And Tom Flannery interrupts me.
“Excuse me,” he says, “but when you tell about Joey Bunch you talk a lot about how it felt. And when you talk about José you talk about what happened. How did you feel when he died?”
I was gonna get mad. What a stupid question. But while I was trying to think of something really cutting to say, the answer to his question popped into my mind before I could stop it.
For the first time since it happened I remembered the part I’d forgotten every time I’d gone over it in my mind. Not the events. Not the sights and sounds and smells and physical sensations. Not how I felt before, or how I felt after. For the first time I remembered how I felt as I did it, what I felt in that moment, when I realized I’d killed him.
It felt so good the only thing I can liken it to is orgasm. The other guy did all the squirting, that was all. It was heaven. It felt like I wanted it to feel when I kicked Joey Bunch’s ass.
I told Tom that. Told the whole bar. I was too shocked not to. I was a Martian and a monster, and I was tired of hiding it.
“Sounds like healthy human reaction to me,” Tom says.
I couldn’t believe it. “Healthy?” I said. “Are you nuts?”
“Listen,” he says to me, “that fight with Joey: what started it? What was it about?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “It was years ago, for Christ’s sake, some typical Joey Bunch bullshit—”
“Why do you always use both his names?” Tom says.
And this flashbulb goes off in my head. All of a sudden, it comes back to me.
Because there really is no reason I can explain to you, but everybody always called him Joey Bunch. Not Joey, not Bunch, always Joey Bunch. He just looked like a Joey Bunch, is the best I can say it. Only, his father finally noticed that everybody called him that, and got pissed off. He was in construction, and I guess to him it sounded too much like made guys he knew called Tommy Fingers and Paulie Large and so forth. He gave the kid a lot of shit about not letting anybody call him Joey Bunch anymore, and so pretty soon everybody knew you could get a rise out of him by calling him that. And that morning at the bus stop, I’d just forgotten, and called him Joey Bunch without even thinking about it, from sheer force of habit.
And I tell Tom all this, and he says, “There, you see? José Rivera had it coming. Joey didn’t. Even with a headful of adrenalin, you knew the difference. I’m sorry to pop your bubble, son, but you’re not a Martian or a monster. All you are is a pretty decent guy.”
And Callahan says, “For an Irishman,” and sends me another shot of Bushmill’s, and people cheer, and Fast Eddie starts playing “Mack the Knife,” and what with one thing and another I pretty much stayed at Callahan’s Place until it went by-by. Nice place to hang out, until the Doc showed up.
“Till I showed up?” the Doc cried. “I remember the night I first walked in. You were telling everybody that Marcel Marceau was looking for a room to rent…and then you turned to me, a perfect stranger, looked me square in the eye, and said, ‘Brother, can you lair a mime?’ I almost turned around and walked out again.”
The room exploded in groans and laughter, a welcome relief.
“Bullshit,” Callahan said. “You blinked at him, and said, ‘As long as it’s not a German mime. A Hun is the lowest form of roomer.’”
Louder groans, mixed with a few feeble protests.
Long-Drink crowed. “By God, that’s right, he did. I’d forgotten that. Big Beef McCaffrey fainted dead away.”
“Meadow muffins,” the Doc snorted. “Big Beef paled a little bit, but he stayed vertical for another hour—until we were into the official pun contest, and you perpetrated that Byzantine horror about the Middle Eastern manure salesman.”
Long-Drink shook his head. “I don’t remember it.”
The room held its breath.
“Would that I could forget it. Let’s see…you started with that true story about the guy in the Civil War who got a testicle shot off, and impregnated a lady fifty yards away…only you specified that he was a German named Josef, and that the shot was fired by Scarlett O’Hara, and that the resulting child was named for his father. Then, as I recall the atrocity, you alleged that the child grew to manhood, moved to the Middle East, and used a series of methodical burglaries to finance his vast manure empire—”
“Ah yes,” Long-Drink said reminiscently. “The Haifa-lootin’, routine Teuton, son of a gun from Tara’s owner, big-time Cow-Pie Joe…”
A storm of outrage blew in from all quarters; attendant phenomena included a rain of oaths, a shower of beer-nuts, and a hail of glasses into the fireplace. Approximately half a dozen people went so far as to award Long-Drink the ultimate accolade: held their noses and fled screaming into the night. A few of them stayed out there so long I suspected they were constructing a gibbet.
Doc Webster waited until people had just begun to get their hearts restarted and their breath back, and then riposted: “…which is why Big Beef dropped his hole card, and missed that whole weird business when the piece of string walked in.”
We’re a brave crew. Nobody panicked, there was no stampede for the exit. You can’t outrun a bullet with your name on it. As one, we hunkered down fatalistically and waited for it to be over.
“—piece of string walked in?” Long-Drink said, falling manfully on the grenade.
The Doc nodded. “Don’t you remember? Piece of string about two feet long, moved like a skinny snake. Well, of course, this was Callahan’s Place: if a piece of string wants a drink, Mike’ll serve it and go back to polishing the bar. Damn thing ordered a shot, wicked it up out of the glass (no, I’m not lisping), and tried to slither out without paying. So naturally Mike treats it like he would any other deadbeat. He comes around the bar and stomps on it, and kicks it back and forth a few times until it’s all tattered and threadbare, and then he ties a clove hitch in the thing and eighty-sixes it. Ten minutes later it slithers back inside, still all snarled up, and orders another shot. ‘Hey,’ says Mike, giving it the evil eye, ‘ain’t you the same piece of string that was just in here?’ And the string says, ‘No—I’m a frayed knot.’”
As I said, we have all long believed that the highest possible accolade for a pun is a squalling stampede for the nearest exit, be it door, window, or weak spot in the wall. The only other thing you can do with one that awful is take off on it—“That was some super string,” “Aw, that was just a yarn,” “We’re hanging by a thread now!” “Woof woof, is that ever warped,” and so on—like walking off a charlie horse. But now we spontaneously invented a tribute that ranked even higher than either open rout or return fire.
We ignored him.
“Hey, that cow-pie job was really clever, Long-Drink,” Callahan said conversationally.
“Yeah, I liked it,” Margie said, wincing but managing to sound sincere. “The ‘routine Teuton’ is the part that makes it work.”
“Yeah, how come you never make puns like that anymore, Doc?” Shorty Steinitz asked.
“Shorty,” the Doc said softly, “would you like me to make a pun?”
There was a hush.
“Okay,” Shorty said, “so we’ve heard from the Doc and we’ve heard from McGonnigle. Who’s up?”
“Jake,” Acayib spoke up, “maybe everyone here already knows this story—but can I ask how you and Zoey met? You seem like a very happy couple. I mean, even considering you’re expecting. You don’t really talk to each other a lot—in here anyway—but you always seem pretty plugged into each other.”
I glanced at Zoey, and easily read her answering glance. I didn’t realize it showed…
“I don’t know the story,” Buck said.
“Nor do I, Jake,” Tesla said.
I glanced at her again.
“The acoustic or the electric?” she asked.
“Just the Lady. You?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Fast Eddie leaped up from his piano stool and accompanied her into the back. Shor
tly she came out again with Lady Macbeth, already undressed and tuned, her G-string shining…excuse me, Lady Macbeth is a guitar…followed by Fast Eddie lugging the Elephant…which is a standup bass. It is a big awkward bastard, but paradoxically it can be played comfortably by a very pregnant woman—as long as someone else sets it up for her—while Zoey’s usual electric bass cannot.
There’s exactly one barstool in my bar, over by Eddie’s piano, and I’m the only one who sits on it, and only when I play. Eddie helped Zoey set up, and then sat down at his piano and closed the cover over the keyboard. We did a silent, nodding three-count, and did the key statement together, and then, with Zoey harmonizing on the choruses, I sang:
I was hanging with my family down at Mary’s Place
and let me tell you, man, it was a stone
But the closer that I felt to all those friends of mine
The more I understood I was alone
But I didn’t really mind…I was more or less resigned
So I let it go, and took out my guitar
I played all the songs I knew, and a couple others too
And then I scatted blues a couple bars
It was more than just surprisin’ when I heard you harmonizin’
From across the room, in shadow, pure and stark
And it all fell into place before I ever saw your face
When I heard you sing the blues in the dark
I hoped you weren’t married to some other guy
But it wasn’t gonna stop me if you were
And if some other woman had a claim on you
I was ready to try stealin you from her
I’d have given any price; I’d have paid it over twice
I was shameless, though I knew it was a shame
There was nothin I could do: all that mattered now was you
Though I hadn’t even caught your fucking name
’Cause I didn’t have a choice—it was all there in your voice
I was mindless and as hungry as a shark
And I finalized my plans before I touched you with my hands
When I heard you sing the blues in the dark
(Zoey took a vocal solo on the bridge:)
Your voice was so sad your blues were so bad
What could I do? Except to keep on playin’
And we blended so well as the notes rose and fell
Somehow we knew what both of us were sayin’
(And we sang the last verse together:)
So I finished up my blues and looked around for you
And let me tell you baby, I was scared
I came within an inch of running out of there
Still shakin from how much we two had shared
When I finally saw your face—oh, my heart began to race!
I was just like tinder lookin at a spark
But I’d already learned my doom—in that dimly lighted room
When I first heard you sing the blues in the dark
Yes, I’d married you already—well, at least inside my head
Because I heard you sing the blues in the dark
And in retrospect I’m glad—now your voice is much less sad
When we sing the blues together, in the dark
Naturally we finished it with a chorus of harmonized scat blues, to that venerable old chord structure that underlies “Hard Times,” “Funny But I Still Love You,” “Sportin’ Life,” and a hundred other songs.
Most of those present had already heard it, but we got a big hand all the same. I like applause, but I don’t trust it, any more than I trust my own opinion; as always I looked to Fast Eddie for a professional assessment.
“De bendin’ end,” he said solemnly, taking Zoey’s bass away. It is his highest praise; Eddie once hung out with Lord Buckley.
I was reassured. It’s hard to keep your chops up if you don’t play regular. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“Wanna jam, boss?”
I was tempted. Good music is like love: there’s nothing like making some to make you feel like making some more. And it seemed as appropriate a way as bullshitting to pass the time until the end of the world. Magic was what Eddie had said we needed, and magic is exactly what lives in Fast Eddie Costigan’s fingers.
But Zoey nixed it. “Later, Ed,” she told him. “First I want to hear your story.”
There was a rumble of strong agreement from all sides.
“We could do dat Ray Cholls ting,” he said to me.
“Uh, well…”
“Come on, piano boy,” Zoey said. “You’re the senior here, aren’t you? None of you guys were hanging out at Callahan’s before Fast Eddie got there, right? I’m not even sure Callahan came to Callahan’s before you did, Ed. Did you just walk in and audition, or what?”
“Or we c’ud play dat Liv Taylor ‘Life is Good’ song; I woiked up an arrangement fer it,” he suggested, as if Zoey had not spoken.
“You can’t weasel out of this,” she said. “Come on, you can’t let your piano do your talking for you all the time.”
Now Eddie looked pained. “Or youse could just pick sometin an’ I’ll jump in.”
“We want to hear it,” Zoey said. “Don’t we, people?” Again she got support from the house. “Jake?” Now I was on the spot.
“Boss, what am I sposta do?” Eddie burst out. “House rules sez I gotta stretch her—but I can’t lay out no knocked up broad, let alone de boss’s goil, let alone Zoey. So I try an’ do what Heinlein said—somebody asks youse a nosy question, just don’t hear it—but she won’t let me! Whaddya want me ta do?”
No: now I was on the spot. I opened my mouth—
“Eddie, please!” Zoey said.
He turned to her. “Zoey, lissena me. Faw times in my life I told dis story…an every friggin’ time but one I ended up in a hassle over it. It hoits ta tell it. Gimme a break, will youse?”
She looked at him, and her face changed. The lines got softer, somehow, impossible as that seemed. “Eddie,” she said softly, “look on the bright side: you’ll probably be dead in a few hours.”
He blinked. “True.” The cobweb of wrinkles on his own face got even tighter and sharper, impossible as that seemed. “Aw, what de fuck. Boss, gimme an Irish.”
9
NOW, NED,
I AM A MAIDEN WON…
Fast Eddie took his shot of Bushmill’s to the chalk line—scuffed from the evening’s traffic—toed the line, and stood there in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed, and tossed back the drink.
“Ta child molesters,” he said, and hurled his glass into the flames.
It got very quiet in Mary’s Place. Quiet enough to hear my pulse.
Then he turned to us and said, “I was one.”
I found that I could distinctly hear the pulses of three different people standing near me. All accelerating.
“How—” Zoey began, and had to swallow and try again. “How old was the child?”
“I didn’t say I was a child-molester,” Eddie said. “I said I was a child molester—widdout da hyphen, see? Pay attention.”
“What do you mean?”
He scowled. “Look, youse wanna hear dis story, shaddap an’ lissen, okay? No arguments, no Twenny Questions, just shaddap an’ lissen till I’m done.”
Zoey subsided.
Fast Eddie Costigan’s Story
Dat’s better. Gimme anudda shot, Boss.
Okay. Lemme see. My parents got killed in an El crash, when I was nine. Youse guys all old enough to know what de El was? Well, we had dis second floor walkup, an’ one night while I’m in school doin’ dis ting wit de band, which nobody come ta see me play my clarinet, de El train comes in our livin’ room winda an’ takes out Mom an’ Pop an’ de radio. I almost started believin’ in God again, except I loved dat damn radio.
So I ended up wit’ my mudda’s sister an’ her husband, over in Red Hook. Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Dave. He was a piano tuner, an’ she took in laundry. Dey was bot’ great to me. A helluva lot nicer th
an my folks ever was. Never hit me once, laid off de God crap, laughed a lot. It was nice, laughin’ in yer own apartment. We got along fine. Dey had a good radio, a Philco. Dey lemme lissena jazz. Two years later, Aunt Martha drops dead onna sidewalk, an’ now it’s just Uncle Dave an’ me. An’ dat was okay, too, after he quit grievin’. He’s da reason I switched from licorice stick ta de eighty-eight. Man, he could blow. Taught me most o’ what I know.
So I’m eleven, an’ my life is great. Den I’m twelve, an’ life ain’t so great. Den I’m toiteen—and oh brudder, it sucks!
Da foist ting youse gotta understand is what it was like, back den. I know some o’ youse go back far enough ta know what I’m talkin’ about—but most o’ youse grew up on a different planet.
I mean, today, any kid can see people screwin’ on cable. Any magazine stand, ya can get close-ups of all de pink parts. Anybody wit’ a computer can see pictures o’ broads in rubber doin’ it wit’ donkeys. Dey got books on sex for six-year-olds dat’ll tell ya stuff my fadda never knew, pictures an’ everyting. Believe me, I ain’t complainin’—I tink it’s terrific. If dey had dat stuff when I was a kid…
But it was different when I was a kid. Especially in a Cat’lick neighborhood. Nobody told us nuttin’ about sex, an’ all o’ my guesses was way off. Dey wouldn’t even let a kid in de parts o’ de museum where de statues had bare tits. I know, you’re sposta pick dat stuff up in de streets, from your friends. Well, I didn’t have a lotta friends, an’ all I ever picked up in de streets was dogshit on my shoes. I wasn’t even sure whedda my friends knew, an’ I was scared to ask ’cause den dey’d know I didn’t know. I found books in de liberry dat talked about it, but dey didn’t have no pictures, just drawrins, an’ dey all used big woids like ‘intramission.’ I don’t even know how to find de goddam theater, an’ dey’re tellin’ me about da intramission! An’ I kept gettin’ mixed up ’cause I t’ought a spoim was a kinda whale.
Callahan's Legacy Page 15
