CHAPTER 4
After ducking through the fire exit to avoid reporters still in
the lobby, Elliot started briskly down Park Avenue, the boulevard
busy even with out its usual flow of yellow taxicabs. He walked
toward the thirty-block-distant Pan Am Building -- though it was
no longer owned by that airline -- passing seedy hotel after
seedy hotel, passing a derelict structure at Sixty-eighth Street,
once Hunter College. He turned west on to Fifty-ninth Street --
past Burger King, past Madison Avenue, past the plywood and
soaped plate glass at General Motors Plaza -- and continued down
Fifth Avenue.
Tourists from EUCOMTO states were abundant on the avenue,
buying up bargains to the bewilderment of proudly nationalistic
Americans and to the delight of proprietors eager for the
illegal, gold-backed eurofrancs. Where once exclusive stores had
displayed apparel of quiet taste, the latest rage among the
fashionable was the Genghis Khan: coats of metallic-silver
leather trimmed with long, black monkey fur.
A sign was posted on a lamppost at the corner of Forty-ninth
Street; Elliot passed by hardly noticing it.
WARNING!
to LOOTERS, VANDALS, MUGGERS, SHOPLIFTERS,
PICKPOCKETS, and other assorted CRIMINALS. This
area is heavily patrolled by ARMED GUARDS with
orders to protect our businesses and customers
from you BY ANY MEANS POSSIBLE.
BEWARE FOR YOUR LIVES!
- Fifth Avenue Merchant Alliance
About fifty minutes after he had left home, Elliot entered a
small bookstore at 204 West Forty-second Street, just outside the
Federal Renovation Zone. It was crossways to the edifice at One
Times Square originally the New York Times building, most famous
as the Allied Chemical Tower, now a federal building called,
somewhat tongue-in-cheek, the Oracle Tower. The Rabelais
bookstore was without customers when Elliot arrived; a man was
seated on a stool behind the counter, a sign in back of him
declaring in large black lettering, "BE 21 OR BE GONE." On one
wall were such classic titles as A Pilgrim of Passion, Suburban
Souls, Professional Lovers, and Saucer Sluts; the other wall
offered more pedestrian titles by Salinger, Hemingway, and Joyce.
If the man seated behind the cash register was "Al," thought
Elliot, then his father had been polite as an ambassador. He was
not "somewhat overweight." He was grossly fat, perhaps tipping
the scale at three hundred pounds. His triple chin -- one had to
presume -- was well hidden beneath a thick, black beard,
contrasted by his bald pate. He was chewing what Elliot first
thought was gum but soon realized was tobacco and was reading
Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea, which matched Elliot's first
reaction to the man.
Elliot approached him with caution. "I'd like a copy of
Not Worth a Continental by Martin Vreeland," he said, according
to plan.
The man lowered his book, spat tobacco -- into a cuspidor,
Elliot was relieved to see -- and inspected Elliot carefully.
"You his kid?" he asked finally. Not according to plan.
Elliot nodded hesitantly. "Are you Al?"
"Yeah," he said, lifting himself off the stool with
considerable difficulty. "C'mon, it's in the back."
Elliot's face fell. "But don't you need my countersign?" he
blurted.
"Nah. You look just like your old man."
Al led Elliot through a draped door to a corner of his back
room and gestured toward a large carton on the floor filled with
books. "Gimme a hand with this." Elliot got a grip on one of
the corners, then the two of them lifted it aside, revealing a
hole in the linoleum. Al lifted out a package sealed into a
black Pliofilm bag, handing it to him. "The coins are in here,"
he said. "Count 'em if you want. I gotta get out front. Need
me, just call."
Elliot looked at Al curiously. "Uh -- mind if I ask a
personal question?"
"Don't know till you ask the question."
"Well ... if you knew what's in here, then why didn't you
just take it and run? Gold ownership is illegal. We couldn't
have reported you."
Al laughed heartily. "I thought you were gonna ask how much
I eat or somethin'. I didn't steal the gold 'cause it don't
belong to me." He turned and went out front.
After placing the plastic on a nearby table, Elliot broke
the sealed plastic, opening it. Inside was a specially designed
leather belt -- forty-odd inches long, two inches high -- with no
tongue or eyelets but a slide-buckle instead. At the bottom was
a zipper concealed between two layers of leather. Elliot slid
the buckle out of the way, unzipped the belt, and peeled apart
the leather.
Inside were the twenty-five Mexican fifty-peso gold pieces,
built into matching cutouts in the leather that extended most of
the belt's length. They were beautifully extended most of the
belt's length. They were beautifully struck, in virtual mint
condition, and even in the back room's dim light reflected
considerable luster.
Each coin was about one and a half inches in diameter. The
traditional eagle with a serpent in its mouth embellished the
obverse of each coin; on the reverse was a winged Nike -- goddess
of victory -- bearing a wreath, to her right the 50 PESOS mark,
to her left the legend 37.5 grams ORO PURO. Elliot removed his
own belt, replacing it with the new one, which he had to thread
through several belt loops twice as it was too long for his
thirty-four inch waist. Then he replaced his jacket and
overcoat.
Al was busy with a customer when Elliot came front; he stood
away a polite distance, awaiting an opportunity to take his
leave. Repressing a desire -- more out of embarrassment than
anything else -- to spend his time examining Al's erotica, he
instead alternated between observing Al's conversation --
impossible to eavesdrop on because of Al's radio playing loudly
-- and watching the OPI News Summary streaming across the Oracle
Tower.
ARMY GUARD IS WITHDRAWN FROM FORT KNOX, KY. ONE
YEAR AFTER ANNOUNCEMENT THAT U.S. GOLD RESERVES
ARE DEPLETED. . .
Elliot was suddenly struck by the strangest feeling of deja
vu. He could see that Al was doing something with his hands, but
could not have told exactly what.
PRESIDENT LAUNCHES PHASE 7 OF ECONOMIC POLICY
EXPANDING WAGE-PRICE CONTROLS AND RATIONING.
Al's customer purchased a book but Elliot could not shake
the feeling that he had noticed something significant that he had
failed to comprehend.
FBI CHIEF POWERS ATTRIBUTES LAST NIGHT'S
FIREBOMBINGS OF BUREAU OFFICES TO OUTLAW
"REVOLUTIONARY AGORIST CADRE" . . .
It was almost dusk when a moment later Al's customer left;
Elliot walked forward to the counter and thanked Al for his help.
"Don't mention it," said Al. "The least I can do under the
circumstances -- your old man being dead and all."
"How did you --?"
"It was on the radio while you're in the back," Al
interrupted.
Elliot felt somewhat awkward about keeping up the pretense
with a man whom his father -- by his actions -- regarded as a
confidant; nevertheless he interpreted his father's instructions
to mean that no one outside the family should know the truth.
"Well, I'd better get moving."
"Keep your eyes open," replied Al. "This is a lousy area to
be alone at night. Laissez-faire."
Everything suddenly fell into place: Al was wearing a plain
gold band on his right hand and during his parley with his
customer had twirled it back and forth -- the same manner as the
tzigane.
Elliot briefly considered asking Al if the ring twirling
meant anything but felt another question would be prying.
Besides, it was silly -- and he had better get home quickly if he
wanted a decent amount of time to pack. "Laissez-faire," he
replied.
Al just smiled.
At almost ten to six, Elliot once again entered his
apartment building. The reporters were gone from the lobby. At
the door this time was Dominic, a small Puerto Rican man, whom he
greeted on his way to the elevators. He waited several minutes
before an elevator arrived, then rode it up to the fiftieth floor
and fumbled for his keys while walking down the corridor to his
apartment. After inserting the correct keys in the correct
order, he opened the door and shouted, "I'm home!" There was no
answer. Elliot looked into his parents' bedroom, but no one was
there, so he tried Denise's room. It was also unoccupied.
Elliot then looked into his own bedroom, the guest room, the
bathrooms, and even the storage closets; there was no sign of
anybody, and all the suitcases were gone.
He started over again, thinking that there must have been a
sudden change in plans, and there would be a note somewhere. He
checked from the bathroom mirrors to the bulletin board in the
kitchen. It was only then that Elliot Vreeland understood that
he was alone.
There was no note.