Pulp! 2

Chapter 11

Stepping into The Harmony Hotel, or should I say The Harmony Home for the Aged, is like entering a time warp. The tall townhouse is narrow with high tin ceilings that have been painted white. The walls are a dark wood paneling, and there’s a long reception desk positioned on the opposite side of the vestibule as you walk in. A man wearing a blue cardigan sweater is seated on a stool behind the desk reading a magazine.

Sarah approaches the balding man. He peels his eyes away from the magazine, smiles.

“Well, I’ll be,” he says. “Is that you Sarah Winston? Look how grown up you are.”

The old man comes around the desk with all the enthusiasm and agility of a much younger man, takes Sarah in his arms. He hugs her tightly then takes a step back to gaze upon her, looking her up and down.

“You are a grown woman,” he says, “and a beautiful one at that. How long has it been, Sarah?”

“Too long, Sam,” she says.

“You must be married with some little ones running around by now,” Sam beams.

Sarah brushes back her hair so that one side is locked behind her ear.

“Sadly, no little ones,” she says, not without a nervous laugh. “But I do have my first divorce behind me.”

When she says divorce our eyes automatically connect as if by some odd force of nature. The word, as horrible as it is (take it from me), can sound absolutely wonderful coming from the mouth of a single woman as beautiful as Sarah.

Sam takes on a faux sad expression. “I’m sure it’s all for the best,” he says. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

“We’re still friends,” Sarah says. “We just weren’t meant to be married.” Then, waving her hand in my direction, and the direction of Rob and Edge. “These are my friends. We’re here to speak with my uncle about something very important. He isn’t sleeping, I hope.”

Sam takes a moment to size us up.

“That’s some hairdo, sonny,” he says, not without a laugh. “I get it that you must color it with red dye. But how on God’s good earth do ya get it to stand up like that?”

Rob bites down on his bottom lip and runs his open hand over the top of the Mohawk.

“That’s a secret, old dude,” he says. “Let’s just say it takes some practice. And a lot of product.”

Sam shifts his gaze to Edge. “And you, sir,” he says, his eye squinty and inquisitive. “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?”

Edge pulls a cigarette from the pack in his jeans pocket, pops it between his lips.

“You a reader, Sam?” he asks.

“A book a week.”

“Ever read, The b***h?”

Sam’s eyes light up. “That’s you?” he says.

Edge lights the cigarette with his red Bic lighter.

“Well, not the b***h per se,” Edge says, releasing some smoke through his nostrils. “But I did write the book of the same name.”

“Edge, no smoking,” Sarah breaks in.

“I just love that hard-boiled fiction,” Sam says. “And we don’t mind smoking here. Half the old guys who live here still smoke, never mind the oxygen canisters they cart around. One of these days this place is gonna blow sky high.” Heading back around the reception counter, he adds, “Hey Edge, did you know the city of Cohoes was the playground to lots of gangsters back during prohibition?”

“So I hear,” Edge says.

Sarah, sensing my ever-growing loneliness, breaks in.

“And this is Chase Baker,” she says. “Chase also writes books. He’s also an adventurer, an explorer, and all around Renaissance man.”

“That so,” Sam says, holding out his hand over the counter.

I take it, shake it.

“You written anything I know about?” Sam asks.

I let go of the hand.

“Well, if you gotta ask . . .” I mumble. Chase the deflated.

“Message delivered loud and clear,” he says. “Well, send me something for my k****e. I’m always willing to try new authors.” He giggles. “Not much else to do around here but read and watch the Weather Channel.”

“So, is my Uncle Pat up?” Sarah says.

“Just finished lunch. He’s sitting in the living room, looking out the window. He’ll be so happy to see you, Sarah.”

“I hope so,” she says.

“Go on in,” Sam encourages, picking up his magazine. “Surprise him.”

We begin walking down the narrow corridor until we come to an opening in the wall to our right-hand side. Before we step through, Edge turns to me.

“Don’t get discouraged, Baker,” he whispers over his shoulder. “One day you’ll find a huge audience. It takes time. You’re a decent enough writer.”

“Gee thanks, Edge,” I say. “Means a lot coming from the guy who wrote Kill My Wife Please.”

Kill My Wife PleaseThe large living room is wide and brightly lit from the early afternoon sun that shines through the window. There’s are two elderly men seated on a couch pressed against the near wall. Both of them are asleep, chin against chest. Two more men occupy separate chairs towards the far corner. They’re watching the midday news on the wall-mounted flat screen. It’s hard to tell from where I’m standing if they’re awake. Maybe they’re dead.

Seated before the big picture window is a man with a balding — if not bald — scalp. Like Sarah, his skin is the color of coffee with milk. When Sarah gently places her hand on his shoulder, he turns, looks up at her and assumes a smile befitting a man who is seeing God for the first time. Or a young woman whom he loves very much, anyway.

“Sarah,” he says, his eyes wet and glassy. “Is that really you? Or am I dreaming you?”

“It’s me, Uncle Pat,” she says, bending down, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you, darling. Tell me, how is life in New York City? Have you written any books yet?”

She laughs softly. “I’ve written a bunch,” she says. “Nothing that’s made me rich. But I make enough to afford the rent on a Lower East Side walk-up, and that’s enough for me.” She turns to us. “I’d like you to meet my friends.”

She introduces us, and thankfully, Uncle Pat isn’t a Leslie Edgerton fan, or I’ll really consider hanging myself from the roof rafters. He nods at us, and smiles gently. It’s summertime, but like Sam at the vestibule counter, he’s wearing a cardigan over a wool button down and long pants. I peg him for maybe eighty or eighty-five. It’s tough to tell when you consider that these days more and more people are living long enough to usher in their one-hundredth birthday.

Sarah pulls up a chair and sits beside him, her face bathed in the same golden sunlight. She proceeds to explain to him our rather unorthodox and impromptu search for Dutch Schultz’s treasure. In return, he nods in understanding at every bullet point she expresses. Namely, the treasure is reputed to be buried along the streambank in Phoenicia, but she believes that to be untrue since it makes more sense that the treasure is buried in Albany.

She speaks about Great Grandpa Willy’s remains having been discovered and moved to the St. Agnes Cemetery, and how it will now be possible to test the veracity of the legend of the skull. That is, the treasure map that is supposedly carved into it. She also speaks about two Russian men who have been following us, and who are willing to rough us up in order to keep the treasure for themselves.

Uncle Pat laughs bitterly at this last one. “Well, Sarah, sweetheart,” he says, “wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far, Uncle Pat,” she says, her eyes shifting from the old man to us and back to him again.

“Let me tell you something,” he goes on, “Dutch Schultz was a natural born killer. And he killed plenty to save his treasure. He killed a man right inside this room over it.”

“How’s that?” Sarah questions.

“Eighty years ago,” Uncle Pat says, crossing his legs, “I was a boy of nine years. I often accompanied my Grandpa Willy when he was driving for Mr. Schultz.”

“Schultz allowed you to tag along?” I say.

The old man nods. “Schultz was a killer,” he says, “but he also liked kids. Liked having them around. I suppose it had something to do with his l**t for hero worship and something else a little more emotional too.”

“Well, whaddya know,” Edge says. “A sentimental mobster.”

“You see, Mr. Schultz’s own father run out on him when he was just a nine-year-old boy like I was. It was a pretty tragic thing back then to have your old man leave you high and dry—”

“—My old man took off on my mom when I was in utero,” Mohawk Rob interjects. “It’s still traumatic, dude.”

“Good word usage, Rob,” I point out. “Looks like you’re educated beyond your means. For a punk rocker s***h Uber driver, that is.”

“I’m a big reader, dude,” Rob adds. “Maybe one day I’ll get around to your stuff. Edge’s too.” He shifts his gaze to Sarah. “I’d like to check your books out too.”

“So, that explains the hair and piercing hardware,” Edge comments under his breath. “You’re quite the complicated guy, Rob.”

“Well then, young man,” Uncle Pat says, “you know exactly what I’m talking about. Schultz loved playing the father figure, and in turn, he could spoil you with gifts and such in exchange for your hero worship.”

“So, exactly what happened inside this room, Uncle Pat?”

“First, you gotta picture the scene eighty years ago. The Harmony Hotel wasn’t a broken-down palace for old geezers like me in those days. It was a swank hotel for some pretty glamorous actresses and actors come up from New York City to appear at the Music Hall over yonder. It also attracted more than its fair share of gangsters. This room where I’m sitting right now was a beautiful dining room.” He slowly raises his arm, points with a crooked index finger toward the opposite end of the room where the two old men are sitting on the couch, asleep so soundly their jaws have dropped. “Over there is where Dutch Schultz drew his pistol from his vest pocket, shoved the barrel into his beer business partner’s mouth, and pulled the trigger.”

“Whoa, dude,” Rob interjects. “Dutch was a real nice guy. What did his partner do to deserve that kind of treatment?”

“He was skimming,” Uncle Pat says. “Skimming off the profits of their illegal beer business to the tune of twenty thousand a year. But that alone isn’t what caused Schultz to blow his brains out like that.”

“What did?” I ask.

Uncle Pat looks one way and then the other as if we’re being watched and listened to by somebody who cares other than ourselves.

“Dutch’s personal treasure trove was filled with more than just cash, gold, silver coins, and the odd piece of jewelry. It also contained something else that made it very special. Very one of a kind you might even say.”

Sarah tosses me a quick look, her eyes on fire, her face tight with anticipation.

“We’re listening, Uncle Pat,” she says.

“My grandfather . . . your great grandfather, Sarah . . . was more than just the occasional driver for Dutch Schultz. He was in fact, an invaluable connection.”

“To what, Uncle Pat?” Sarah begs.

“To some of the most beautiful and rare blue diamonds in the world.”