“Jerry Lewis’s what?” she said.
I sensed this was the wrong way to begin. Annabelle the farmer probably hadn’t seen a movie in fifteen years.
“He’s a comedian, and this was his famous, unreleased serious—”
“Look, subway boy, I’m not a farmer, you know. I manage a bakery. I own a VCR and I actually get cable. I have a husband and two kids. I just never heard of this particular goddamn Jerry Lewis movie.”
I took an uneasy sip of my coffee—Kona blend, and not on the house. I had thought she was an actual farmer.
“Not everyone has heard of it,” I said, quietly. “It’s a special kind of … this really doesn’t matter. What matters is, there’s a guy who …”
I soon stopped. If Annabelle didn’t get The Day the Clown Cried, she’d never get Stanley Lager. So I skipped right to the most accessible matter at hand.
“Look, I need to find a mansion. It’s around here. I think FDR lived in it. Now they have tours. But it’s run-down. And somebody rents out one of its rooms, like … Rapunzel, or something.”
Annabelle’s voice, which had been irritated, now became exasperated. “For God’s sake …”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about?” I’d get Jeff Losson for this. What did he know, anyway? He spent his life in comic books.
“FDR didn’t live there. His cousin did. Take the West Side Highway occasionally, why don’t you?”
Slowly, I felt a buzz of hope mix with the caffeine.
ANNABELLE GAVE ME A RIDE.
I sat in the back of her truck, crushed between bags of rolls and doughnuts. I arrived, smelling of pastry, just in time for the last tour at Steilerman, the mansion. She said nothing as I got out, but placed a cruller, wrapped in plastic, in my back pants pocket.
“I need your help in the city,” she said. “So don’t get killed.”
Annabelle actually cared, sort of, in her own way. Seeing her little crinkly smile, I got out.
Soon I was taking the tour of the huge old house. Sweating, I walked behind noisy tourists, dressed in unbecoming shorts, and their stultified teenage children, who made lewd remarks and punched each other. Our tour guide was a retired volunteer, a man of seventy, who knew way too much about the home’s former inhabitants.
“FDR’s fifth cousin, Mr. Steilerman was a volunteer fireman and a voracious reader. This chair, bought in 1906 and stuffed with duck feathers and horsehair, was where he spent many an evening. He would often place both his feet on this ottoman.…”
If this was trivia, it interested a very tiny crowd. The Gilded Age joint was in blatant disrepair and, for every preserved piece of furniture, one stood fraying or collapsed. Entire rooms were roped off, as were staircases. Signs requested donations and desperately promised perks for members, like summer parties or bonnets for kids. I saw bowls overflowing with the fake dimes.
“Excuse me?” I said, interrupting our guide. “What’s up those stairs? The ones cordoned off?”
The old guy stopped, in mid-description of the ottoman. Then, sighing, he just went on. “In those days, dinners often featured a glaze of mint jelly. They were served in the next room, if you’ll follow me …”
“Is it true that someone lives in the—”
Now I was totally ignored by my host and shot contemptuous glances by my fellow guests. The little band proceeded into a dining room, where a long table had been set, with ceramic replicas of glazed jellies.
I made sure to stay behind.
I moved toward a staircase and sneaked silently over its velvet rope. The steps were soft and unstable; I crept up, giving them only the slightest pressure. I remembered that Kate Reid had replaced Kim Stanley in the film of Edward Albee’s A Delicate Balance.
The staircase was a narrow funnel that probably led to an unpresentable past. I had a flash of Gratey McBride, and I instinctively raised a hand, as protection. But I made it safely to the second floor.
It was obviously decrepit, and undergoing an overhaul. Rooms were filled with ladders and drop cloths; walls were half-painted and plaster half-restored. I tiptoed past workmen, who gave me not a second glance.
Then I saw the security guard.
He was no spring chicken. He only had a flashlight; I at least had a fake gun. Still, I picked up my pace, and tried to walk inconspicuously by.
“Excuse me?”
I pretended not to hear, so intent was I in studying light fixtures and ceiling beams.
“Can I help you?”
He had caught up with me. I played the history buff, even though, of course, most of my information came from movies.
“What was this, the maid’s quarters?” I wondered.
We both looked into a tiny room, with just a bed, a dresser, and a bowl for water.
The guy was forced to follow me. “Look, fella, you can’t be up here. You’ve got to go back down—”
“And which was the pantry?” I tried to think of last-century words. “And the paddock? Where was the—”
“Sorry, but I don’t know what—”
Then, over his shoulder, down the hall, I saw a door slowly open. A man emerged, his back to us. He started walking quickly away.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
