What was I to say? There wasn’t anything I wanted to know—from him, at least. I wanted to get up and go—without offending him. I didn’t want to be jerked back into my seat by that long hairy arm and be slobbered over and grilled and argued with and insulted. Besides, I was feeling a little woozy. I was thinking of Florrie and how strangely she had behaved—and I could still feel her hand fumbling in my fly.
“You don’t seem to be all there,” he said. “I thought writers were quick on the trigger, always there with the bright repartee. What’s the matter—don’t you want to be sociable? Maybe you don’t like my mug? Listen”—and he laid his heavy hand on my arm—“get this straight. . . . I’m your friend, see! I want to have a talk with you. You’re going to tell me things . . . all the things I don’t know. You’re going to wise me up. Maybe I won’t get it all at once, but I’m going to listen. We’re not going to leave here until we get this settled, see what I mean?” With this he gave me one of those strange Irish smiles, a mélange of warmth, sincerity, perplexity and violence. It meant that he was going to get what he wanted out of me or lay me out flat. For some inexplicable reason he was convinced that I had something which he sorely needed, some clue to the riddle of life, which, even if he couldn’t grasp it entirely, would serve him in good stead.
By this time I was almost in a panic. It was precisely the sort of situation that I am incapable of dealing with. I could have murdered the bastard in cold blood.
A mental uppercut, that’s what he wanted of me. He was tired of beating the piss out of the other fellow—he wanted someone to go to work on him.
I decided to go at it directly, to deflate him with one piercing lunge and then trust to my wits.
“You want me to talk frankly, is that it?” I gave him an ingenuous smile.
“Sure, sure,” he retorted. “Fire away! I can take it.”
“Well, to begin with,” says I, still offering the bland, reassuring smile, “you’re just a louse and you know it. You’re afraid of something, what it is I don’t know yet, but we’ll get to it. With me you pretend that you’re a low-brow, a nobody, but to yourself you pretend that you’re smart, a big shot, a tough guy. You’re not afraid of a thing, are you? That’s all shit and you know it. You’re full of fear. You say you can take it. Take what? A sock in the jaw? Of course you can, with a cement mug like yours. But can you stand the truth?”
He gave me a hard, glittery smile. His face, violently flushed, indicated that he was doing his utmost to control himself. He wanted to say, “Yes, go on!” but the words choked him. He just nodded and turned on the electric smile.
“You’ve beaten up many a rat with your bare hands, haven’t you? Somebody held the guy down and you went at him until he screamed blue murder. You wrung a confession out of him and then you dusted yourself off and poured a few drinks down your throat. He was a rat and he deserved what he got. But you’re a bigger rat, and that’s what’s eating you up. You like to hurt people. You probably pulled the wings off flies when you were a kid. Somebody hurt you once and you can’t forget it.” (I could feel him wince at this.) “You go to church regularly and you confess, but you don’t tell the truth. You tell half-truths. You never tell the father what a lousy stinking son of a bitch you really are. You tell him about your little sins. You never tell him what pleasure you get beating up defenseless guys who never did you any harm. And of course you always put a generous donation in the box. Hush money! As if that could quiet your conscience! Everybody says what a swell guy you are—except the poor bastards whom you track down and beat the piss out of. You tell yourself that it’s your job, you have to be that way or else. . . . It’s hard for you to figure out just what else you could do if you ever lost your job, isn’t that so? What assets have you? What do you know? What are you good for? Sure, you might make a street cleaner or a garbage collector, though I doubt that you have the guts for it. But you don’t know anything useful, do you? You don’t read, you don’t associate with any but your own kind. Your sole interest is politics. Very important, politics! Never know when you may need a friend. Might murder the wrong guy someday, and then what? Why, then you’d want somebody to lie for you, somebody who’d go to bat for you—some low-down worm like yourself who hasn’t a shred of manhood or a spark of decency in him. And in return you’d do him a good turn someday—I mean you’d bump someone off sometime, if he asked you to.”
I paused for just a second.
“If you really want to know what I think, I’d say you’ve murdered a dozen innocent guys already. I’d say that you’ve got a wad in your pocket that would choke a horse. I’d say that you’ve got something on your conscience—and you came here to drown it. I’d say that you know why those girls got up suddenly and ran across the street. I’d say that if we knew all about you, you might be eligible for the electric chair. . . .”
Completely out of breath, I stopped and mechanically rubbed my jaw, as if surprised to find it still intact. Monahan, unable to hold himself in any longer, burst out with an alarming guffaw.
“You’re crazy,” he said, “crazy as a bedbug, but I like you. Go on, talk some more. Say the worst you know—I want to hear it.” And with that he called the waiter over and ordered another round. “You’re right about one thing,” he added. “I have got a wad in my pocket. Want to see it?” He fished out a roll of greenbacks, flipped them under my nose, like a card-sharper. “Go on now, give it to me! . . .”
The sight of the money derailed me. My one thought was how to separate him from some of his ill-gained boodle.
“It was a bit crazy, all that stuff I just handed you,” I began, adopting another tone. “I’m surprised you didn’t haul off and crack me. My nerves are on edge, I guess. . . .”
“Don’t have to tell me,” said Monahan.
I adopted a still more conciliatory tone. “Let me tell you something about myself,” I continued in an even voice, and in a few brief strokes I outlined my position in the Cosmodemonic skating rink, my relationship with O’Rourke, the company detective, my ambition to be a writer, my visits to the psychopathic ward, and so on. Just enough to let him know that I was not a dreamer. The mention of O’Rourke’s name impressed him. O’Rourke’s brother (as I well knew) was Monahan’s boss and he stood in awe of him.
“And you pal around with O’Rourke?”
“He’s a great friend of mine,” said I. “A man I respect. He’s almost a father to me. I learned something about human nature from him. O’Rourke’s a big man doing a small job. He belongs somewhere else, where I don’t know. However, he seems satisfied to be where he is, though he’s working himself to death. What galls me is that he isn’t appreciated.”
I went on in this vein, extolling O’Rourke’s virtues, indicating none too subtly the comparison between O’Rourke’s methods and those of the ordinary flatfoot.
My words were producing the effect intended. Monahan was visibly wilting, softening like a sponge.
“You’ve got me wrong,” he finally burst out. “I’ve got as big a heart as the next guy, only I don’t show it. You can’t go around exposing yourself—not on this job. We ain’t all like O’Rourke, I’ll grant you, but we’re human, b’Jesus! You’re an idealist, that’s what’s the matter with you. You want perfection. . . .” He gave me a strange look, mumbled to himself. Then he continued in a clear, calm voice: “The more you talk the more I like you. You’ve got something I once had. I was ashamed of it then . . . you know, afraid of being a sissy or something. Life hasn’t spoiled you—that’s what I like about you. You know what it’s like and yet it doesn’t make you sour or mean. You said some pretty nasty things a while back, and to tell you the truth, I was going to take a swing at you. Why didn’t I? Because you weren’t talking to me: you were aiming at all the guys like me who got off the track somewhere. You sound personal, but you ain’t. You’re talking to the world all the time. You should have been a preacher, do you realize that? You and O’Rourke, you’re a good team. I mean it. We g
uys have a job to do and we don’t get any fun out of it; you guys work for the pleasure of it. And what’s more . . . well, never mind. . . . Look, give me your hand . . .” He reached for my free hand and grasped it in a vise. “You see”—I winced as he applied the pressure—“I could squeeze your hand to a pulp. I wouldn’t have to make a pass at you. I could just sit like this, talking to you, looking straight at you, and crush your hand to a pulp. That’s the strength I have.”
He relaxed his grip and I withdrew my hand quickly. It felt numb, paralyzed.
“There’s nothing to that, you see,” he went on. “That’s dumb brute strength; you’ve got another kind of strength, which I lack. You could make mincemeat of me with that tongue of yours. You’ve got a brain.” He looked away, as if absent-minded. “How is your hand?” he said, dreamy-like. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I felt it with my other hand. It was limp and useless.
“It’s all right, I guess.”
He looked me through and through, then laughingly he burst out: “I’m hungry. Let’s eat something.”
We went downstairs and inspected the kitchen first. He wanted me to see how clean everything was: went about picking up carving knives and cleavers, holding them up to the light for me to examine and admire.
“I had to chop a guy down with one of these once.” He brandished a cleaver. “Split him in two, clean as a whistle.”
Taking my arm affectionately he led me back upstairs. “Henry,” says he, “we’re going to be pals. You’re going to tell me more about yourself—and you’re going to let me help you. You’ve got a wife—very beautiful too.” I gave an involuntary jerk. He tightened his grip on my arm and led me to the table.
“Henry, let’s talk straight for a change. I know a thing or two, even if I don’t look it.” Pause. “Get your wife out of that joint!”
I was just about to say, “What joint?” when he resumed: “A guy can get mixed up in all sorts of things and come out clean—sometimes. But a woman’s different. You don’t like to see her working there, with those dizzy fluffs, do you? Find out what’s keeping her there. Don’t get sore now . . . I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I don’t know anything about your wife—that is, any more than I’ve heard . . .”
“She’s not my wife,” I blurted out.
“Well, whatever she is to you,” he said smoothly, as if that were quite an unimportant detail, “get her out of that joint! I’m telling you like a friend. I know what I’m talking about.”
I began to put two and two together, rapidly, fitfully. My mind shifted back to Florrie and Hannah, to their sudden exit. Was there going to be a raid, a shake-up—or a shakedown? Was he trying to warn me?
He must have divined what was going on in my head, for the next thing out of his mouth was this: “If she has to have a job let me try to find her something. She could do something else, couldn’t she? An attractive girl like her . . .”
“Let’s drop it,” I said, “and thanks for the tip.”
For a while we ate in silence. Then, apropos of nothing, Monahan took out the fat wad of greenbacks and peeled off two fifty-dollar bills. He placed them beside my plate. “Take them,” he said, “and put’ em in your pocket. Let her try the theater, why don’t you?” He lowered his head to shovel a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. I picked up the bills and quietly shoved them into my trouser pocket.
As soon as I could free myself I set off to meet Mona in front of the dance hall. I was in a strange mood.
My head was spinning a bit as I rolled merrily along towards Broadway. I was determined to be cheerful, though something told me I had reason to be otherwise. The meal and the few parting shots that Monahan had succeeded in driving home had sobered me up somewhat. I felt large and luxuriant, in a mood to enjoy my own thoughts. Euphoric, as Kronski would say. To me that always meant being happy for no reason. Just being happy, knowing you’re happy, and staying happy no matter what anyone says or does. It wasn’t alcoholic joy; the whiskies may have precipitated the mood, but nothing more. It wasn’t some underneath self that was cropping out—it was rather an overhead self, if I might put it that way. With each step I took, the fumes of the liquor evaporated; my mind was growing almost frighteningly clear.
As I passed a theater a glancing look at a billboard brought back a familiar face. I knew who it was, the name and everything, and I was astonished but—well, to put it truthfully, I was so much more astonished by what was going on inside me that I hadn’t time or room to be astonished by something that had happened to someone else. I would come back to her later, when the euphoria had passed away. And just as I was promising myself that, who did I run into head on but my old friend Bill Woodruff.
Hello hello, how are you, yes fine, long time since I saw you, what are you doing, how’s the wife, see you again sometime, yes I’m in a hurry, sure I’ll come up, so long, goodbye . . . it went like that, rat-a-tat-tat. Two solid bodies colliding in space at the wrong time, rubbing surfaces together, exchanging souvenirs, plugging in wrong numbers, promising and repromising, forgetting, parting, remembering again . . . hurried, mechanical, meaningless, and what the hell does it all add up to?
After ten years he looked just the same, Woodruff. I wanted to take a look at myself in the mirror—quick. Ten years! And he wanted all the news in a nutshell. Dumb bastard! A sentimentalist. Ten years. I ran back through the years, down a long twisted funnel of a corridor with distorted mirrors on either side. I got right to that spot in time and space where I had Woodruff fixed in my mind the way I would always see him, even in the next world. He was pinned there, as if he were a winged specimen under the microscope. That was where he revolved helplessly on his axis. And that’s where she comes in—the one whose picture flashed through my brain as I passed the theater. She was the one he was crazy about, the girl he couldn’t live without, and everybody had to help him woo her, even his mother and father, even his cluck of a Prussian brother-in-law whose guts he hated.
Ida Verlaine. Born to fit the name. She was just exactly the way her name sounded—pretty, vain, theatrical, faithless, spoiled, pampered, petted. Beautiful as a Dresden doll, only she had raven tresses and a Javanese slant to her soul. If she had a soul at all! Lived entirely in the body, in her senses, her desires—and she directed the show, the body show, with her tyrannical little will which poor Woodruff translated as some monumental force of character.
Ida, Ida . . . He used to chew our ears off about her. She was delicate in a perverse way, like one of Cranach’s nudes. The body very fair, the hair very black, the soul tilted backwards, like a stone becoming dislodged from its Egyptian setting. They had disgraceful scenes during the courtship; Woodruff would often leave her in tears. The next day he would send her orchids or a beautiful lavaliere or a gigantic box of chocolates. Ida swallowed everything, like a pythoness. She was heartless and insatiable.
Eventually he prevailed on her to marry him. He must have bribed her, for it was obvious that she despised him. He built a beautiful little love nest which was far beyond his means, bought her the clothes and other things she craved, took her to the theater several nights a week, stuffed her with sweets, sat by her side and held her hand when she was having her menstrual pains, consulted a specialist if she had a cough, and in general played the fond, doting husband.
The more he did for her the less she cared for him. She was a monster from head to toe. Little by little it leaked out that she was frigid. None of us believed it of course, except Woodruff. He was to have the same experience later, with his second wife, and if he had lived long enough he would have had it with the third and fourth wives. With Ida his infatuation was so great that, if she had lost her legs, I don’t think it would have altered his affection in the least—in fact, he would only have loved her the more.
For all his faults Woodruff was keen on friendship. There were at least six of us whom he had taken to his bosom and whom he trusted implicitly. I was one of them—his oldest friend, as a matte
r of fact. I had the privilege of walking in and out of his home at will; I could eat, sleep, bathe, shave there. I was one of the family.
From the very beginning I disliked Ida, not because of her behavior towards Woodruff, but instinctively. Ida in turn was uneasy in my presence. She didn’t quite know what to make of me. I never criticized her nor did I ever flatter her; I acted as though she were the wife of my friend, and nothing more. She wasn’t satisfied with such an attitude, naturally. She wanted to bring me under her spell, make me walk the tightrope, as she had done with Woodruff and her other suitors. Oddly enough, I was never more immune to a woman’s charms. I just didn’t give a fuck for her, as a person, though I often wondered what she might be like as a piece of fuck, so to speak. I wondered about it in a detached way, but somehow it got across to her, got under her skin.
Sometimes, after passing the night at their home, she would complain aloud that she didn’t want to be left alone with me. Woodruff would be standing at the door, ready to go to work, and she pretending to be worried. I’d be lying in bed waiting for her to bring me my breakfast. And Woodruff saying to her: “Don’t talk that way, Ida. He’s not going to harm you—I’d trust him with my life.”
Sometimes I’d burst out laughing and yell: “Don’t worry, Ida, I’m not going to rape you. I’m impotent.”
“You impotent?” she’d scream with pretended hysteria. “You’re not impotent. You’re a lecher.”
“Bring him his breakfast!” Woodruff would say, and off to work he’d go.
She hated the thought of waiting on me in bed. She didn’t do it for her husband and she couldn’t see why she should do it for me. To take breakfast in bed was something I never did, except at Woodruff’s place. I did it expressly to annoy and humiliate her.
“Why don’t you get up and come to the table?” she would say.