serious about a guy whose outfit took three hours to assemble."
"I'm tired of bullshitting around," Robert said. "I don't want you comin' near April again. You understand?"
"You really go to Juilliard?" I said.
"You understand?"
"I bet you don't," I said. "I bet you're a pimp instead."
Robert went inside the coat of his beige outfit and came out with a straight razor. He held it like he knew how.
"You better listen what I'm telling you, whitey."
"Heavenly days," I said, "talk about ethnic stereotyping."
"You go on back to Boston, fishbelly, and stay there and don't you come near my lady again."
I was still sitting. I put my left foot behind his right ankle, put my right foot against his right knee, pulled with the left, pushed with the right, and Robert went over backward. I stood up and stomped the razor out of his hand. I got a little of the hand in the process and Robert yelped.
"There goes your violin career," I said.
He came up swinging and he was better than he looked, with a lot of fluid speed in his punches. He was almost fast enough to hit me. I caught a punch on my right shoulder and rolled my chin away from another one and hit him in the solar plexus and he doubled over and backed away, holding his stomach, gasping.
"See why I'm cocky," I said.
His eyes scanned for the razor. It was ten feet away on the ground. It might as well have been in Paramus. Still bent over, he looked at me as the semiparalysis began to ease.
"What the fuck you want, man?" he said.
"Mostly I want to know that April Kyle is all right, and is going to stay all right."
Robert had straightened up. His shoulders were still a little forward and he was massaging his stomach with his right hand. But he could breathe.
"She's a fucking chippy, man. How all right do chippies get? How long they stay all right, you know?"
Two black kids on skateboards zipped between us and on down the walk.
"I didn't turn her out, man. She was a chippy 'fore I knew her."
I nodded. "Everything's relative," I said. "I don't want her worse off than she was."
"Hey, she's better off. She's making better bread than she ever made with Utley."
"And keeping it?" I said.
"Sure, man, whatta you think, I'm no pimp."
"Yeah, sure," I said, "you're a music student. You probably carry that razor to trim clarinet reeds."
"No shit, man. I'm taking courses at Juilliard."
"Robert," I said, "what's the point? If I can talk her out of you, I will. If you can stop me, you will."
"You can't talk her out of me, man."
"Probably not," I said. "But I'll try. And if you try to cut me again, I'll break both your arms."
"Maybe next time I won't be alone, man."
I turned back toward Fifth Avenue. "I think we can count on that, Rob," I said.
4
I strolled across the park toward Lincoln Center. To my left the row of high-rise hotels on 59th Street gleamed in benign elegance over the burgeoning green swales of Olmsted's grand design. Roller skaters and Walkmen and joggers and Frisbees and dogs and kerchiefs. Lunch in brown bags and park rangers on horseback and outcroppings of dark rock on which people sat and got the early yellow splash of spring sun in their faces. Birds sang. Maybe ten years ago a group of young men raped a young woman in the park and left her naked, gagged, and bound hand and foot. Another group of young men came along and found her and raped her too.
Ah wilderness.
Lincoln Center looked like an expensive complex of Turkish bathhouses, a compendium of neo-Arabic-Spanish and silly. It did for the West Side what the Trump Tower did for the East, offering the chance for a giggle on even the drabbest day.
A large-eyed woman wearing a full skirt and silver New Balance running shoes opened a file folder and told me that in fact Robert Rambeaux was registered at Juilliard. He was taking a course in composition with a practicum in woodwinds.
"What's his address?" I said. "He still living on First Street?"
"I'm sorry, sir, it's against our policy to give out
"I'm tired of bullshitting around," Robert said. "I don't want you comin' near April again. You understand?"
"You really go to Juilliard?" I said.
"You understand?"
"I bet you don't," I said. "I bet you're a pimp instead."
Robert went inside the coat of his beige outfit and came out with a straight razor. He held it like he knew how.
"You better listen what I'm telling you, whitey."
"Heavenly days," I said, "talk about ethnic stereotyping."
"You go on back to Boston, fishbelly, and stay there and don't you come near my lady again."
I was still sitting. I put my left foot behind his right ankle, put my right foot against his right knee, pulled with the left, pushed with the right, and Robert went over backward. I stood up and stomped the razor out of his hand. I got a little of the hand in the process and Robert yelped.
"There goes your violin career," I said.
He came up swinging and he was better than he looked, with a lot of fluid speed in his punches. He was almost fast enough to hit me. I caught a punch on my right shoulder and rolled my chin away from another one and hit him in the solar plexus and he doubled over and backed away, holding his stomach, gasping.
"See why I'm cocky," I said.
His eyes scanned for the razor. It was ten feet away on the ground. It might as well have been in Paramus. Still bent over, he looked at me as the semiparalysis began to ease.
"What the fuck you want, man?" he said.
"Mostly I want to know that April Kyle is all right, and is going to stay all right."
Robert had straightened up. His shoulders were still a little forward and he was massaging his stomach with his right hand. But he could breathe.
"She's a fucking chippy, man. How all right do chippies get? How long they stay all right, you know?"
Two black kids on skateboards zipped between us and on down the walk.
"I didn't turn her out, man. She was a chippy 'fore I knew her."
I nodded. "Everything's relative," I said. "I don't want her worse off than she was."
"Hey, she's better off. She's making better bread than she ever made with Utley."
"And keeping it?" I said.
"Sure, man, whatta you think, I'm no pimp."
"Yeah, sure," I said, "you're a music student. You probably carry that razor to trim clarinet reeds."
"No shit, man. I'm taking courses at Juilliard."
"Robert," I said, "what's the point? If I can talk her out of you, I will. If you can stop me, you will."
"You can't talk her out of me, man."
"Probably not," I said. "But I'll try. And if you try to cut me again, I'll break both your arms."
"Maybe next time I won't be alone, man."
I turned back toward Fifth Avenue. "I think we can count on that, Rob," I said.
4
I strolled across the park toward Lincoln Center. To my left the row of high-rise hotels on 59th Street gleamed in benign elegance over the burgeoning green swales of Olmsted's grand design. Roller skaters and Walkmen and joggers and Frisbees and dogs and kerchiefs. Lunch in brown bags and park rangers on horseback and outcroppings of dark rock on which people sat and got the early yellow splash of spring sun in their faces. Birds sang. Maybe ten years ago a group of young men raped a young woman in the park and left her naked, gagged, and bound hand and foot. Another group of young men came along and found her and raped her too.
Ah wilderness.
Lincoln Center looked like an expensive complex of Turkish bathhouses, a compendium of neo-Arabic-Spanish and silly. It did for the West Side what the Trump Tower did for the East, offering the chance for a giggle on even the drabbest day.
A large-eyed woman wearing a full skirt and silver New Balance running shoes opened a file folder and told me that in fact Robert Rambeaux was registered at Juilliard. He was taking a course in composition with a practicum in woodwinds.
"What's his address?" I said. "He still living on First Street?"
"I'm sorry, sir, it's against our policy to give out
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