Well, I had the pistol, the cracked Luger with its tag. But what was I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to go? Where was WH Street? W stood for West, that was pretty clear, but what was H? Halifax? Hester? Horatio? Hart? I walked to 29th Street, where I hailed a cab. The driver was a little dark fellow with a thick mustache called Yussif Slimma, or so said the taxi permit tacked to the back of his seat. I showed him the tag with the cryptic address. He said, "What the hell this?" I said 209 WH Street was the address; would he take me there? He said, "What the hell WH Street?" I shrugged my shoulders. I said that was all I had; I said a certified taxi driver such as himself must be familiar with all the streets of this fair city. He told me to get out please. I said, "Please, I have to go to that address, wherever it is. How about you ask your colleagues over the radio." He did. He spoke what I assumed was Arabic with what I assumed was his dispatcher, who proved, however, to be as clueless as he was. He said, "You have to give me full address, sir. Or at least area, at least borough." I said, "Hey, is that a GPS? Type the address, see what it says." He said, "GPS requires full address." I said, "Give it a try." He typed the address, as a result of which--what do you suppose?--the apparatus drew him a map of the city, complete with a red route that stretched from were we were, Astoria, to the Village.
The address was that of the Film Forum. I thought this was odd. A movie theater? The place was supposed to be a museum. I studied the marquee, which listed three titles: FAT CITY, MOBY DICK, ESCAPE TO VICTORY. This told me very little. I reread the tag, tried--but failed--to discover a clue or code that might tie Zelda to these movies. I stumbled up to the box office; it was closed. I waited, till a blue-haired girl with black eyes appeared. She gave me what seemed to me like a spiteful look, but this was followed by a smile. I showed her the Luger tag; I asked her if she could decipher it for me. She read it; her eyes became big. She reread it; her eyes became bigger. I looked at her, the blue hair, the black eyes. Whom did she look like? My sister? A little bit, yes. Was this Zelda? Could it be? Or had I lost my head? I said, "What is your--?" But she came out of the box office. Ah, she was very short, maybe four feet tall, a dwarf practically, though she wore high heels that made her seem a little less dwarfish.
"Follow me," she said.
I followed her past the moviegoers, past the ushers, through a darkish corridor lit by weak purplish light bulbs toward the back of the theater to a practically imperceptible door, imperceptible practically because of its texture, color, et cetera, which were exactly those of the wall: a velvety violet. She told me to press the buzzer; somebody would come get me. "Above all," she added before she disappeared, "be cool."
"Be cool?" I said. "What do you--?"
But she had disappeared.
I buzzed. I waited. The place was creepy. What was it exactly? The semi-dark corridor with its purplish light bulbs? The muffled laughter I heard as I pressed my ear to the door? I stayed cool. I told myself, Stay cool, Louis; stay cool. She did look a lot like my sister, that midget girl. Humph. There was a party, I thought, at the other side of that thick door, a cocktail party. Muffled talk, muffled laughter. I buzzed, I waited. I must have waited a good half hour before I was allowed to access this exclusive party. Well, I tried to stay cool, but what I saw almost made me crap my trousers. A silver swastika hovered above me like a disco ball; the walls were decked with swastikas; but what scared me most were the people of this party, with their black suits, their red swastika arm straps, those black visor caps with the silver death's head, silver eagle, silver cord--these were officers of the SS.
I said, "What is this? Who the fuck are you people?"
I must have screamed it, because everybody hushed, everybody scowled at me. I pocketed my fist, I clutched my cracked Luger for security. They all had pistols too; they all tapped at their holsters as they scowled at me. The room was completely quiet, so quiet you could hear your heart beat. The faces grew uglier, uglier, uglier. I thought I would pass out, die. But as the pressure reached its limit, it popped. The still scowls were replaced by hearty chuckles.
I laughed as well, but stupidly, fretfully.
A fat, jovial officer offered me highball, which I thirstily guzzled. "Heil Hitler!" he cried.
I spewed out all the liquid I had imbibed. "Huh?" I said.
"You are a member of the party, am I right?" he said.
"Huh?" I said. "A member of the party?"
"A member of the party," he said emphatically.
"Relax," he said. "It's just a costume party." He gave me a big brotherly hug.
That hurt. I heard my ribs crack. "Why," I gasped, gasped for breath, "are you all dressed up as SS officers?"
"It's the theme," he said. "By the way, some of us are Gestapo officers, like Fritz over there. Let's be clear here. Heil Hitler!"
This was greeted with a set of collective laughter, as loud as the first.
"Seriously," I said, exasperated.
"Seriously?" said the fat officer. "We really are SS officers. This is for real. 'For real.' Heil Hitler!"
A third set of chuckles. The fat officer let go of me. His cell beeped. "So sorry, old chap," he said. "I have to take this call. Heil Hitler!"
All right. This was about as much as I could take. The stupid Luger was a false lead. These stupid false fascists were a waste of my valuable time. I took out Zelda's list, which I studied with restored zeal. I should call some of these people. There was a guy called Ray (I'd had a college roommate called Ray, could it be him?), there was Jim, there was Sam, there was Roy, there were several others who might help me locate my stupid yellow-badge-thief of a sister. I dropped my glass at the bar. While I was at it, I figured I could leave the cracked Luger there as well; let these fake SS jackasses play with it. There. I was set to go. But I was impeded by a further SS officer, a slim officer this time. He raised his highball, wore a big smile, had marvelously white teeth, a very expressive face with a very furrowed brow; he looked like such a good guy, I figured I should shake his--but he stood so close to me that as we greeted each other I collided with his highball, which flew off like a rocket. The glass smashed to bits, the whiskey dispersed.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "You were too close."
"That's quite all right, old chap," he said. He pocketed my Luger. "Well, well," he said. "Well, well."
"Huh?" I said. Well what?
"I take it," he whispered as his smile disappeared, "that Zed is dead."
"Yes," I said. "Quite dead."
He raised his eyebrows. "Who are you?" he said.
"Zed slipped," I said. "He impaled himself."
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"I'm Louis Marcus," I said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Joe McCallister," he said. "I'm a member."
"Of the party?" I said.
"Of the club," he said.
"What club?" I said.
"The SS club," he said.
"Why did Zed try to kill me?" I said. "Who ordered him to kill me?"
"Come," he said. "Let's go somewhere more private."
We ditched the party. He flicked a light switch, but the corridor stayed the way it was, dark, purplish. We walked for some time as the corridor grew darker, less purplish. He told me to stay cool, we would be there shortly. Where? His office. I told him it was too dark, I was afraid. He told me to stay cool. At last, I saw a dim light far away, at the furthermost part of the corridor, where a door stood ajar. This was his office, he said, where he had a little surprise for me.
