Fulton
fish market is where Fulton Street meets the East River. The quay and
the street are cobbled and if you look East over the river you can
get a good view of Brooklyn Heights and the bridge. Veronica is
dressed as a New York socialite and me as her driver. We pick our way
through the stevedores unloading the fish on the quay. Big men in
white coats and assorted hats auction each case. Porters take the
fish way to awaiting trucks and few hand carts. We don't look out of
place as there are some evening suited men with ties unknotted
Champagne bottles in their hands and high class broads on their arms,
staggering about the melee.
“This is impossible,” I say. “We'll never spot her amongst all this.” I wave my hand around to take in the scene. “What about all the fishmongers with stalls and handcarts. She may never set foot in this market.”
Veronica looks down her nose at me as if my remark was the most contemptuous remark ever.
“Think positively buddy boy.” I am feeling gloomy by the minute, the overwhelming smell of fish is, well, overwhelming. It's OK for the habitués, it is their living and the smell of fish is like the smell of money to them. But me? I feel sick.
Veronica sees that I am going green and guides me into a bar, and orders two large Brandies. I down mine with one gulp. The barkeep tops me up immediately.
“Want me to keep em coming?”
“No,” says Veronica and hands the barkeep two photographs.
“Seen either of these two on the quay?”
He looks at the likeness's of our target, and throws the photographs back onto the counter.
“You a cop?”
Veronica laughs. “No private Dicks. Ones the maid the other is an heiress she went missing with.” She pauses and gives him the eyes. “There is a reward.”
The barkeep is interested now. “How much?”
“Ten big ones.”
“Wee,” he whistles. “Let me have another look.” He turns the photographs towards him.
“This one is a familiar.” He taps the picture of the cook. “Buys cat fish then a beer. Runs a fish fry every Saturday. Can't say where.”
Veronica hands him a C note and a card. “Call that number when she comes in.”
Then turns to me.
“See that is how it is done.”
“What about the reward?” says the barkeep.
“If we cop her it's all yours.
***************
Pal Joey staring Gene Kelly is playing at St James Theatre at 246 W 44th St, and Veronica insists we take a box.
“What if the barkeep tries to phone whilst we are in the theatre?” I ask.
“I have my head phone.” Says V.
A head phone is something like a telepathic neuron that receives calls to the brain and transmits thoughts. A Martian mobile phone, neat eh? Not every one has one as they are limited and Apple Corp won't drop the price.
I have no objection to the show as it is filled with classic numbers that Frank and Ella would become synonymous with, such as, The Lady is a Tramp, I Didn't Know What Time It Was, I Could Write a Book, There's A Small Hotel etc. All of which I have played in one guise or another. It will be be fun to see what Gene Kelly sounds like in the flesh.
We have no sooner settled in the box when Veronica says we have to get down to the bar as Miss Fish Fry has come in and ordered a beer.
We hail a cab and he takes us down Water Street to Fulton. Veronica shoves a dime note in his hand and tells him to step on it.
“What bar in Fulton Street, I know them all.”
“Max's”
“ Yeh I know Max's fulla bums.” The taxi drops us off at the door Veronica tells him to keep the change. “Was gonna anyway.”
We step into the dark and the barkeep points to a booth by the window. Sitting at it is the cook. We take over another beer and our Brandies.
“Mind if we sit down?” asks Veronica. The cook shrugs.
“It's a free country.”
Veronica pushes the fresh beer towards her. “Hear you run a Fish Fry.”
“You slummin or sumting?”
“Yeh we want to see the real Harlem”
“Might not be in the land of darkness.”
“Wherever.”
The cook looks Veronica in the eye, and takes a slug of her beer.
“I seen you before, in the movies.” Veronica puts a finger to her lips. “Not so loud, as you say I'm slumming.”
The cook dips her finger in the beer and writes on the table. It's an address in Harlem.
“This is impossible,” I say. “We'll never spot her amongst all this.” I wave my hand around to take in the scene. “What about all the fishmongers with stalls and handcarts. She may never set foot in this market.”
Veronica looks down her nose at me as if my remark was the most contemptuous remark ever.
“Think positively buddy boy.” I am feeling gloomy by the minute, the overwhelming smell of fish is, well, overwhelming. It's OK for the habitués, it is their living and the smell of fish is like the smell of money to them. But me? I feel sick.
Veronica sees that I am going green and guides me into a bar, and orders two large Brandies. I down mine with one gulp. The barkeep tops me up immediately.
“Want me to keep em coming?”
“No,” says Veronica and hands the barkeep two photographs.
“Seen either of these two on the quay?”
He looks at the likeness's of our target, and throws the photographs back onto the counter.
“You a cop?”
Veronica laughs. “No private Dicks. Ones the maid the other is an heiress she went missing with.” She pauses and gives him the eyes. “There is a reward.”
The barkeep is interested now. “How much?”
“Ten big ones.”
“Wee,” he whistles. “Let me have another look.” He turns the photographs towards him.
“This one is a familiar.” He taps the picture of the cook. “Buys cat fish then a beer. Runs a fish fry every Saturday. Can't say where.”
Veronica hands him a C note and a card. “Call that number when she comes in.”
Then turns to me.
“See that is how it is done.”
“What about the reward?” says the barkeep.
“If we cop her it's all yours.
***************
Pal Joey staring Gene Kelly is playing at St James Theatre at 246 W 44th St, and Veronica insists we take a box.
“What if the barkeep tries to phone whilst we are in the theatre?” I ask.
“I have my head phone.” Says V.
A head phone is something like a telepathic neuron that receives calls to the brain and transmits thoughts. A Martian mobile phone, neat eh? Not every one has one as they are limited and Apple Corp won't drop the price.
I have no objection to the show as it is filled with classic numbers that Frank and Ella would become synonymous with, such as, The Lady is a Tramp, I Didn't Know What Time It Was, I Could Write a Book, There's A Small Hotel etc. All of which I have played in one guise or another. It will be be fun to see what Gene Kelly sounds like in the flesh.
We have no sooner settled in the box when Veronica says we have to get down to the bar as Miss Fish Fry has come in and ordered a beer.
We hail a cab and he takes us down Water Street to Fulton. Veronica shoves a dime note in his hand and tells him to step on it.
“What bar in Fulton Street, I know them all.”
“Max's”
“ Yeh I know Max's fulla bums.” The taxi drops us off at the door Veronica tells him to keep the change. “Was gonna anyway.”
We step into the dark and the barkeep points to a booth by the window. Sitting at it is the cook. We take over another beer and our Brandies.
“Mind if we sit down?” asks Veronica. The cook shrugs.
“It's a free country.”
Veronica pushes the fresh beer towards her. “Hear you run a Fish Fry.”
“You slummin or sumting?”
“Yeh we want to see the real Harlem”
“Might not be in the land of darkness.”
“Wherever.”
The cook looks Veronica in the eye, and takes a slug of her beer.
“I seen you before, in the movies.” Veronica puts a finger to her lips. “Not so loud, as you say I'm slumming.”
The cook dips her finger in the beer and writes on the table. It's an address in Harlem.
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