Free Lunch in New York City Page 2

  Hardy paced back and forth in front of his desk. Why on earth Avi Feinstein? His original hero was tough, athletic, and in his mid-twenties. Avi Feinstein was frail, delicate and in his forties. Would anyone believe that he could lift a limousine from a muddy ditch?

  Hardy imagined Feinstein wearing a baseball cap. This would at least cover his receding hairline. No, a baseball cap wouldn't work. If he'd wear headgear, it had to be a small hat, similar to that of Yogi bear. Feinstein would look younger this way.

  Hardy glanced out at the snow-covered park in front of the retirement home on Houston Street. His window, leading to the fire escape, was secured with a locked sliding grate.

  Tammy was out and about. Probably drinking in a nearby bar. Although she was past forty, she looked pretty good if she fixed herself up, and guys readily bought her drinks. Hardy was slightly jealous when she hung out in bars, but he appreciated the calm. When she was around, he didn't get much done.

  He sat back down and stared at the computer screen. He had not written a single line yet. The tiny room suffocated him.

  He went into the living room and walked in circles around the shabby sofa and the old TV set, which was missing the dial knob. You needed a pair of pliers to change the channel.

  The golden holiday decoration from the previous year still hung above the fireplace: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Sort of neat since a new Christmas was approaching fast.

  Hardy pulled back the curtains and looked down at the street. A car was stuck in the snow. The wheels spun and failed to get a grip.

  Perhaps, he should skip the intro for now and warm up with a scene in the middle, where the hero was stuck in the Sierra Madre. Maybe that would do the trick!

  Hardy hurried back to his room. Pressing his tongue between his lips, he typed a few lines and saw the barren Sierra Madre: At the side of the road lay the broken-down jalopy that Feinstein had bought to track down Kennedy's Cadillac. It was extremely hot as he fanned his face with the Yogi bear hat. No, no, stop. This didn't work because of the receding hairline. Feinstein had to wear the hat at all times.

  Hardy was sweating. The damn radiator was running on full steam again. Not adjustable, it was either boiling hot or not working at all. The radiator made a crackling noise, and steam hissed from a valve.

  Hardy opened the window but soon closed it again — too cold. Anyway, a little sweating wouldn't do him any harm. Far from it, it set the right mood for the Sierra Madre.

  He imagined the scene in which the gangsters set the trap. What would he call the boss of the villains? Hardy recalled an Argentine acquaintance nicknamed Lugo. Lugo sounded fine. It was no ordinary name and had a nasty ring to it. Lugo, Lugo, Lugo. He hammered a few lines into the keyboard — the scene slowly took shape.

  Again, steam hissed from a valve, and the room started to feel like a sauna. Sweat dropped from Hardy's chin. The heat inspired him. He was sweating just like Feinstein who was struggling to heave the limo from the mud ditch.

  Suddenly, the computer went dead along with the desk lamp.

  He cursed and rushed to the peephole. The hallway was clear. He cautiously opened the door and looked at the ceiling. Some scumbag had cut the extension cable. The Chinese landlord? No, it could only have been Bill because his own cable was still plugged in.

  The power had been turned off months ago because Tammy had not paid the bill. To get around the lack of juice, while still buddies, Bill and Hardy had tapped the hallway light. At each 99 cents store you could buy a fixture adapter with two power outlets. You just took out the bulb, screwed in the adapter, and consequently had two outlets while keeping the bulb in place. Bill and Hardy had laid the extensions discreetly along the ceiling. One led to Bill's shack, the other to Tammy's place.

  Hardy noticed a strange smell: Bill had injected Super Glue into the new lock!

  Hardy rummaged through the drawers and found some nail polish remover. He dribbled a few drops on his key and inserted it into the cylinder. Gradually, the glue dissolved, and the lock turned again.

  Hardy was close to kicking in Bill's door, but this was exactly what the scumbag wanted. Then he would call the cops again.

  The filmmaker fetched the ladder, climbed up to the hallway ceiling and peeled the plastic coating of the cable. He carefully inserted the blank wire into the outlet, and Tammy's lights came back on.

  Hardy bolted the door, lit a cigarette, and sat down in his chair. He coughed, staring into the void.

  The computer worked again, but Hardy, drained as he was, could not continue writing. He could not think clearly in this environment. Something new cropped up every day with no apparent end in sight.

  He suddenly remembered Steven C. Cornfield. Ironically, it had been Bill's idea. It was risky, but why not give it a try? What did he have to lose?

  Hardy went to Tammy's room, sifting through her drawers. Steve's papers had to be somewhere in there …

  4.

  A WATERTIGHT SYSTEM

  "If you want to smile, do it now."

  Hardy put on a forced smile as the DMV photographer pressed the shutter button. The office was on the 8th floor of a commercial building in midtown. Next to the elevator stood a beefy security guard in uniform.

  I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut, I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut.

  Hardy had read that spies used self-suggestion when taking on another identity. Maybe it would work for him as well.

  I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut, I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut.

  The photographer slid the print across. "Sign on the dotted line."

  Hardy scribbled Steve's signature on the form. It had taken him quite a while to fake it properly.

  He sat down in the waiting room, nervously fumbling with his wait number. What would happen if they caught him? Jail? Possibly. Hardy glanced at the security guy. He stood right next to the exit. In the event of a hasty retreat, Hardy would probably not get past him.

  Since his arrival in New York, Hardy had kept afloat with odd jobs that didn't require any papers: removing debris, refurbishing apartments, stacking boxes at the market in Hunts Point. When he got home, he was half dead, and the meager pay was barely enough to survive.

  What he needed was an office job, but without papers it was impossible to get one. In an office, he could kill two birds with one stone: He would have a regular income, and in his down time, he could secretly advance his screenplay.

  Hardy pulled out a plastic straw and sucked on it. Supposedly, some guys in Texas had kicked the habit this way. The straw was cut to the size of a cigarette, and when you vigorously sucked on it and held your breath for a few seconds, the urge subsided.

  I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut, I am Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut.

  Steve's story was mysterious. As a metal worker, he had an accident when he was thirty-seven: multiple herniated discs and a neuropathy in the right arm. In early retirement, he spent his money on drugs and alcohol. Eventually, he met Tammy, moved in with her, and at some point, began to peddle cocaine. One evening he just did not come back. Perhaps a deal had gone wrong and someone had killed him. Since that day his papers had been sitting in one of Tammy's drawers, unused.

  Hardy was sweating. Almost all public offices in New York were overheated. He opened his jacket and sucked on the straw.

  Ding-dong! — The board showed Hardy's number.

  The official at the service counter looked annoyed. Michael T. Snyder had a harelip and grown-in earlobes. He wiggled a pen between his fingers.

  Hardy slid Steve's worn out social security card and birth certificate across the table. Those two were genuine. Everything else was forged.

  Snyder stared at the social security card. "Is this a three or an eight at the end?"

  "Eight."

  "What did you with the card — put it in the washing machine?"

  S
nyder shook his head and punched in the number. He leaned closer to the monitor, studying the information. If Steve had been reported dead, the game was over.

  Hardy was sweating. Why was it so damn hot?

  Snyder leaned back in his chair. "Have you ever had an ID of the State of New York?"

  "Uh ... no."

  Snyder clicked with his mouse. "Did you ever have an ID of the State of Connecticut?"

  "Yes."

  "Where is it?"

  "Lost."

  "Did you report the loss?"

  "Sure did."

  Sweat ran into Hardy's eyes, and it started to burn.

  "How did you report the loss? Over the phone? You should have received a confirmation in the mail."

  "I didn't."

  Snyder shook his head. "Connecticut …! Where is your proof of address?"

  Hardy showed him the tinted plastic envelope with the forged electricity bill. He had inserted Steve's name using a color copier. It looked almost perfect, but the paper had a slightly different consistency than the original bill. It was thicker.

  "Take that thing out of the dark sleeve. I can hardly read a thing."

  Snyder looked at the address on the bill and then at the back of the page. Hardy had scribbled a shopping list on the reverse side and crumbled the sheet, so it looked more authentic.

  Snyder sneezed. He held his breath for a moment and sneezed again. "Damn allergies." He slid the bill back and wiped his nose with a paper tissue. "Let me see your passport. Military ID, veteran's ID, disability ID: a card with a picture on it."

  Hardy held Steve's disability ID against the window. He had glued his photo over Steve's and then plasticized the card a second time. If Snyder demanded to see it up close and touched the photo, he would notice the forgery.

  "So young and already handicapped?"

  "Multiple herniated disc. Very painful. Can't lift more than one pound. Also, a neuropathy in the right arm." Hardy awkwardly moved his fingers in front of the window, demonstrating his disability. "Can't feel much with this one."

  Snyder typed something into his keyboard and nibbled on his lower lip. Finally, he hit the return key.

  Nothing happened.

  Snyder raised his eyebrows and looked at the printer. "Hmm, it doesn't print, but why?" He studied the monitor. "Oh ..., yes of course. What's your mother's maiden name?"

  Hardy froze.

  "Without it I can't close the window", Snyder said. "What's your mother's maiden name?"

  Hardy was paralyzed, his mouth dry.

  "You are very pale," Snyder said. "Not feeling well?"

  Hardy touched his back in pain. "Ah, the disc, this damn pain. Always strikes without warning." He squinted, breathing heavily. What should he do now? Jump up and run?

  Snyder impatiently tapped his fingers on the table.

  Hardy racked his brain. What the hell was Steve's mother's maiden name? He had seen it somewhere, but where?

  "Here," Snyder suddenly said, pointing to Steve's birth certificate. "Here it is. — Rickert …," he muttered to himself. "Rickert ..."

  Of course, Rickert! Now, Hardy remembered it. He kept on groaning anyway. His fake back pain could not have gone away so easily.

  Snyder hit the return key again.

  Nothing happened.

  "I don't get this, George ...," Snyder turned to his colleague at the next desk. "I entered the maiden name, but it just won't print."

  "F5 and delete section seven."

  Snyder complied and once more hit the return key.

  Still nothing.

  Hardy held his breath. What was wrong? Snyder and his colleague stared at the screen in disbelief.

  Suddenly, the printer reacted and spat out Hardy's confirmation.

  "A glitch in the software," Snyder said apologetically. "You need to give it a little twist sometimes."

  He came closer to the window and lowered his voice. "People think that our computerized system is waterproof, but you know what ...? This is just between us, don't tell anyone, okay, but if you came in here on a very busy day with a few, uh, let's just say cleverly manipulated documents, you might as well walk out with a ..." Snyder paused, waiting for Hardy to complete the sentence.

  "... you don't say …?" Hardy whispered in disbelief.

  "Exactly."

  Hardy shook his head. "Impossible!"

  Snyder grinned. "I know, it should not happen, and on my watch, it won't, but you know what? It could happen, it really could."

  He slid the confirmation across the table. "You are done, Mr. Cornfield. In about two weeks you will receive the card in the mail."

  Hardy walked along Broadway. A cold, sunny day. At the corner of 32nd Street he stopped for a moment, blinking into the sun. It smelled of toasted almonds. The area was full of street vendors selling Christmas accessories, cheap jewelry, and trinkets. Most were immigrants without papers who lived from one day to the other. Up to this point, Hardy had been one of them.

  He pulled out the confirmation and held it up. The sun illuminated the paper from behind, circling the data like a spotlight. From now on, he was Steven C. Cornfield, born in Hartford, Connecticut.

  5.

  SMOKE SIGNALS

  "Damn, hurry up, something's wrong!" Bill stood in front of Tammy's door, sniffing the air.

  As Hardy opened the door, a dark cloud of smoke hit him. He slid open a window and gasped for air. The electric plate was red hot, the table underneath charred. He juggled the pot with the burned rice into the sink and opened the faucet. Dark steam billowed, hissing loudly.

  Bill stood in front of the fridge, his arms folded across his chest. "She's a security risk, man. Could've burned down the entire house. The Chink would have loved that."

  Hardy rushed into the living room. Tammy was sitting on the rocking chair by the window, fast asleep. Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth agape. She had traded her food stamps for alcohol.

  He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. "Wake up, dammit!"

  She came to, looked at him with glassy eyes, and mumbled something. — Hardy suddenly remembered his film. Bill was still in the apartment and could grab the can!

  He ran to his room, took the picture with the soldadera off the wall, loosened the bricks and reached into the cavity. He let out a sigh of relief. The can was still in its hiding place. It contained the only 16 mm print of Cryptic X. Sure, there was the negative in a Berlin lab, but Hardy had no access. He had shot the film on credit, and a considerable bill remained unpaid.

  Suddenly, a loud fart. Bill was in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet.

  Hardy grabbed his baseball bat. He knew how to defend himself come crunch time. He had been in fights with his brother or with rivals in school, and during his time as a squatter in Berlin, he had fought off the cops.

  Hardy had been brought up in a small West German town. He did not get along with his father, and shortly after his eighteenth birthday he moved to West Berlin to escape conscription. He had lived in a squat and played guitar in a punk-rock band.

  Eventually, a Super 8 camera had fallen into his hands. When he projected the first images onto a bedding sheet, playing a tape of "O sole mio" along, he was immediately hooked. He had created something magical with a daring close-up montage of a kissing couple. From that moment on, he knew that he wanted to be a filmmaker.

  Bill came out of the bathroom, tightening his belt around his narrow waist. He sat down at the table and rolled a smoke. "Give me the key."

  "I thought we had resolved this."

  Bill lit his cigarette and leaned back. "Okay, I can wait."

  Bill was well over fifty but appeared younger. If you looked at him from a certain angle, he resembled Chuck Berry. He was an artist, using watercolors and sometimes oil on canvas when he had money. Mostly, he painted surreal scenes from the rural South. A busty blonde angel, wearing a see-through dress, graced almost all his canvasses. Bill claimed to see her almost daily. If he found anything of value on the st
reet, he said: "My angel sent it to me."

  The door opened with a squeak. Bill had left it slightly ajar, as always.

  "What the hell is going on? It reeks of smoke." Mickey Doggy Style held his nose. "Terrible stench, man."

  Mickey was bloated and in his mid-forties. He wore a scruffy baseball cap and brown tortoiseshell glasses. He did drugs and stole everything that was not nailed down. He lived on the third floor with his older brother and a German shepherd. When his brother was in the hospital due to hip surgery, Mickey sold half the furniture and blamed it on a burglar. Allegedly he banged the German shepherd, and that's how he got his nickname: Doggy Style.

  "Can I roll one?" Mickey asked.

  Bill slid the tobacco across the table. Mickey quickly and artistically rolled one with his fat fingers and lit it with a battered Zippo.

  Suddenly, Tammy appeared, wearing only her large sweatshirt and socks. "What's going on? It smells funny."