Christian sitting on a plank. With a blanket and a pillow. Across from a man lying his hands folded behind his head quietly murmuring mother fucker and staring at the ceiling. Joe, a policeman pounding a type writer, shook his head and offered me a cigarette as I sat by his desk answering questions. Said what does a presentable decent looking guy like you want to go and shoot someone for.
And just before midnight. On my second day of work. In prison accused of murder. Said my fingerprints were all over the joint. I said what joint. You know fella what joint. An elegant guy like you killing people with such a cheap gun. Sit with the nightmare storming through one's head. Mrs Sourpuss's soft pliant body riddled with bullets. Doorman saw me coming and leaving. She looked alive and snoring when I left. They ask why did you do it. And I wish I were Mr Peabody instead of me.
A loud voice outside coming along the corridor. Familiar drawling quiet words of power. Keys opening up the cell. Mr Vine stepping in.
Cornelius standing. At absolute attention, hands straight down at my sides. Clarance Vine with a black satin collared overcoat. A white silk scarf flowing from his neck. Black gloves folded in his hands, his cheeks red and eyes watering.
"Christian. When are you going to get on the ball."
"I'm innocent."
"Take it easy."
"I didn't kill Mrs Sourpuss I swear it. She was asleep when I left."
''What do you mean, Mrs Sourpuss she was asleep.''
"She was. There wasn't a thing wrong with her.''
"Now wait a minute Christian, let's get this straight.''
"I only know her foot was sticking out from under the covers."
"I see. Sticking out. From under the covers. Well that's nice. And where were you.''
"I was standing right there. I mean I went to the bathroom to get dressed so I wouldn't wake her up.''
"I see. A true bedroom gentleman. Well that's very interesting Christian.''
"I heard someone at the end of this long hall as I was leaving. It could have been Willie looking for revenge.''
"Well I hope I'll get my revenge for being woke up after I just got to sleep. I don't know Willie but lucky for you I know the captain of this precinct. Otherwise you'd be spending the night here."
"They 're going to let me go.''
''That's what the sergeant says.''
"Why, have they found the killer.''
"They caught him twenty minutes ago in Brooklyn."
"Wow thank god. Who did it.''
"Her nephew. They're still getting the confession. And by the way Christian, the victim was a Mrs Grotz.''
Wednesday morning and for every morning of that week I was nineteen minutes early for work. Would have been twenty but I spent a minute's silence rejoicing outside Mrs Grotz's door. This town might yet be fit for the pure of spirit. Clarance Vine took me to a diner after my arrest and bought me two hot chocolates and two pieces of lemon meringue pie. Also gave me a little lecture on loose living and electrocution. And as I left the taxi he said Christian maybe they should have booked yon on another charge. Lady killer.
Lay in bed that night hands cupped upon my organs of regeneration. Thinking of the electric chair. Which Vine said is not nice to watch nor smell in use. But no shortage of folk on the train to Sing Sing who slip in for the show. Photographs of previous clients up on the wall. Some of them nice looking guys. Just like you would have been Christian if you'd got the hot seat. They slam in the volts. A nice and generous serving at first. Supposed to blot you out instantly. Then five hundred volts every half minute for two minutes afterwards. To get rid of your twitches. If that doesn't work they cut you up in an autopsy to see why. One guy walked away alive twice. Hadn't drunk enough water recently to conduct the electricity. Which heats up the spinal canal. And your heart's hot when they cut it out. Also nice and soft at first but it then shrinks, the blood goes dark and the heart gets hard. Not nice if people still have feelings after death.
Miss Musk clapped her hands silently upon my return. Rising on her toes in a navy blue dress. Said lordy sakes Mr Vine wouldn't believe me when I said you'd been arrested. And she brought me the daintiest of delicacies for our little snacks we shared on her desk. As well as her pictures in the newspaper when she was twirling champ. In boots and thighs and a flimsy satin skirt. Said she liked my tailoring I got from Brooks Brothers. Where the gentleman haberdasher remarked confidentially that I was one of those rare customers whose body was just made for their suits.
And Saturday afternoon. I sat alone after four times counting my week's pay. Browsing through the Social Register. Not even one Christian mentioned amid all the awesome privileged names. Among which I would love to be deeply embedded. Born in Brooklyn, raised in the Bronx and elevated to a listing. With an address of a yacht anchored off the Bahamas. And a string of clubs designated after my name. The morning mailman wobble kneed with a bag full of invitations. To play real tennis and dine later with the titans of industry. Warmly smiled upon by their loose living face lifted ice skating wives.
And the phone rang. Said please may I speak to Mr Christian. I said speaking. She said I just thought I'd call you, it's Fanny here, how have you been.
"I was in prison for murder."
"Already."
"I didn't do it."
"Well come over here and see me why don't you Monday about eight."
Sunday washing all my socks, shirts and underwear, hanging them drying on a string strung across the cold room. The tenants of the house shouting out their doors. Complaining of no heat. And Monday I had a full day. First in the crimson lined casket and then in the purple. Vine shouting everytime I smiled, to be dead serious Christian or it ruins the picture. Amazingly comfortable lying head back on a soft pillow. Miss Musk powdering my face and pressing my hair in position with her fingers. The photographer behind his box and under his black cloth, squeezing his little bulb saying steady now, here we go, that's it.
Vine paid me an extra ten dollars for posing. Said I really had the knack when it came to looking like a corpse. I said thanks a bunch. And Miss Musk helped me dismount and gave me a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Her boy friend took her to Radio Center Music Hall and night club dancing afterwards. I stood sneaking a look out between Vine's curtain as her swain opened the car door for her. Can tell by the roadster he drives and the kind of natty hat he wears that he can't take punches in the belly. Which I 'd like to give him free of charge.
And on a former afternoon. Taking a breather from a rich Italian mother whose fat son was killed in a car crash. And who after seated convulsions of sobbing would rush to rain kisses down upon him in his casket, smearing the cosmetic work all over his face. Miss Musk finally took her to the private rest room. While I read the afternoon newspaper in her office. And thought of Fanny's gem like belly button. Foot up on a chair, elbow on my knee and chin cupped in the palm of my hand. Took a feel of the tiny silver tits on Miss Musk's drum majorette trophy engraved with Donated by the Vine Funeral Parlor. And foot steps came in. And I said how are you doing, Peaches, how about that hug. In the lengthening silence I looked up.
"O I'm sorry Mr Vine, I thought it was Miss Musk.''
"Christian, you do make it tough for me at times. You know that."
"Yes Mr Vine."
"And with the door open here and you standing there like you were at the race track."
"Sorry."
Vine also said with the air warmer and the snow melting, pneumonia and the flu would be getting them these days. And water dripped down the brownstone steps of Grotz's. Who had a whole gang of distant relatives sizing up the premises. I looked out the door right over the head of the hunched backed lawyer who came collecting the rent. And one long eared swarthy lout suggested I give him my key so he could look around my room at his leisure. I quietly said out a crack in the door in my cultured accent. Get the hell out of here. Before I come out there. And hand you sliced to the seagulls. After I blast your god damn head off. And shove a fire hydrant up y
our arse. And turn it on. So you get a jumbo enema.
Monday was the bluest day above. A balmy air rolling down the street. Felt it on the back of my ears as I headed for the park. To trot and walk to work. Save bus fare. And get into shape to carry out the threats I make. For the sake of instant justice. Went by the lake. Tossed a couple of stones at the ducks. Cantered up a rocky hill and across the open space they call The Green. Which is white with grass and brown with mud and never green. Walked down the back steps of the zoo past the bears. The seals through the water crashing up and down and churning back and forth. The camel peeing. The zebra with a hard on. And kids' colored balloons caught up in the trees. As I headed out onto Fifth Avenue. Jauntily strolling. Nearly said a cheerful how do to people. A sure sign you're out on an airing from the institution. And as a matron took umbrage at my passing gaiety. I whispered. What kind of soulless additives are you using to preserve you, madam.
Christian loping down past Fifty Sixth and Seventh Streets. Traffic thick. Gleaming richery exploding out of the ground. Curtained glass and radiant jewels. Placed softly ready for females. Who ease out of their limozines. Choose diamonds in the mornings. And sit under the face packs in the afternoons. Men with hairy wrists fussing a lock of blond dyed hair into a curl against Florida tanned skin. Massive windowed monuments ascending into the sky. Where pale pigeons unleash trifling indignities splattering on balconies and window sills. The glamour clean within. Where someday in glory I'll hide myself away a mystery with all my riches. With room to fart and sneeze in peace.
Miss Musk wearing clinging pink this morning. A well known publicity agent in the theatre industry reposing. With my best possible face and demeanor I waited at the door of the suite. Any second I could be discovered. And instead of imprisoned, cast in a movie. A role of swashbuckling ball clanging romance. With a huge salary dumped on me weekly with a wheel barrow. And a very chesty nipple conspicuous Miss Musk waltzed back and forth on the canary carpet. Arse wagging like a flag in a hurricane. Plying from the pole I had which-made me have to sit down. But no one came to see the deceased with his kinky grey hair except a rabbi in robes and an ancient thin wife hobbling with a cane and helped by the janitor of their building. But the bier was stacked with wreaths. From Jimmy and the band. From Tally on tour. From Zeke The Human Zeppelin. From Perth Amboy.
I helped Miss Musk prepare the casket. With a bower of lilies of the valley. At seven p.m. we were alone with this show biz departed. And his sunken eye sockets. And large round nose. Miss Musk kneeling, still trying to be discovered, making a list of names she thought might be famous. I put my hand on her shoulder. She turned, looked up and smiled. Teeth sparkling for stardom. And I don't know what made me do it. Except my enfeebled sense of humour. To anoint Miss Musk for fame. And reach and take the hand of the deceased with one big diamond ring on a finger. Lift it stiffly over, put it where mine was. On Miss Musk's back. Silently tip toe away. Leave them together. To make publicity.
Christian taking a paper cup from the glass cylinder. Pressing a foot on the pedal of the brand new water cooler recessed with terra cotta tiles in the lobby wall. Just as Clarance Vine enters, his coat open, a small black briefcase in his hand.
"How's it going Cornelius. Did the O'Shawnessy reposing get a crowd. He was prominently connected with the dramatic arts"
"No Mr Vine."
"Gee that'll be tough on the wife. She said he had a lot of friends. Boy I'm tired Cornelius. Sons of bitches are threatening a strike. And nearly every employee of this city is up there on the building site with his hand out. Feel like giving them beads they gave for this place in the first place.''
A long blood curdling scream coming from the O'Shawnessy suite. Vine's eyebrows converge. Like two battleships in collision at sea. And the hairs go up on the back of my neck. And a bowel or two trembles.
"What the hell is that Christian.''
"I don't know."
Vine dropping his briefcase on the hall table. Christian following him along the corridor and into the green darkness of the Isidore O'Shawnessy suite. Miss Musk on her back on the floor. Absolutely spread eagled. Her mouth open. Pink dress half way up her muscular thighs. Stockings pinched and pulled tight with a bright red garter belt. The deceased's arm hanging out over the side of the casket. Fingers dipping into the tips of the lilies of the valley.
Fuming up
Their fragrance
When all
We need
Is smelling
Salts
10
With a snap decision in an emotional atmosphere, Cornelius Christian departed the Vine Funeral Parlor in a hurry. Skidaddling crosstown. Popping up out of the shadows to take a nervous pee in an hotel. Through bronze revolving doors bowered with curved panels of gleaming glass. Four East Fifty Fifth Street. One big grey block of stone piled on another.
"The male retiring room is down the stairs and just along and to your right, sir."
There's a chap as what has an idea as how to address a seemly gentleman. At low moments the best I can do is make believe I'm a tenderfoot executive. And when someone stands aside to point the way. 0 merciful god what a splendid relief. I don't have to slug them. Practiced sitting behind Miss Musk's desk. Build myself an empire of bargain priced self service funeral parlors. With attached crematoriums generating electricity. Volts and amps of grief. Juice from burning hearts. And Charlie came in, said Cornelius, you look good sitting there.
Cross over and turn right up Fifth Avenue. Past this brown stone church. Faint organ music inside. Wrote to reinstate myself at the Game Club. As each day now I get richer. Dollar by dollar. Be able to show those posturing international celebrities a thing or two who think they're such hot shit hanging around that hotel lobby.
Fifty Seventh Street and Fifth. The bull's eye of wealth in this town. Makes me so nervous I need to take another pee. Wait for the red light to change. Look down into a refuse basket. A book thrown away. How To Make Profitable Judgements In A Time of Continuing Economic Stress. Instead of, I guess, Bewildered Decisions In Times of Mercantile Terror.
"O what a sweet little sight. Sir can I take your little daughter's picture."
Man with a camera stopping another man with a small girl. As she stands with a flowered umbrella and raincoat. Just as it begins to rain. All delighted with smiles as the flash bulb pops. And people turn to look. A tiny moment like that. And the world knows you're there. Sallying forth. Suddenly noticed. A second's pleasant recognition. To coax you through hours of gloom.
Christian walking round the splashing lamp lit fountain under the branches of the cottonball trees. Step between rows of purring limozines. Go up these crimson carpeted steps by people descending to opening car doors. Drenched in finery. Their money more beautiful than beauty. And Vine said to me, Christian do you know what's eating this city. Besides envy and graft. The cockroach.
In the small mirrored men's room. Unleashed another pee. Down into the gurgling porcelain. Tipped the man a dime. Who turned a faucet to fill a basin and laid out a little towel for me. And some god damn son of a bitch came in and gave him a quarter. For doing nothing. Except maybe counting the drops he was shaking off his prick. Which all added up, made him a big shot. One of those chaps so dressed and so postured that to bring his conceit to its fullest fulfillment only required a resounding slap across his meaty long sideburned jowls. Quake some humility into him.
Christian striding by this elegant enclosure where musicians play. In behind the palms. Beyond the marble pillars. A clutch of loud mouthed women waiting to get inside. Sun scalded skin gaudy with gold and diamonds. And ripe for thieves. To descend and grab the gems from their puffy polished bodies. Enter this other lobby. Past the counter of newspapers, books, candy, magazines and chewing gum. Doors of elevators opening and closing. Telephone ringing on the manager's desk. Dressed just the way Clarance dresses. And saying yes with an understanding face. As someone touches me. 0 so gently on a shoulder. Just as I put the dead hand on Mis
s Musk. And I turn to see this face. Radiant beneath straw colored hair.
"Pardon me but you aren't Cornelius Christian. 0 you are. I just couldn't believe it was you. You remember me. Charlotte Graves. I followed you all the way from Fifty Seventh Street where the man took the picture of the little girl. I only got up just enough nerve to ask you.''
"I'm glad you did."
"You look so fine. And gosh distinguished. I'm so thrilled to see you. It must be something like five or gosh seven years. When did you get back."
"Last month."
"Your accent. I think it's beautiful. What are you doing. Are you staying."
"I have a job."
''It must be something important.''
"I' man executive ostiary.''
"I don't know what that is but it really sounds something.''
"It's not too bad."
"O gosh. I'm just still nothing. Didn't even go to college. It's so good to see you. You're even married now I hear.''
"My wife died."
"O gosh I'm sorry."
"I'm all over it now. I'd like to see you sometime. Where do you live."
"I still live in the Bronx. Same old place. I was walking from Lexington Avenue window shopping. I was just on my way to meet a girl friend. We 're going to a show.''
"Can I call you."
"I'd love you to. I better go. I'm late and I've got the tickets. Gosh I'm glad I got up my nerve. Even waited till you came out of the men's room. I just kept thinking it couldn't be. Then I thought it is, it is. You've got so mature looking. Anyway that's enough flattery. My number is still in the telephone book. Goodbye. Please call me.''
Go east now and north. After nearly lying to the first girl who ever loved me. Cut through the tip of the park. Where the evening marauders are lurking. Swiftly to get you in headlocks or at knifepoint across the throat. If they don't smash you first to the ground from behind. Look back. The lights glow where I met her in the lobby. The big buildings fight away the little buildings. They grow up high and put out their towering chests of windows and say down at the little dirty roofs below. Get the hell out of here. Before my shadows snuff you out. And a sign posted to this tree.