Like: The big story at the Dumas Club last year concerned Don Newberry, fine-scotch enthusiast and chairman of the Admissions Committee. Newberry was a lackluster estate lawyer but his father had been one of Tammany Hall’s Negro liaisons, helping to deliver the Harlem vote, and Newberry coasted his whole life on that association. He also happened to live upstairs from the actor Ron O’Neal and agreed to help out the makers of Super Fly with some contracts, no sweat. Got ten percent of the movie and a year later—boom. A million dollars and counting.
“Give a black man a gun and let him mow down some white people—it’s not art, but it puts the butts in the seats,” Zippo said. He’d come to Carney’s store to finalize the office shoot and leaned into his pitch when the moment was right. Secret Agent: Nefertiti was art, he insisted, but also contained plenty for those of coarse sensibility. His work derived from a list of aesthetic principles called the ZIPPO Method. “It’s kind of a personal credo.” ZIPPO was an eponymous acronym, an admitted rip-off of Samuel Z. Arkoff and his ARKOFF Formula. He elaborated on the key ZIPPO concepts and qualities:
Zeitgeist （From the German, the spirit of the times. Tap into the culture.）
Intelligent （Elevate our idea of the world.）
Provocative （Knock the audience out of their bourgeois complacency.）
Profane （Profanity, violence, and sex, artfully employed. See P, above.）
Oratory （Notable dialogue and speeches.）
“That’s ZIPPO,” Zippo said. Carney related the gist to Pepper, but had trouble remembering what zeitgeist meant, “maybe because of the war.” The main thing was that Carney needed to wash some cash and his kids got excited when he told them about it: He was in.
The filmmaker had one more request. He’d been eyeing the Hermann Bros. the entire meeting. “Can we use the safe?” Zippo asked.
“No.”
“For the scene.”
“No.”
“He asked to use your safe?” Pepper said.
“For the scene, he said.”
Pepper took a drink. You don’t touch a man’s safe.
Buford the bartender set down another two beers. According to Carney, he and Zippo did a deal for the location fee and shares in the film. Zippo had called that morning and mentioned that some of the neighborhood kids had been boosting their gear. The next day Pepper headed over and signed on.
Pepper needed some scratch for operating expenses, sure, but more than anything he was bored. It had been a long time since he had beat a man senseless. The film work might provide access to those in need of a beating. A contusion or, what do you call it, detached retina. As for the job itself, a lifelong crook doing part-time security work wasn’t so strange. Half the cops in New York were thieving bitches first and cops second. City like this, it behooves you to embrace the fucking contradictions.
* * *
***
Lola’s promises meant nothing. The surest indicator that they were about to shoot was a manifestation by the director. He walked in the front door, scanned the preparations, and offered a heartfelt “It’s totally ZIPPO in here, baby.” Today he was dressed in red jeans and a black cable sweater riddled with moth holes or acid burns. His trademark silver bracelets jangled with his every movement, so much so that when the camera rolled he froze into a mannequin, in a series of what had to be rehearsed poses. One got accustomed to the sight.
The crew jumped to it. Pepper didn’t think much of Zippo during their first meeting—in general he regarded the younger set with a mixture of pity and stupefaction. But the man had a way with the crew, who did what they were told and with efficiency. It was odd—they seemed to believe in him.
Word around the set was that the British brother playing Mr. Dudley, the shady furniture salesman, was a big honcho in Shakespeare circles. They were mystified by and grateful for his presence. “It’s a shame he only has one scene,” Lola said. Johnson Gibbs was stout, dignified, exquisitely muttonchopped, and carried himself with the self-satisfaction of a bank manager or reverend. It was odd to see someone besides Carney at that old desk, but the actor looked at home. Mr. Shakespeare stared through the window onto the showroom and silently mouthed his lines, gripping his lapels as if overlooking Gettysburg.
Then Lucinda Cole appeared. She’d been next door at Skinny’s for hours—the production had hired out the bar for wardrobe and makeup and “holding.” （As far as Pepper could tell, holding was person storage until they were needed, like when you sit on some dummy you’ve ransomed.） Pepper was unfamiliar with her work. In their initial meeting, Zippo had listed some projects. He shrugged. Zippo hummed a song from one of her movies. It didn’t ring a bell. Pepper asked about her character’s name. “Nefertiti—that’s some Afrocentric shit?”
Zippo said, “It means, the beautiful woman has come.”
Pepper didn’t care for fanciness, whether it was Strivers’ Row fanciness or Park Avenue or Hollywood, but once he met Lucinda, he conceded the justice of the name. She had an hourglass figure, not in its shape but in the melancholy reminder that time is running short and there are things on this Earth you’ll never experience. Although they’d only spoken once, his first day, her brief smile every morning was an unexpected comfort, like a nod from the clerk at the corner bodega or the waitress at the greasy spoon, the newsstand guy. A quick neighbor, even though her costumes declared her from outer space.
For the furniture store scene, they’d put Lucinda in white leather pants and a shimmering midnight blue blouse under a black leather cape. Lucinda’s round face was framed by her large Afro wig, set like a brown jewel. The wig itself was an audacious number that opposed the laws of physics and was pinned by a headband embroidered with odd symbols, hieroglyphics that represented Zippo’s “myth system.” Pepper nodded off whenever the director explained them. On anyone else the ensemble was a Halloween getup. She pulled it off.
The actress tottered into the office. Lucinda was tall, and the ruby red platform boots made her more impressive, even if they provided a technical challenge to kicking chumps in the throat; the myriad chump-kicking and -stomping had required multiple takes in previous days. She perched on Carney’s desk and leaned over to inspect his signed picture of Lena Horne. She approved.
Lola chased everybody off the set so Zippo could break down the scene with his actors. Carney and John joined Pepper at his Morningside post, where a patch of sidewalk gave the boy a partial view of the office. Carney’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder. Pepper realized that John was about the same age Carney had been when he met him. Twenty-five years ago? The boy was helping out in the store some afternoons, Pepper knew, but he looked bored whenever the subject came up. He wasn’t a crook and he wasn’t a salesman—so far.
Whoever he might be one day, tonight he was a boy on a film set. Carney asked him what he thought of the whole operation and John hopped like a damn puppy.
In the office, Zippo explained his grand design. As usual, Lucinda was soft-voiced and retiring between takes; she turned into a mean dervish once they started rolling. Mr. Shakespeare listened and nodded soberly. He asked a question. Zippo ran down the backstory of the store owner, Mr. Dudley.