Thank God all of that was going to be taken care of by my new client. They’d get me out of this hell I was in.
I looked over at the clock on the table beside my bed. Its face barely peeked out from a thousand bits of hopeless clutter. The clock didn’t look too happy. I think it would have preferred to have been in the house of a banker or a spinster schoolteacher instead of a San Francisco private eye down on his luck. The hands of the demoralized clock said 5:15. I had forty-five minutes before I was to meet my client in front of the radio station on Powell Street.
I hoped that whatever my client wanted me to do would take place in the radio station because I’d never been in a radio station before and I liked to listen to the radio. I had a lot of favorite programs.
Well, now I was “showered,” “shaved,” “clean,” and “clothed.” It was about time I headed downtown. I decided to walk because I was so used to it, but those days were over. My client’s fat fee would end that routine, so this walk downtown was a sort of farewell to walking all over the place.
I put the coat back on that had a gun in each pocket: one loaded and one empty. Looking back on it now, I wish I had taken the empty gun out of my pocket, but you can’t go back and redo the past. You just have to live with it.
Before leaving the apartment I looked around to see if I had forgotten anything. I of course hadn’t. I had so little stuff in this world what in the hell did I have to forget?
A watch, no, a signet ring with a huge diamond, no, a good-luck rabbit’s foot, nope. I had eaten that long ago. So just standing there with the two guns in my pockets, I was as ready to leave as I was ever going to be.
The only thing that was nagging my mind was the fact that I still had to call my mother and have the same conversation all over again and take my week‘s abuse.
Oh, well… if they wanted life to be perfect they would have made it that way in the first place and I’m not talking about the Garden of Eden.
Good-bye, Oil Wells
in Rhode Island
The amateur landlady mourners were not at the top of the stairs when I left the building. They certainly had been a ridiculous crew drafted into a pathetic opera of mourning, but now they had all gone back to their ratholes and the landlady was only dead.
I thought about her as I left the place.
I had certainly done a good con job on her when I had gotten a reprieve on my rent by telling her that my uncle had struck it rich with oil wells in Rhode Island. That was a great inspiration, right out of left field, and she bought it. I could have been a great politician if Babylon hadn’t gotten in my way.
As I went down the front stairs, I had a vision of the landlady thinking about oil wells in Rhode Island just as her ticker stopped. l could hear her saying out loud to herself, “I never heard of oil wells in Rhode Island before. Somehow that doesn’t sound right to me. I know there are a lot of oil wells in Oklahoma and Texas, and I’ve seen them in Southern California, but oil wells in Rhode Island?”
Then her heart stopped.
Good.
Pretty Pictures
I was walking down Leavenworth Street, very carefully not thinking about Babylon, when suddenly a young man in his early twenties spotted me from across the street and started waving his arms at me.
I had never seen him before.
I didn’t know who he was.
I wondered what was up.
He was very anxious to get across the street to me but the light was red and he stood there waiting for it to change. While he waited he kept waving his arms in the air like a crazy windmill.
When the light changed he ran across the street to me.
“Hello, hello,” he said like a long-lost brother.
His face was covered with acne and his eyes suffered from character weakness. Who was this bozo?
“Do you remember me?” he said.
I didn’t and even if I did, I didn’t want to, but as I said I didn’t.
“No, I don’t remember you,” I said.
His clothes were a mess.
He looked as bad as I did.
When I said that I didn’t know him, he looked very disheartened as if we had been very good friends and I had forgotten all about him.
Where in the hell did this guy come from?
He was now staring at his feet like a freshly-disciplined puppy.
“Who are you?” I said.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, sadly.
“Tell me who you are and maybe I’ll remember you,” I said.
He was now shaking his head dejectedly.
“Well, come on,” I said. “Spill the beans. Who are you?”
He continued shaking his head.
I started to walk past him.
He reached out and touched my coat with his hand, so as to stop me from walking away. That gave me two reasons now to have my coat cleaned.
“You sold me some pictures,” he said, slowly.
“Pictures?” I said.
“Yeah, pictures of lady women with no clothes on. They were pretty pictures. I took them home. Remember Treasure Island? The Worlds Fair? I took the pictures home with me.
Oh, shit! I bet he took the pictures home with him.
“I need some more pictures,” he said. “Those pictures are old.”
I had a vision of what those pictures looked like now and shuddered.
“Do you have some more I can buy?” he said. “I need new pictures.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. “I’m not doing that any more. That was just a one-time thing.”
“No, it was 1940,” he said. “That was only two years ago. Don’t you have just a few left over? I’ll pay you good for them.”
He was now staring at me with dog-like pleading eyes. He was desperate for pornography. I’d seen that look before, but those days of selling dirty pictures were behind me now.
“Fuck you, pervert!” I said and continued on down Leavenworth Street toward the radio station.
I had better things to do than stand on a street corner talking to asshole sex perverts. I shuddered again thinking about how those pictures I sold him at the Worlds Fair in 1940 got old.
Pedro and
His Five Romantics
I walked a few more blocks down Leavenworth Street toward meeting my client and then remembered the dream I’d had last night. I dreamt that I was a famous chef from South of the Border and I opened up a Mexican restaurant in Babylon specializing in chiles rellenos and cheese enchiladas.
It became the most famous restaurant in Babylon.
It was near the Hanging Gardens and the finest people in Babylon ate there. Nebuchadnezzar came there often, but he didn’t care for the house specialties. He preferred tacos. Sometimes he would be sitting there with one in each hand.
What a character, making jokes all the time and gesturing at people with his tacos.
Nana-dirat worked there as a dancer.
The place had a stage with a small mariachi band: Pedro and His Five Romantics.
They could play up a storm and when Nana-dirat danced everybody ordered more beer to cool themselves off. She was a Mexican firecracker dancing in old Babylon.
Uh-oh, suddenly I realized as I was walking down the street toward my client that I was thinking about Babylon again. Big mistake.
I stopped it immediately.
I slammed on the brakes.
Got to be careful. Can’t let Babylon get me. I had too many things going for me. Later for Babylon. So I rearranged my thought patterns to concentrate on something else and the thing I chose to think about was my shoes. I needed a new pair. The ones I was wearing were worn out.
Smith Smith
I was a block away from the radio station, busy thinking about my shoes, when the name Smith Smith flashed into my mind and I blurted out, “Great!” The whole world could have heard me but fortunately there was nobody around. That block of Powell Street was quiet. There were a few people at each end of the block but I was alone in the
middle of the block.
Luck was still with me.
Smith Smith, I thought, that’s the name for my private eye in Babylon. He’ll be called Smith Smith.
I’d come up with the perfect variation of the name Smith. I’d combined it with a second Smith. I was really proud of myself. Too bad I didn’t have anybody to share my accomplishment with but I knew if I told anybody about Smith Smith it would be good cause for an involuntary trip to the nuthouse, which was where I wasn’t interested in going.
I’d keep Smith Smith to myself.
I went back to thinking about my shoes.
Roast Turkey
and Dressing
I arrived at the radio station at ten of six. I wanted to be on time to show that I was a responsible private I detective who had better things to do than think about Babylon all the time.
There was nobody else in front of the radio station.
My client whoever they were hadn’t arrived yet.
I was very curious about who would show up.
I didn’t know whether it would be a man or a woman. If it was a woman I hoped that she would be very rich and beautiful and she would fall madly in love with me and want me to retire from the private-eye business and live a life of luxury, and I’d spend half my time fucking her, the other half dreaming of Babylon.
It would be a good life.
I could hardly wait to get started.
Then I thought about what would happen if a Sydney Greenstreet-type client showed up who wanted me to tail a Filipino cook who was having a love affair with his wife, and I’d have to spend a lot of time sitting at the counter of the café that he cooked in, watching him cook.
The case would take a month.
Every week I’d meet with Sydney Greenstreet in his huge Pacific Heights apartment and describe in detail to him everything the Filipino cook had done that week. He was very interested in everything the Filipino cook did, even to the point of wanting to know what the menu was on Wednesday in the restaurant the cook worked at.
I’d be sitting opposite Sydney Greenstreet in this fantastic apartment filled with rare art works. The apartment would have a tremendous view of San Francisco, and I’d have a glass of fifty-year-old sherry in my hand that was constantly being refilled by Peter Lorre who was the butler.
Peter Lorre would project an illusion of poised disinterest in our conversation when he was in the room with us, but later I would see him hovering near the door to the room, eavesdropping.
“What was the menu on Wednesday?” Sydney Greenstreet would say with his huge fleshy hand incongruously wrapped around a delicate sherry glass.
Peter Lorre would be hovering on the other side of the open living room door, pretending that he was dusting a large vase but actually listening very carefully to what we were saying.
“The soup was rice tomato,” I’d say. “The salad was a Waldorf salad.”
“I’m not interested in the soup,” Sydney Greenstreet would say. “Or the salad. I want to know what the entrées were.”
“I’m sorry,” I’d say. After all, it was his money. He was paying the bill. “The entrées were:
Fried Prawns
Grilled Sea Bass with Lemon Butter
Filet of Sole with Tartar Sauce
Veal Fricassee with Vegetables
Corned Beef Hash with Egg
Grilled Pork Chop and Apple Sauce
Grilled Baby Beef Liver and Onions
Chicken Croquettes
Ham Croquettes with Pineapple Sauce
Breaded Veal Cutlet with Brown Sauce
Fried Unjointed Spring Chicken
Baked Virginia Ham with Sweet Potatoes
Roast Turkey and Dressing
Corn-fed Steer Beef Club Sirloin Steak
French Lamb Chops and Green Peas
New York Cut Sirloin.”
“Did you try one of the entrées?” he’d ask.
“Yes,” I’d say. “I had the roast turkey and dressing.”
“How was it?” he would ask, leaning anxiously toward me in his chair.
“Terrible,” I’d say.
“Good,” he’d say, with a great deal of relish, smacking his lips with pleasure. “I don’t understand what she sees in him. They’re both swine. They deserve each other.”
Then he would pause and lean back comfortably in his chair and take an appreciative sip of sherry. He would look at me with contentment in his lazy tropical eyes.
“The roast turkey and dressing were terrible?” he’d ask. “Were they really that bad?” with almost a smile on his face.
“The dressing was the worst I ever tasted,” I’d say. “I think it was made out of dog shit. I don’t know how anyone could eat it. I took one taste and that was enough for me.”
“How interesting,” Sydney Greenstreet would say. “How very interesting.”
I’d look over at Peter Lorre who’d be pretending to dust a large green vase with Chinamen riding horses on it.
He would also think my comments on the roast turkey and dressing were interesting, too.
Cinderella
of the Airways
I was standing there in front of radio station WXYZ “Cinderella of the Airways” thinking about Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre, roast turkey and dressing, when the Cadillac limousine that had driven by me earlier in the day when I was going into the morgue pulled up in front of me and the rear door opened effortlessly toward me. The beautiful blonde I’d seen leaving the morgue was sitting in the back seat of the limousine.
She gestured with her eyes for me to get in.
It was a blue gesture.
I got in beside her.
She was wearing a fur coat that was worth more than all the people I know put together and multiplied twice. She smiled. “What a coincidence,” she said. “We saw each other at the morgue. It’s a small world.”
“It sure is,” I said. “I take it that you’re my—”
“Client,” she said. “Do you have a gun?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got one.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s very good. I think we’re going to be friends. Close friends.”
“Why do you need somebody with a gun? What am I supposed to do?” I said.
“I’ve seen all the movies,” she said, smiling. She had perfect teeth. They were so perfect that they made me feel self-conscious about my teeth. I felt as if I had a mouth full of broken glass.
The same chauffeur who’d been driving her earlier in the day was in the front seat behind the wheel. He had a very powerful-looking neck. He hadn’t looked back once since I’d gotten into the car. He just kept staring straight ahead. His neck looked as if it could dent an ax.
“Cozy?” the rich blonde said.
“Sure,” I said, having seen this movie before.
“Mr. Cleveland,” she said, addressing the chauffeur who answered her with a twitch of his neck.
The car started slowly down the street.
“Where are we off to?” I said, offhandedly.
“Sausalito to have a beer,” she said.
That seemed strange.
The last thing in the world that she looked like was a beer drinker.
“Surprised?” she said,
“No,” I said, lying.
“You’re not being truthful,” she said, smiling at me.
Those teeth were really something.
“OK, a little,” I said. She had all the money. I’d play any game she wanted rue to.
“People are always surprised when I say I want a beer. They naturally assume that I’m a champagne-type lady because of the way I look and dress, but looks can be deceiving.”
When she’d said the word champagne, the chauffeur’s neck twitched violently.
“Mr. Card?” she said.
“Oh,” I said, looking from the chauffeur’s neck back to her.
“Don’t you think so?” she said. “Or are you a person who’s taken in by looks?”
As
I said, it was her money and I wanted some.
“To be honest with you, lady, I’m surprised that you’re a beer drinker.”
“Call me Miss Ann,” she said.
“OK, Miss Ann, I’m surprised that you prefer beer to champagne.”
The chauffeur’s neck twitched violently again.
What in the hell was happening?
“Are you a champagne man?” she said, and as soon as she said the word champagne the chauffeur’s neck twitched again. It was a twitch that looked powerful enough to break your thumb if you were touching his neck when the twitch went off. This guy’s neck was something to be reckoned with.
“Mr. Card, did you hear me?” she said. “Are you a champagne man? Do you like champagne?”
The neck went off again like a gorilla rattling the bars of its cage.
“No, I like bourbon,” I said. “Old Crow on the rocks.”
The chauffeur’s neck stopped twitching.
“How droll,” she said. “We’re going to have a wonderful time together.”
“What are we going to do?” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
The chauffeur’s neck remained quiet as we drove through San Francisco toward the Golden Gate Bridge. I could see that his neck had the potential for providing trouble in the future. I thought of what might happen if you crossed that neck. I didn’t like that idea at all. I was going to keep on the good side of the neck. That neck and I were going to be close buddies if I had my way about it.
The neck didn’t like the word champagne.
I would be very careful to avoid using that word in the future.
The neck liked the word bourbon, so that was a word that the neck was going to hear a lot of.
What in the hell was I getting myself into?
We drove down Lombard Street toward the Golden Gate Bridge and what I was going to get myself into.
Smith Smith Versus
the Shadow Robots
Dreaming of Babylon Page 6
