The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  "Help me," she said.

  He held the dark fur jacket.

  "Have you a car?"

  "No," he said.

  "I do." She put her arm through his. "Come on."

  Juanito cast a glance back at the room. Don Alfredo was peering behind a gray curtain of smoke; there was no expression on his face, no expression at all.

  The door closed.

  In another room, in another part of the city, another door closed.

  "Pour us a drink," the woman said, pointing to the nightstand next to the large yellow bed.

  J uanito took a curved silver flask from the drawer, unscrewed the top and let it dangle by this tiny steel necklace. His heart was pumping fast, the way it used to when he would steal into the big ranches at night and work the bulls by starlight and shadow. He was afraid. And that was why he knew he must not run, must not take a backward step.

  He tilted his head and let the liquid fire sear down his throat; then he carried the flask to the woman.

  She drank. He saw the muscles of her neck moving.

  Together, in minutes, they emptied the silver flask.

  Then the woman took off her coat, flinging it into a corner. In the dim light of the single shell-shaded lamp, her red dress burned into Juanito's eyes.

  He moved toward her. Quickly, she stepped aside, twisting her body and laughing.

  He shook his head. Again he reached for her, again she was not there.

  "Heiiiiiii! Toro!" the woman said, softly.

  Juanito lunged, missed, slammed against the wall.

  "Toro! Toro!"

  Then he felt the velvet in his hands. Soft as light, hot as a wound! So hot!

  "Wait, Señor Galvez!"

  He took his hands away, fingers spread, and watched as Andrée removed first the slender black ribbon from her throat, then the dress, the shoes, the silk stockings . . .

  "Now, my torero," she whispered, coming toward him, "let us see some of this style Don Alfredo talks about!"

  In his mind there was not the blackness of true sleep, but, instead, bright afternoon sun, the colors of the crowd, the sand against his slippers, wind, and the toril gate, opening, and from it thundering--Andrée . . .

  "No!"

  He felt the firm, familiar grip around his arms.

  "Not yet, Enrique. I'm tired. I've got to sleep some more!"

  "Like hell!" Enrique's voice was loud. "Up!"

  Juanito leaped when the water struck his face. The sudden movement made him aware of the ache in his head, in his muscles, of the empty throb in his stomach.

  "What a filthy mess you are!"

  He opened his eyes, carefully, and closed them. He tried to remember. "What time is it?"

  "Late."

  "1--Enrique, Enrique, get me a glass of water."

  "Get it yourself!"

  Painfully, he moved to the sink and drank until he could drink no more. Then he turned and said, "I'm sorry."

  The older men grunted. He walked to the window and stood there for a time. Finally, after many minutes, he said, "Forget it."

  "You're not angry?"

  "No," said Enrique COrdoba. His face took on a new expression: an expression of kindness, gentleness. "These things, they happen," he said. "You're young. I guess that once won't hurt you. How do you feel?"

  "Fine," Juanito lied.

  His manager lighted a cigar and puffed on it. "You never had one with class before," he said. "How did you like it?"

  Juanito smiled. The ache in his stomach was great, but his relief to know that Enrique was not angry was greater. "You shouldn't have left me, poppa," he said.

  Enrique's face darkened. "Don't call me that," he said.

  "Just a joke."

  "This is not the time for jokes, stupid. This is a time for thought."

  "I've never been much good at it. You're my brains--"

  "No! I am not your brains! I am not your poppa! I am only Enrique, only that, understand?"

  "Sure!" Juanito said, holding back his anger and his confusion. "Sure, all right." He tried to whistle a miriachi tune, then stopped because it sounded bad. "You--want to take a trip down to the pens?" he asked. "I'd like to see my novillo."

  "No, bad luck on the first one. I've seen him, he's nothing special. Just a big ox with horns."

  "Big, you say?"

  Enrique shrugged. "Nothing," he repeated. "You'll have no trouble."

  "I still can't believe it," Juanito said, rubbing water into his hair. "Yesterday we were starving. That guy in Villa de Nombre de Dios--you remember?--Diaz; he wouldn't even let me touch his precious seed bull. And now, today--"

  Enrique slapped his hands together. "No time for mooning," he said. "There are newspapermen coming. We'll have to rake out this corral."

  Two hours later the men came. One, a thin fellow with a mustache kept smiling; but that, Juanito understood, was because he did not expect much of a novillero. Novilleros almost always fell on their faces the first time out.

  But not I, he thought.

  And thought this until an hour and a half before the time of the event, with the people already filling the stands, seating themselves, discussing prospects. Then Enrique laid out the expensive suit of lights.

  Slowly, as though modeling an exotic statue, he dressed Juanito. Starting first with the talequilla, the pants, skin-tight; and then, the tassels on the knees; the shirt, the jacket, the vest, and the slim red four-in-hand tie.

  "So, diestro," he said, moving back.

  Juanito looked at his image in the mirror. It was the first traje de luces he had ever worn, and he felt great excitement and pride. "Diestro," he murmured, rolling the word over and over in his mind. "Enrique, if feels right, Enrique. Such a brave outfit. Who could be afraid and dressed like this?"

  The manager picked up his cigar and relighted it. "Nice fit," was all he said.

  "Maybe," said Juanito, grinning, "we should leave me home and send the suit to fight, huh?"

  Enrique did not laugh; he picked up the mona, the pigtail, and clipped it to Juanito's head.

  "Come on," he said.

  They went out to the waiting car and rode in silence through the crowded streets to the Plaza.

  When the car stopped, Enrique said: "How do you feel? I mean, really?"

  "Fine, fine."

  "Liar!"

  Juanito shook his head. "No," he said. "It's true. How else could I feel on the greatest day of my life? The day we dreamed about and talked about, Enrique, all those years! Remember? Think of them:'

  The manager started out of the automobile. He was perspiring heavily, and his fingers trembled. The sounds of the crowd could be heard, then suddenly, the music. He fell back against the seat and closed his eyes.

  "Christ in His pain!" he said.

  "What is it?" Juanito asked. "You sick?"

  "Yes," said Enrique COrdoba. "Yes! Sick!" He covered his face with his hands. "Juan," he said, in a muffled voice, "listen to me. Listen to me. I'm a fool and more stupid than the most stupid ox and I'm putting a knife into my own throat to tell you this--" He removed his hands from his face. His eyes were berry-black and cold, now; moving. "I am not a killer!" he said.

  "I don't understand what you're saying."

  "Then listen, I tell you! If you were not so dumb, so stupid, you'd have guessed it yourself! This deal--it's fake, all of it. Fake, Juanito! Engineered. You comprehend?"

  "No."

  "Why do you think Don Alfredo took you on?"

  "Because he saw me fight, because he liked my style!"

  "Your style! My mother. You have none, Juanito; none at all! This will hurt, very deep, but we're through, anyway, all through, so I'm going to give it to you straight." The older man paused, then went on, his words rushing together: "You're no good. You never were. I have seen espontaneos a hundred times better. But I stuck with you because you knew how to steal, anyway, and I did not like to be alone. It's true that for a while I thought I could teach you a little--but I couldn't; n
o one could. You were hopeless. Guts; nothing else." Another pause. "One night, when we were starving, here in the city, I went to the Cafe de los Ninos. To see if I could borrow some money. I ran into a boy named Pepete, who worked for Don Alfredo. He told me something. Maybe it would interest me--"

  "Go on, Enrique."

  "I will! The boy told me that business was getting bad at the Plaza. No torero, he said, had been killed for a long time. Too long. The people were losing enthusiasm. They were getting bored."

  Juanito's fingers rubbed hard against the gold lame of his suit.

  "I got drunk," continued Enrique, "and this Pepete, he took me to the hotel of the Impresario. One thousand pesos that fat slug offered me, Juanito. One thousand! To a man who had not eaten in a week!"

  "What did he offer you the one thousand pesos for, Enrique?"

  "Use your head! It's simple. For the sum I would guarantee an unskilled torero. Camara watched you in that pitiful spectacle with Perez's bull a few days later, to make sure. And the deal was settled. You see?"

  Juanito sat very still for several minutes, listening to the music and the people. Unable to believe it yet, he said: "You did not think I could stand up to a novillo?"

  "Novillo!" Enrique wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Listen, the bull they have got for you knows Latin. He has fought before, on the ranch; many times. He's twice as smart as any torero could ever be."

  "And--the girl, Andrée, last night?"

  "Of course! To be absolutely certain. The girl, the drinks!"

  "Everything."

  "Everything." Enrique lowered his voice. "Let's go," he said. I have a third of the money, it will take us a few miles, then we can hide for a month or so . . ."

  Juanito checked the hot rush of tears. Thoughts were leaping in his brain. He turned to the window, and saw the gaudy poster that had been pasted to the wall of the Plaza.

  GRANDIOSA CORRIDA! GRANDIOSA CORRIDA!

  3 MAGNIFICAS RESES 3!

  FRANCESCO PEREZ -- MONOLO LOMBARDINI -- JUAN GALVEZ

  "No," Juanito said, turning back.

  The older man stopped wiping his face. "Are you crazy?" he said.

  "Maybe I am."

  "Juanito, believe me, please: I have been in the business for twenty years. You don't have a chance. It's all against you. Three minutes you'll last, not a second more."

  Grandiosa Corrida . . . Juan Galvez . . . Juanito opened the door. Galvez . . .

  "Don't be a fool! I'm telling you the truth!"

  "I know. I don't doubt you."

  "Then what are you doing? Come on, now, while we have time!"

  "Time? For what? For starving again, for stealing and running away? Time for that, Enrique?"

  "It's better than having your guts slashed out by a filthy animal."

  "Is it?" Juanito looked at the man who was his friend. "Let's go," he said. "It's getting late. Don Alfredo must be worried about his investment:'

  Enrique Córdoba hesitated. "You think you'll be lucky," he said. "Sure. You think you'll go into the ring and fight like Manolete, huh! Cut both ears and the tail, and spit in Don Alfredo's eye. Juanito, I betrayed you. I admit it. But you must believe what I say now. Only in stories does it happen the way you think. The truth is that you are a dead man the moment you walk away from the burladero. One pass, two, maybe even three--you will have confidence. So, a little closer this time. Perhaps a Chicuelina; why not? But the animal ignors the cape. Suddenly you see that he's coming toward you. You want to run, but no, that would be cowardly. Better to suck it in and pray. But God does not hear you, Juanito. And now it's too late. Too late! The horn goes in like a razor, deep, and starts up, through your belly--"

  "You have the tools?" Juanito asked.

  Enrique COrdoba stared; then he sighed. "I have them." he said.

  "Get them ready."

  Invisibly, the older man straightened. Something was in his eyes; something entirely new. "Yes," he said in a quiet voice.

  Juanito walked into the Plaza. Children screamed at him. He listened to the screams. He collected them. The screams, the soft smell of old wood and the sharp smell of the cattle, crowds above, the men who looked at him with sadness, love, respect; these things he forced inside him, forcing past and future out, for now, the golden now.

  Within the Chapel, he touched the white lace, knelt and made the sign of the cross, as all toreros did.

  Then, when it was time, he joined the puerta de cuadrillas, standing on the left of Francesco Perez, who saluted him; and, to the music of the yellow brass, marched out into the ring.

  The moments filled him. Standing quite still in the afternoon sun, he watched Perez dispatch his bull; then, Lombardini, who was awarded one ear.

  "There is an alternativa," whispered Enrique Córdoba. "You can pull out now." But Juanito did not hear the words.

  Waiting, he searched the faces along the shady side of the barrera; and found her. "Va por ti, Andrée," he said. "I dedicate the death to you."

  And then he heard the swell of sound, the trumpets; and he turned his head. The toril gate began to open, slowly.

  Slowly, from the center of darkness, came a shape.

  Juanito Galvez smiled. Stepping out onto the warm and welcoming sand, he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such good fortune.

  * * *

  NIGHT RIDE

  * * *

  He was a scrawny white kid with junkie eyes and no place for his hands, but he had the look. The way he ankled past the tables, all alone by himself; the way he yanked the stool out, then, and sat there doing nothing: you could tell. He wasn't going to the music, The music had to come to him. And he could wait.

  Max said, "High?"

  I shook my head. You get that way off a fresh needle, but then you're on the nod: everything's upbeat. "Goofers, maybe," I said, but I didn't think so.

  "Put a nickel in him, Deck," Max said, softly. "Turn him on."

  I didn't have to. The kid's hands crawled up and settled on the keys. They started to walk, slow and easy, taking their time. No intro. No chords. Just, all of a sudden, music. It was there all the while, Poppa-san, how come you didn't notice?

  I couldn't hear a hell of a lot through all the lip-riffs in that trap, but a little was plenty. It was real sound, sure enough, and no accident. The Deacon had been dead right. Blues, first off: the tune put down and then brushed and a lot of improvising on every note; then finally, all of them pulled into the melody again, and all fitting. It was gut-stuff, but the boy had brains and he wasn't ashamed of them.

  Max didn't say anything. He kept his eyes closed and his ears open, and I knew he was hooked. I only hoped it wouldn't be the same old noise again. We'd gone through half a dozen box men in a year.

  Not like this one, though.

  The kid swung into some chestnuts, like "St. James Infirmary" and "Bill Bailey," but what he did to them was vicious. St. James came out a place full of spiders and snakes and screaming broads, and Bailey was a dirty bastard who left his woman when she needed him most. He played "Stardust" like a Boy Scout helping a cripple across the street. And you want to know something about "Sweet Georgia Brown?" Just another seedy hustler too tired to turn a trick, that's all.

  Of course, nobody knew what he was doing. To the customers, those smears and slides and minor notes were only mistakes; or maybe the ears didn't even notice.

  "What's his name?" Max said.

  "David Green."

  "Ask him to come over when he's through."

  I sliced my way past the crowd, tapped the kid's shoulder, told him who I was. His eyes got a little life in them. Not much.

  "Max Dailey's here," I said. "He wants some words."

  Eight notes and you wouldn't touch "Laura" with a ten-foot pole. "Okay," the kid said.

  I went back. He dropped the knife for a while and played "Who," straight, or pretty straight. The way I'd heard it the night before, anyway, when it was too hot to sleep and I'd gone out for that walk. Funny thing ab
out a box: a million guys can hammer it, they can play fast and hit all the notes and transpose from here to Wednesday. But out of that million, you'll find maybe one who gets it across. And like as not he can't play fast and won't budge out of C. Davy Green wasn't what you'd call a virtuoso, exactly. He didn't hit all the notes. Only the right ones.

  After a while he came over and sat down.

  Max grabbed his paw. "Mr. Green," he said, "you are a mess of fingers."

  The kid nodded; it could have been "Thanks."

  "You don't do a whole lot, but it's mostly good. The Deacon likes it." He took off his sunglasses and folded them real slow. "I'm a tight man with a compliment, Mr. Green," he said. "Rebop with the mouth, that passes the time of day, but I'm here for other reasons."

  A chick in a green sarong popped out of the smoke. She had a little here and a little there. "Cents?"

  "Bushmill's and soda," Max said, "and if you don't carry it, Bushmill's and nothing. Mr. Green?"

  "Same, whatever it is," he said.

  My cue: I got up and killed the rest of my Martini. Max always liked to business solo. "Gotta make a phone call, boss," I said. "Meet you outside."

  "Good enough."

  I told the kid maybe we'd see him around and he said, sure, maybe, and I took a fade.

  Outside it was hot and wet, the way it gets in NO. I wandered up one side of Bourbon, down the other, lamping the broads. Tried a joint, but the booze was watered and the dancer didn't know. A pint-sized you-all with a nervous tic and rosy cheeks. She came on like a pencil sharpener. I blew the place.

  Jazz might have been born in New Orleans, but it left home a long time ago.

  Max was waiting in front of the Gotcha Club: he wasn't smiling, he wasn't frowning. We walked some blocks. Then, in that whispery-soft voice of his, he said: "Deck, I think maybe we have us a box."

  I felt proud, oh yes; that's how I felt. "Cuckoo."

  "Got to be handled right, though. The kid has troubles. Great troubles." He grinned. It was the kind of a grin a hangman might flash at a caught killer, but I didn't know that. I didn't even know there'd been a crime. All I thought was, the Band of Angels has got ten new fingers.