Archer dropped the pistol and turned away. The .45 lay black and huge on the carpet; the Reverend’s face (in artistic contrast) was small and milky. Duvoe would not let him retreat, however; he followed him with “And what did you do, Reverend? What did you do to set right the wrong? Did you say anything to anyone outside Prince? Or did you let the conspiracy of silence stand? Did you succor them in their hour of need, Reverend? Did you make sure their souls were unblemished?”
The Reverend Archer did not turn. He raised his hands to his face, and soft sobs escaped between the prisoning bars of his fingers. “It was good here, so…so ordered…”
The bearded man laughed, fur-soft and deeply.
Then he said: “Well, don’t let it bother you, Reverend Archer. It doesn’t matter.”
Then, Archer turned. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
And Duvoe said: “It’s all a lie, Reverend. My name isn’t Deutsch. It isn’t Duvoe, either, but it certainly isn’t Deutsch. They had no children.”
The Reverend Archer’s strong chin could not support the wild weight of his slack mouth. His lower jaw dropped open, and he cast about frantically for the reason in this suddenly mad situation. “You’re…not? Then who…what did you…”
Duvoe’s smile was that of the shark. “Everyone has a hobby, Reverend, and when you’ve done evil for so long it’s the only way you know, the only product you can merchandise, well, then I suppose your first guess about me was correct.”
“Evil!” the Reverend bellowed, starting forward. “You work for him…”
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic, Mr. Archer. I’m quite as human as you. But all this wearies…” and he methodically emptied the .45 into the Reverend Mr. Archer.
Archer fell halfway into the bathroom, and lying there with his face cool against the tile, he smelled the last traces of incense that steam from running shower water was not able to conceal. The cool began to fade, and so did the light as Duvoe wandered about the room carrying his suitcase, murmuring abstractedly, “Now where did I put that road map…”
Exit the fanatic, to the smell of sulphur, offstage right.
Someone is Hungrier
Gone to ground, Ricky Darwin—the former Rachel Dowsznski of Appleton, Wisconsin—huddled in her Far North Chicago English basement and tried not to think about acid eating out her eyes.
She could almost feel the biting, fuming liquid. Grey and painful, as though a slim, sadistic man with long, carefully manicured fingernails were gouging the soft stuff out of the sockets: oysters wriggling in their shells.
She could almost feel it. Almost, but not quite. Not yet. They still hadn’t found the dingy English cellar where she cowered. But it was only a matter of searching and searching, and the strange magic of tipsters, and then one day—
One day they’d come. God made little green apples…and they’d come. Three men with bulky overcoats and narrow-brimmed hats and a small vial of acid, fuming. Courtesy of Marshall Ringler, who was a slim, sadistic man with long, carefully manicured fingernails. A man who hated her and hated her more than even the rackets from which he made his living.
She stared at the flickering grey square of the television in the corner and thought how wise she had been; how clever to have dragged the little 17” set with her when she had fled 20 East Delaware and being Marshall Ringler’s mistress. The phone call from Bernice, warning her that Marshall had found out she’d sold the carbons, telling her Marshall was enraged, had threatened to have her killed. And the flight.
Three pairs of hose and an extra pair of shoes in the black leather beach bag, a carton of cigarettes, some underwear…and the TV. She had run out of the glass and chrome building, taken a cab to the elevated, and then changed trains nine times in her flight north. It hadn’t been easy finding a place to live…she had only come away with the money in her purse; but the English basement was warm, and the TV kept her occupied—though one more afternoon of those insipid guessing games and she’d eat the volume control—so it wasn’t too bad.
Just till things quieted down for her, then she could leave town. Hollywood, perhaps, or New York.
The floorboards above her creaked as Mrs. Prokosh in the house upstairs went about her business. Mrs. Prokosh provided the meals by special request and special financial arrangement (on the understanding that Ricky was ducking her ex-husband).
Hollywood, or even New York. They were a long way from Appleton, Wisconsin. A lot longer than Chicago and an English basement. Why had she decided to double-cross Marshall? Had it been the money? She thought about it, and knew that had only been part of it. She had wanted free of him…and this seemed a foolproof way of doing it. If he wouldn’t let her go, then she would make him go from her.
So she had agreed to sell the carbons of Marshall’s business ledger statements to that shady character known as The Accountant, who in turn would sell them to the police informant—or perhaps to the T-men, since it was a tax matter—and then it was all up for Marshall, and she could be free. But he had found out; it didn’t matter how; he had found out. So she had fled the expensive apartment in which Marshall had set her up, and she had gone to ground in a dingy, moist, netherworld basement, waiting. And she would stay this way for—
How long?
Till the money ran out?
Till they found her?
Till she turned white as a maggot in a garbage pail from being out of the light so long? It was a moot point, a senseless series of questions. Here she was, and here she would stay.
She settled back in the dirty, over-stuffed chair Mrs. Prokosh had loaned her from the basement’s pile of rubble. Sometime in the recent past the chair had been exposed to water dripping from pipes somewhere, and the arms still retained the mildewed stench of scummy moisture. The TV continued to burble and flicker pompously.
I wanted to hit it big, she thought, and there was pain in her chest at the memory of the loss of dreams. And this is real big. So big. A basement in nowheresville. Not even where I started was this bad. Not even Appleton, Wisconsin; chief claim to fame: Edna Ferber was born here. Some big. Some damned big.
You get hungry, she mused, too hungry. For life, for success, for maître d’s saying, “Right this way, Miss Darwin, we have your table reserved.” Hungry for the kind of looks men give you when you can afford the clothes and the jewels and the hairdo that make them look a hundred times. Hungry for big things, for the good things.
Thoughts swirled and she remembered the town with its trees and its small-faced people with their small thoughts behind the faces, and the wanting, the needing to be big. To be so hungry to make it you didn’t give a damn who you had to chew up to get there. All animals, all hungry, all chewing on each other’s personalities to get to the top.
So Chicago was closer to the top, and I was hungry, and it even seemed like making the big time when I got picked up by Marshall in the lounge.
She recalled the day. She had been working as a cocktail waitress in a men’s bar. A short tutu skirt, black mesh hose that showed off her long, golden legs, her hair whipped back in a French roll, all auburn and glinting, the bodice of the costume low enough so the cinch-bra pushed her figure up provocatively. And Marshall had seen her, had wanted her, had been hungry for her. Just as I was hungry for success.
That was when she had learned: no matter how hungry you are…someone else is always hungrier. There are bigger animals trying to chew their way to the top. But Marshall had taken possession of her, and she had become his chattel.
Make it to the top, she thought wryly. And all the little symbols of having made it; the obscure symbols. Like the most expensive nylons—by the dozen. Like signing a name to the check at The Blackhawk or The Pump Room. Like owning a Mexican hairless and walking him on a long golden leash, even though you despised the nipping, shrill insect-like creature. And most personal of all, the symbol that you had dreamed about when you were a hungry high school girl in Appleton, Wisconsin: never carry any change in y
our purse. Only bills. Change is for suckers, for small timers. When the cab fare is two dollars and fifteen cents, give the hackie three bucks and say, “Keep it, driver.” That was the big time; a roll of bills, and never never the poverty clink of coins in your purse.
That had been hunger, and that had been on top, and now, now…an English basement waiting for three men with acid.
“Would you like some navy bean soup?”
Ricky twitched horribly at the voice, and for a full minute she trembled with shock. Mrs. Prokosh stood in the door-empty doorway of the English basement, holding a blue Limoges soup dish with a spoon handle protruding. Ricky bit the edge of her palm, still gasping in terror—remembered, and tried to speak. She was unable to form the words, and only the dimness of the basement kept Mrs. Prokosh from seeing how drained of life her face, her eyes, had become.
“I didn’t startle you, did I?” she asked innocently.
Ricky was finally able to speak, and still feeling the bit-of-death fluttering of fright in her stomach, she replied as kindly as possible, “No, I was just thinking, Mrs. Prokosh. Thank you for the soup.”
The young copper-haired girl with the smudges beneath her eyes and the muffin-shaped older woman in her shapeless perhaps-blue perhaps-grey dress stared at one another. There were thoughts of times past, of times to come, of the faces each wore through life. It was a long, silent conversation in a second’s time.
Mrs. Prokosh set the bowl of soup down on the straight-backed chair near the overstuffed, and said, “Well, I better be getting back upstairs. Harry’s expecting his dinner on time.” She moved to the empty doorway. “Oh, by the way,” she stopped and turned with calculated hesitancy, “there was a couple of men here this afternoon asking if I had rooms for rent. They…”
“What did they look like?” Ricky fairly screamed.
Her eyes were very large, surrounded by white. Her breathing was labored; someone had sunk fangs into her throat.
“Oh, they was tall, and they was very polite, y’know, and they just asked if I rented out rooms ’cause they heard I’d taken in a girl, and I told them no, I didn’t, and it was my basement I’d rented out.”
Ricky was trapped inside Ricky’s skull, screaming, beating at the walls of bone, howling at the stupidity of the old woman, who had damned her, doomed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner, why?” Ricky pleaded with the old woman. Her face was ruined, desecrated by hobnailed boots of terror.
“Well, honey, I swear! I mean, neither of ’em looked anything like what you said your husband looked like; they was real nice gentlemen, and I answered ’em the way I would…what’re you doing?”
Ricky had risen hurriedly from the chair, was now throwing what few possessions were clean into the leather beach bag. It took no more than a minute.
“I’m leaving, Mrs. Prokosh. I’m getting out of here.” She started past the old woman. A meaty hand wrapped around her forearm.
“Now just a minute, Mrs. Darwin. You ate nine meals here this week that you ain’t paid for, and that’s fifty cents a meal, so that’s four-fifty.” She stuck out her free hand.
Ricky pulled open the beach bag, reached in to find her wallet, and drew out the sheaf of bills, so thin now. She whispered free a five-dollar bill and gave it to the old woman, started to move away.
“You got half a buck comin’ back,” Mrs. Prokosh said.
“Keep it,” Ricky threw back, over her shoulder. Change!
“Well, sorry to see you go, honey; I was gettin’ to think you might stay on…” But she was talking to herself; Ricky Darwin was on the dark evening street, moving away from the target house and its English basement coffin as quickly as possible.
It might all be imagination. It might have been a couple of Northwestern students needing rooms. Or a zoning action by the rent commission…if they still had those things. It might have been nothing.
The headlights erupted out of the bushes.
So it hadn’t been her imagination.
It had been Marshall’s men. They had found her.
The four headlights bathed her, limning her sharply, poised with mouth open, legs apart ready to spring, the black leather beach bag hanging down like a millstone weight in her hand, the copper hair tangled and dirty after two weeks in the basement.
And the car started up.
She ran, then.
She ran through the bushes at the other side of the street, into a yard, and around the back, through a short alley between garages and down another street. Then she was gasping for breath, and her chest hurt terribly as she ran and ran and looked for a wall to leap over so they could not see her, and then another street, down another street, there’s got to be another street. She was hopelessly lost, but ahead the main throughstreet showed cars zipping past occasionally, and she headed for it, hoping to flag someone down.
It was night, the lights were bright and the streetlights were not. She was on the road, and because Chance is what it is, every car that went past her had a man and his wife in it, or a guy and his girl, or two women…but no single men, and everybody knows that a lone girl on a highway is picked up by single or hungry men.
And that night, that time, the hungry ones were elsewhere.
All save Ricky Darwin.
And she could smell the melting stench of acid-eaten flesh. She began running hysterically up the highway, crying, dry-heaving. An outside phone booth. A big red and aluminum phone booth, with a light and a phone and a way to call the police.
Police who could not have helped her before, but were able to help her now…at least to save her from immediate danger…and she ran up to the booth, threw herself into it, slammed the door…and opened her beach bag.
Where her symbols lay waiting.
Her symbols of making it to the top, hungrier than the rest.
She slumped back against the glass wall of the phone booth, too tired to run. It was over, it had to be over now. She might have called the police, then stayed in the area, somehow managed to avoid Marshall’s men till help arrived. She might have, if she hadn’t wanted to make it so big.
If she hadn’t wanted to get to the top—so hungry for the good things, the big things—where success was measured by how much money you had. How much money. Not how much small change, just how many bills.
She stared helplessly at the wallet, knowing they would come. Knowing there were worse things than Appleton, Wisconsin, and empty faces. Faces empty, but not burned out.
She stared into the wallet.
Filled with bills. Symbols of hunger.
But the phone took small change.
Memory of a Muted Trumpet
They called the place Valhalla, but it was a loft on Second Street, a wino’s-breath from the Bowery, a pub’s-crawl from the Village.
It was on the fourth floor of a condemned building, and no one else lived there. Just The Green Hornet and Spoof and Gig-Man. There was Gig-Man’s new woman, they called her PattyPeek—because her name was Patty and she looked like she was always peeking around a corner, like that—and half a dozen cats, three of whom were named Shadrach, Meshach, and Boo-dow!
The night the girl they later called Irish first showed at Valhalla, they were having a rent party. The Hungarian who owned the rat-trap still made it to their door the first of every month, holding the rope they had nailed up for a banister, and demanding his pound of flesh. So they were having a rent party, and digging.
The Green Hornet was hunkered down in front of the stereo being wigged by Shelly Manne whacking it home on “Man with the Golden Arm” at 180 decibels. The Salamander was sitting in the butterfly chair, combing her hair and trying to rationalize Nietzsche with her harelip. William Arthur Henderson-Kalish was standing in a corner talking to No. 1 and his latest acquisition, a chick named Maureen, who had carrot-colored hair, telling them, “Mencken was a genius, okay. But he had too many blind spots; the Jews, organized religion, isolationism. Genius is no excuse for being so out of
it…”
Big Walt was sitting like a monarch in the easy chair near the forest of rubber plants. All 314 pounds of him, perspiring freely, making that area verboten for anyone with a nose, and drinking from a can of beer on top of a stack of thirty beers. There was an old man nobody knew with a mouthful of gold teeth—so he’d been nicknamed Goldmouth—and he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, speaking softly in a Vermont dialect about, “Goin’ tuh th’ barn dance in m’dungies…”
In the kitchen six nobodys in button-down shirts and Harris tweed jackets were pouring the contents of a hip flask into the gigantic cooking pot of Sweet Lucy. They had each paid their dollar-fifty for the privilege of attending the party, and they were making certain—through dint of sheer alcohol—that they would each wind up with a weirdie Bohemian chick in their beds that night. Everyone was pointedly ignoring them.
A knock on the door was ignored by everyone except Floormat, a short and exceedingly dumpy girl with adolescent pimples, who hurried to answer it. When she flung open the door, Dick Eherenson and his new wife Portia stood there, holding their baby. They had been married a week; the baby was almost a year old. Its name was Bach Partita.
In the bedroom, where a monstrous bed took up the entire floor space—room enough for three couples on it—God Geller was sitting cross-legged upon the dirty sheets, informing a rapt audience of four girls from Hunter College what the drug peyote was like:
“It’s non-habit-forming and it’s purely safe. The one drawback is that it tastes like hell. I mean, it’s so bad the thought of it can make you puke.”
“What’s it made from?” one of the girls, a freshman with deep-black eyes, asked.
God Geller ran a shaky hand through his short, curly hair. “The peyote cactus,” he answered conversationally. “We have it mailed to us from a nursery in Texas. It’s illegal in California, you know. I used to blast off on it when I was in Hollywood. You know I was in one of the Bowery Boys movies, don’t you—”
Gentleman Junkie Page 17
