Yes, I say, you always keep your eye upon the doughnut and not upon the—
Nonsense. Please to stay shut up, number-one son.
He does the last remark in his Charlie Chan accent. Pretty good, too. He still has some of the old pizzazz, I guess.
Well then, Maria and I made a smooth entrance and I could sense a solid base of audience approval from which to work the business of the scene. Still, after Maria had made her little speech and exited, I looked after her. Barrymore-Belch was not waiting in his usual place. Thinking quickly, I decided to buy a little time by extending my bit of playing with the Sir Topas disguise. Looked over it, around it, under it, with as long a silence as I could dare before the audience would get restive. I managed another glance stage-left, where I saw Maria waving her hands and looking puzzled. Off stage-right I could hear some scurrying noises, a stage manager off on a mad dash to locate the missing Sir Toby. I felt some panic. Where was the sonofabitch? I started my speech, measuring out the words as slowly as I could. Since I had the Sir Topas costume to put on, I improvised some stage business with it that the audience took to be part of the performance. As I reached the line cueing the entrance of Toby and Maria, I could hear some more stage-right noises and some heavy footsteps coming up the stairs that led to our downstairs dressing rooms. Barrymore-Belch had been found, but it would take him time to get to his entrance point. I reached the end of my speech. Had to ad-lib for the second time in that opening night performance. I made a rather good pun as I donned the Sir Topas beard about the other Elizabethan meaning of the word beard. Of course nobody in that audience was up to Elizabethan puns and I sensed it was becoming clear to them that something was wrong onstage. As I listened to the frantic rustling sounds of Sir Toby making his way across the backstage passageway, I improvised a proper little caper, very difficult in the Sir Topas robe, believe me. As soon as Barrymore arrived stage-left, I spoke the cue line and made my habitual graceful gesture. Maria came promptly out, but Sir Toby held back, then he did an over-theatrical drunken stumble onto the stage. Completely inappropriate for that particular sequence, but the audience got a charge out of it. He’d never used the drunken side of Toby in this scene before, and I was furious at him. He continued to deliver his lines as if in a drunken stupor and, for one of the rare times in my life, I was thrown right off. Even though most of the scene was between Malvolio and myself, its rhythm was severely affected. I know I appeared to be more cruel than ever to the audience, who tittered at Sir Toby’s drunken moves behind me. My voice went flat on the song I sang at the end of the scene. My later scenes did not draw their accustomed laughs. At curtain call I didn’t get that sudden burst of applause that I received in other performances. Barrymore-Belch striding onstage of course got a thunderous ovation. The critics’ reviews barely mentioned my performance—at least they were wise enough to suggest that Barrymore over-Belched his part. I confronted Barrymore in the dressing room. He made a fake apology for missing his entrance, said he’d simply forgotten about it and gone off to the dressing room. For a bit of a tipple, no doubt, the sot. I knew if I claimed that he planned it, nobody’d believe me, and the tension’d be no good for the company, so I made light of it and backed off. God, I was happy to leave that fleabitten troupe when the run was over.
Sounds to me like you were better off away from it.
Perhaps, son, perhaps. Never did much good for me, that company. Didn’t hurt old Barrymore, though. He went into the movies. Used a different name there, forget it too. He was in, oh, that space station thing that was a remake of On The Waterfront. Do you recall his name?
Never saw that film, pop.
No, you don’t often go to movies. Unless they’re certified trash, anyway. Uh, can’t recall. Name. He starred in a couple more flop flicks , then killed himself some way I don’t remember either. All I could think of was how beneficial his death was for the theater. Hated myself for thinking that. So cruel. Don’t know why I just can’t forgive and forget. There’s a lesson for you here somewhere.
Pause. His breathing’s beginning to sound like sleep.
I’m afraid I don’t understand, pop.
No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.
That’s way above me, pop. Could we—
Yes, of course it is. Course.
He is getting sleepy, I can really tell now. He’s about to drift off.
And thus the whirlagig of time brings in his revenges. Keep your eye upon the—
Silence. The heavy breathing of sleep. I hang up gently so as not to wake him.
— 6 —
I try to call Mother, but Harold answers. I hang up without talking. I fish Lincoln Rockwell X’s number out of my wallet, dial it, get a busy signal. Figures. I feel sleepy. This chair’s so uncomfortable they might as well electrify it. I shut my eyes anyway.
When I open them again, I wonder if I dozed off without being aware of it. Link is now standing over me, his disarranged face almost forced back to normal by a scowl of concern.
What’s up? I say.
We’re in trouble, he says, and crouches down next to my chair. I’ve never looked at Link up this close before. The harsh fluorescent light emphasizes tiny pockmarks on his skin. And strange reddish streaks, almost like a rash, on each cheek.
What happened and what’s Victor got to do with it? I say.
Didn’t you see Anton go into our room?
No, I was on the phone. Or sleeping, maybe.
He must’ve crept past you, the bastard. Anyway, he came in the room without even knocking first. Used a passkey. Victor didn’t even look up from the TV. Anton ordered me out of the room. When I asked why, he just said shut up and get out. I knew if I didn’t he’d call in a couple of his goons, so I got out.
Oh, Christ! I say.
Don’t give up yet. Victor’s buying us some time.
How?
He’s refusing to pay any attention to Anton until the program he’s watching’s over. Would you believe it, Anton took it like a lamb, just sat down on my bed and started watching the program himself. So I snuck out here to you. I’m going to the arsenal. It’s locked but not so I can’t get into it. You stay here, stand guard.
Stand guard? What am I supposed to do, something happens?
Look, I can only get my mind working as far as the arsenal. You improvise here.
I'm no good at ad-libbing. That’s my Dad’s—never mind. Get going. Anything does happen, you can step over my corpse and take care of it.
Okay.
He stands up and has disappeared around the corner toward the staircase and elevators before I'm ready for him to leave. For a minute I can’t think of a thing to do. Going to sleep still sounds good. But no. I stand up, walk over to the door of our room, listen. TV’s still going, all’s well for now. No keyhole beneath the doorknob to look through. Shit. I go back to the chair by the phone. The paper with Lincoln Rockwell X’s number is still lying on the phone table. I'll try it again. This time no busy signal. After three rings he answers. He almost doesn’t believe it’s me when I identify myself. He’s happy to hear from me, he says. But he can tell by my voice something’s wrong and he asks what. I tell him. He laughs at some of it.
So I'm stuck out here, I say, trying to figure out what to do. What do you think?
Easy. Punt.
What?
Get the hell out of there. Sounds like your Victor and Link can take care of themselves, man. Get your motherin’ hide outta there and cut your fucking losses.
I can’t. I have to help them. It’s my—
No way you got responsibility for trouble people digs up for themselves. You save your ass. Be what you want to be. What you are not is no fuckin’ knight in armor off to save the honor of a maiden with a prick as long as yours. Get it?
I get it. I just can’t use it. I can’t go off now, not—
You don’t understand. I'm no goddamned knight in armor, you know that well enough. But I can’t turn my back on—and when it comes to—and there’s the car, I can’t leave it here, not to these—
Okay, okay. I can follow your parade, man, just don’t leave so much horseshit on the street.
Guess I’ll just see what happens. Improvise. Ad-lib.
You do that. Best way to act if you’re gonna be a fool rushin’ in. Listen, only advice I can give you: You was in one of my whorehouses in the same situation, my advice is, shoot anything that moves. Course that’s futile in one of my places ’cause the anything that moves is liable to be me and you’re gonna be fucked over anyway.
You really own whorehouses?
A couple. Part of my corporate holdings, got some partners. But, yeah, own a couple.
Never knew that.
I am an entrepreneur. My finger’s swirling around the fillings of a lot of pies, man. You get out o’ your jam, you come back here, I’ll give you a job.
Thanks, but I want to get out west. That’s where I’m heading.
Best o’ luck, hombre.
Sure. How’s your daughter? How’s Norma?.
She’s just fine. Reading grownup books, she’ll be into pom ’fore I know it. Maybe take over my part of that operation. I think she asks about you, time to time.
Asks about me?
That’s my suspicion. Keeps talking ’bout somebody name of lardass, think she means you.
She’s a good kid, pretty kid.
Come back here, let you babysit.
No. I’ll work it—
Asshole,
He hangs up abruptly. His way—he gets tired talking to you, he cuts off the conversation. It’s like his whole life is this Swedish art-film festival, where you can put up The End during any scene and the audience’ll love it anyway.
Christ, where’s Link? I go over to the door, listen. No TV. Victor’s voice I can’t tell what he’s saying, but it’s got that mean sound in it.
Looking down the hallway, I see no Link yet. If I wait, who knows what old Anton’ll do? For that matter, who knows what Victor’ll do? I wonder if he’s still got that little pistol hidden in his crotch? Christ, I’d forgotten that gun. What if he gets it in his head to use it?
My choices are limited.
I turn the knob of the door.
Not only is it locked, for the first time I notice the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from its doorknob. Who the hell put that there? Must’ve been Anton, that sonofabitch!
I knock on the door.
Get the fuck away whoever you are!
Anton’s voice.
It’s me, Lee, I say. I gotta get in there right away.
One of my brighter lines, what’ll I say if he asks why? Maybe say I’m a diabetic and my insulin’s in there or that there’s a werewolf in the hallway and they have to let me in or maybe—
What kind of a stupid—
Anton’s voice halts abruptly. There is a thud, then footsteps, then the unlocking of the door. Victor lets me in. Anton is spreadeagled on Link’s bed, his eyes closed.
What’d you do? I say to Victor.
I hit him with a Gideon Bible.
A Bible? With just a Bible you—
I told you I had some martial arts lessons. I know where to aim a blow. Or a Bible.
Martial arts. God no, is he—
No, he’s still alive. I’ll save killing him for some other time.
Don’t try—
Don’t get your socks all sweated up. I was just joking. I’m no killer.
Yeah? What about the bikers? You didn’t exactly—
I didn’t kill any of them. You remember right, it was you struck the fatal blow.
What about the other one?
He ran his bike into a tree.
I don’t believe you. The bike was too far away from the body.
All right then. They parted company long before he flew through the air with the greatest of ease. How do you expect me to remember details? I was somewhat busy getting racked up myself, if you’ll take the trouble to recall it. Anyway, this is no time for spilt milk and shit like that. We have a problem.
He points to the unconscious Anton.
Why’d you hit him, for God’s sake? I say.
The second before you knocked he was starting to grab for me. A second later and one of his grubby little paws’d’ve been wondering what’s wrong with my anatomy. You distracted him, I had no choice but to cream him.
He doesn’t know you’re—you’re—
Not yet. I was about to tell him. Save him the trouble of pawing me. But the little creep moves fast, I’ll say that for him.
What’ll we do?
I don’t know. What time is it?
What time is it? What the hell difference that make?
Program I wanta watch at nine. Is it nine yet?
Hey, we can’t sit here watching TV while Anton—
Forget it, just another joke.
Your fucking sense of humor’s too fucking subtle for me, Vicki.
He sucks in his breath a little.
Yeah, he says, I’ve noticed.
The question is still before the chair, I say, what’re we going to do?
I think we should get out of here. Take your wheels and start goin’ on down that road.
Haven’t you been listening to anything? The damn car’s not fixed yet.
Well, forget the car. Not worth a shit anyway. We can make better time walking. I know, you wait here.
Where you going?
Anton’s close to my size. He must have a closetful of clothes, good ones, tailored. If I’m not gonna get any teeth out of all this, I’ll at least cop some duds.
Before I can protest, he’s got Anton’s keyring out of his pocket. Victor’s certainly an expert at going for a guy’s keys. His fumbling about in the leisure-suit pocket dislodges a well-worn paperback. An anthology of Seventeenth Century Metaphysical Poets. What in hell’d Anton be doing with a book on the metaphysicals? Victor’s going for the door, jangling Anton’s keys at me.
Wait Victor, I say.
We haven’t got time to jaw, he says at the door. Be right back.
I can’t leave my car here, I just—
But he’s out the door before I can finish the sentence. He doesn’t shut the door tight. Anton stirs. The door slowly swings open. I start to move to him, look for something to hit him with. Anton groans.
What the hell happened? Maria says.
I look up. She’s standing in the doorway.
— 7 —
Anton makes a small groaning noise in his throat but doesn’t wake up. Maria takes a couple steps into the room.
Why’d you hit him? she says.
I didn’t hit him. Who said anybody hit him?
Mr. Anton’s not generally accustomed to take naps in guest’s rooms.
He’s changing his habits maybe.
Don’t shit me, Lee. What’s this all about? Why’d you hit him?
I didn’t, I tell you. He was kayoed by—
I almost say Victor, but think better of it. I don’t fill in the blank with any name.
She did it then, Maria says. Saw her scampering down the hall. I don’t know what he saw in her in the first place. She’s got all the grace of a baboon. She runs like a third-string halfback, the skinnybitch, and that old lady’s mouth on her—she did it, I should have guessed right away. Heads’re gonna roll tonight, soon as Mr. Anton wakes up.
I start to speak, can’t, clear my throat, try again.
Heads, I say. Who—whose heads?
I’d start fitting your neck for a platter, I were you, she says, smiling. Or the end of a pole. Or—
You’ve gotta help, Maria.
Help?
Get us out of here.
Her smile vanishes. Logical perhaps, it’s been a ghost-smile.
But we, you and me, we—
I know what we done, but that’s just ice in the Amazon, far as I’m concerned. Melted away, cooled an alligator’s tongue. Nothing you and me did has any part of this. I work for Mr. Anton, he pays me well, he trusts me. Guy like you have any deep feelings for the idea of trust?
Sure, well, but—
But nothing. I am trusted, I follow the rules that govern that trust, get it? You’re a nice kid, Lee, but the only way out for you is, own up and take your punishment.
I didn’t do anything!
You’re here. She did it and she’s not here. You didn’t stop her. You did something. Anyway, you’re in good shape, can take a bit of punishment. Afterwards, I’ll take you to my room, care for you. You let your two scumbag companions go their way, they’ll only get you into more trouble. I can take care of you. Nurse your wounds, as they say.
My wounds?! What’re they gonna do, for God’s sake?
Nothing that’ll surprise you. They’re tough. But they’re not killers. Not usually.
Not usually! Oh, Jesus. Please help me, Maria, please—
Inadvertently I’ve pronounced her name Dad’s way. Ma-rye-ah. Her eye widens in surprise.
Ma-rye-ah. Where’d you get that pronunciation?
Doesn’t make any difference. I need your help, Maria.
This time I pronounce it right.
Ma-rye-ah, says Ma-ree-ah. It’s years since anybody said it that way. My mother used to call me that. It’s so pretty that way, don’t you think? Well, don’t you?
I sit down on the other bed, beaten.
A Set Of Wheels Page 17
