The Stingray Shuffle полностью

The maître d’ blocked their path. “Do you have a reservation?”

The maître d’s head bounced on the steps as he was dragged back down the stairs by the legs. They pulled him into the men’s room and slapped him around.

“Who’s the urinal guy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Punch.

“Who’s the urinal guy!”

“I don’t know!”

They upended him and shook him by the ankles. Pocket change and silverware clanged on the tiles. A business card fluttered to the floor. Ivan picked it up.

“Big Apple Urinal Guys,” said Ivan. “Who’s that?”

The maître d’ shrugged upside down.

“There’s no address. Only a phone number.”

“You can use the reverse directory,” said the maître d’.

“How do you do that?”

“Just call the phone company.”

The N-R line squealed into the subway station below Houston Street. Eugene Tibbs stood up and grabbed a handrail. Tibbs’s shift back in the Russian Tea Room had started like all the others, but the ending was a bit different. Tibbs had finished counting his tips and went to pack up his supplies for the night. He grabbed his briefcase from under the sink and opened it.

His blues were cured.

Tibbs slammed the lid shut and hurried out of the Tea Room. He’d been a paranoid mess ever since. He knew someone would come after the money, and they wouldn’t ask politely. Even if he gave it back, he was still dead. Only one option: leave the city as fast as possible and retire in millionaire’s style. He couldn’t stop shaking and looking over his shoulder. Why couldn’t he be cool like Ralph Krunkleton? What would the real urinal guy do in a jam like this?

The train doors opened, and Eugene stepped out of the car onto the Houston Street platform. He was quiet and alone. Then movement. Eugene’s head snapped to the left. Way, way down at the opposite end of the platform, someone stepped out of the last car.

Tibbs stared at the man, standing there casually, reading a newspaper like he had nothing to do. The man looked up from the paper at Tibbs and looked back down quickly.

Uh-oh. Don’t panic. Where did you see this once? Adrenaline spun the memory Rolodex in Eugene’s head. Yes, I remember now. The French Connection. Tibbs took a single step backward, through the still-open door of the subway car.

At the other end of the platform, Serge looked up from his paper as Tibbs disappeared back into the train. So that’s it, thought Serge. He wants to play French Connection. Well, two can tango! He took a step backward into his own car.

Tibbs stuck his head out of the train. The platform was empty again. Perspiration increased. He took a step out of the car and stared down the platform.

Serge’s head popped out of the last car. He saw Tibbs. He stepped back on the platform. Tibbs jumped back into the first car. Serge jumped back into the last car. Tibbs jumped out again. Serge jumped out. On, off, on, off.

The subway system put an end to the game. The train’s doors closed, and it pulled away into the tunnel.

Just Tibbs and Serge alone on the platform. They locked eyes. Eugene blinked. He took off running for the stairs up to Houston Street. Serge sprinted after him.

Eugene tripped and went sprawling on the steps. Mints, Bic razors, business cards everywhere. He turned around. Serge was gaining. He got up and started running again, coming out of the subway and reaching the street. Car noises, food smells. He evaluated each direction, then took off west.

Serge ran up the steps, grabbing a business card and reading it on the run.

They galloped all over lower Manhattan, through the Village and SoHo. Serge was faster, but Eugene knew the turf, running through restaurant kitchens and up service lifts. He crossed Bleecker Street and turned south, but Serge was still there, a block back.

A yellow taxi-van drove five women up Hudson Street, a recorded message playing in back: “This is Mary Wilson of the Supremes asking you to Stop! In the name of safety! Please buckle up.”

“Pull over,” said Teresa. She checked the address against her paperback. “This is the place.”

The BBB got out in front of the White Horse Tavern.

Rebecca pointed at the sidewalk. “Dylan Thomas bought it right there. The permanent hangover.”

They stared at the pavement.

“Should we be feeling good about this?” asked Sam.

A tanker truck was parked at the corner, next to a crane dangling an array of metal wands over a vintage Checker cab.

“Look,” said Teresa. “They’re shooting a movie.”

A technician turned on the rain machine, and the wands began to drizzle on the taxi.

“Roll film!”

Two people got out of the cab and kissed passionately.

Five Russians sprinted up the sidewalk. They ran through the rain, vaulted the hood of the cab and knocked over the embracing couple.

“Cut! Cut!”

The book club took a step back off the sidewalk as the Russians stampeded past them and disappeared into the darkness.

“Now we’re seeing the real New York,” Maria said cheerfully.