by D Keith Mano
and to greed and to anger—I ’m so sick I almost find you plausible. But one thing I don’t want t’do is—is take this disease I ’ve contracted and spread it. I can’t perform the eucharist. I can’t
even get on with the business of repenting yet—so steeped am I
in guilt and fear. I ’m a very unhappy man. And an evil man.
But I still know the difference, thank God, between a sin and a
civil right. H ere.”
I was positioned to his left. When I handed back the bag of
peanuts Manning seemed stricken. He jerked his hips around
on the park bench. He might’ve been wearing an invisible strait-
jacket. Then he reached across with his right hand and took the
peanuts. I stared at him. Manning took his left forearm and,
with his right hand, he raised it.
“ Doesn’t work any m ore,” he said.
That was my day for clandestine meetings. At about three
p.m. Kay and I managed a motor rendezvous in the IHOP
parking lot on Northern Boulevard. Kay got into my car. Then
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she sat, her back against the passenger door, her dress above
bare knee. She looked, I must say, pretty and oh so satisfied
with herself. I put my hand on her calf.
“ You shouldn’t ,” Kay said. “ It might constitute tampering
with a witness.” She thought that was very amusing.
“ You’re committing perjury,” I said.
“ Uh-huh.”
“ It doesn’t bother you?”
‘ ‘Oh, it does. It wouldn’t be worthwhile otherwise. If it didn’t
bother me, I mean. ”
“ Are you so sure I ’m innocent?”
“ No. I think you could’ve done it—you have enough anger in
you. It scares m e.”
“ Then why?”
“ The pleasure it gives me of once—just once—making you
beholden t’me. You don’t know how my love has floundered in
insecurity. In fact, you don’t know me. I ’m not this person—I ’m
much freer, more open, when I ’m not with you. Wife you I feel,
One slip and he’s gone, Kay. Play it close t’fee vest. And, inevitably, I assert at fee wrong time and defer at fee wrong time. ’ ’
“ I ’ve never noticed feat.”
“ Oh, come on—don’t be polite just because I hold your life
in my hands. Face it: our relationship was a mass of sterile
matter. We might as well have been married fifteen years.”
“ I love you.”
“ I don’t doubt it. You love kittens, too. And right now—boy
oh boy, d’you crave stability. And here I am. Stable as a doorstop. ’ ’
“ Do you love me? Talk about anger—I think I hear some
inner rage there.”
“ Oh, I ’m furious wife you. Furious. The sordidness of it all.
This scene. My aunt in Lekachman just wrote saying, in so
many words, don’t bother coming home. Decent people, you
know, decent people can smell out an evil situation. Even at
2,000 miles. ”
“ Look, Kay. Just hours ago I turned down an unofficial offer
from fee diocese—they wanted t’give me my priesthood back.
They wanted t’tum me into a First Amendment martyr. ”
“ Only in New York.”
“ And I said no. I do not make excuses for my behavior. I
ask forgiveness.”
“ Did you love her?”
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D. Keith Mano
“ Berry?”
“ Who else? She was buried today. Someone at the graveside
said you deserved t’be made a eunuch. Did you love her?”
“ N o - ”
“ Then why did you—”
‘ ‘To get laid, of course. What else? Listen, Kay, my feelings
for Berry are so confused now that I really can’t answer you.
She was a heroin addict and I didn’t guess it until last Saturday
night. God knows, she functioned better than I did. She was
also a child of my childhood. We understood each other. She
knew my brother. There was no one here—no one but Berry—
that I could be open with. And, yes, she was sexy. And, yes, I
loved the love for me that I saw in her eyes. I can’t separate
myself from her—I can’t say Berry was just a slut, let’s forget
her and start again. Good God, I was being a slut, too. What
right have I t’judge her?”
‘ ‘This is not the time t ’be Christian. I need reassurance. Want
a cigarette?” She pulled out a pack of Marlboros.
“ A cigarette? You don’t sm oke.”
“ See, that’s what I mean. I ’ve smoked since I was fourteen,
but never around you. When you came over t’my place I used
to dash around and collect the ashtrays. But you never noticed.
I was a librarian and you were a priest—guess who got the most
attention?”
“ So competitive.”
“ Say you love me again.”
“ Say you love me first.”
“ I can’t. It would impair my credibility as a witness. By the
way, I told Detective Cribbs we did it three times on Saturday
night. Uh . . . people can do it three times in one night, can’t
they?”
“ le a n .”
“ Oh, of course—with Berry you were Superman.”
“ You asked me a question, fer God’s sake.” I inhaled, held.
“ Hove you,” I said.
“ Good. Because Ethel told me t’tell you she’s gonna reopen
The Car tomorrow. Weintraub got or threatened t’get an injunction against the police department. ’ ’
“ Tomorrow? It’s wrong. It’s impossible. I ’ll talk her out of
it in the m orning.”
“ You don’t have a chance.”
“ Watch m e,” I said.
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FRIDAY, JULY 29
I beamed down from Bert’s place on Friday morning. Ethel was
hard at work. She had Weintraub on one phone and our exterminator on another. Pearl sat beside Ethel, holding a yellow legal pad. When I slid the aluminum door aside and entered the
glassed-in sun-porch-cum-TV-den, Pearl turned away from me.
Something about her reaction brought back a story about the old
cancer-ridden Sigmund Freud. Some ditzy female poet—her
name escapes me—thought it would be nice to get analyzed by
Freud himself before The Great Man kicked off. So she bugged
him and bugged him. Freud agreed reluctantly. But the sessions
didn’t go well. One day, the poetess is rambling on about her
self-perceptions, and she feels—thump, thump, thump—a fist
pounding on the couch. It’s Freud, and he’s furious. He says,
“ I know why this is not working, I know—YOU THINK I ’M
TOO OLD TO FALL IN LOVE WITH. ” Poor Freud. But that
was just the same anger I was feeling from Pearl. Sexual anger.
She thought I was the murderer. And she was insulted that I
hadn’t made an attempt on her life. At that instant, I realized
that she, Pearl, had come a bit unstuck. It makes a difference—
when first you realize that someone whom you’ve known is,
well, crazy. It clears things up. And yet, through all the long
time of their friendship, it hadn’t bothered Ethel.
“ Give me a minute, Mike, honey. ” Ethel said. “ I ’ll be with
you. Go out and see
your girlfriend.”
I did. But I was pissed off: here I am, I thought, vocationless,
under suspicion of murder, unable to sleep in my own apartment—and Ethel’s treating me like the Japanese houseboy. Disgust claimed my attention and it was a half second or so before I saw Kay. Then watched her. She was surrounded by little girls
at the poolside. The youngest, Ellen, was in Kay’s arms—
getting, yes, gobbled up. Kay was kisses and little bites and
hickey-sucks all over Ellen. Ellen giggled and squirmed. And
Kay pursued her with ravenous, foolish, warm affection. It was
another Kay I hadn’t been informed of.
“ Hello,” I said. The children stared up at me (as sometimes
they do to this day, hoping I ’ll perform the big trick and turn
into Tony). “ Child-eating can get you into trouble.”
“ They’re delicious,” she said. “ Especially now when I ’m so
sick of grown-ups.”
“ Reporters been out there all this time?”
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D. Keith Mono
“ All this time. Did you see Newsdayl They went and fished
out my college yearbook photo—I look awful and it’s on the
cover, ‘Mystery woman,’ it says.”
“ Show business.”
“ I had an argument with Ethel last night—I told her what I
thought. That she was using you. We’re not on good terms this
morning. It’s time t’quit, Mike. A little longer and people might
think you enjoyed this line of work. ’ ’ .
“ You’re right,” I said. “ I ’ll give her an ultimatum.”
Ethel listened. She has a doctorate in manipulation. Ethel
knows this much: -that when someone is really annoyed—and
you can’t work the usual snow job—you listen carefrilly. You
take the person’s complaint very seriously. Then you ignore everything he or she says.
“ Right,” Ethel told me, “ I feel the same way you do. Give
me until September 1st—then you’re out of here.”
“ E th e l- ”
“ Mike, look at it this way. The police won’t let you leave the
city anyhow. And, well—don’t get me wrong, please—but it’s
costing me a fortune t’have Weintraub defend you. Believe it or
not, worse, the Ottomanellis may sue The Car—lack of safety
precautions. Like that woman who sued the motel when she was
raped. We’ve had one, two . . . seven down days this month. I
hadda borrow on my savings t’meet the payroll. Give me a
month—”
“ August 15th and I ’m gone,” I said. “ But today is impossible. There are no girls—”
“ I ’ve taken the liberty of making a few phone calls.” She
handed me a list. ‘ ‘That’s your schedule through Sunday night. ’ ’
“ Girls—I mean—they want to dance . . .?”
“ Well, a large percentage are Brazilian girls who would dance
nude for Jack the Ripper, but . . . the rest will come around.
The place is gonna be packed today, M ike.”
“ Jesus, Ethel—you feel good about profiting from this? Why
don’t we open a waxworks?”
“ A waxworks? D ’you know someone who could do that?”
“ Ethel. I was being sarcastic.”
“ I know. I know.” But did she? I was never sure. “ Believe
me I can tell when someone’s being sarcastic. I lived with your
brother for eight years. ’ ’
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“ Where is Tony, Ethel?” She turned to me. “ Were there
other girls besides Rita?”
“ Don’t do this to me, Mike. My womanhood is pretty shaky
right now. A thing your young friend doesn’t want to understand.”
“ ‘Young friend’? Kay?” She nodded. “ You had an argument?” She nodded. “ Kay is a strong woman.”
“ Oh-oh,” said Ethel. “ You picked one there.”
“ I love her,” I said. “ And she wants me out of here. Now
I ’ve already lost my profession and my right t’privacy—help me
to keep Kay at least.”
“ H a,” said Ethel. “ Don’t worry about losing that one—you
could get rid of lung cancer easier. ’ ’
“ No. You don’t understand Kay. She’s highly principled.
She’D leave me, even if it hurts her.”
“ No, Mike. She won’t. No woman could resist a chance
t’reform—ta-dah—the topless priest. Passionate young man gone
wrong. Passionate, handsome, dark, driven, young man.”
“ Okay, you tell Kay I ’m working ’til August 15th. I haven’t
got the courage.”
“ She’s wrong,” Ethel said, “ that mustache looks good on
you.”
It was Mardi Gras on Northern Boulevard all afternoon and
all night. We had lured the freaks out. When I got to The Car
at noon, there was a double line of customers waiting to get in.
It ran past Big Marty’s store and right around the comer. Like
a damn movie premiere. Not just the raincoat crowd—there were
couples, college kids. We had become part of the New York
experience.
And, behind a police line, looking tough as shower clogs,
was a task force from Females Against Smut—one of whom
clipped me above the left ear with a raw egg. I swear a network
cameraman said, “ I ’m focused. . . Now! ” just before she threw
it. Anyhow, Kay told me later, I looked like John Kennedy on
the Zapruder film. Blam from behind. Someone had spray-painted
EXPLOITS WOMEN across our facade. (Some exploitation, at
$1500 a week tax free.) I turned when die egg hit me—to the TV
world I must’ve resembled Mussolini just before they strung him
up by his heels. And the antismut crowd let out with, “ Woman
killer! Woman killer!” In the midst of all this confusion Linese
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D. Keith Mono
and his idiot manager Dutch were handing out flyers for Rabies.
We had killed his box office—along with four women.
“ Fuckin’ vulture,” Linese yelled at me. “ Fuckin’ vultures,
you and Ethel. Why doncha shut that fuckin’ morgue down—
it’s a disgrace t ’the Boulevard. Why’n ’cha sacrifice fuckin’ virgins on the stage in there, you sicko prick. ’ ’
“ Only people who die in your jo in t,” I said, “ are customers.
O f boredom. ’ ’
“ You’ve had it, Mike. You’re gonna do time for this.”
I took three, four steps toward Linese, but Dutch intervened.
And Bert pushed out the front door to second me. It was a
standoff. Linese got back into his red Cadillac. I watched him
pull away. And then something registered. It was a red Cadillac,
but it was a different red Cadillac.
The gross on Friday was almost $15,000. You had to adjust
for the increased overhead, though. For instance: every match
pad, ashtray or coaster that said THE SMOKING CAR on it
disappeared—mementos of the lurid. Bert even caught some
momser (as he called him) chipping pieces off the bar—as if it
were the Berlin Wall or something. He had planned to set the
wood in Lucite and resell it as bracelets and earrings. I maintained a nice level of paranoia all night. To me it felt like a costume ball—everyone was .in disguise. I knew there were at
least two or three plainclothesme
n. Not to mention the reporters
and free-lance magazine writers. It was hard to say where the
audience ended and the show began.
We weren’t short on attractive dancers. Six auditioned that
night—including two 18-year-old hardbodies, who had flown to
The Car from San Diego: Elizabeth and Lenore. I hired them
on the spot. Then Ugly George pushed past Bert with his video
camera and silver suit and phony sound dish. He offered to shoot
a regular cable TV show at The Car. He’d do us that big favor.
This man has made himself into an anti-celebrity by convincing
otherwise normal women—housewives and secretaries—to undress on the street or in dimly-lit hallways. Bert threw him out.
George seemed to relish that. Better than being ignored, I guess.
It was, as I said, a freak show.
But I felt safe there. And, by midnight, rather than run the
gauntlet outside (or lead the media to Bert’s apartment), I decided to camp out at The Car. One of my dancers had left a bedspread—she thought we allowed floor shows. I sent Jako out
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to buy milk and cereal for breakfast. I suppose part of me wanted
to experience The Car alone—to challenge it. To debate with the
ghosts. Connie disapproved: she thought I was being morbid.
And it worried Bert. But I was adamant—and I locked the door
after them.
There was really no other place to sleep—so, after praying
for a long moment, I spread my sheet out on the stage. Pearl’s
sweater, balled up, served as a pillow. I had a long chug of Wild
TVirkey and curled up where three women had died. Someone
kicked the front door for about five minutes, then gave up. I
tried to find a comfortable position. Finally I stretched out flat
on my back. With the lights off, in silence, it had a spook house
touch.
A creaky spook house. I thought I heard doors open. I thought
I heard a muffled footstep. I felt vulnerable—like something set
out as bait. But, for fifteen minutes or so, I reasoned anxiety
down. Then I heard a quiet metal crash, and I rolled off the
stage onto my stockinged feet. I took the Wild Turkey bottle by
its neck and waited.
“ Shit,” a voice said without much inflection.
Someone was in the women’s room. I flipped a light on—
then I went to the door and kicked it open. A girl sat there: she