The Delectable Mountains

by Michael Malone

  Mrs. Thurston vigorously nodded. “I am not surprised, not surprised at hearing even this. That man is right where he belongs, unless they decide to commit him to an insane asylum. It may not be his fault, but the truth is that Spurgeon Debson is a pure and simple maniac.”

  “What’s the charge?” I asked.

  “Obscenity. Indecent exposure. Assault. Resisting arrest. I’m going to go talk to Gabe. He’s probably completely baffled.”

  “Baffled?” Mrs. Thurston’s incredulity sank her to the couch, “Is that the word to use for a law officer who has just witnessed a deranged man urinating on state property in broad daylight in the middle of the public streets? Why, this is the worst possible time for this to happen! Here you are traipsing off, scarcely clothed, a widow of less than a month’s time, to assist an unmarried madman who bites public officials, at the very moment that your husband’s father can have the news broadcast in his face. Now, you can get on your high horse, Leila, and say ‘What do I care?’ but, honey, the reality of this situation is that you are dependent on Bruno Stark, if only for the future of your babies. So please, Leila, this careless disregard of watching your step, please make an effort to overcome it. Spurgeon made his bed, and if he chooses to place himself on a prison cot, why, honey, let him lie in it alone.”

  Leila picked up her pocketbook. “Mother, I understand what you’re saying, and I know you’re just thinking of me, but it isn’t going to hurt me to try to help somebody that’s mixed up.”

  “Leila, you are a fool. I don’t know where you received your genes, but you certainly did not receive them from me.”

  Leila left.

  Our diminished family quietly ate the Hungarian goulash, after which, I asked Sabby if she’d like to walk downtown with me to the Red Lagoon Bar. She said no, she was going to try to get Mr. Wolfstein to play gin rummy with her and Mrs. Thurston, so I went alone.

  The man with the notebook was coming out of the bar. Inside, Lady Red called me over to the cash register.

  “Hey, kid. Who’s that friend of yours in the dance room?”

  “Who?”

  “Tall, good-looking blond guy. You know him, don’t you?”

  “Dennis Reed? Wears a suede coat?”

  “Yeah, what a nice guy. Friendly. Always a nice word, you know, never too busy to gab a minute.”

  Kim, the big dancer, pulled herself up on a stool beside me and asked for a drink.

  But Lady Red came over and shook her head at Tony. She spoke flatly. “You know what, Kim? You keep boozing your salary away like this, you’re gonna end up owing me at the end of the month. Much less getting to California. It ain’t exactly working wonders on your figure either.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s this goddamn heat. Come on, give me the drink. Gin and tonic, Tony?” She glanced down at her arms, hanging flabby from a sleeveless sweater, her large breasts spread out against the counter. From behind his wife, Tony handed her the drink; nursing it, she said, “Oh listen, Red, the fellow I was talking about—Rings told me somebody acting like a dick was asking him a bunch of questions outside earlier on. He told him to get lost. Wonder if it’s the same one.”

  Lady Red stuck the key in her cash register. “Just let me tell you something. If that guy comes nosing around again, you just send him to me, hear? Just tell him to come see me. I don’t want snoops in my bar.”

  “Okay, sure, Red, sure,” Kim drawled. A limp, heat-wet strand of lemon hair drooped across her face; she left it there.

  I excused myself and went toward the back room. A blast of noise and heat swarmed around me when I pulled the door open. Tanya wasn’t there. The discotheque was jammed with dancing couples, half hopping in one direction, half jerking in the other, while Tony Menelade and two new waitresses shoved their way through them, poking backs, pushing arms aside as they steered drinks to sweaty customers. Business was good.

  T-shirted, Ronny Tiorino straddled a chair near the dance floor; beside him a tanned teenaged girl applauded with giggles as he pulled off the cap of a beer bottle with his teeth. Spitting the cap at me, he yelled, “Donahue, c’mere!” I went over. “What’s going on next door?” I shrugged. “Has Mittie’s old man slapped a lock on the place yet?” I told him I didn’t know and didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Be fine with me,” he said. “I’d just as soon hang around here the rest of the summer. Sure staying away from my draft board ’til the smoke clears. Joely’s looking for you to help him backstage.” He handed the girl the opened beer and stuck another bottle in his mouth. Seated on the edge of a chair, I theorized, “You’re going to pull your teeth out like that, Ronny.”

  “Nnnn,” he shook his head vigorously.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Mminni,” he mumbled around the bottle.

  “You heard of somebody named Rings?”

  His face contorted, Ronny bit the cap off and spit it out; there was a cut on his lip. “Shit!” he licked his mouth. “Yeah,” he nodded knowingly, “Rings Morelli. Friend of Lady Red’s. I think they’re partners. He owns the little porno store. Runs a poker game. But the real cash comes from pimping, that’ud be my guess.” He grinned.

  “Awh, come on, how do you know that?”

  He flexed his arms, Brandoesque, rippled his fingers. “Whaddayah think, I’m sitting around playing Chopsticks with Pete Barney? I get around.”

  The teenager sucked at her beer bottle, looked from Ronny to me to Ronny with huge-pupiled eyes.

  “Sure,” he went on, “what do you think they call Slough Lane? Twenty-twenty Street.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Impatient, he snorted, “Harvard! Twenty bucks for twenty minutes. Wanna know what that means?”

  “Aw, shut up. This guy Morelli. What does he look like?”

  “Mid thirties. Good body. Sharp dresser. Black hair, slicks it back. Mafioso looks.”

  “Wears patent leather boots?”

  “You wanna make a date with him? How the fuck should I know!”

  “I got to go. See you.”

  “What for? Maybe Bonnie’s got a friend?” He pulled the beer bottle from his companion’s mouth. “You gotta friend, kid?” She shook her head, and he put the bottle back. “What are you looking at?” he snapped at me.

  I had been staring at his eyes; Maisie had told me one of them was glass. I couldn’t tell which one.

  A few feet away, a strobe light caught Dennis Reed’s hair, the “Golden Fleece,” Verl called it. Across a table from Suzanne Steinitz, he shook the gold in her eyes. As I neared them, he was saying, “You’re right. Medea would be great for you. A part like that—‘fire, passion, darkness’.” He took in her face and hair, then chanted, “Ah, my father! My fatherland! To my endless shame I left you, left you after murdering my own brother.” Well, I guess Dennis really was a Greek drama enthusiast, after all.

  Suzanne breathed, “Oh, you know the play?”

  “Well, I know a little Greek. Euripides has…always…fascinated me.”

  “Hello. Suzanne. Dennis,” I said passing by. They ignored me.

  Drinking alone away from the dance floor, I pondered the identity of the man with the notebook. Was he a detective, the Vice Squad after Rings Morelli? An F.B.I. agent checking out Spurgeon’s threatening letters? Maybe Bruno Stark had hired him to spy on Leila. Suppose he found out where Leila was right now. Or Tanya—perhaps she had committed a crime and escaped, or more likely, was a runaway heiress, whose real name was something like Babs. Or maybe he was a journalist doing research on Floren Park. I had to hurry, write my own material down before this guy with the notebook stole it. But that didn’t make any sense. I calmed myself; how could a stranger be writing things that were happening to me? I must be drunk.

  Dennis Reed suddenly swooped over me and became confidential, “Look, have you seen Leila around?
She’s kind of hard to locate. Thought I’d run into her here, maybe, see how things were going. Really, I mean, what a nightmare she’s been through. Somebody ought to help her have a little fun. Have you seen her around?”

  “She’s in jail.”

  “What?”

  “She had to go see a guy at the police station about some flowers.”

  “Oh.” Reed decided not to pursue it. “Well, give her a message for me. Tell her I dropped by to see her; ask her to give me a call sometime.”

  “Sure…I didn’t know you knew Suzanne.”

  “Just met her. She’s a nice kid.”

  “Yeah. Fire and passion.”

  “You and her?…” He spun a spiral with his forefinger.

  I shrugged. “I’m talking about her acting.”

  “Oh, so am I, pal, so am I.” He grinned at me. I thought I probably wouldn’t give Leila his message.

  I had to get a pencil and some paper. Making my way back to the front room, I saw Lady Red and Kim still talking at the bar. With a bovine lowing, Kim was swaying her head back and forth; the tips of her hair were stiff with dried drink from the counter. “Fred was a no-good creep. That’s what Fred was. Always with a fresh flower in his suit, Red. Everyday fresh. And nice to Cary, good to the kid. And he could talk your ear off with sweetness. So, how do you figure a guy like that’s gonna send you out with a bad check and rip you off while you’re gone? You know?”

  “Most women are saps. Kick ’em down, and they lick the foot. Not me,” Lady Red told her.

  Kim plopped her hand heavily on my shoulder. “See if they got ‘Sleepless Nights’ by the Everly Brothers, kid. That’s what I listened to after Fred left me. Here’s a dime.” She fell toward her purse.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Let me get it.”

  At the jukebox, a fingernail slid down my spine. “You don’t like your music live?” Tanya asked.

  “It’s too hot back there.”

  “Heat’s good for you; it opens your pores. That’s one reason dancing’s so healthy. All sorts of exercises are good for you.” Her arms and legs, the color of caramel, glistened against the red fringed costume. “So, Devin. You finally showed up. I’m flattered.”

  “I’m flattered you’re flattered.” But nothing further coming to mind, I turned to look at the selections on the jukebox. She leaned over beside me, fanning her hair against my hand. I could feel the cold weight of her earring.

  I plunged in. “Can I ask you something? What’s going on here?”

  She swiveled around, rested her elbows on the jukebox, lowered her chin, and looked up at me. “Why do you ask?” she smiled.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what kind of question is that?”

  “Never mind.”

  Her grin widened. “Hey, how old are you?”

  “I’m older than you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure, a lot older,” I figured she was around twenty-one or two.

  She lit a cigarette. “Well, let’s see. ‘What’s going on…?’ I like the way you look….”

  “And.”

  “That’s it. Does there have to be more?”

  “Thank you. I like the way you look.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Have you run away from home?”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I mean, does your family know you’re in Floren Park?” There were a lot of runaways in Floren Park that summer.

  “No, they don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Ronny and his new girl, Bonnie, walked out past us. Ronny gave me a nudge and a wink.

  “Awwhh,” she crooned. “What’s the matter?”

  I shrugged.

  “Waiting for me to unzip your pants?”

  I shook my head. “No…this is kind of confusing.”

  I sensed she was losing patience. “Okay, let me know when you figure it out.”

  “It’s too noisy in here.” I turned to face her. She could keep her eyes from blinking an incredibly long time. “Are you through?” I said. “I mean, do you have to work any more tonight?”

  “Until one.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  But she shook out a key she had stuck beneath the cellophane of her cigarette pack. Pressing it wetly into my palm, she said, “Why don’t you go over to my place and get it all figured out where it’s nice and quiet. How’s that? Cabin 6, in the lane. Don’t lose it now,” she squeezed my fist around the key.

  “Slough Lane?”

  “That’s right. Just around the corner.”

  “You live on Slough Lane?”

  “Why not? It was the first place I could find; it’s cheap. Lady Red got it for me. If I decide to stay here, I’ll probably get a bigger place. Okay?”

  “Are you sure you ought to be living in a place like that?”

  She looked me over. “You know, you’re pretty weird.”

  “I guess so,” I allowed. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks. Look, do you have a typewriter I could borrow?”

  “See what I mean,” she laughed, “really weird! No, sorry, I don’t. What do you want to do, write a letter home? Does your family know you’re in Floren Park?”

  “Got any paper, then?” I asked.

  “Jesus! Sure, look in the drawer beside the bed. You’ll be able to find the bed, won’t you? Big square thing in the middle of the room.” With a wave of fingernails and fringe, she went back to dance.

  Outside was barely cooler than in the bar. Starless, muggy, hot smog. Slough Lane was not lit, so I worked my way slowly down the ditch, peering for numbers. Cabin 6 was one of the fresh rose fronts next to the store for adults. Rings Morelli’s store, I decided.

  Expecting a stiletto in my back, I put the key in the lock. Surprisingly, it fit. I tripped over the bed, stumbling for a light switch. Her bed was a large, firm mattress on the floor. Above it hung a chain of copper bells. I pulled, and a dimmed light came on over my head, shadowing a giant poster of a rock star on the wall. Beneath me was a big white sheepskin flung over the bedspread. In one corner, a tiny refrigerator-stove beside a dish-filled sink. In another, an open closet spilling out clothes. Two full mirrors. A dresser chaotic with the tools of makeup. On the rug, a little record player, a little television, and a suitcase. On the bed table, an antique pistol that appeared to be made of mother-of-pearl and silver. What was Tanya doing with a gun? Was it a loan from Rings Morelli? A No Trespassing sign planted near the bed? It seemed a false note in the room—a gold goblet on a table with plastic plates and catsup bottles. Perhaps I should find out what I was getting into. Still, wherever I am, I thought, I came by myself. Not like the Cub Scouts that Mama took me to (canceling my enlistment after the Den Father told us to grow up as quickly as we could and destroy Red China). Not like the State Science Fair, the Harvard Dining Hall. I am free to be here, I thought, and no one who knows me knows where I am. As disconnected as if I were riding on a long-distance bus. More, for on a bus Fitzgerald is pointed home right now. But me, I could at this moment choose to be anything, at this moment somewhere in Floren Park. And somewhere now Bruno Stark was looking over Mittie’s accounts, while Sabby and Mrs. Thurston lured Wolfstein to the alertness of gin rummy, while the man with the notebook looked for clues, while Leila rescued Spurgeon from the law.

  And I stretched out on Tanya’s bed. But not yet comfortable. My clothes were pasted to my skin by sweat, and my body itched. No doubt I was allergic to the sheepskin. I threw it off. But the itching worsened. Heat, then. A rash. Scratching soothed me only while it lasted. I’m dirty, I discovered. My fingernails aren’t clean, my hair feels like bugs are nesting in it. Probably I smell. Even though I had showered yesterday, maybe it would b
e better if I did it again.

  Tanya had a small yellowed bathtub. Sticking a cloth in the drain, I filled it and floated down in coolness. Dunked my head, soaped, and lay there until film gathered on the top of lukewarm water.

  I felt constricted, restless, studied the hair beneath my navel floating aimlessly.

  Then a desire startled me upright. Rubbing myself dry, I ran to the table, jerked out a pad of paper, the cover doodled with flowers, and on it wrote down: “When summer started…”

  Time lost, sometime the paper ran out. Shaking loose my clinched fingers, I rolled onto the bed and sank smiling to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  I Begin Life on My Own Account and Don’t Like It

  The smell of something richly sweet fumed into my dream and half-awakened me with a confused impression of flowers, of Mrs. Thurston’s marigolds, the sheriff’s lilacs, honeysuckle at home. Then a sharp tingle of wet cold stung my skin and opened my eyes on Tanya. She sat pressed against me, slowly sprinkling down my chest, like wax from an ice candle, drops of an amber cologne. I sat up, the rivulet of scent ran shivering down my belly toward my crotch. Tanya didn’t move as, grabbing the sheepskin from the floor, I covered myself.

  “Finished your letter?” she asked, looking down at the written pages scattered across the floor.

  The pages looked to me like money found unexpectedly in the pockets of a forgotten pair of pants. “Yes. Thanks a lot,” I said. We gazed at the pages politely. Then, having rubbed my eyes and hair awake, I asked her, “What time is it? Is it late?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “You must be tired.”

  “No. I’m a night person.”

  Reaching forward, I moved my hand along her arm over her neck and down her back, pulled her to me and kissed her, laced my fingers through her hair. She still held the bottle of cologne, and its odor merged with the warmth of her mouth opening with mine, her tongue sliding slowly down the side of my neck toward my heart.

  In a while, sitting back, she handed me the cologne. “Put it on me,” she said, and reaching behind her, unfastened, let fall the red-fringed and spangled bra. Her breasts were moonwhite, raised in the shadows of tanned skin. She shook back her hair, then stood and pulled down the spangled pants past more white, set with a shadow of crisp black hair. A taut wire that stretched between my neck and groin tightened, as if to jackknife me.