Cole allowed Little Jack to bring him into the tavern, and he immediately recognized, among the half dozen or so faces at the bar, two other members of the crew, Buddy and Ralph, neither of whose last names he knew or could remember. Little Jack was shouting, “Look who’s here!” and Buddy and Ralph were smiling at him in a friendly way, and he found himself smiling back.
The tavern was a large square room, with the bar across the rear wall. There were dim leatherette-and-formica booths on the left wall, and the other walls were lined by machinery; a shuffleboard along the front, below the window, and to the right a bowling machine, a cigarette machine, and a jukebox. Practically all of the light in the room seemed to come from these bright machines, and the mechanical beer and liquor signs on the backbar.
“Another round!” called Little Jack, and Cole found himself pressed against the bar, Little Jack on his left, Buddy and Ralph on his right. The bartender was a huge bullnecked man with only one arm; Cole watched him with fascination as he drew the beers. He brought them over two at a time, thick fingers entwined between the glasses. The jukebox was playing loudly, an instrumental with a simple repetitive melody over a beat as solid and predictable as the rungs of a ladder, and when they started talking they had to shout over it.
It was as though there had been something curled up inside Cole, as though some small animal had burrowed away into his chest to hide or nurse itself, and all at once it was gone, the pressure had all whistled out of him, and he laughed and became something like his old self again, forgetting that he couldn’t remember. They all talked together, about nothing at all but without pause, and from time to time they played teams at the bowling machine, Cole and Little Jack against Buddy and Ralph. For Cole, with so many of his memories gone, this was almost like a revelation of a different kind of life. When one of the others mentioned Artie Bellman, some recent memories crushed back into Cole’s mind, depressing him, and he told the others about his money problems, but not about his need to get away. They hadn’t asked him about his past, and he felt reticent to tell them about past or future; only the present was relevant here.
Buddy said, “You want to be careful, Paul. Bellman’ll bleed you white.”
“What can I do?”
“You want to get out of that hotel,” Ralph told him. “Seventeen-fifty a week, Jesus, that’s way too much.”
Little Jack said, “Get yourself a furnished room. Room and board, maybe. It’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper. Get yourself a paper tomorrow and go find yourself a room.”
Cole nodded. “All right,” he said. “I will.”
Shortly afterward, the one-armed bartender, whose name was George, told them it was two o’clock and closing time. They all made a great show of being panic-stricken as they ordered one last round, beating the second hand of the whiskey clock perched on top of the cash register, and a few minutes later they were all out on the sidewalk. Through the window, Cole could see George turning off the lights. His empty left sleeve was folded over onto his stomach and attached to his shirt there with a big safety pin.
The four of them walked together for a few blocks, and Cole had to ask directions to get back to the hotel. When he and Little Jack parted, Little Jack called, “Don’t forget. Get a paper tomorrow and go find yourself a room.”
“I won’t forget,” Cole promised. But he was afraid he would forget, so he walked along the cold tilting sidewalks whispering to himself, “Get a paper and find a room, get a paper and find a room.”
When he got back to his room in the hotel, he took pen and paper and wrote himself a note. Then he picked up the crumpled sheets of paper on the floor and stood by the dresser, holding the sheets of paper down on the dresser and trying to smooth them out with his other hand. He told himself he shouldn’t have got so upset. He looked again at the two names heading the first page, and now he did seem to have a dim memory of a face to go with the name Nick, though what connection that face might have with the word caricature he still didn’t know.
He read through the rest of his notes. About half of them were meaningful for him, and the other half were just blanks, just gibberish. But that didn’t bother him in particular; isolated memories drifted in and out of his mind, and if the blanks had been real memories a week ago that meant they were still in his head somewhere and he could still eventually get them out again.
One other matter did bother him. One of his notes read: “WILL & MARY—BLACKJACK.” Another read: “RALPH—SIX-PACK OF BEER UNDER SEAT.” Both of these notes stirred memory images for him, but they were the wrong images. Blackjack brought to mind only Black Jack Flynn, blotting out any possible chance of seeing Will and Mary behind him, and Ralph, particularly with a reference to beer, meant no one but the Ralph he’d been drinking with in the tavern tonight. The stay here in this town was turning into an independent life of its own, with its own memories and images building a wall between him and the earlier memories he was trying to grasp.
“I’ve got to save the money quick, and get out of here,” he told himself, saying it aloud. Then he thought again of the name of the tavern—Cole’s—and he smiled at the coincidence, but he still felt a shadow of the irrational fear.
Every night, he counted his money just before going to bed, and tonight he discovered he only had four dollars and eighteen cents. He’d spent three dollars in the bar. How stupid could he be! He’d just been paid today, there was no more money for a full week, and he’d spent three dollars in a bar!
He went to bed cursing himself, and it took him a while to get to sleep. When he woke up in the morning he had the feeling he’d had bad dreams, but he couldn’t remember them. This was his feeling every morning; bad dreams had come to him during the night, but the memory of them was gone.
He found the note about buying the newspaper, and hurried through his morning toilet, pleased at the thought of finding a cheaper place to live. At the diner where he ate breakfast—a sugar doughnut and a cup of coffee heavy with milk—the clock read quarter past ten. He had till four o’clock to look for a furnished room, and then he’d have to go to work.
The newspaper cost him seven cents, which he paid grudgingly. There were nine furnished rooms listed among the ads in the back of the paper, and three of them offered rooms for nine dollars a week. He asked directions to one of the addresses picked at random, discovered it wasn’t more than half a dozen blocks from the tannery, and walked there smiling, the newspaper rolled into a tube and jutting from his hip pocket.
The address was a brown shingle house with an enclosed porch. He rang the bell, and stood on the stoop waiting. After a minute, he saw the inner door open, and then a middle-aged woman in an apron came across the porch and opened the door. She was stout in a firm way, and her gray hair was in the tight ringlets of a home permanent. Her expression was wary and impatient; she looked like someone’s overly disciplinary mother.
Cole showed her the newspaper and said he’d come about the furnished room. She gave a slight smile then and told him to come in. There was a straw rug on the porch floor, and a sofa and tables and hassocks. Broad green canvas shades were rolled up bulkily over the windows.
“It’s upstairs,” she said, leading the way. “It’s my older boy’s room, he’s in the Army. There’s no private entrance, does that make any difference?”
“No. I work at the tannery, four in the afternoon to midnight.”
“Oh, we’d give you your own key.”
The stairs were thickly carpeted. On the way up, Cole got a glimpse of the living room, bulging with maroon overstuffed furniture and thick carpeting and more hassocks. On the second floor there was a small cramped hallway, with five doors. One of them was open, showing a white tile bathroom with thick yellow towels hanging everywhere, and bottles of shampoo and hair lotion and bath salts and aftershave lined up on the windowsill. There was a soft yellow cover on the toilet seat.
“It’s over here,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Malloy, by the way.”
“Paul Col
e.” He followed her into the room. It seemed as though there was already somebody living here; college pennants on the walls, personal bric-a-brac on the dresser, clothing hanging in the closet. There were photos stuck into the edge of the mirror over the dresser.
“We’ll take Bobby’s things out of here, of course.”
“That’s all right.”
“Well, you’ll need room for your own things. Where are you staying now, if I may ask?”
“At the Hotel Belvedere. I’ve only lived here a month.”
“You’re not from around here?
“No, back east.” She looked as though she wanted to ask him more questions about that, so he hurried on, saying, “It’s nine dollars a week, is that right?”
“Just for the room. If you want meals, too, we’ll have to make different arrangements.”
“I don’t know about meals. I work funny hours, four to midnight.”
“I could make you a nice breakfast when you get up, and pack a lunch for you to take along. You’d have to buy your own dinner, after work.”
“How much more?”
“I’d have to talk that over with my husband. Do you know him? Andy Malloy. He’s in Building Two.”
“I’ve only worked there a few weeks. I’m in Shipping. Building Three.”
“Oh.” She looked vaguely around the room. “Well, here it is,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“We’d want a week’s rent in advance, of course. You’d get that back when you left.”
“Oh. I don’t have any money. I just started working two weeks ago, and I didn’t get any pay till yesterday, and I owed some by then.” She wasn’t happy about that, and he suddenly felt as though important matters hinged on his getting this room, so he said, “Couldn’t you check me with the tannery? I really do work there. When I get some money ahead, I can give you the extra week’s rent.”
“I’ll want to call my husband,” she said.
“Sure. He can check that I work there.”
They went back downstairs, and she told him he could sit in the living room while he waited. “Paul Cole, was it? And what’s your supervisor’s name?”
“Black Jack Flynn. I guess it’s John Flynn. There’s two Jack Flynns in the crew, so they call him Black Jack Flynn to tell them apart.” He stopped abruptly, feeling that he was talking too much. It was nervousness; he was afraid she wouldn’t let him have the room.
He sat on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, and waited. There was a dark wood television console in one corner, and it surprised him that anything as modern as a television set could look so old and settled. The whole effect of this house was of a warm neat cave, of a dim safe den lived in by small and fussy creatures who rarely went out into the light.
After a while, Mrs. Malloy came back and Cole got to his feet. She was smiling her small smile again, and said, “My husband says it’s all right. And if you want breakfast when you get up, and a lunch packed, that will be another eight dollars a week, or seventeen in all.”
Room and board for fifty cents less than what he was paying now just for room. Cole smiled and nodded and said, “Thank you. I’d like that.”
“And when would you like to move in?”
“Right now, if I could.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “we have to get Bobby’s things out.”
“I could help.”
“Well, thank you. You’ll want to get your things from the hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Before you go,” she said, “there are some points we should discuss. Do sit down.”
He sat down, on the edge of the chair again, and she sat on the sofa facing him. “If you wish to entertain,” she said, “you may have the use of the porch. The furniture is quite comfortable out there. We would rather you didn’t have your friends up to your room.”
“Oh, sure. That’s all right.”
“We would also prefer that you not keep alcoholic beverages in your room.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Bobby’s radio is still in his room, and we’ll leave it there if you like,” she said, “but we wouldn’t want it played after ten o’clock at night.”
He nodded, agreeing with her.
“As to the rest—” She smiled, and spread her hands. “You may have complete freedom of the house. If you’d like to watch television with us in the evening, that’s perfectly all right.”
“Thank you very much,” he said.
She rose, saying, “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
He thanked her again, and she escorted him to the door, promising to give him his key when he came back from the hotel. He walked back downtown, whistling, very happy, pleased that the sun was shining, though it was cold. He still had only his sweater and suitcoat, and he was hoping the real cold would keep away until he’d saved enough money for the bus ticket.
At the hotel, he packed his suitcase and canvas bag, and then went downstairs to check out. He told Ray he thought he should have some money coming back, since he hadn’t stayed the full week, and Ray said, “All right, let’s see. You didn’t stay the week, so we’ll have to charge you the daily rate. From Tuesday, checking out today, that’s four days, three dollars, twelve dollars. You get five-fifty back.”
Ray filled out a form, and Cole signed it, and then Ray gave him the five dollars and fifty cents. Feeling even better, he went back to the house where he’d be living for the next few weeks. It was on Charter Street, number 542. He decided to make a note of that, and keep the note in his wallet.
He’d forgotten the woman’s name, but it was on a card over the doorbell. Malloy. He rang the bell and repeated the name over and over to himself until she came back. Then he said, “Here I am, Mrs. Malloy, came right back.” He was proud of being able to say her name.
She had already started clearing her son’s possessions out of the room, most of them being transferred to the bedroom of her other son, Tommy. Tommy, she told him, was still in high school, and off with friends today. “You’ll like Tommy,” she said.
Cole helped her with the moving, carrying armloads of clothing from the closet up to a cardboard closet in the attic. Afterward, they sat in the kitchen together for a while and had coffee and bread with butter. Mrs. Malloy tried discreetly to pump him about his past, but the combination of his reticence and faulty memory defeated her; his answers were vague and unhelpful.
After a while he went upstairs and unpacked, transferring his clothing to the dresser and closet, and stowing his suitcase and canvas bag on the closet shelf. He took a thumbtack from one of the college pennants and fastened his work-note to the back of the door. His other notes, and the blank paper, he stored in the top dresser drawer, and ripped off part of a sheet of paper to write Mrs. Malloy’s name and this address on. He put that paper in his wallet, and it made him feel safe. There was an electric alarm clock in the room, so he would know when it was time to go to work, and that made him feel safe, too.
He turned on the radio, but kept the volume low. He found a station that was playing music, and then he lay down on the bed and smiled at the ceiling. He was already thinking of this room as home.
6
His life seemed to be reduced to a series of transitory numbers. Every night just before going to bed he counted his bills and change, and every day he counted the hours. Even his address, 542 Charter Street, was a transitory number. The high points in his life were the paydays, when the numbers reached their highest peak.
After the first week, his pay rose to its normal level. A gross pay of forty-three dollars was hacked away by deductions of ten dollars and eighty-three cents, leaving him thirty-two seventeen. Ten dollars to Artie Bellman, seventeen dollars to Mrs. Malloy, and he had five dollars and seventeen cents for himself. He tried to live on the two meals a day Mrs. Malloy made for him, but sometimes he got too hungry after work and then he’d buy something cheap and filling, like a cupcake and a Coke. He was losing weight, b
ut he didn’t seem to be losing strength; the hard work in the Shipping Department had firmed his muscles, and as he went on the work got easier instead of harder.
The Malloys were pleasant people. Mrs. Malloy never gave up her curiosity about his past, but she wasn’t insistent about it, and for the rest she seemed willing to let Cole, to a certain extent, take the place of her son Bobby, now off to Texas in Army basic training. This relationship was limited by too many things to become cloying, but from time to time Mrs. Malloy did call him Bobby by mistake, and it always embarrassed both of them. Her husband, Matt, was a hearty industrial peasant, fat from beer but still strong, who wore baggy sweaters his wife had knit for him, and who smoked a stinking thick scraggly old Scottish treeroot of a pipe. Matt was an unreconstructed egalitarian, and since he looked on Paul as a co-worker was perhaps closer to him and friendlier with him than if he’d looked on him as a son. Tommy, the boy still at home, was sixteen, chunky and intense, with deep hungers for which he hadn’t yet found any names.
The days took on a sameness. He arose about ten, and went downstairs to find Mrs. Malloy. Usually some murmur met him; the vacuum cleaner in the living room, the radio in the kitchen, the washing machine down in the basement. He would follow the sound, and when he found her he would say good morning, and usually she would say, “Just a minute, Paul. Just let me finish this. Put on the water for the coffee.”
He’d put the water on, and then sit in the kitchen and read the paper. Matt Malloy always left it a thick, ill-folded, dogeared mess, and Cole would arrange it into a neater shape and then read it. He didn’t read the national and international news very often, unless an intriguing headline caught his eye, because those stories required continuity, day by day. He liked the comics, and he read the engagement and wedding announcements, and all the columns that weren’t political, and while he was reading Mrs. Malloy would be getting his breakfast ready. Almost always she made herself a cup of coffee too, and sat with him while he ate.
Memory (Hard Case Crime) Page 7
