “Hi, Jimmy,” I said. “What’s new?”
“A lot!” he replied, stroking his dark, neatly trimmed Vandyke and politely hiding the fact that he wasn’t any happier to see me than I was to see him. He sat down across the table from me, took an Old Gold out of the pack in his shirt pocket, and lit up. “I just finished a far-out new poem and came over to read it to Abby.”
Uh-oh!
“Did she like it?” I asked, hoping against hope that the reading had already taken place. I was not in a poetic mood.
“I haven’t heard it yet,” Abby said, setting a martini- complete with olive-in front of me. “Ain’t that swell, Nell?
Now you can dig it with me.” Her emphatic ear-to-ear grin made it clear that she expected me to sit tight for the recitation. (Misery loves company, they say, but Abby demands it.)
Stifling a groan and rolling my eyes at the ceiling, I took a big gulp of my drink. “Hey, where’s Otto?” I asked, looking around for Jimmy’s little dog-the miniature dachshund who was always at his master’s side, or tucked under his arm, or curled up like a sausage in his lap.
At the sound of his name, Otto poked his sleepy head up over the arm of Abby’s red velvet loveseat (which sits smack between her kitchen and art studio) and started whimpering. Then, when he saw me, he let out a happy yip. He jumped off the loveseat and ran over to me, toenails tapping across the linoleum, skinny tail twirling out of control.
“Hello, sweetie!” I cooed, picking up the little dog and giving him a big hug. Otto and I were old friends. We’d endured many poetry readings together. I helped the friendly pup get settled on my lap, then began stroking his soft brown back- from his wet, pointy nose to his wagging tail.
“So let me tell you about my new poem,” Jimmy said, getting excited. His eyes were shining, his beard was glistening, and his young movie-star-handsome face (Tony Curtis with a hint of Gregory Peck) was glowing. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging like Otto’s. “It’s the most important opus I ever wrote!” he proclaimed. “It’s so way out, it’s gone! I created it special for the big Dylan Thomas blowout they’re gonna have at the White Horse next month.”
“Blowout?” Abby asked, becoming more interested. (She loves wild parties.)
“White Horse?” I inquired, just to be polite.
“Yeah, that’s where Dylan Thomas died!” Jimmy exclaimed. “At the White Horse Tavern right here in the Village! So that’s where we’re gonna celebrate. Isn’t that cool?”
Not to my mind, it wasn’t. “In the first place,” I said, “Dylan Thomas died at St. Vincent ’s hospital, not at the White Horse. He just drank himself to death at the White Horse. And in the second place, Thomas was-like a lot of other Welsh poets-a very serious and solemn person. And he was deathly afraid of dying. So, do you really think it’s cool to celebrate his demise?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea,” Jimmy yowled. His normally mellow baritone had risen to a high-pitched whine. “The Downtown Poets Society planned the whole thing. And they asked me to write a special poem for the occasion. What’s wrong with that? It’s a real honor, you know!”
“It sure is, baby,” Abby cut in, swooping to Jimmy’s defense. She handed him a martini, then sat down next to him with her own. “I’m so proud of you I could plotz.” Grabbing hold of his whiskered chin and pulling his face toward hers, she planted a whopping open-mouthed kiss on his pouting lips. (Abby, if you haven’t already guessed, was a tad more attracted to Jimmy’s idyllic body than to his poetic soul.)
Averting my eyes from the sloppy spectacle, I stared down at Otto and fondled his soft, warm ears. He snuffled loudly, laid his head on my knees, and went back to sleep.
“So can I read it now, Ab?” Jimmy pleaded, as soon as she let him up for air. “I’m dyin’ to know what you think. I mean, I think it’s a masterpiece, but if you don’t dig it, I’ll write another one-and another one, and another one, and another one-until you tell me I’ve got it right. You’re my muse, you know!”
Abby shot me an apologetic look, then said to Jimmy, “Sure, babe. You can read it now. Finish your cigarette, and then stand over there in the light, where we can get the full effect. (Translation: get a better look at your fine young physique.)
“All right!” Jimmy crowed, stubbing out his cigarette and bounding to his feet. He took a fast slug of his martini, strutted over to the exact spot Abby had indicated (under the hanging paper lantern she’d bought last week in Chinatown), and pulled a folded cocktail napkin out of his back pocket. Then he cleared his throat and announced to Abby and me-or, rather, to the worshipful, cheering, standing-room-only crowd in his mind- that his name was Jimmy Birmingham and he was here to read his latest poem, a special tribute to Dylan Thomas titled “The Doomer.” He stood silent in the spotlight for a few seconds and then, when the imaginary applause died down, he unfolded his napkin and began: