“Independent slob.”
“Yes,” she told me. “Quite.”
“Somebody ought to warn him.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Let the prick watch out for himself.”
“There you go again with that dirty language.”
When I looked at her there was a far-off smile on her face that reminded me of something else and the calendar started turning over backward, dropping the years away, one by one. The seed was growing now and a leaf was sprouting from the stalk. It had a vague number on it but too distant to read.
Somebody came and took Sharon to the other side of the room while I was thinking about it and a pair of blondes filled her place with small talk I answered abstractedly until Mona Merriman came up with her usual brassy style and told them to bug off because I was all hers, and with imperial pomp introduced me to a few friends before getting me off alone.
I said, “What?”
“You weren’t listening at all.”
“Sorry, doll.”
“I said, what has Lagen got on you?”
“Beats me.”
She turned me around so nobody could see her face and looked at me seriously. “They take me for a gossipy old woman, Dog, but I was a damn good reporter long before I hit the money line. He’s got something and he wants you crawling.”
“Forget it, Mona.”
“Son ... I said I was a reporter. My staff passes me interesting tidbits of information.”
She was a strange broad. Suddenly there was no flabbiness in her face at all. It was all hard, questioning planes with a fire dancing out of her eyes.
“He thinks I was a big hood in Europe,” I said.
“Were you?”
“The biggest, kid.”
“And now?”
“Out.”
“Damn. For real?”
I nodded slowly.
“He can prove it?”
“No chance.”
“Baby, I could make music with you. Real typewriter music.”
“Don’t. There’s other music that’s louder.”
“And much more staccato, I suppose?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“The crashing of cymbals?”
“The big brass drum, Mona.”
“Who’s the drummer?”
“Sometimes a guy can be lucky all the time,” I said. “Let’s go join the party.”
“You won’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Cross and Sheila McMillan are here. He seems quite perturbed about the entire arrangement.”
“Only he can’t do anything about it, can he?”
“Not since your cousins okayed the deal.” Mona’s fingers squeezed my arm. “You really put the heat on, didn’t you?”
“A public service.”
“From what I hear, it was plain heat.”
“They needed it.”
“Doggie, I’d like to take you to bed with me.”
“I’m not exactly a Teddy bear, Mona.”
“You’re better than a two-battery vibrator.”
“You’re wild, baby. What do you do for fun?” I let out a laugh and put my arm around her shoulder.
“Mainly play with the children who would give their dingdong for a chance like you have, knowing how I’d give them paragraphs for their scrapbooks.”
“Write me out then.”
“You never even were penciled in, Doggie. Your type is alive in the wrong era.”
“Perceptive cunt, aren’t you?”
“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s said all week. And true. Very true. Maybe that’s why I like you. Now be a smart boy and get you and your little blonde out of here. The glacier has been looking this way and I can read all the signs.”
“Who?”
“Sheila McMillan. I’m an older pussy than you are a dog and I can read all the signs too.”
The years were catching up. I was tired and annoyed and it wasn’t fun anymore. I thought I was put of it, but nothing would let go. Somehow it was like waking up and thinking the dream you just had was real, then you saw a different room in the cold light of a bright sun and knew the dream was fake and what the judge said was the true thing and if you waited a little while longer you’d hear the feet coming down the corridor, feel the scissors against your leg slicing the trousers and sense the razor shaving that small bald spot on your skull. You could wait a little more after that and they’d put the hood over your face with the metallic plate under it, then somebody would hit the switch to let the voltage sweep through all the tissue in one monstrous sheet of pain and you could call it quits for good.
Or was life and memory so accelerated at that last moment you lasted for another lifetime of absolute agony smelling the searing flesh and knowing the excruciating pain of muscles knotted in horrible spasms? Was it really like that?
Maybe I had seen them die too often. Maybe I had been on the line one too many times. You shouldn’t think about things like that. Or was the thought for somebody else? I used to believe they went quietly, realizing that it was their time, and almost glad to go to be away from all the things that led up to that last second. Two of them had even smiled at me because eventually the wheel would turn and I’d be the one dropping off. I had lasted longer than most of the others, but now it was the ninth inning, the score was tied, two out, nobody on base and I was up to bat with a hostile grandstand behind me.
Kelly at the bat. Forget Casey. Now it was Kelly.
“What are you thinking about?” Sharon asked me.
“I’m thinking why the hell you don’t put some clothes on.”
“After all those naked females tonight I’m positively decent,” she said.
“Not in a chiffon nightgown with nothing on underneath.”
“You haven’t felt me yet. How do you know?”
“I can see your snatch, kid.”
“Like it?” She grinned at me deliberately.
“Love it, so scram, virgin.”
She handed me the coffee cup, spooned in the sugar and added the milk. “You resent my maidenhood?”
“Horseshit, lady. After a while it’ll get tough rubbery.”
“Not according to medical statistics.”
“So it’ll atrophy from disuse,” I said.
I got another of those funny smiles and she turned and sat down opposite me, making a project of crossing her legs. The nightgown split open, exposing those lovely legs and her eyes laughed too. “How many women have you had, Dog?”
“Plenty.” I took a pull on the coffee and burned my mouth.
“Virgins?”
“Numerous.”
“About how many?”
“What kind of question is that? Come on ...”
“Make a guess.”
“A dozen. I never made it a practice of fooling around with virgins. They were all accidents of nature.”
“Does it hurt?”
“How the hell would I know!”
“Well, did they scream?”
I burned my mouth again and put the coffee down for a cigarette. “They all scream when I’m laying them.” I thought that would shut her up but it didn’t.
“I mean the first time.”
Even the cigarette burned. I took another drag and stamped it out. “No,” I said. “When I found out they hadn’t been hit I went classical. They loved every damn second of it and screamed for more. I know all the tricks, all the techniques, all the little nuances from foreplay to afterlove and I’ll be damned if I’m going to set you up for somebody else.”
“I know some tricks too.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I heard you telling Raul about them when I first saw you.”
“Jealous?”
“Nope. I even appreciate your attitude. Like total understanding. Why don’t you let your boy bust it for you and be done with it?”
“Because he may be dead.” The way she said it was so simple I should have known.
> “Serviceman?”
“Yes.”
“Overseas?”
Sharon nodded and sipped at her coffee.
“When did you see him last?”
“The day he left. It was the day we became engaged. There wasn’t time to do anything else so he gave me this.” She held up her hand with the cheap little ring on it.
I said, “I’m sorry, kid.”
“That’s all right.”
“Love him?”
“I’ve always loved him.”
“Get letters?”
“No.”
“How long do you expect to wait?”
“Until I’m sure he’s dead.”
“Meanwhile?”
“I play my own tricks. And techniques. And nuances.”
I pushed out of my chair. “He doesn’t have much more time,” I told her.
“Yes, I know.”
Thunder rumbled outside the window and I walked to the French doors and looked down at the big-bellied city that squatted underneath me. Headlights of the cars probed through the darkness, their horns demanding pathways and tiny dark things scuttled across between traffic lights whose WALK and DON’T WALK became another commandment to the mice caught in the concrete maze of the city.
“When does the picture move out to Linton?” I asked her.
“The crew will be looking for location sites the end of the week.”
“You coming out?”
“I have to go.”
“The old house on Mondo Beach ...”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Dog ...”
I turned around and she was standing there in front of the chair with the nightgown in a puddle around her feet. She was a naked picture of beauty that made everything inside me tingle for a short second before it went sour. In the dim light she looked slippery and wet again, all gorgeous thighs and bushy-haired belly surmounted by high-aiming breasts, but I could see her teeth and I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a laugh and I thought it was a laugh. I grabbed my coat and hat, grinned back a little bit and headed for the door.
It was raining out again. The night blanket of dark and haze cut all the buildings off like a soft, cheesy knife, muting the roar of the city lion to an angry growl punctuated by the irritated snarls of taxi horns at intersections where the red hadn’t quite changed to green. On the avenues, cars drifted by nearly empty buses, reluctant to get to their destinations, and what few people walked the streets huddled under the canopies of umbrellas or just walked, heads lowered, not caring where they went.
It’s a funny city, I thought. It only went in two directions, up and down and across. Somebody had laid it out like a grid on a tactical map and there it was. It didn’t go in circles like London; it didn’t ramble and squeeze and evacuate its bowels like Rome and Paris and Madrid ... it was just there going north, south, east and west unless you got to where they forgot directions and called it the Village, or Brooklyn, then it was something else. But when you said the City, it meant Manhattan, the head of the world octopus that was all computers and vaults and money and the big rich and the little poor and the idiots trying to make the poor rich and the rich poor to pocket the votes and not once did they know that you can’t do either one. You were either rich or poor, so enjoy it, citizens, and squawk your fucking heads off if you feel like it, only remember, it won’t do you any good at all. The poor try to take, the rich intend to keep and anybody who gets rich is going to damn well keep it because only idiots stay poor anyway. Like the alive stay alive and the dead stay dead.
And it’s funny to be dead. Civilization was nourished on the dead. Cultures and religions and even governments flourished on the dead. But all the dead do is smell. It’s the alive who can hurt you. But sometimes the dead smell in advance.
And that was a smell familiar to me. It was behind about a hundred yards and holding. In another few blocks it would come closer.
I had spotted him when I left Sharon’s and wondered what had happened to all that jungle knowledge I had supposed them to have. Hell, it was a setup, a plain simple setup all the way. I had laid on three alternates if they had spotted the first one and they had gone for the initial track. All my fancy prearranged signals on the alternates reported all clear so I didn’t have to sweat out being flanked.
There was only one guy back there.
In a way, he was like me, but not quite. He didn’t know the city. To him they were all the same. Not to me, though. The bricks and concrete were another world and I led him through the maze to the hole in the wall and when he reached it I was waiting for him.
He was almost as fast and almost as wary, but that little edge is what makes the difference between living and dying. The gun was in his fist, but I had the .45 in my hand and it makes one hell of a hole when the lead goes through flesh and intestines and tears the backbone right out of a man. It blows you back six feet, all doubled up, living long enough to wish you were dead, and when I picked the .38 out of his fingers I looked at his face and said nice and quiet, “You only got ten minutes to go, buddy, but it can be the worst ten minutes of your life. You want me to shorten them or make you really hurt?”
Somehow he managed a crooked smile, all greasy with blood and spit. He lay there, letting the initial shock wear off, knowing what would happen when all those nerve endings registered incredible pain in another ten seconds. “El Lobo,” he said.
“I killed El Lobo ten years ago,” I told him.
“The Dog?”
I nodded.
He pulled the trigger on a gun that wasn’t in his hand anymore.
“One more time,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Who?”
The guy smiled and gave me that same negative sign so I let him look down that big black hole of the .45 and for one second he wanted to tell me but that one second was too late. The blast of the shot was muffled in the small roll of fat around his belt and I remembered the others, with Lee last in the bathtub, and while he was dying I said, “Good luck, sucker,” and got out of there while the woman was still screaming in the window and the sirens were whining their way up the avenue.
Before I cut out I took a look at his shoes to make sure.
They were brown.
XVIII
It was just an old dirty beat-up pile of junk, but it smelled nice and it looked nice and after I clawed my way through the spider webs and the warped boards I found the old room where my father screwed my mother and got me out of the bargain and it still smelled of their compact, that wild love that put them both in the tall deep where the sod falls in on top of you.
She had told me of that room and until now nobody had ever let me look inside, but now it was mine and there was no old man, no costumed guards at the gates, just mine where my father fucked my mother when nobody was watching in that little lonely cot in the topmost room with the moon coming through astride the salt air with the continuous, monotonous roll of the breakers.
I said, “Hi Ma.”
Something said hello back.
I said, “Hello, Dad.”
The wind sounded a laugh.
“I’m home now,” I said.
Nothing.
“I love you. Tough, and it’s all over, but I love you.”
Nothing. Hell, I didn’t expect anything anyway.
“Ma?”
Nothing.
“Dad ...?”
Nothing. It was all shit and why bother? Okay, fuck the shit.
Such a tiny room. Here was where I was conceived, the act of love in the midst of nothing, a single, one-screw generation ago. And now I sit on top of the throne, the issue, the residue, the bastard. The damn lousy killer and all I want to say is Ma ... Dad ... what the fuck can I do?
Think, son. They took it all away from us a long time ago. Now it’s your turn. There aren’t many big ones left anymore.
I lay on the bed where my dad screwed my mother when nobody was watching and I
felt very comfortable. For the first time I realized what she was like.
Outside somebody was going to kill me.
Like maybe.
I took my pants off and made myself come.
The rain was a dismal thing, one of those downpourings that squash the little people inside, cringing around a sink or using the weather for an excuse to vacuum....
I said, “Lovely,” and walked out into it, breathing the soft, salt spray with that luscious sexy tang and wondered where Arnold Bell was with his muffled .22-caliber job and what he was thinking ever since his partner had been carried away in a rubber body bag into the New York City morgue. Damn. They won’t move in so fast now, will they, Dog?
Oh? Wait until Tobano checks it out ... and he will, you know. Just wait. Crazy cops, I thought. Dedicated, honest, determined. What the hell did they ever know about people like me?
Maybe too much.
I have lived too long.
No ballistics man has a copy of my gun barrel. The dead guy back there in the city is only a corpse and when they process his prints the feds will close the book on an overseas brownshoes, a high priority shooter who didn’t quite make the grade.
But there was another one still left.
The really big one.
Arnold Bell.
He was the hit man and I was his hit.
Shit.
Then suddenly the sun was up and shining with the rain only a faint misty gray away far to the north and a fat, sooty-looking sea gull was squatting on the porch roof outside my window and I damned near said hello to him. A few miles in the background a triple tendril of smoke began to vomit from the chimneys of the Barrin plant and I had that foolish feeling that all was well with the world.
And I had the chance to be Robinson Crusoe again for three whole days like I had always wanted and it felt good until it got dark at the end of the last day and I was looking up at the stars and they formed numbers so that the stalk sprouting out of the seed had another branch and the blossom was ready to unfold.
The .45 was back on the bed, snug in its holster, a dirty, biting serpent but no good at all unless somebody was there to pinch its tail. I heard the rustle of the sand weeds and felt the slip of the sand and when I had my hands on his neck he was five seconds away from dying and all Marvin Gates was aggravated about was that I had made him spill his drink.
The Erection Set Page 25
