Nicky had been begging Tom since the first day of the new year to help him find a job. It was an obsession that had replaced his longing to meet Tom’s friends. Tom kept putting him off, telling Nicky that it wouldn’t be easy to find an opening for someone who had never worked a day in all his twenty-eight years and the excuse did have some merit. However, he was really playing for time: time to construct the final phase of his plan, the discovery of Eric Hall, and to place Nicky in a position that fit the scenario. But from the first day Nicky had insisted on paying his own way, out of the money left to him by Marie Romaine, and he had contributed one-half of the rent, food bills, utilities and everything else it took to live in New York. Tom accepted the arrangement because to do otherwise would demean a very proud young man. The situation gave Tom more spendable income than he had ever had before but they both knew that it couldn’t go on forever. In fact, the way Nicky spent money, the end of the line was closer than the coming of spring. Hence, a job for Nicky was of prime importance.

  And even here Tom’s luck held firm. A restaurant owner had come to the bank seeking a business loan and Tom had gotten in on the negotiations. He told the owner a little something about Nicky and asked if he would take him on as a waiter.

  Nicky sipped his drink. “You conned him, Tom. You made it sound like no job for Nicky, no loan from the bank.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “You would, and for once I don’t give a shit. I have a job. A real job. Happy birthday, Tommy.”

  “No, Nicky, it’s your birthday. Christ, you’re going ape.”

  “If that means I’m ecstatic then I’m going ape.”

  “You don’t mind being a waiter?” Tom asked timidly.

  “Why should I? It’s an honest job. Uncle Alexis told me most of the Russian nobility became waiters in Paris and New York after the revolution.”

  “Uncle Alexis had a one-track mind.”

  Nicky was too excited to care that Tom had once again zapped Uncle Alexis. “I’m going to work,” he kept repeating. “I’m going to speak to more people in a day than I’ve probably talked to in my whole life!”

  “You’re going to be a waiter, not an analyst. Don’t push, Nicky.”

  “Do you think I can do it, Tom?”

  “What’s to do? They’ll show you the ropes, which will take all of two hours, and then you’re on your own. I told him you were inexperienced.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he never met an experienced waiter.”

  “What should I wear?” Nicky’s question was directed more to himself than to Tom.

  “Black pants, white shirt, black tie and not your damn Gucci loafers. You’re going to be a waiter waiter, not a Russian nobility waiter. People don’t tip waiters who can afford Gucci loafers.”

  “Tips? Christ, I forgot all about tips. I’ll be making money.”

  “That’s the general idea, now go find your birthday present.”

  “Where? I’ve been searching the apartment all day.”

  “Try the hamper in back of the bedroom closet.”

  “What did you get me, a pair of dirty jockey shorts?”

  “No…but I should have.”

  The following evening Tom came home to an empty apartment. It was a strange feeling; Tom had lived alone practically since he had left Nebraska yet now, after two months of living with Nicky, he couldn’t imagine going back to his solitary existence. For the first time he fully realized the implication of Nicky’s major complaint about becoming Eric Hall. Nicky would be living in the mansion on Ninety-second Street and not in the one-bedroom apartment off Central Park West. But why did Eric have to live with his grandmother? He was a big boy and a rich one, he could live any place he wanted to live and with a roommate if it pleased him.

  Tom’s spirits rose. Every problem had a solution when money was no object.

  Nicky got in at midnight, exhausted and radiant with joy. “I did it. I did it,” he announced. “The owner loves me and so do the customers.” Nicky was literally gushing. “They think I’m Italian because I can speak it.”

  “You can speak Italian?”

  “Sure. And French.”

  “How much did you make?”

  Nicky pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and some loose change. Together they counted the take. “Fifty-four bucks,” Tom exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. How long did you work?”

  “I did dinner. Six to eleven.”

  “Fifty-four bucks in five hours, tax-free? For a five-day week that’s two hundred and seventy bucks a week and no Uncle Sam. What the hell am I doing at the bank?”

  “And Terry said it was a slow night. Wait till the weekend.”

  “Who’s Terry?”

  “One of the waiters. He sort of trained me and he’s not always a waiter. He’s an actor.”

  “Nicky, nine out of ten waiters in this town are actors and the other one is working his way through medical school. Is he handsome?”

  “Who?”

  “Terry, who else?”

  “No…he’s beautiful.”

  “Did he put the make on you?”

  “Shit, it’s an Italian restaurant in Little Italy, not a fucking gay bar.”

  “Little Italy be damned, it’s the heart and balls of Greenwich Village, and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t even know if he’s gay.”

  Tom rolled his eyes skyward. “An actor who’s working as a waiter and you don’t know if he’s gay. Is a priest who works for the Pope a Catholic?”

  “I think you’re jealous and I like it.”

  “I’m looking out for your interests. You’re a baby.”

  “The bartender is looking for a roommate and he asked me to audition.”

  “Screw the bartender.”

  “That,” answered Nicky, “is what he has in mind.”

  “Tell him to fuck off.”

  “The bartender? Never. The bartender is the waiter’s best friend. He makes the drinks, fast and strong, and the drinks are what ups the bill and the bigger the bill the bigger the tip.”

  Tom moaned. “He’s a fucking professional.”

  14

  The first tiny buds appeared on their tree, the heartier joggers shed their sweat suits in favor of shorts, those who had previously fled the city for points south began to trickle back, and Tom took the first step toward breathing life into his male Galatea. He called Dicky Culver.

  “Missed you in Palm Beach,” Dicky said after a slight pause which shouted “Tom who?” and always preceded Dicky’s initial response to a phone call from Tom Bradshaw.

  Savoring the sweet taste of revenge, Tom allowed the cut to go unnoticed. Without inquiring after Amy he plunged from drawing board to execution without a backward glance. “I have to see you, Dicky.”

  Again there was a pause in the conversation but this time because Dicky was taken completely by surprise. He had expected a flip and thinly disguised insult from Tom and had gotten what sounded like a pleading request. Something told Dicky to tread carefully and weigh each word he spoke. “Why?”

  “I can’t explain it on the phone but I have to see you and…and show you something.”

  “Bradshaw, if this is your idea of a joke forget it. We’ve been back in town a few days and I’ve got a lot to do and seeing you is not on the top of my priority list.”

  Tom took a deep breath, swallowed hard and forced himself not to slam the phone back in its cradle. “Look, I don’t like you any better than you like me and if there was anyone else I could share this with I would, and gladly.” It was the first time either of them had declared the hostility that had long existed, and the sudden open declaration of war acted as a precursor to their first truce.

  Dicky answered in a tone that was less arrogant and more concerned than he would care to admit. “Are you in trouble?”

  Having never heard Dicky express such emotion, Tom immediately interpreted the concern as hope and happily informed Dicky that he was not in trouble but… “Something happened a few months ago…well, happened is not the right word… Dicky, I have to see you and what it’s about is as much concern of yours as it is mine. Christ, I’m telling you it’s something unbelievable.” Tom delivered his lines with just the right amount of pathos, fear and awe as to render Dicky speechless. Tom had never considered a career on the stage but now, as the smile on his face belied the tremor in his voice, he wondered if he had not missed his true calling.

  He imagined Dicky on the other end of the line adjusting his glasses or running his fingers through his thinning hair, looking desperately about for his wife.

  “But what is it?”

  “Can you meet me tonight?”

  Reluctantly, Dicky admitted he could. “Amy’s gone to her parents’ place and I don’t expect her until tomorrow.” This bit of information was more luck than Tom had ever hoped for. Amy was out of the way and he could get to Watson without Sherlock sticking her nose where it was not wanted.

  Dicky, never known for his sharp wit, was torn between demanding to know what Tom was talking about and fearful of missing out on something he would later regret. Tom made the most of Dicky’s half-hearted acceptance by immediately setting a date for that evening. “Do you know the Casa Maria on Bleecker Street?”

  “No, and I don’t think I want to.”

  “Bleecker, just off Seventh, I’ll meet you there after work, about six. It shouldn’t be too crowded at that time.”

  “I don’t want a pasta dinner,” Dicky groaned.

  “We’re not going there for the cuisine, Culver, we’re going for the floor show. Just be there. Casa Maria, Bleecker and Seventh.”

  Before Dicky could change his mind Tom relieved his frustration by disconnecting the line and wishing he could erase Dicky Culver from the face of this world with the same ease.

  He then dialed the apartment and got Nicky. “We’re on. Six o’clock tonight.”

  “Are you really going through with this?” Nicky asked, slightly bored.

  “You can’t back out on me now.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Do you remember what you have to do?”

  “Sure. All I have to do is nothing.”

  “Right. I’ll see you later…and, Nicky, thank you.”

  “For doing nothing? Thank me when you have a reason.”

  What Nicky had consented to was a compromise. He would allow Tom to “exhibit” him to Dicky Culver in a setting prearranged by Tom. If Dicky didn’t truly believe that Eric Hall had returned from the dead then Tom would forget his plan and no mention of it or the name Eric Hall would ever pass his lips again. If Dicky fell for the charade then Nicky would consider — nothing more — going through with step two: meeting Mrs. Lindenhurst.

  Both secretly felt they had made a good deal. Nicky was certain that no one but Tom would believe a young man worth millions and presumed dead was in reality suffering from amnesia and working as a waiter in an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. If the idea wasn’t so funny, it would be sad. Nicky knew he looked like Eric, the photos of Eric he had seen proved that, but only one with Tom’s zealous imagination, especially where money was concerned, would swear that they were the same person. That was strictly an illusion of Tom’s, an illusion born of two basic human emotions: sex and greed. It was time Tom got his comeuppance.

  But there was another reason Nicky accepted the compromise. He had long wanted to meet Tom’s friends and now he was going to do it — and no less a friend than the famous Dicky Culver. Nicky had the idea that once the ice was broken in this direction and he became visible to Tom’s crowd with no after-effects Tom would resume his social life and Nicky would become a part of it.

  Nicky was more than ready to branch out socially. His job at the restaurant had proved a roaring success; in just three months he had become as close to a maitre d’ as the likes of the Casa Maria would ever possess. The owner adored him, the customers liked him and the bartender was still trying to make him.

  As he gained confidence he began going out on his own. A late night drink with some of the other waiters, Sunday dinner with the owner of the Casa Maria and his family, and occasionally he would wander into one of the Village’s many bars all alone. From these latter expeditions Nicky learned two things. One, he was a very desirable young man and two, he was never tempted because he was very hung up on Tom.

  First it was Uncle Alexis and now Tom. “I’m a born inmate destined to love my jailer.” But as Alexis Romaine had provided a gilded cage so Tom now offered an exciting one. Nicky was content.

  After the compromise was agreed upon Tom insisted, as part of the deal, that Nicky was not to have his hair cut for at least one month. When it was longer than Nicky had ever worn it Tom made an appointment for Nicky with a well-known hair stylist and wanted to accompany Nicky to the salon to oversee the trim. Here, Nicky drew the line. “I’m a big boy and I can get my own damn hair cut without Mother Hen giving directions.”

  Tom loved it. “Uncle Alexis should hear you now.”

  “As a matter of fact I might just keep it this way. Tony the bartender told me I look dashing.”

  “Fuck Tony.” If Tom knew how to raise Nicky’s ire by bringing up Uncle Alexis then Nicky knew how to respond in kind. Again they compromised. Nicky took a photo of Eric Hall to the stylist and told him to cut and shape his hair “the way I used to wear it.” The stylist looked at the photo and did what his client asked. Nicky spent an anxious half hour in the barber’s chair because the barber never doubted that his customer and the man in the photo were one and the same person.

  When Tom saw the final result he stared at Nicky for a full minute and then announced, “Dicky Culver is going to have a coronary arrest at the fucking Casa Maria.”

  § § § §

  “Now what do you want to tell me and what the hell did you mean about coming here for the floor show?” Dicky was in high gear. He kept adjusting his glasses and looking about as if he expected to be gunned down by the Mafia at any minute.

  Like elephants, Tom was thinking, Dicky and Amy never forget. A question mark was insufferable to the perfectly matched couple. They stalked until they erased the annoying punctuation from every thought that entered their head and every situation they encountered in their dull lives. Tom would lay any odds in favor of Dicky having called the Casa Maria and asking if they had a floor show. The amusing thought did little to counter the anxiety that was rapidly engulfing Tom. Dicky would never fall for it…and if he did Amy would return tomorrow and pull the rug from under all of them.

  “I’m talking to you, Bradshaw.”

  “I hear you loud and clear. Just relax and let’s have a drink.”

  “I called this place after I spoke to you and they don’t have a floor show.”

  Dicky, as usual, was making Tom furious and it was what Tom needed to boost his courage. “But they do, Dicky.”

  “Really? When does it start?”

  “Right now,” Tom answered, pointing.

  Dicky’s eyes followed Tom’s finger and…

  Before Tom’s eyes Dicky turned a deathly white. He couldn’t speak and his breathing became audible. For a moment Tom thought his prediction of a coronary arrest was about to happen.

  “Easy, Culver…easy,” Tom cautioned.

  Dicky began to stand and Tom quickly grabbed his belt and pulled him back down. “Not a word, Dicky, you understand. Not a fucking word. Just let me handle this.”

  The waiter was now standing over their table. He nodded at Tom. “How are you?”

  “Fine…just fine.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “Just a drink for now. I’ll have a bourbon over ice and…” He looked at Dicky who was staring at the waiter and literally panting. “…and a scotch and soda for my friend.”

  The waiter turned to go and Dicky suddenly called out. “Eric?”

  The waiter froze and the look of surprise and fear on his face was not part of any act.

  “Go on, get our drinks,” Tom ordered, “he’s…he’s not feeling very well.” The waiter fled.

  “I told you not a fucking word,” Tom hissed.

  “It’s Eric,” Dicky whined. “It’s Eric.”

  “Lower your voice,” Tom whispered, “and calm down. It’s not Eric, that’s impossible. It’s someone who looks like Eric.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s not Eric. And what the fuck do you know? I was Eric’s friend. I knew him before you—”

  “Listen to me and listen hard. Lower your voice and if you say one word to that waiter I’ll knock your fucking head off your skinny neck. We’ll talk later.” Dicky knew that Tom meant every word he had just said and looked as if he were going to suffer a stroke as the waiter once again approached the table with their drinks. He glanced quickly at Dicky as the waiter put their glasses before them and then once again made a hurried retreat.

  “Drink,” Tom ordered.

  Dicky gulped his scotch so quickly a small amount escaped his lips and ran down his chin. He then did something Tom had never seen him do before. He wiped the spill with the back of his hand.

  “Now are you ready to listen?” Tom asked.

  Dicky nodded. “It’s Eric. Don’t try to tell me it’s not, because I know it’s Eric.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, Dicky, except the facts. I came here a few months ago with some people from the office and I saw him. I know how you feel because I felt the same way the first time I saw him. But I was with acquaintances, not friends, and I had no one to lean on.” Tom got in the dig but it bounced right off Dicky.

  “Why doesn’t he know me? What in God’s name is going on? I feel sick to my stomach.”

  “Have some more scotch, slowly this time, and try to listen to what I’m saying. He doesn’t know you because he’s probably not Eric. He can’t be Eric because Eric is dead. We all know that.”

  “How can you say he’s dead when he’s standing right over there? I’m going to talk to him, right now.” Again Dicky tried to rise and again Tom pulled him back into his chair.

  “If you talk to him you’ll blow the whole thing. He’ll beat it out of here and we’ll never see him again.”

 

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