Free Lunch in New York City Read online

  Free Lunch in New York City

  FREE LUNCH

  IN

  NEW YORK CITY

  Matthias Drawe

  Copyright © 2016 Matthias Drawe

  All rights reserved.

  D.A. Publishing

  228 Park Ave S #24579

  New York, NY 10003

  Tel.: + 1-212-486-8049

  [email protected]

  Editor: René Alfaro

  Cover: Micha Strahl

  ISBN: 1534774459

  ISBN-13: 978-1534774452

  CONTENTS

  1. THE NEW LOCK — 2. THE EXPERT OPINION — 3. BY THE SWEAT OF THY FACE — 4. A WATERTIGHT SYSTEM — 5. SMOKE SIGNALS — 6. A SAFE HAVEN — 7. LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF — 8. A WINTER WONDERLAND — 9. DEADLINE, INC. — 10. SILENT NIGHT, HOLY NIGHT — 11. CODENAME PAPILLON — 12. FIRE! — 13. NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER — 14. TRANQUILA — 15. THE NEW YEAR'S ORACLE — 16. BYRDSEED — 17. CECI N'EST PAS UNE PIPE! — 18. WEST END AVENUE — 19. INTENSIVE CARE — 20. THE KALASHNIKOV CONCERT — 21. REUNION WITH AN OLD FRIEND — 22. TIMES SQUARE RETREAT — 23. THE JOB INTERVIEW — 24. THE RECESSIVE GENE — 25. R-E-S-P-E-C-T — 26. CODE OF CONDUCT — 27. BAD TIDINGS — 28. FEINSTEIN'S SIDEKICK — 29. WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IN — 30. A LIVING LEGEND — 31. IN THE WRONG MOVIE — 32. CHEZ PIERRE — 33. THE NAKED TRUTH — 34. A SPECIAL DAY — 35. PUT TO THE TEST — 36. THE HEALTH LOAN — 37. LOOSE CHANGE — 38. BREVITY IS THE SOUL OF WIT — 39. THE QUIRKS — 40. A SMALL INVESTMENT — 41. BETWEEN MURNAU AND EISENSTEIN — 42. THE DIE IS CAST — 43. A UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY — 44. A CONSPIRATORIAL MEETING — 45. DINNER AT FEINSTEIN'S — 46. SILENT WHISPERS IN THE PARK — 47. OF DONUTS AND SEAGULLS — 48. THE LEGACY — ABOUT THE AUTHOR — FINAL NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

  1.

  THE NEW LOCK

  "Open the damn door, or I'll kill you!" Bill threw himself against the door with all his might. "Open up, you son of a bitch, I know you're in there!"

  Trembling, Hardy stood with his back against the wall, clenching his hands around the baseball bat.

  If Bill managed to kick down the door, there would be a fight to the finish.

  Once more, the black prince thrust himself against the massive wood. The hinges slightly gave way, but the door held firm.

  Bill cursed. "I'll get you, you scumbag. Just wait and see." He ran down the stairs muttering something under his breath.

  Hardy's heart pounded in his temples. He would be done for if Bill could get the guys from Avenue B on his side.

  Hardy called Loraine but only got the machine. Suddenly, she picked up, sounding sleepy and annoyed. "What is it now?"

  "He tried to kick in the door."

  "Where's Tammy?"

  "Passed out."

  Loraine moaned. "Okay, I'll come by."

  Hardy glanced into the mirror. His face was bloated from the boozing with Tammy. They drank together and had sex several times a day. It was fun but didn't really enhance his looks. He suddenly resembled Otto Steinhagel, the alcoholic gravedigger from his film. — Damn, his film! Bill knew where the can was hidden.

  Hardy pulled his film from the kitchen cabinet and pressed it against his chest. Where could he hide it?

  Tammy lay on her bed, snoring. She was naked, except for the headscarf concealing her unkempt hair. One of her skinny, black legs hung over the edge of the mattress, twitching. Hardy stared at her shaved pussy and the golden stud in her labia. She had done it for him. As a present for his twenty-ninth birthday.

  He had an erection. Tammy wasn't even conscious, but he had the irresistible urge to penetrate her. It would relieve the stress. At least temporarily.

  He slid the film can under the bed and pulled down his zipper. Carefully, he penetrated her. Tammy started to moan. She still had her eyes closed but pushed up against him. It felt good. Very good. Tammy opened her eyes, and they kissed. Her mouth tasted of brandy.

  Suddenly, a vigorous knock on the door.

  Damn! — Hardy zipped up while Tammy yawned and cuddled her pillow. A split second later, she started snoring again.

  He hurried to the entrance peering through the peephole: Loraine. She was completely different from Tammy: tall, robust and feisty. Colorful beads dangled from her braids, and enormous breasts bulged under her African robe. Almost unbelievable that the two were sisters.

  Loraine grinned when she saw the new lock. "Good work. Let the black prince piss in a bucket." She couldn't stand Bill and therefore called him the black prince.

  When Hardy had moved in, Bill had battled a drug problem for years even though he concealed it well. In the beginning, they had hit it off, drinking red wine and listening to the Jazz station from Newark, but after a while Bill's condition deteriorated. Maybe he had taken the wrong pills. He talked haltingly, uttered complete nonsense, and constantly forgot to lock the door.

  Hardy and Loraine heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Shortly after, there was a rhythmic knock on the door.

  Loraine peered through the peephole. "The cops!"

  One of the officers was black, the other white. Snowflakes melted on their caps and shoulders. Bill stood right behind them. He was rail thin, his upper body slightly bent forward. As always, he had his magical glass sphere dangling on a leather strap around his neck.

  "Are you the tenant, Miss?" the black cop asked.

  Loraine shook her head. "I'm her sister."

  "Where's the tenant?"

  "Sleeping."

  "Wake her up."

  Loraine went to the bedroom. Tammy groaned and let out a curse. She put on her long, worn-out sweatshirt and shuffled to the entrance.

  The black cop pointed at Bill. "He says he's your roommate, and you don't let him use the bathroom."

  Tammy scratched her head.

  "Let me help ...," Loraine said. "This black prince lives over there!" She pointed across the hall to Bill's shack. "My sister has allowed him to establish himself in this storage closet so he has a roof over his head. He doesn't pay a single penny, and it was pure charity to let him use the bathroom once in a while."

  "Charity my ass!" Bill exclaimed, pointing at Tammy. "She gets more food stamps because of me."

  "Why don't you let the gentleman use the bathroom?"

  Tammy shrugged and yawned.

  "Why, why ..." Loraine waved her arms. "Because he constantly leaves the entrance door open, and quite a few valuables have gone missing, that's why. He needs to stay in his damn closet."

  "This one ..." Bill pointed his thin index finger at Hardy. "He's the one to blame, the sneaky bastard. Tammy and I always were the best of friends, but he jinxed her! He's a perverted, sexual maniac. They mate like rabbits the entire day. He wants to drive me out. He's the one who changed the lock."

  Bill stuck his finger further out, as if he wanted to pierce it into Hardy's flesh. "He's not even American. He's illegal. He snuck in here, trying to take over. But I won't have it. Arrest him, and take him away!"

  Hardy froze.

  So far, his papers had never been checked. Only once had he come close to detection as he worked at the vegetable market in Hunts Point. Two officials appeared, wanting to see work permits, but Hardy had hidden in a crawl space with an illegal Mexican.

  "Listen, sir," the black cop said. "We are the NYPD. The INS decides about immigration status. The NYPD would only be responsible if there is a formal deportation order."

  "Great," Bill exclaimed. "Then I formally demand as a rightful citizen of the United States of America that you deport him. Immediately!"

  "Wait a minute," Loraine said. "I have a better idea. Why don't you look deep into the eyes of this gentleman? You might notice an enlargement of his pupils. Why don't you ha
ve a quick look into his shack over there, just to make sure he doesn't store any illegal substances?"

  Bill threw Loraine a venomous look. "This is an absolute impudence. I am a freelance artist and a law-abiding citizen of the United States of America. I've never done anything wrong."

  Tammy and Loraine giggled.

  The two policemen exchanged a meaningful look.

  "Listen, sir," the black cop said. "There is a crucial question here. Do you have a lease, anything in writing?"

  "Sure," Bill said triumphantly. "Of course!" He went into his shack and rummaged through a box. "Here!" He held out a piece of paper. "Here it is!"

  "A phone bill?"

  "That's right. In my name."

  Bill had a phone in his shack. But for fifty bucks you could get a connection almost anywhere, even under a bridge.

  The police radio beeped. The black cop turned away and muttered something into the microphone.

  "Listen, Mr. ..." The white cop looked at the phone bill. "Mr. Williamson ... I suggest that you contact public assistance. Keep to your space for now. We don't want to come back, okay?"

  The cops turned and walked down the stairs.

  Loraine slammed the door in front of Bill's face. "Good bye, you bum."

  "You damned scumbags!" Bill yelled. "This is not the last of it, just you wait and see!"

  2.

  THE EXPERT OPINION

  "So, did you read it?"

  Francisco nodded, sipped his coffee, and leafed through a few bills. His tiny office in the Lumière was cluttered, a poster of La Dolce Vita hung on the wall. Francisco was Colombian and in his late forties. Short, round-faced, and pot-bellied. Even though he ran an art house cinema, you could have mistaken him for a bus driver.

  The telephone rang. A call from Iran. A documentary filmmaker had problems with his visa.

  Hardy sat on a metal chair next to the desk and examined a flyer with the program: European classics, Asian avant-garde, Australian underground. Through the open office door, he could look into the foyer. A few people stood in line for the next show. A freak with dyed blue hair, an elderly couple in trench coats, a woman with a tattooed tear beneath her eye.

  It smelled of buttered popcorn.

  Hardy had a kitchen knife in his pocket. Not exactly the best defense but better than nothing. Bill would not give up easily.

  Francisco was done with his phone call. He had promised to give Hardy's new screenplay to Floyd Burns. Working title: Chaos in Kyrgyzstan.

  "What's the word from Floyd?"

  "Haven't passed it on yet."

  Hardy felt queasy. "How so?"

  "Because he's in Toronto right now. Besides ...," Francisco rummaged through his drawer and pulled out Hardy's screenplay. "… it's too European. You want American money, you need an American plot."

  He put on his reading glasses and looked at the comments he had scribbled in the margins. "But I think you can make it work. Kyrgyzstan becomes Mexico, we turn the German guy into a New York Jew, and the Turkish fellow could be a Puerto Rican. Vodka becomes tequila, Stalin's limo becomes Kennedy's Cadillac, and the hilarious scene in the chicken coop can stay as is — chickens are nearly everywhere … Title: Mayhem in Mexico. — What do you say?"

  Hardy stopped breathing. With a few casual strokes, Francisco had wiped off months of work.

  "Why a New York Jew in the lead? That's not exactly my background."

  "Because it shows your range, Hardy. It makes you great as a screenwriter, don't you understand?"

  Francisco was Hardy's main contact in New York. They knew each other from the San Sandoval Film Festival, where Cryptic X had won the Newcomer Award.

  Francisco took a few photos from the drawer and slid them across the table. A forty-year-old guy with an eye-catching, Jewish nose and a receding hairline.

  The sinking feeling in Hardy's stomach grew stronger. "He's much too old."

  "Only because of his roles. He looks younger with the right makeup."

  "Never heard of him. What's his last name?"

  "Feinstein. He stars in Carmine Medical Center. And he plays on Broadway."

  Jimmy stood in the doorway: an Asian-American with tattoos on his forearms, wearing his baseball cap backward. "The freakin' projector bulb blew again."

  Francisco unlocked a small safe and handed him a twenty.

  Why a New York Jew? Hardy did not understand why on earth Francisco was pushing Feinstein.

  "Because he's perfect for the role, Hardy. It all fits together: Avi, Floyd, low-budget shoot in Mexico …" Francisco snapped three times with his fingers. "Once the script is done, we will get financing in no time."

  Mayhem in Mexico. Hardy closed his eyes, imagining the frail Jew Avi Feinstein in the lead and shifting some of the key scenes from Kyrgyzstan to Mexico.

  "I know what you think. You think Avi is a bit, how should I say it, too delicate for the role, not macho enough, right?"

  "Right."

  "Wrong! Forget the crappy TV shows, you have to see him on stage. He has an insane range, believe me. One minute you laugh yourself silly, and the next your blood will freeze ..."

  Francisco pulled out a theater ticket. "Okay, it's an off-musical, but Avi is excellent. He sings, tap dances and plays the mandolin. I guarantee that you'll get goose bumps at least five times."

  Hardy looked at the ticket: The Kalashnikov Concert.

  "What is it about?"

  "He plays a melancholy mafia boss. A very strong part."

  Francisco stood up and spread his arms. "I really have to go, my dear, the damn visas for the Iranians are driving me crazy."

  They embraced, and Francisco patted the back of Hardy's head.

  Hardy remembered the boozy opening night of Cryptic X at the San Sandoval Film Festival, where they had become friends. Francisco was so drunk that he had given him a wet kiss on the neck. The Colombian was married, but it was an open secret that he also liked young men.

  Hardy pulled away from him. "When do I have to deliver the rewrite? When can you give it to Floyd?"

  "I suggest you write the intro, the magic moment in the chicken coop and the conclusion. That should convince Avi."

  "Avi? We show it to Avi first?"

  "Sure. Avi is the godfather of Floyd's son."

  The phone rang. Francisco took the call, waving Hardy good-bye.

  Outside the cinema, Jimmy swapped photos in the showcase. The Asian projectionist tried his hand at filmmaking but so far had only completed a five-minute short on Super 8. Hardy knew that Jimmy did not like him, a feeling that was mutual. If they met somewhere on the street, they looked the other way.

  Hardy pulled up the collar of his pea coat and trudged against the icy wind through the East Village. Hardly anyone was on the street. Christmas lights blinked in the windows, and a few cars drove slowly over the slippery First Avenue, their headlights projecting cones into the snowfall.

  Hardy turned onto East 2nd Street and noticed dim lights behind the sleazy curtains of Bill's shack.

  The filmmaker lit a cigarette. He took a few puffs and coughed. Bronchitis. He needed to stop smoking, but he couldn't. Not now. Taking a last drag, he flipped the butt into the snow.

  Hardy slipped into the foyer, pulling out his knife. Cautiously, he walked up the stairs. Just before reaching the second floor, he peered under the railing to Bill's shack. The door was closed. Bill had placed two bowls of salt in front of the threshold and scribbled something on a piece of cardboard: Depart from me, Lord of Darkness!

  Hardy rushed up the last few steps, unlocked the door, and slipped into Tammy's apartment. He bolted the door and slumped against the wall.

  "Welcome home, honey!" Tammy shouted. "I got a surprise for you."

  Hardy went into the bathroom. There were burning candles on the sink, and the tub was filled with a bubble bath. But where was Tammy?

  Suddenly her small ass surfaced under the foam. She pulled her cheeks to the side. The golden stud in her labia glimmered
in the soft light.

  Hardy tore off his clothes and stepped into the tub. The bathroom was the best part of the entire apartment. Apart from a few cracked tiles, it was just beautiful. A spacious pre-war bathroom with an ample tub. They fooled around in the warm water and sipped on a bottle of Puerto Rican rum that Tammy had traded for food stamps.

  3.

  BY THE SWEAT OF THY FACE

  Hardy sat in front of his computer, which he had purchased for fifty bucks at the flea market. It had come with a black and white monitor and a junky nine-needle printer. The screen darkened occasionally but lit back up if you banged on the top edge.

  Hardy's room was tiny — not much larger than seventy square feet. A desk, a chair, and a worn couch. That was it.

  His only decoration was a black and white photo of a Mexican soldadera cut out from a newspaper. She wore men's clothes, a sombrero, and a colt tucked into her belt. The resolve in her black eyes and her pouty mouth were sexy. It was rather odd since he had hung the photo weeks ago, way before Francisco had suggested Mexico. Was this an omen?