I moved away, toward a drugstore on the corner, to get a clear view of this fast-growing throng. An empty wooden box lay at the curb, half in the gutter, and I nudged it out with my foot and stepped on it, a little island. Because what if she were there right now this very instant and I was missing her? On impulse I brought out my camera, unfolded it, and snapped these views, of the beginning crowd, figuring that if I missed the Dove Lady, I might spot her and Z later somewhere in my photos.
The crowd kept rowing, and I wound back my film.
But no more than maybe a minute or so later, the crowd became a mob. A dozen Dove Ladies could be marching toward me now as I stood staring, looking for who knew what. Nervously now, I again wound my film forward, and got this mob scene.
Was the Dove Lady somewhere in this? Well, why not? Could be a whole flock of them.
A pair of particularly fine-hatted women came walking toward me, glancing up at me on my box. And it seemed almost obligatory, only polite, to lift my camera and snap them here. But the viewfinder of my Kodak was about the size of an ordinary postage stamp, so I didn’t notice the woman just behind them—see her there?—until I lowered my camera. Then, as she passed my box, I looked down and saw the stuffed-bird ornament on her hat, saw its round vacant little glass eye. And saw the eye close, then open again—the bird was alive! And the bird was a dove—I’d snapped the Dove Lady! And somewhere back in that crowd, maybe still staring after her, was Z. As I leaned forward to search the crowd for him, a huge pink something moved before my face, filling my vision, blocking off the crowd. And in the middle of that great wheel of pinkness, the Jotta Girl’s face looking up at me to say, “What in the world are you doing!”
I stood frantically waving her away, wanting to shove her to one side, and she did move aside, but the crowd had shifted like the revolving bits of a kaleidoscope, and Z and my moment, my one chance of spotting him, were gone, used up.
When I got back my roll of film, I had this portion of the print enlarged, and here it is, this is the moment my camera’s eye saw but I didn’t. I’d stood squinting down at my gray little postage-stamp viewfinder as my camera took the Dove Lady—see the live dove on her hat? And I’d looked up from my viewfinder at nothing but the great pinkness of the Jotta Girl’s hat! Hadn’t seen the Dove Lady till she walked past me, my moment gone.
“Let’s get a cab,” I said brusquely, stepping to the curb, where I yanked open the passenger door of a big red cab. Then I ushered the Jotta Girl in, saying “Plaza Hotel” to the driver, and slammed the door, turning away as it pulled out into the Broadway traffic, before I said something I shouldn’t.
Down the walk, as I turned, I could still see the Dove Lady’s hat, saw the startled faces of pedestrians as they glimpsed the living bird. I knew where she was going. I’d seen her photograph in the lobby of the Fifth Avenue Theatre, a bird perched on each shoulder. This was our Bird Lady, a vaudeville performer, now all mystery, all interest in her gone. And I turned away to walk back to the hotel, and cool off; it wasn’t really the Jotta Girl’s fault.
It’s a twenty-block walk, and I was okay when I came into the lobby—and found the Jotta Girl waiting in a straight-backed chair right beside the elevator doors. No acknowledgment of my innocent smile of happy surprise. She simply stood up, and when the elevator doors opened, stepped in with me, saying, “Tenth, please.” Then she just stood staring at the back of the elevator boy’s pillbox hat, till he opened the doors on ten.
Then, doors sliding shut, she turned to face me and, voice icy, said, “Now. I demand an explanation of your astonishing rudeness.” Down the corridor a man turned a corner to come walking toward us, room key dangling in his hand. “Wait.” She walked by me, passing two closed doors, feeling in her handbag. Brought out her key, bent forward to unlock her door, then gestured me in with an irritated jerk of her chin. Door closed, she walked past me—a big room, larger than mine—then turned to face me. “Well?”
I was ready. “I’m very sorry. And I do apologize. But I can’t really tell you much. I’m a . . . kind of detective, you might say. I’m looking for someone. I was about to get in the cab when I thought I saw him, that’s all. So I just closed the door—”
“Slammed it.”
“I suppose. But I was in a hurry, couldn’t take time to explain or I’d lose him.”
“And—was it your quarry?”
“Nope. Wrong man.”
She stepped closer to study my face. “Si, is this true?”
“Sort of. Fairly close.”
She stood looking up at me, then did this fine thing women sometimes do: put a hand on each shoulder, her forearms on my chest. This does something to your arms; you can’t let them just hang there. So it was not of my own volition, it really was not! She was so close, I could smell her perfume, and she was so good-looking, that my arms just rose up, went around her, and I was kissing her before I could take control, kissing her hard, pulling her tight against me. Then—the little man in my head running for the controls, hanging on to the levers, fighting them, I—and oh, I didn’t want to, I was so aware that I did not want to—I dropped my arms and stepped back fast. “I didn’t mean that. I didn’t intend it.”
She just smiled, nodding. “I know. But I did. It’s my fault. You’re a good loyal husband, aren’t you. Well, sit down, Si; I won’t chase you.”
I couldn’t run screaming out of the room, and I walked over to a window chair. “Damn right it’s your fault. You’re too attractive. Much too.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to slowly take off my clothes—”
“Hey! Shut up, okay? Just shut up.”
“Of course I’d help! I’d unhook the—”
“Come on now.”
“Okay. But it’s too bad.”
I didn’t nod, but didn’t shake my head either, because it was too bad. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t this be just a—just kind of separate from everything else. A sort of separate little island not connected . . . Enough, enough, and I stood up. “My goodness, just look at the time.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go.” She walked to the door, then turned to me, hand on the knob. “But you know why I’m here, Si? In New York? I’m spending a small inheritance, that’s all. Using it up, having a bit of fun. So why don’t you let me help you? I have the time, and there must be something I could do to help.”
“Sure,” I said. “Fine, okay.” She opened the door, and I made a little show of sidling past her looking scared, she made a fake little lunge, and we smiled. Then I headed for my room, only three doors down, still smiling; I liked the Jotta Girl just fine.
20
I HAD THE EVENING TO kill, but it didn’t want to die and fought back. For a while I thought it might win, and nine o’clock never come. I had an armload of newspapers, and lay on my bed, shoes off, pillows stuffed behind me. But the World, the Express, the Tribune, the Post, all seemed like the strange newspapers you buy on vacation; funny-looking, the typefaces wrong, news headings about people and events that have nothing to do with you. Even the comics were strange: “Boob McNutt” . . . “Lady Bountiful” . . . “Foxy Grandpa” . . . “Buster Brown” . . . “Maud, the Mule.” And they sure weren’t funny.