When Laila was finished with her dance and ran off the floor and the applause died down I said, "She's beautiful, Ahmed. Why don't you con her into marrying you?"
"Not interested," said Ahmed, shaking his head. He leaned over the table and took a sip of wine before speaking. "There're rumors, Bumper. Laila's supposed to be whoring."
"I can't believe that," I said, remembering her again as a teenage waitress who couldn't even put her lipstick on straight.
"She left her bank job over a year ago. Started belly dancing professionally. You never knew her when she was a real little tot. I remember when she was three years old and her aunts and uncles taught her to dance. She was the cutest thing you ever saw. She was a smart little girl."
"Where did you hear she was tricking?"
"In this business you hear all about the dancers," said Ahmed. "You know, she's one of the few belly dancers in town that's really an Arab, or rather, half-Arab. She's no cheapie, but she goes to bed with guys if they can pay the tariff. I hear she gets two hundred a night."
"Laila's had a pretty tough life, Ahmed," I said. "She had to raise little sisters. She never had time to be a kid herself."
"Look, I'm not blaming her, Bumper. What the hell, I'm an American. I'm not like the old folks who wait around on the morning after the wedding to make sure there's blood on the bridal sheets. But I have to admit that whoring bothers me. I'm just not that Americanized, I guess. I used to think maybe when Laila got old enough . . . well, it's too late now. I shouldn't have been so damn busy these last few years. I let her get away and now . . . it's just too late."
Ahmed ordered me another drink, then excused himself, saying he'd be back in a little while. I was starting to feel depressed all of a sudden. I wasn't sure if the talk about Laila set it off or what, but I thought about her selling her ass to these wealthy Hollywood creeps. Then I thought about Freddie and Harry, and Poochie and Herky, and Timothy G. for goddamn Landry, but that was too depressing to think about. Suddenly for no reason I thought about Esteban Segovia and how I used to worry that he really would become a priest like he wanted to be when he returned from Vietnam, instead of a dentist like I always wanted him to be. That dead boy was about Laila's age when he left. Babies. Nobody should die a baby.
All right, Bumper, I said to myself, let's settle down to some serious drinking. I called Barbara over and ordered a double scotch on the rocks even though I'd mixed my drinks too much and had already more than enough.
After my third scotch I heard a honey-dipped voice say, "Hi, Bumper."
"Laila!" I made a feeble attempt at getting up, as she sat down at my table, looking smooth and cool in a modest white dress, her hair tied back and hanging down one side, her face and arms the color of a golden olive.
"Ahmed told me you were here, Bumper," she smiled, and I lit her cigarette, liberated women be damned, and called Barbara over to get her a drink.
"Can I buy you a drink, kid?" I asked. "It's good to see you all grown up, a big girl and all, looking so damn gorgeous."
She ordered a bourbon and water and laughed at me, and I knew for sure I was pretty close to being wiped out. I decided to turn it off after I finished the scotch I held in my hand.
"I was grown up last time you saw me, Bumper," she said, grinning at my clownish attempts to act sober. "All men appreciate your womanhood better when they see your bare belly moving for them."
I thought about what Ahmed had told me, and though it didn't bother me like it did Ahmed, I was sorry she had to do it, or that she thought she had to do it.
"You mean that slick little belly was moving for ol' Bumper?" I said, trying to kid her like I used to, but my brain wasn't working right.
"Sure, for you. Aren't you the hero of this whole damned family?"
"Well how do you like dancing for a living?"
"It's as crummy as you'd expect."
"Why do you do it?"
"You ever try supporting two sisters on a bank teller's wage?"
"Bullshit," I said too loud, one elbow slipping out from under me. "Don't give me that crybaby stuff. A dish like you, why you could marry any rich guy you wanted."
"Wrong, Bumper. I could screw any rich guy I wanted. And get paid damn well for it."
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Laila."
"You old bear," she laughed, as I rubbed my face which had no feeling whatsoever. "I know Ahmed told you I'm a whore. It just shames the hell out of these Arabs. You know how subtle they are. Yasser hinted around the other day that maybe I should change my name now that I'm show biz. Hammad's too ordinary, he said. Maybe something more American. They're as subtle as a boot in the ass. How about Feinberg or Goldstein, Bumper? I'll bet they wouldn't mind if I called myself Laila Feinberg. That'd explain my being a whore to the other Arabs, wouldn't it? They could start a rumor that my mother was a Jew."
"What the hell're you telling me all this for?" I said, suddenly getting mad. "Go to a priest or a headshrinker, or go to the goddamn mosque and talk to the Prophet, why don't you? I had enough problems laid on me today. Now you?"
"Will you drive me home, Bumper? I do want to talk to you."
"How many more performances you got to go?" I asked, not sure I could stay upright in my chair if I had another drink.
"I'm through. Marsha's taking my next one for me. I've told Ahmed I'm getting cramps."
I found Ahmed and said good-bye while Laila waited for me in the parking lot. I tipped Barbara fifteen bucks, then I staggered into the kitchen, thanked Yasser, and kissed him on the big moustache while he hugged me and made me promise to come to his house in the next few weeks.
Laila was in the parking lot doing her best to ignore two well-dressed drunks in a black Lincoln. When they saw me staggering across the parking lot in their direction the driver stomped on it, laid a patch of rubber, and got the hell out.
"Lord, I don't blame them," Laila laughed. "You look wild and dangerous, Bumper. How'd you get those scratches on your face?"
"My Ford's right over there," I said, walking like Frankenstein's monster so I could stay on a straight course.
"The same old car? Oh, Bumper." She laughed like a kid and she put my arm around her and steered me to my Ford, but around to the passenger side. Then she patted my pockets, found my keys, got them, pushed me in, and closed the door after me.
"Light-fingered broad," I mumbled. "You ever been a hugger-mugger?"
"What was that, Bumper?" she said, getting behind the wheel and cranking her up.
"Nothing, nothing," I mumbled, rubbing my face again.
I dozed while Laila drove. She turned the radio on and hummed, and she had a pretty good voice too. In fact, it put me to sleep, and she had to shake me awake when we got to her pad.
"I'm going to pour you some muddy Turkish coffee and we're going to talk," she said, helping me out of the Ford, and for a second the sidewalk came up in my eyes, but I closed them and stood there and everything righted itself.
"Ready to try the steps, Bumper?"
"As I'll ever be, kid."
"Let's get it on," she said, my arm around her wide shoulders, and she guided me up. She was a big strong girl. Ahmed was nuts, I thought. She'd make a hell of a wife for him or any young guy.
It took some doing but we reached the third floor of her apartment building, a very posh place, which was actually three L-shaped buildings scattered around two Olympic-sized pools. Mostly catered to swinging singles which reminded me of the younger sisters.
"The girls home?" I asked.
"I live alone during the school year, Bumper. Nadia lives in the dorm at U. S. C. She's a freshman. Dalai boards at Ramona Convent. She'll be going to college next year."
"Ramona Convent? I thought you were a Moslem."
"I'm nothing."
We got in the apartment and Laila guided me past the soft couch, which looked pretty good to sleep on, and dumped me in a straight-backed kitchen chair after taking off my sport coat and hanging it in a closet.
"You even wear a gun off duty?" she asked as she ladled out some coffee and ran some water from the tap.
"Yeah," I said, not knowing what she was talking about for a minute, I was so used to the gun. "This job makes you a coward. I don't even go out without it in this town anymore, except to Harry's bar or somewhere in the neighborhood."
"If I saw all the things you have, maybe I'd be afraid to go out without one too," she shrugged.
I didn't know I was dozing again until I smelled Laila there shaking me awake, a tiny cup of Turkish coffee thick and dark on a saucer in front of me. I smelled her sweetness and then I felt her cool hand again and then I saw her wide mouth smiling.
"Maybe I should spoon it down your throat till you get sober."
"I'm okay," I said, rubbing my face and head.
I drank the coffee as fast as I could even though it scalded my mouth and throat. Then she poured me another, and I excused myself, went to the head, took a leak, washed my face in cold water, and combed my hair. I was still bombed when I came back, but at least I wasn't a zombie.
Laila must've figured I was in good enough shape. "Let me turn on some music, Bumper, then we can talk."
"Okay." I finished the second cup almost as fast as the first and poured myself a third.
The soft stirring song of an Arab girl singer filled the room for a second and then Laila turned down the volume. It's a wailing kind of plaintive sound, almost like a chant at times, but it gets to you, at least it did to me, and I always conjured up mental pictures of the Temple of Karnak, and Giza, and the streets of Damascus, and a picture I once saw of a Bedouin on a pink granite cliff in the blinding sun looking out over the Valley of the Kings. I saw in his face that he knew more about history, even though he was probably illiterate, than I ever would, and I promised myself I'd go there to die when I got old. If I ever did get old, that is.
"I still like the old music," Laila smiled, nodding toward the stereo set. "Most people don't like it. I can put on something else if you want."
"Don't touch it," I said, and Laila looked in my eyes and seemed glad.
"I need your help, Bumper."
"Okay, what is it?"
"I want you to talk to my probation officer for me."
"You're on probation? What for?"
"Prostitution. The Hollywood vice cops got three of us in January. I pleaded guilty and was put on probation."
"Whadda you want me to do?"
"I wasn't given summary probation like my lousy thousand-dollar lawyer promised. I got a tough judge and I have to report to a P. O. for two years. I want to go somewhere and I need permission."
"Where you going?"
"Somewhere to have a baby. I want to go somewhere, have my baby, adopt it out, and come back."
She saw the "Why me? Why in the hell me?" look in my eyes.
"Bumper, I need you for this. I don't want my sisters to know anything. Nothing, you hear? They'd only want to raise the baby and for God's sake, it's hard enough making it in this filthy world when you know who the hell your two parents are and have them to raise you. I've got a plan and you're the only one my whole damned tribe would listen to without questions. They trust you completely. I want you to tell Yasser and Ahmed and all of them that you don't think I should be dancing for a living, and that you have a friend in New Orleans who has a good-paying office job for me. And then tell the same thing to my P. O. and convince her it's the truth. Then I'll disappear for seven or eight months and come back and tell everyone I didn't like the job or something. They'll all get mad as blazes but that'll be it."
"Where the hell you going?"
"What's it matter?" she shrugged. "Anywhere to have the kid and farm it out. To New Orleans. Wherever."
"You're not joining the coat hanger corps are you?"
"An abortion?" she laughed. "No, I figure when you make a mistake you should have the guts to at least see it through. I won't shove it down a garbage disposal. I was raised an Arab and I can't change."
"You got any money?"
"I've got thirteen thousand in a bank account. I'd like you to handle it for me and see that the girls have enough to get them through the summer while they're living here in my apartment. If everything goes right I'll be back for a New Year's Eve party with just you and me and the best bottle of scotch money can buy."
"Will you have enough to live on?" I asked, knowing where she got the thirteen thousand.
"I've got enough," she nodded.
"Listen, goddamnit, don't lie to me. I'm not gonna get involved if you're off somewhere selling your ass in a strange town with a foal kicking around in your belly."
"I wouldn't take any chances," she said, looking deep in my eyes again. "I swear it. I've got enough in another account to live damn well for the whole time I'll be gone. I'll show you my bankbooks. And I can afford to have the kid in a good hospital. A private room if I want it."
"Wow!" I said, getting up, light-headed and dizzy. I stood for a second and shuffled into the living room, dropping on the couch and laying back. I noticed that the red hose on Laila's crystal and gold narghile was uncoiled. Those pipes are fine decorator items but they never work right unless you stuff all the fittings with rags like Laila's was. I often smoked mint-flavored Turkish tobacco with Yasser. Laila smoked hashish. There was a black-and-white mosaic inlaid box setting next to the narghile. The lid was open and it was half full of hash, very high-grade, expensive, shoe-leather hash, pressed into dark flat sheets like the sole of your shoe.
Laila let me alone and cleared the kitchen table. What a hell of a time. First the decision to retire. And after I told Cassie, everything seemed right. And then Cassie wants a kid! And a goddamn pack of baby Bolsheviks make an ass out of me. Humiliate me! Then perjury, for chrissake. I felt like someone was putting out cigars on the inside of my belly, which was so hard and swollen I couldn't see my knees unless I sat up straight. But at least I got a back office, even if I did almost die in the pigeon shit.
"What a day," I said when Laila came in and sat down on the end of the couch.
"I'm sorry I asked you, Bumper."
"No, no, don't say that. I'll do it. I'll help you."
She didn't say anything, but she got up and came over and sat on the floor next to me, her eyes wet, and I'll be a son of a bitch if she didn't kiss my hand!
Laila got up then, and without saying anything, took my shoes off, and I let her lift my legs up and put them on the couch. I felt like a beached walrus laying there like that, but I was still swacked. In fact, I felt drunker now laying down, and I was afraid the room would start spinning, so I wanted to start talking. "I had a miserable goddamn day."
"Tell me about it, Bumper," said Laila, sitting there on the floor next to me and putting her cool hand on my hot forehead as I loosened my belt. I knew I was gone for the night. I was in no shape to get up, let alone drive home. I squirmed around until my sore shoulder was settled against a cushion.
"Your face and hands are cut and your body's hurting."
"Guess I can sleep here, huh?"
"Of course. How'd you get hurt?"
"Slipped and fell off a fire escape. Whadda you think about me retiring, Laila?"
"Retiring? Don't be ridiculous. You're too full of hell."
"I'm in my forties, goddamnit. No, I might as well level with you. I'll be fifty this month. Imagine that. When I was born Warren G. Harding was a new President!"
"You're too alive. Forget about it. It's too silly to think about."
"I was sworn in on my thirtieth birthday, Laila. Know that?"
"Tell me about it," she said, stroking my cheek now, and I felt so damn comfortable I could've died.
"You weren't even born then. That's how long I been a cop."
"Why'd you become a cop?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Well, what did you do before you became a cop?"
"I was in the Marine Corps over eight years."
"Tell me about it."
"Weren't you ever afraid?"
"Sure, but there's something about danger I like, and fighting was something I could do. I found that out right away and after the war I shipped over for another hitch and never did go back to Indiana. What the hell, I never had much there anyway. Billy was here with me and I had a job I liked."
"Who's Billy?"
"He was my son," I said, and I heard the air-conditioner going and I knew it was cool, because Laila looked so crisp and fresh, and yet my back was soaked and the sweat was pouring down my face and slipping beneath my collar.
"I never knew you were married, Bumper."
"It was a hundred years ago."
"Where's your wife?"
"I don't know. Missouri, I think. Or dead maybe. It's been so long. She was a girl I met in San Diego, a farm girl. Lots of them around out here on the coast during the war. They drifted out to find defense work, and some of them boozed it too much. Verna was a pale, skinny little thing. I was back in San Diego from my first trip over. I had my chest full of ribbons and had a cane because my first hit was in the thigh. That's one reason my legs aren't worth a shit today, I guess. I picked her up in a bar and slept with her that night and then I started coming by whenever I got liberty and next thing you know, before I ship out, she says she's knocked up. I had the feeling so many guys get, that they're gonna get bumped off, that their number's up, so we got drunk one night and I took her to a justice of the peace in Arizona and married her. She got an allotment and wrote me all the time and I didn't think too much about her till I got hit the second time and went home for good. And there she was, with my frail, sickly Billy. William's my real name, did you know that?"
the Blue Knight (1972) Page 24
