The Prisoner of Vandam Street Read online

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  SIMON & SCHUSTER

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Kinky Friedman

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Lauren Simonetti

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Friedman, Kinky.

  The prisoner of Vandam Street / Kinky Friedman.

  p. cm.

  1. Private investigators—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. SoHo (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. 3. Malaria—Patients—Fiction. 4. Witnesses—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3556.R527P75 2004

  813’.54—dc22 2003065906

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-5844-9

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-5844-4

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  This book is dedicated to The Friedmans:

  Perky, Mr. Magoo, Brownie, and Chumley.

  May you faithfully help to carry the

  Friedman family name into the future.

  “Steal your tomorrows and live them today.”

  —Will Hoover, “Sweet Lady Jane,”

  The Lost Outlaw Album

  “Find what you like and let it kill you.”

  —Leon “Slim” Dodson

  Chapter One

  Nobody can stay in the middle forever and it was becoming increasingly clear to me, the longer I knew him, that McGovern was losing it. By it, I did not mean his wit, his health, his sex drive, or even his mind. All of those faculties, as near as I cared to tell, seemed to be as intact as was humanly possible in a person like McGovern. But the it he appeared to be losing, unfortunately, was something even more deleterious to his interpersonal relations, the brunt of which, I hasten to point out, fell squarely upon the shoulders of a man already burdened with far too many earthly responsibilities, namely myself. What McGovern was losing, though he did not realize it himself, was his hearing.

  Now, I’m not making light of people who are deaf or losing their hearing. I am not mocking a disability that afflicts millions of Americans as they grow older, effectively cutting them off to varying degrees from the hearing world. All I’m saying, and I’ll try to speak loudly and slowly and enunciate clearly, is that they should get medical help or a hearing aid or a large, metal ear-horn like the kind that was used in medieval times, and stop constantly blaming hapless, sensitive friends like myself for mumbling. I do not mumble; I vocalize with intensity and tonality not dissimilar to the shriek of a parrot on the shoulder of an altar boy out bird-watching with the cardinal. The only person I’ve ever met who’s been inherently unable or unwilling to understand me is Mike McGovern and I believe he enjoys the high degree of frustration he engenders in his listening audience, which, fortunately for you, is usually me. So while McGovern may technically be the party with the medical malady, as time goes by, I increasingly see myself as the victim.

  What I find particularly maddening about McGovern is that, instead of doing something to help his condition, he instead chooses to incessantly repeat the phrase, “Say again?” Compounding the tedium of this mortal, yet irritating crutch, is that McGovern, being a veteran journalist, first in Chicago and then in New York, is one of the most prying, inquisitive creatures on the planet, and one who fashions his entire system of communication in the form of questions. So McGovern proceeds to interrogate his prey ad nauseam, and then, as the innocent victim dutifully answers every question in an endless stream of verbiage, with almost every answer, McGovern follows up with, “Say again?” This ingrained behavior makes a short conversation virtually impossible, a longer conversation interminable, and any conversation unpleasant. The whole situation is usually not improved upon by the fact that McGovern is invariably drinking during almost all forms of human intercourse.

  Thus it was mildly ironic that McGovern, one of the most irritating of that irritating group of men known as the Village Irregulars, was soon to become my primary care-giver in a nightmare scenario I never could’ve dreamed up. When you’re in the business I’m in, of course, you don’t worry much about irritation. Irritation comes with the territory—like evil, ennui, and cat turds, in a random and haphazard order. As a private investigator in the City of New York, you come to depend upon those whom you consider your friends, even if they are sometimes unreliable, unredeemable, and, in one case I can think of, unhygienic. You are a mender of human destinies. Your work can often be a matter of life or death for your client, yourself, your associates, or for someone who may be a completely innocent bystander. Fortunately, there are very few completely innocent bystanders in New York.

  It all started, as near as I can recall, one seemingly normal night in the dead of winter. McGovern and I were inhabiting two barstools at the Corner Bistro, maintaining a low-key celebration of a case I’d wrapped up fairly recently. As things had transpired, McGovern had played a rather constructive, not insignificant role in resolving the investigation. He had fought several pitched battles with his editor at the Daily News, emerged triumphant in both of them, and written two major features involving my quest to find a small autistic boy who’d gone missing in the city. New York is not a small town in Kansas. For an amateur private investigator to have any luck here, he has to rely upon the help and good will of others. In other words, if you have to have a friend, he might as well be in the media.

  The kid’s name was Dylan Weinberg. His nanny was an old black woman named Hattie Mamajello. His father was an asshole. His half-sister was gorgeous, a fact that almost derailed the usually peerless detecting ability of my sometimes partner, Steve Rambam. The kid, though brilliant, had a rather limited vocabulary, consisting, in fact, of only one word. The word was “shnay.” In the end, it was enough to solve the case.

  “Shnay,” I said to McGovern.

  “Say again?” he said.

  “Shnay,” I said again, a little louder, looking up with mild irritation from my third pint of Guinness.

  “Shea?” said McGovern, looking up blamelessly from his fourth Vodka McGovern. “The stadium?”

  “Shnay!” I said viciously, and loudly enough to turn the heads of several nearby patrons.

  “You don’t have to shout,” shouted McGovern petulantly. “I can hear you!”

  We drank for a while in a state of sullen silence. Either we were heroic friends or we were stuck with each other and either one was bad enough. However, there was no reason to let little things put a strain on a relationship that was already hanging by spit. I didn’t want McGovern to go into one of his famous McGovern snits, so I made the first overture.

  “We’ve been through a lot together,” I said wistfully.

  McGovern turned his barstool toward me. He leaned his large head cl
oser and looked me right in the eyes.

  “Say again?” he said.

  It was sad really. On the other hand, what the hell difference did it really make? Most of the people in the world drank a lot less than McGovern and their sense of hearing was far superior, yet they went through life never really understanding, never really listening to anybody anyway. McGovern, I thought, was like a big, autistic child. He’d never grown up; he’d just gotten older. If you had a few pints of Guinness and thought about it for a while, it was kind of admirable.

  “Remember the first time we met?” said McGovern.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Didn’t Piers Akerman introduce us?”

  “That’s right.” McGovern laughed with his big Irish laugh. “In the closet of your suite during that wild party at the Essex House.”

  “We’re the only two men in New York who ever went into the closet,” I said.

  It was amazing, I thought. McGovern had maintained an entire snatch of conversation without losing the thread and without saying “Say again?” Maybe he was some kind of meditational guru who’d trained himself only to hear things in which he was interested. Maybe he was in touch with some form of high spirituality like a dog or cat who could detect the essence and the meaning of things without needing to hear the words. Maybe he was akin to George Bernard Shaw, a fellow Irishman, who reportedly had such native sensitivity that he could review a play without even having to see it.

  “Maybe you are a genius,” I said.

  “I’m drowning in sarcasm,” said McGovern.

  “No, I’m serious. You have the uncanny, childlike ability to hear when you want to hear and not hear when you don’t want to hear.”

  “What?” said McGovern. “Say again?”

  “I’m not going to say anything again!” I said very loudly.

  “I heard you!” shouted McGovern angrily. “You don’t have to shout! You don’t have to make a scene! Life knows you better than you know yourself!”

  It was at this point that I began feeling decidedly strange. I’d been experiencing some chills in the past few days and now they seemed to be coming home for their class reunion. I was not only literally contorting with the shaking chills, but I also seemed to be breathing rapidly and sweating profusely. Suddenly the whole place seemed hot as hell.

  “God,” I said. “I feel like I’m burning up with fever.”

  “Say again?” said McGovern, signaling the bartender for another round, totally oblivious to my condition.

  “…burning…up…with…fever,” I managed to stammer.

  “What?” said McGovern. “Let’s get some beaver?”

  I must have passed out because when I came to again, the Corner Bistro was gone, the whole world was bathed in a sickly envelope of white, and I thought I was dead. It would require six more weeks for me to wish I were.

  Chapter Two

  Where the hell’s Saint Peter?” I said. “I’m not going to sit here on this cloud playing a harp for all eternity! I didn’t sign up for this shit!”

  “Settle down, Kinkster,” said a familiar voice. “You’re not in heaven nor are you ever bloody likely to be. But don’t you fret yourself. I’ll save you a seat down there, mate.”

  The voice sounded either Irish or cockney, and to my tin American ear it seemed as if it must have been emanating from the kind of person Professor Higgins might be fascinated with. It was oddly calming, however, because I was on the edge of panic thinking about what I might or might not see when I opened my eyes.

  I opened my eyes.

  What a joke. I wasn’t in heaven or hell, just in the same mortal limbo most of us have experienced all our lives as we crawl toward the stars, inch forward in traffic, circle a bug light with weather-beaten wings, love someone who does not love us in return.

  “Bollocks!” shouted the voice again. “I’ve spilt the fuckin’ coffee!”

  I was lying on a small bed in a pool of my own sweat in a small white room. The lighting appeared to be set at a level of high interrogation.

  “What a fuckin’ load of cobblers!” shouted the voice angrily. “Dress me up in ermine.”

  I looked over and saw the friendly, if somewhat aggravated features of my friend Mick Brennan. Mick was one of the best photographers in the world. He was also one of the best troublemakers.

  “There was no reason for McGovern to have done that,” I said evenly.

  “McGovern’s a total wanker,” said Brennan. “Bloke like that could’ve done anything.”

  “Not this.”

  “What’d he do?”

  I thought about it for a moment. I still couldn’t believe it. But it was the most obvious possible explanation for the unpleasant circumstances in which I now found myself. I did not want to tell Brennan what I suspected, so I answered his question, in Talmudic fashion, with another question. Maybe, like many Talmudic scholars, I was just a little confused myself. It sometimes happens to you when you think you’re getting close to God.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” said Brennan.

  “You would’ve made a good Talmudic scholar yourself if you hadn’t been raised an Irish Protestant.”

  “I was working under cover for the Catholics, mate.”

  “There’s only one Catholic I’d like you to work on for me: McGovern. I’d like you to kill him.”

  “The McGoverns are a dodgy lot, mate, aren’t they? But why’d you want to kill the tosser? After all, it was McGovern who called me and asked me to come here to the hospital to look after you.”

  “It all fits,” I said.

  “You’re talkin’ rubbish, mate. McGovern was—well, he was walkin’ on his knuckles, mate. He’d been on the piss for six days and he must’ve thought it was a week. I mean, I’m not defending McGovern—”

  “Good, because he tried to kill me.”

  “Mate, it’s not logical, is it? If he’d wanted to croak you, why’d he bring you here to St. Vincent’s? Why’d he call me to come look after you? He was just lookin’ out for you, mate. That’s the way it is, innit?”

  “I think he was just covering his tracks. I think he slipped me a mickey at the Corner Bistro.”

  “Now why would he want to do that, mate? Besides, McGovern’s so big he’d need a bleedin’ domed stadium to cover his tracks. You’re just a wee bit crook, mate. That’s the way it is, innit? That’s why I’m here, aren’t I? I talked to the head sawbones. Caught up with him in the hallway. Says they’re runnin’ tests on your blood. We’ll soon know what the problem is, won’t we?”

  “So you seem to think McGovern’s innocent?”

  “ ‘Course he is, mate. The only thing he’s guilty of is being a total wanker.”

  “You’re right. McGovern and I were drinking in the Corner Bistro and we had some rather tedious tension convention—I can’t remember what it was about—and I started shivering and sweating and feeling like I was going to begin squirtin’ out of both ends—”

  “Well, you’re in the right place now, aren’t you?”

  There was something irritating about the cockney custom of tacking the little question to the end of every sentence. It was also beginning to sound rather patronizing, as if Brennan were speaking to a child or an idiot or a grievously ill person. Was I any of the above, I wondered? Of course not. Whatever anybody said about McGovern, he didn’t have a mean bone in his large body. No way would he have done anything so dastardly and devious as to land me in the horsepital. I told Mick Brennan as much.

  “You know, Mick,” I said, “now that I think about it, there’s no way McGovern would’ve ever slipped me a mickey.”

  “You’re right, mate. You want to know what I think?”

  “Do I have a choice? I’m here, trapped in this horsepital bed, freezing my ass off, drowning in sweat—”

  “We haven’t had a wet dream, have we?”

  “—listening to you natter away about what you think. I want to know what the hell’s
wrong with me! What does the head sawbones, as you call him, think?”

  “He’s probably on the golf course by now, mate. We have to be patient, don’t we? Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey, innit?”

  I was really starting to not feel well again. The fever and the chills and the nausea seemed to be coming in waves, taking me far out into a dark and turbulent sea, floating me in and out of consciousness. Whatever affliction was afflicting me, I figured it wasn’t going to be any walk in Central Park. Just judging from the way I felt, whatever I had, had me better than I had it. It felt like I’d just gone ten rounds with death’s little sister, to paraphrase Hemingway who I think was talking about fame, which, of course, is always a death of a sort. If my fans could only see me now, I thought. I could use some fans, actually, the propeller type. The fucking place was burning up.

  I must’ve nodded out, ’cause when I woke up Brennan was gone. This did not surprise me terribly. Mick was not the most reliable of the Village Irregulars. He was certainly one of the most charming, though, but when you’re lying at death’s door, alternately freezing your ass off or burning to death, charm has its limitations. I knew instinctively now that what was wrong with me was more than someone slipping me a mickey. People lie to you when you’re sick. Your friends tend to sugarcoat things. Doctors often tell you what they think you want to hear. The best gauge of how well you are or how sick you are, whether you’re in a horsepital or out of one, is always yourself. Myself was grudgingly, yet ruthlessly telling me that I was an extremely sick chicken. I did not take the news very well.

  A nurse came in a couple of times and each time I asked her what I had, what was wrong with me. Each time she said she didn’t know. She said when the tests came back from the lab the doctor would tell me. I asked her when that would be. She said she didn’t know.

  I tried to sleep, but it’s not easy when your forehead feels hotter than the third ring of Saturn. Or was it Jupiter that had the rings? When you’re delirious, it’s hard to remember these things. When you’re healthy, they may assume a certain degree of importance in a game of trivia or a college exam or some other exercise in vapidity. But when you’re dying, you really don’t give a damn. Dr. Seuss may be painting rings on Joan of Arc’s anus and it’d work for you. When you’re dying, as my friend Speed Vogel says, your heart attack is everybody else’s hangnail. This applies even if you only think you’re dying. Sometimes that’s enough to enlighten you if you ever had any doubts about the fragility of the spider webs of friendship and the fatuous, superficial, pathetic nature of human beings in general. Most of the time we’re not even good enough to be evil. We do things, even good and great things, almost always because, consciously or unconsciously, it suits us to do them. Not that I was expecting Mick Brennan to donate his kidney to me. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted Mick Brennan’s kidney. I was sure I didn’t want his liver. Anyway, when you’re dying or think you’re dying, it’s the people and the animals and the places long ago and far away that always seem the closest to your heart. Everybody and everything else around you sucks hind teat compared with them. And the closer your dearest distant dreams become, the closer you are to death. I was dreaming of the time when my eleven-year-old nephew, David, sneezed on the entire left side of the beautifully presented lox and bagel buffet. Into this cherished moment the sounds of an altercation intruded themselves quite cacophonously. Whatever was happening appeared to be happening right in my horsepital room.