Pete the Grip and the rest set up in the classroom in case Lucinda appeared. Zippo had worked some angles with CCNY for the use of a warren of tiny-windowed offices across the hall. Nefertiti’s crew settled in like student protesters who’d taken over the premises to protest the bomb or the war or Whitey in general. Obeying a homing instinct, Pepper installed himself at the messiest desk in the room. He flipped through a textbook on primate behavior. Inside, a spread of glossy pictures featured monkeys wearing metal caps attached to electrodes.
Just after six P.M., Lola called him over. The production assistant had been fuming and fussing all day, sniping into her Windsor walkie-talkie and sighing dramatically. For the last few minutes she had been whispering into the phone, eyes darting, reminding Pepper of a stoolie who suspects everybody knows he’s ratted them out. She handed him the receiver.
It was Zippo, simultaneously frantic and spaced out—the man was a multitalent. Nobody knew where Lucinda Cole was. She was staying at the Hotel McAlpin, where the production had put up some of the cast, courtesy of one of the film’s backers, who got a business discount through his aluminum-siding business. His daughter was playing the sassy cocktail waitress in the nightclub scene. The hotel had called demanding compensation for the damages to her suite, which was a shambles. It looked like she’d had a party that got out of hand. No sign of Lucinda.
“Can you come downtown?” Zippo asked. He lived on Greene Street.
Come downtown. Like he was a beatnik or a donkey. “I ain’t going downtown.”
Zippo met him at the Whistle Stop on Fifth Ave. It was two doors up from 125th, announced by a blue neon outline of a tall gent tapping his foot. The Whistle Stop attracted an older clientele, locals alienated by the current temperament of the neighborhood bars and clubs. Around the corner, up the way, the new joints were loud and angry and ruled by a younger crowd that—in their brash clothes and militant anthems and anarchic fearlessness—rebuked a previous generation’s mannered rebellions. The middle-aged men and women shrank when they passed so the youngsters wouldn’t knock their drinks as they stormed the small dance floors. The old-timers shook their heads at the vulgar lyrics of the new funk. What kind of twisted mind committed such filth to vinyl? They beat it to the Whistle Stop to be among their kind. Friday and Saturday nights at the Whistle Stop, the Robert McCoy Trio performed two sets of drowsy, free-form jazz, a musical complement to the watered-down drinks that the bartender Lonnie served with amiable dedication.
Pepper had been there a few times with Hazel, and thus associated it with straight-world types. Zippo was dressed in mourning, all black. He greeted two patrons as he made his way to Pepper’s perch at the bar, and it turned out he knew Lonnie. The director’s personality had made Pepper forget he was from the neighborhood.
“I used to play chess with his cousin,” Zippo said as the bartender mixed him a rum and Coke. His usual affect was distracted and aloof; not today. The disappearance of his star had grounded him.
“People come back or they don’t,” Pepper said. “It’s up to them.”
“I don’t have the luxury of waiting.”
“She’s from here,” Pepper said. He gestured vaguely at the bar, like she was about to walk out of the ladies room. What about her family?
Zippo explained that her mom was dead, her dad was long gone, and it didn’t sound like there was anyone else. Her agent was worried. “He didn’t go into it,” Zippo said, “but he made it out like she’d had a rough time last summer, that she was pulling out of something. Drugs, booze, the wrong crowd—I don’t know.” The agent claimed to be hopping on a plane. “Said he was trying to reach her doctor to see what he says.”
Head doctor, Pepper gathered. He told Zippo that he didn’t see what any of this had to do with him.
“I’d like you to find her. Carney says you know what you’re doing.”
“If you think something has happened to her, you should go to the cops.” Go to the cops like a square, like a normal person, which is what Zippo was. He was hesitant for some reason.
“They get involved, they’ll feed the story to the newspapers. I don’t need that kind of attention right now.” Zippo looked over his shoulder. “I’m losing money every day. Maybe she’ll show up tomorrow, maybe she’s on a bender and will be back after the weekend. Maybe a lot of shit, but I got to get this movie in the can.”
Pepper was getting paid whether they rolled the cameras or not; he had double-checked with Lola that afternoon. Zippo read his mind. “I’ll pay you on top of what you’re getting now,” he said. “With a bonus if you find her.”
A druggie having a relapse, there were uptown characters who might know who was supplying her. She was no Diahann Carroll but she was still a movie star of sorts and would kick up some gossip. He pictured this drug den he’d been in once, Mam Lacey’s after she died. He’d barely talked to Lucinda Cole, but didn’t like to think of her in one of those places. Those drugs get a hold of you, you can end up anywhere. On set, Pepper had found her eyes cold when viewed from an angle, but suddenly sympathetic and inquisitive when she met his gaze. No, he didn’t like to think of her alone in one of those grim places.
“What kind of bonus?” Pepper said.
They did a deal for the missing person business and he told Lonnie that Zippo was picking up his tab. “Plus expenses”—isn’t that how it went?
* * *
***
Downtown. A donkey after all. He took the 1 train to Christopher and headed east. Ten-thirty on a Wednesday night and the cold spell relenting, the Village streets were busy. Pepper was accustomed to the 125th Street version of these folks, the bummy clothes and insolent posture. He had difficulty wrapping his head around the white downtown version, particularly in the realm of facial hair. Hippie attire aside, black men generally kept their beards and mustaches fit and sharp, their Afros immaculate. These white kids walked around with stuff on their heads that—well, dead alley cats rotting behind garbage cans kept it more correct. The new shit was always upon you and you had to adjust, such was life, but the new shit came so fast these days, and it was so wily and unlikely, that he had a hard time keeping up.
He crossed Sixth Ave. The Twin Towers still startled him when they lurched into view, freed by this or that turn around a street corner. Looming over the city like two cops trying to figure out what they can bust you for.
The Sassy Crow was down MacDougal, on Minetta across from Café Wha? He remembered seeing the club’s mascot on the sign when Hazel brought him down here to see that jazz combo last summer. The crow was coony—the black bird’s big white eyes and cigar recalling some minstrel shit. He related as much to Hazel and she responded along the lines of “You know white people love that stuff.” The sax-led combo had been playing next door at a tiny place called the Kaleidoscope Wheel. When Hazel suggested they stay for the second set, he did not hesitate. He never did refuse her a thing, did he? It was a nice night. He couldn’t remember the name of the band, but A Bunch of Squirrels in a Burlap Sack Being Beaten by Hammers would not have been false advertising.