“I couldn’t do it. It’s inexpensive for a hotel, but they get sixty-five dollars a night for their cheapest single. What does that come to? Two thousand dollars a month?”
“Around there.”
“Of course they’d give you some kind of a monthly rate, but it would still have to be well over a thousand dollars. If I had moved out I couldn’t possibly afford to move back in. I’d have had to get an apartment somewhere, and I might have had trouble finding one I could afford in Manhattan.” I considered. “Unless I got serious and found some kind of real job for myself.”
“Could you do that?”
“I don’t know. A year or so ago there was a guy who wanted me to go in with him and open a bona fide detective agency. He thought we could get a lot of industrial work, trademark infringement, employee pilferage control, that sort of thing.”
“You weren’t interested?”
“I was tempted. It’s a challenge, making a go of something like that. But I like the space in the life I lead now. I like to be able to go to a meeting whenever I want, or just take a walk in the park or sit for two hours reading everything in the paper. And I like where I live. It’s a dump, but it suits me.”
“You could open a legitimate agency and still stay where you are.”
I nodded. “But I don’t know if it would still suit me. People who succeed usually want the trappings of success to justify the energy they have to put into it. They spend more money, and they get used to it, and then they need the money. I like the fact that I don’t need very much. My rent’s cheap, and I really like it that way.”
“It’s so funny.”
“What is?”
“This city. Start talking about anything and you wind up talking about real estate.”
“I know.”
“It’s impossible to avoid. I put a sign by the doorbells, No Apartments Available.”
“I saw it earlier.”
“And I still had three people ring the bell to make sure I didn’t have something for rent.”
“Just in case.”
“They thought maybe I just kept the sign there all the time to cut down the volume of inquiries. And at least one of them knew I’d just lost a tenant, so maybe he figured I hadn’t gotten around to taking down the sign. There was a piece in the Times today, one of the major builders is announcing plans to build two middle-income projects west of Eleventh Avenue to house people with family incomes under fifty thousand dollars. God knows it’s needed, but I don’t think it’ll be enough to make any difference.”
“You’re right. We started talking about relationships and we’re talking about apartments.”
She put her hand on mine. “What’s today? Thursday?”
“For another hour or so?”
“And I met you when? Tuesday afternoon? That seems impossible.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want this to go too fast. But I don’t want to put the brakes on, either. Whatever happens with us—”
“Yes?”
“Keep your hotel room.”
When I first got sober there was a midnight meeting every night at the Moravian Church at Thirtieth and Lexington. The group lost the space, and the meeting moved to Alanon House, a sort of AA clubhouse occupying an office suite just off Times Square.
I walked Willa home and then headed over to Times Square and the midnight meeting. I don’t go there often. They get a young crowd, and most of the people who show up have more drugs than alcohol in their histories.
But I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I hadn’t been to a meeting since Tuesday night. I’d missed two nights in a row at my home group, which was unusual for me, and I hadn’t gone to any daytime meetings to pick up the slack. More to the point, I had spent an uncharacteristic amount of time around alcohol in the past fifty-six hours. I was sleeping with a woman who drank the stuff, and I’d whiled away the afternoon in a saloon, and a pretty lowlife one at that. The thing to do was go to a meeting and talk about it.
I went to the meeting, getting there just in time to grab a cup of coffee and a seat before it got started. The speaker was sober less than six months, still what they call mocus — mixed up, confused, uncentered. It was hard to track his story, and my mind kept flitting around, wandering down avenues of its own.
Afterward I couldn’t make myself raise my hand. I had visions of some soberer-than-thou asshole giving me a lot of advice I didn’t want or need. I already knew what kind of advice I’d get from Jim Faber, say, or from Frank. If you don’t want to slip, stay out of slippery places. Don’t go in bars without a reason. Bars are for drinking. You want to watch TV, you got a set in your room. You want to play darts, go buy a dart board.
Jesus, I knew what anyone with a few years in the program would tell me. It was the same advice I’d give to anyone in my position. Call your sponsor. Stay close to the program. Double up on your meetings. When you get up in the morning, ask God to help you stay sober. When you go to bed at night, thank him. If you can’t get to a meeting, read the Big Book, read the Twelve & Twelve, pick up the phone and call somebody. Don’t isolate, because when you’re by yourself you’re in bad company. And let people know what’s going on with you, because you’re as sick as your secrets. And remember this: You’re an alcoholic. You’re not all better now. You’ll never be cured. All you are, all you’ll ever be, is one drink away from a drunk.
I didn’t want to hear that shit.
I left on the break. I don’t usually do that, but it was late and I was tired. And I felt uncomfortable in that room, anyway. I’d liked the old midnight meeting better, even if I’d had to take a cab to get there.
Walking home, I thought about George Bohan, who’d wanted me to open a detective agency with him. I’d known him years back in Brooklyn, we’d been partnered for a while when I first got a detective’s gold shield, and he’d retired and worked for one of the national agencies long enough to learn the business and get his PI license.
I hadn’t answered when that particular opportunity had knocked. But maybe it was time to do that, or something like it. Maybe I had let myself get into a groove and wear it down into a rut. It was comfortable enough, but the months had a way of slipping by and before you knew it years had passed. Did I really want to be an old man living alone in a hotel, queueing up for food stamps, standing in line for a hot meal at the senior center?
Jesus, what a thought.
I walked north on Broadway, shaking off bums before they could launch their spiel. If I was part of a real detective agency, I thought, maybe I could give clients better value for their money, maybe I could operate effectively and efficiently instead of fumbling around like some trench-coated refugee from a 1940’s film. If it occurred to me, say, that Paula Hoeldtke might have left the country, I could interface with a Washington-based agency and find out if she’d applied for a passport. I could hire as many operatives as her father’s budget could stand and check airline manifests for the couple of weeks around the date of her probable disappearance. I could—
Hell, there were lots of things I could do.
Maybe nothing would work. Maybe any further effort to track down Paula was just a waste of time and money. If so, I could drop the case and pick up something else.
The way things stood, I was holding on to the damn thing because I didn’t have anything better to do. Durkin had said I was like a dog with a bone, and he was right, but there was more to it than that. I was a dog who didn’t have but one bone, and when I put it down I had no choice but to pick it back up again.