'Who?' I'd been hoping for a quiet night.
'I didn't catch his name but he looks like one of Mary's emotional cripples. She does this course, this therapy-thing. Did you know she's a qualified therapist? By the way, this came off.' She put the top of the bathroom's hot-water tap in my hand.
'No, I didn't,' I replied, pocketing the faucet. 'If someone told me she was a freelance lion-tamer, it wouldn't surprise me.' Wondering who or what I was in for now, I ventured upstairs.
'Bad luck doesn't make you a loser. Do I look like a loser to you? No, you give me respect, 'cause what you see is a chick-magnet, a pretty sharp guy. Not a loser.' He wore Ray-bans on top of his head, silver-backed Cuban heels and a blue tropical shirt covered in marlins. Slick-black hair, a hula-girl tattoo on his forearm, jiggling above a diamante watch 'with a rock so big it could choke a fucking horse' (his words). He was settled in the armchair I had come to think of as Carlos's chair, nursing a large whisky. He seemed edgy and anxious to get something off his chest, and I wasn't about to argue. For all I knew he was carrying a gun. He looked the type, only more weaselly, like if he shot someone it would be because the safety catch had accidentally come off.
'Yeah. So. I got this debt around my neck from some stuff I'd picked up in the Keys. Not drugs, man, everyone thinks drugs in Florida but this was a shipment of French silverware, like cutlery and salt cellars and stuff, I figured from some Louisiana family. And I can't get rid of it because, get this, it's too valuable. I called Mary and at first she told me to return it, like I could just waltz back and cancel the deal.'
I could sense it was going to be a long night, and that I wouldn't like whatever it was this guy was working toward, so I poured myself a whisky. I never used to drink.
'She already knew what I was holding 'cause she'd seen it on the news – the national news – on account of the silverware once belonged to some French bigwig or something. Now a guy in Harlem called Dolphin Eddie is offering me a cash deal so low it's a fucking offence to nature, but I figure okay, I won't make a profit but it'll wipe the slate on my debts.' He held up his glass. 'Can I get another one of these?'
'Look here, Mr-'
'Randy. Randy Amity. This is my mother's apartment. I'm her only kid. I guess you think that's weird, considering how many times she's been married, but something went wrong with her tubes after she had me. You're Chuck, right?'
Now I saw the family resemblance. God, she must have been disappointed.
'Anyways, I'm leaving the stuff here.'
'Here?' I exploded. 'Are you crazy? Where is it?'
'Relax.' Randy sat forward and drained his drink. 'It's safely stashed away.'
'What if your mother finds out? Good Lord, she could get hurt.'
'I don't think so. It was her idea. I was just gonna stop by, stash the silverware for a couple of nights and take a bath, but the hotwater faucet is missing.'
'Can I at least see this – merchandise?'
'Sure.' He reached beneath the armchair and pulled up a large inlaid gold and blue leather case. Inside the silk-sewn lid was a brass panel faced in dense scrollwork. I tipped the case to the light and read the owner's name. Donatien-Alphonse-François, Comte de -
My jaw dropped. 'You mean to tell me you stole the cutlery of the Marquis de Sade?' I asked, appalled. 'Do you have any idea how valuable this stuff is?' The carvings on the bone-handled fish-knives, in particular, were outrageous.
'What can I tell you?' shrugged Randy, 'I'm the black sheep of the family. Only Mama loves me, even though she won't introduce me to her friends.'
'You don't look like her.'
'That's good. I guess I'm more like my pa.'
'Which one of her husbands is that?'
'The one she didn't marry,' he replied thoughtfully.
Just then, the door buzzer went and we both flew into a panic, shovelling the knives and forks back into the canteen like a pair of kids caught smoking dope in their bedroom. Randy stowed the case and signalled the all-clear, and I answered the door to find myself looking at a very frail elderly man in a ratty cardigan, holding a ficus tree almost as tall as himself.
'I want you should give this to Mary,' he said, shouting at the top of his voice. 'I don't want it no more. It ain't the plant, it's the money.'
'I – what? Wait.' I held up my hand. I didn't want him to repeat what he had said. He was extremely deaf and possibly half-blind, for he seemed to be addressing a spot several feet above my head.
'The tree, it's full of money,' he bellowed. 'I don't want it no more.'
I looked back at Randy, who was hiding behind the couch. He gave a puzzled 'Wassamatta?' look.
'I want you should give this to Mary,' the old man repeated. I felt like asking him why he hadn't used his keys like everyone else. 'I'm not crazy or nothing. You're looking at me like I'm crazy.'
'I'm sorry, I don't mean to,' I apologised. 'I'll give her the plant.' I wanted him to put it down before he fell down.
'It's her damn plant anyway. She lends her plants to people. I'm in her Thursday night group. Every week since my wife died. Exploring The Senses. I told her I was depressed and she gave me the plant, but she stuck money in the pot, like this way I won't think it's charity or a handout or nothin', but I saw through her, so I'm bringing it back. There's sixty dollars there and you can tell her I ain't touched a damn penny.' He thrust the battered tree into my arms and started off for the stairs. How he ever got up them in the first place I'll never know.
'An' tell her from me,' he yelled, looking back over his shoulder, 'that's a great plant she has there. Tell her it did the trick.'
Much to my relief, Randy left at midnight. He was staying at his ex-girlfriend's mother's house in Queens. From the way he was talking, I had a suspicion that he might be sleeping with her. He promised me the cutlery would only remain in the apartment for a few days, but I knew that someone with eyes like a starving boa constrictor would be capable of telling anything to anyone.
I put the ficus in with the other plants, made myself a coffee and sat by the window for a while. The room seemed oddly silent now. For the first time in ages I thought about sharing my life with someone. No-one in particular, just someone.
On Thursday I called the police again, with no luck. Miss Amity was due home the next evening, and I dreaded to think what I would say to her. I played back her messages; the usual assortment of normality-impaired individuals, someone asking her about selling a speedboat – she seemed to be acting as the middleman in a deal – someone else wanting to know if you could put a copyright on planets and sell them as brand-names.
Someone had also been in the apartment. I could smell cigar smoke. There was a squashed-out butt in the sink, and a pair of half-empty coffee cups beside the sofa. Worse still, it looked to me as though they had made love on the bed. The covers were rumpled and the room smelled stale and faintly perfumy. There was a time, just a few days ago, when the discovery would have shocked me, but my accumulated indirect knowledge of Miss Amity told me something about these new occupants. That, trapped perhaps in loveless relationships, they had fallen for each other and were unable to meet anywhere else, so she had allowed them to use the apartment for their trysts.
When Miss Amity called, I told her my suspicions.
'Damn,' she cried, 'that filthy whore has been dragging her johns in again. I warned you about Sheryl-Ann. Once I came home and found some poor businessman tied naked to a chair with duct-tape. It took hours to get it all off because he was so hairy. A nice man. I had to lend him cab fare because she took his wallet. His wife couldn't see they had a problem. Listen, I must tell you my news. Barbara has a date. Aren't you pleased for her?'