The Water-Method Man

  Who is Goldschmied? Polly would be wondering. Ah, pretty Polly, but who was the great Weber?

  Then you'd say, 'I know a piece of the river, a piece of that history.' She would wait out your pregnant pause. 'Remember the Ninth Panzer Division?' you'd say, and then go on, not waiting for her answer. 'The Ninth Panzer sent two scout tanks into Floridsdorf on the night of New Year's Eve, 1939. The Nazis wanted to move a tank company into Czechoslovakia, and their armory was out along the Danube. The scout tanks were looking for trouble in Floridsdorf. There'd been some die-hard resistance out there, and the scouts wanted to divert any saboteurs' intentions on the big tank drive at the river. Well, the scout tanks got the diversion they were seeking. One of them was blown to bits in front of a factory which made dry milk. The other tank panicked. It got lost in the warehouse monotony of Floridsdorf and ended way up on the Old Danube - the old canal that's blocked off. Did you see? We just drove over it.'

  'Yes, yes,' Polly Crenner would answer, history crushing down on her.

  Then you'd stop the Zorn-Witwer at Gelhafts Keller, Merrill. You'd open Polly Crenner's door for her, and she'd bubble, 'Well, what happened?'

  'To what?'

  'The tank.'

  'Oh, the tank ... Well, it was lost, see.'

  'Yes ...'

  'And it was New Year's Eve, remember. Very cold. And this wild bunch of resistance people, they were chasing it ...'

  'How do you chase a tank?'

  'With a lot of nerve,' you'd say. 'They kept close to the buildings and tried to disable it with grenades. Of course, the tank gunner was doing some damage; he was blowing half of the suburbs in two. But the people kept after the bastard and finally cornered the tank down on the bank of the old canal. Blocked off, right? The water pretty still and pretty shallow - therefore frozen pretty solid. They forced the thing out on the ice; it was the tank's only chance to get away ... Well, when the tank was right in the middle, they rolled some grenades out across the ice ... It sank, of course.'

  'Wow,' Polly Crenner would say, both to the story and to the great beer-steined walls of Gelhafts Keller, through which you would be strolling her, Merrill, right out on to the dock.

  'There,' you would tell her, pointing out into the Old Danube, where tiny boats with lanterns were paddling lovers and drunks about.

  'What?' she would say.

  'There! The tank - that's where it broke through the ice. That's where they sank her.'

  'Where?' Polly Crenner would ask, and you would gently pull her pretty head close to yours and make her sight along your outstretched arm at some black point way out on the water.

  And you'd whisper. 'There! Right out there she went down. And she's still there ...'

  'No!'

  'Yes!'

  Then, Merrill, she would ask what in hell you'd brought a flashlight for.

  You asshole, Merrill ...

  That was, in fact, what Trumper said when the federal men, if that's who they were, steered him out of the elevator at the tenth floor of the Warwick Hotel in New York City.

  A well-dressed couple who were waiting for the elevator observed the men guiding Trumper down the hall. One of the Feds said, 'Good evening.'

  'Good evening,' the couple mumbled warily.

  'You asshole, Merrill,' Trumper said.

  They took him to room 1028, a two-room suite on the corner which looked up the Avenue of the Americas to the park. From the tenth floor, New York certainly looked like fun.

  'You asshole,' Trumper said to Arnold Mulcahy.

  'Give him a shower, boys,' Mulcahy told his men. 'Make it very cold.' They did. They brought Trumper back to the room wrapped in bath towels, his teeth chattering, and sank him like a sash weight into a voluptuous chair. One of the men even hung up Trumper's espionage suit, and another found the envelope with the hundred-dollar bills in it. That was handed to Mulcahy, who then asked all the men to leave.

  Mulcahy had his wife with him, and they were both dressed up. Mulcahy was in a formal dinner shirt with black tie, and his wife, a motherly, fretful sort of person, wore an evening dress which looked like an old prom gown. She examined Trumper's suit as if it were the hide of a freshly skinned beast, then asked him sweetly if he'd like anything - a drink? a snack? But Trumper's teeth were still chattering too much for him to talk. He shook his head, but Mulcahy poured him some coffee anyway.

  Then Arnold counted the diminished money in the envelope, whistling softly and shaking his head. 'My boy,' he said, 'you certainly have a hard time adjusting to a new situation.'

  'That's only human, Arnold,' Mulcahy's wife said. He silenced her with a businesslike look, but she didn't seem to mind being excluded from the conversation. She smiled at Bogus and told him, 'I care as much for Arnold's boys as if they were my boys, too.'

  Trumper didn't say anything. He didn't think he was one of Arnold Mulcahy's 'boys' but he wouldn't have put money on it.

  'Well, Trumper,' Arnold Mulcahy said, 'I can't seem to get rid of you.'

  'I'm sorry, sir.'

  'I even gave you a head start,' Mulcahy said. He recounted the money and shook his head. 'I mean, I got you home again and gave you a little pocket liner - that wasn't even part of the deal, you know, boy?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You went to see your wife,' Mulcahy said.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Sorry about that,' Mulcahy said. 'Maybe I should have told you.'

  'You knew?' Trumper asked. 'About Couth?'

  'Yes, yes,' Mulcahy said. 'We had to find out who you were, didn't we?' He took a large manila folder off his dresser, sat down and thumbed through it. 'You can't blame your wife, boy,' he said.

  'No, sir.'

  'So here you are!' said Mulcahy. 'Embarrassing, really. I took some responsibility for you, you see. And you stole a chauffeur! And came back in no condition to be left alone ...'

  'I'm sorry, sir,' Trumper said. He really was sorry. He sort of liked Arnold Mulcahy.

  'You cost that poor chauffeur his job, boy,' Mulcahy said. Trumper tried to remember Dante: dimly he recalled some strange heroics by him.

  Mulcahy took about five hundred dollars out of the envelope, then handed the rest back to Trumper. 'This is for the chauffeur,' he said. 'It's the least you can do.'

  'Yes, sir,' Trumper said. Rudely, he counted his remaining money; there were eleven hundred dollars the first time he counted it, but the second time there were only nine.

  'That will get you back to Iowa,' said Mulcahy. 'If that's where you're going ...'

  'I don't know ... I don't know about Iowa.'

  'Well, I don't know much about the thesis business,' said Mulcahy, 'but I don't think there's much money in it.'

  'Arnold,' Mrs Mulcahy said; she was fastening an elaborate brooch. 'We really will be late for the performance.'

  'Yes, yes,' Mulcahy said. He got up and looked at his tuxedo jacket before putting it on; he didn't seem to know which way it went. 'Ballet, you know,' he said to Trumper. 'I love a good ballet.'

  Mrs Mulcahy touched Trumper's arm affectionately. 'We never go out in Washington,' she confided. 'Only when Arnold's in New York.'

  'That's nice,' Trumper said.

  'Do you know the ballet?' Mulcahy asked him.

  'No, sir.'

  'All those flitty people up on their toes,' Mrs Mulcahy chided.

  Mulcahy grumbled as he fought himself into his tuxedo jacket; clearly, he must have been a ballet nut to put himself through this. Bogus had remembered him looking like an ambassador, but when he saw Mulcahy in evening dress, he knew that the man really didn't fit the role. Clothes didn't hang well on him; in fact, they appeared as if they'd been flung on him, wet, and when they dried, they chose to go their own peculiar and wrinkled way.

  'What are you going to do now, boy?' Mulcahy asked.

  'I don't know, sir.'

  'Well, dear,' Mrs Mulcahy told Bogus, 'you should start with a new suit.' She went over and plucked at it as if it might still be in danger of shedd
ing.

  'Well, we have to go,' Mulcahy said, 'and you've got to get out of those towels.'

  Bogus gathered up his clothes and moved delicately toward the bathroom; his head had something heavy and aching inside it, and his eyes felt so dried out that they felt fried; it hurt to blink.

  When he came out, one of the federal men who'd brought him there was standing around with the Mulcahys. 'Wilson,' Mulcahy said to the man, 'I want you to take Mr Trumper wherever he wants to go - within the confines of Manhattan Island.'

  'Yes, sir,' Wilson said. He looked like a hired killer.

  'Where will you go, dear?' Mrs Mulcahy asked.

  'I don't know, ma'am,' Trumper said. Mulcahy riffled through the manila folder again. Trumper caught a glimpse of a photo of himself and one of Biggie.

  'Look, boy,' Mulcahy said, 'why don't you go see this Ralph Packer?' He pulled out a paper-clipped wad, with Ralph's hairy photo on top.

  'He's in Iowa, sir,' Trumper said. He couldn't imagine Ralph's history requiring as much authentication as Arnold Mulcahy seemed to hold in his hand.

  'The hell he's in Iowa,' said Arnold Mulcahy. 'He's right here in New York, and doing rather well for himself, too, I might add.' He handed Bogus a stack of newspaper clippings. 'The missing persons people looked into your friend Packer quite extensively,' Mulcahy said. 'He was the only one who had an idea where you'd gone.'

  Bogus tried to visualize what missing persons people looked like. He saw them as invisible, materializing in the form of lampshades and subtle bathroom fixtures which asked you questions while you slept.

  The clippings were reviews of Ralph's first movie, the National Student Film Festival winner, The Group Thing, whose sound track had been done by Bogus. The film had been shown in the art houses around New York; Ralph now had a studio in Greenwich Village and the distribution for two more of his films had already been contracted. One of the reviews of The Group Thing even mentioned how good the sound track was. 'Bogus Trumper's infinite sound devices,' it said, 'are confident, ambitious techniques, extremely well crafted for such a low-budget film.' Trumper was impressed.

  'If you want my advice,' said Mulcahy, 'that's a better bet than that thesis business any day of the week.'

  'Yes, sir,' Trumper said obediently, but he couldn't quite imagine Ralph actually getting money for what he did.

  Mulcahy gave the hired killer named Wilson Packer's studio address, but the man, whose right eyebrow had just been shaved and stitched back together, seemed troubled about something.

  'For heaven's sake, what's the matter with you, Wilson?' Mulcahy asked.

  'That driver,' Wilson mumbled.

  'Dante Calicchio?' Mulcahy prompted.

  'Yes, sir,' Wilson said. 'Well, the police want to know what they should do with him.'

  'I already told them to let him go,' Mulcahy said.

  'I know, sir,' Wilson grumbled, 'but I guess they'd like to have you confirm that personally, or something.'

  'Why, Wilson?'

  'Well, sir,' Wilson said, 'the guy sure did a lot of damage, even though he didn't really know who we were, or anything. He was really pretty berserk.'

  'What happened?' Mulcahy asked.

  'Well, some of our boys are in hospital,' Wilson said. 'You know Cowles?'

  'Yes, Wilson.'

  'Well, Cowles has a broken nose and a few ribs cracked. And you know Detweiller, sir?'

  'What about Detweiller, Wilson?'

  'Both collarbones busted, sir,' Wilson said. 'The guy was some kind of wrestler ...'

  Suddenly Mulcahy looked interested. 'A wrestler, Wilson?'

  'Yeah, and a boxer too, sir,' Wilson said. 'You know Leary?'

  'Yes, of course,' Mulcahy said eagerly. 'What happened to Leary?'

  'Had his cheekbone cracked, sir. The wop just cold-cocked him with a hook. He was mostly a body puncher, sir, but he was getting off those hooks pretty good ...' Wilson gingerly touched his stitched eyebrow and smiled a little sheepishly. Arnold Mulcahy was smiling too. 'And Cohen, sir. He threw Cohen through the windshield of a car. Cohen's got all kinds of lacerations and some water on the elbow.'

  'Really?' said Mulcahy. He seemed enormously pleased.

  'So, sir,' Wilson said, 'the police thought you might want to reconsider and let them keep the guy awhile. I mean, that wop's sort of dangerous, sir.'

  'Wilson,' Mulcahy said. 'Get him out, tonight, and bring him here after the ballet.'

  'After the ballet, sir? Yes, sir,' Wilson said. 'You just want to bawl him out a little, huh?'

  'No,' said Mulcahy. 'I think I'll offer him a job.'

  'Yes, sir,' Wilson said, but he seemed pained. He looked at Trumper in a surly way. 'You know, kid,' he told Trumper, 'it beats me why anybody'd want to fight over you.'

  'It beats me too,' said Bogus. He shook Arnold Mulcahy's hand and smiled at Mrs Mulcahy.

  'Get a new suit,' she whispered to him.

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'Forget your wife,' Mulcahy whispered to him. 'That's the best thing.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The thug called Wilson was holding Trumper's well-traveled suitcase, less in friendliness than as a gesture of insult - as if Trumper wasn't capable of carrying it. He wasn't, either.

  'Goodbye!' said Mrs Mulcahy.

  'Goodbye,' Trumper said.

  'God, I hope so,' said Arnold Mulcahy.

  Bogus followed Wilson out of the hotel and into a battered car. Wilson set the suitcase heavily in Bogus's lap.

  Trumper rode in silence to Greenwich Village, but Wilson swore and gestured at every odd-looking, queerly dressed person he saw on the crowded sidewalks. 'You're going to fit right in here, you fucking freak,' he told Trumper. He swerved to avoid a tall black girl walking two handsome dogs and yelled out the window at her, 'Eat me!'

  Bogus tried to hang on just a little longer. A vision of Ralph Packer as savior; an odd role for Ralph, but then he saw Packer on a bicycle, crossing the Iowa River.

  'Well, here we are, hair-pie,' Wilson said.

  One hundred nine Christopher Street was lit. There was still hope in the world. Bogus noted it was a quiet street with daytime shops, a luncheonette, a spice store, a tailor. But apparently it linked more night-traveled areas; lots of people were walking through it without stopping.

  'You missing anything?' Wilson asked him. Bogus felt for the money envelope; yes, he had it, and he was holding his suitcase in his lap. But when he looked puzzled, he saw that Wilson was holding the crinkled-up thing that Dante Calicchio had taken out of his crotch. Bogus remembered then that it was a hundred-dollar bill.

  'I guess you lost this in the old elevator, right?' Wilson said. Clearly he wasn't going to give it back.

  Trumper knew he wasn't up to a fight; he'd never have been up to a fight with Wilson, anyway. But he felt sort of plucky; he was dancing light-headed on only the fringe of the real world. He said, 'I'll tell Mulcahy.'

  'Mulcahy doesn't want to hear from you,' Wilson said. 'Just you try to find out who Mulcahy even is.' He put the crumpled-up bill in his pocket and kept on smiling.

  Trumper didn't really have much interest, but Wilson angered him enough to make him think. He opened his door, slid the suitcase out on the curb and sitting half in, half out, he said. 'I'll tell Dante Calicchio.' He grinned at Wilson's puffy, freshly stitched eyebrow.

  Wilson looked as if he was about to hit him. Trumper kept grinning but he thought, I really am crazy. This bohunk is going to beat me to death.

  Then a kid wearing a knee-length, Day-Glo orange bush-jacket came out on the sidewalk in front of RALPH PACKER FILMS, INC. It was Kent, but Bogus didn't know him yet. Kent approached the car, bent down and peered in the window. 'There's no parking here,' Kent said officiously.

  Wilson was looking for some diversion, and he clearly didn't like Kent's looks. 'Shove off, cunt-head,' he snapped.

  Kent shoved off; he went back inside the studio, perhaps to get a gun, Bogus thought.

  'You shove off too,'
Wilson said to Bogus.

  But Trumper had gone beyond sense; he wasn't being brave, just fatalistic; he thought he didn't care. 'Dante Calicchio,' Bogus said slowly, 'can make of you, Wilson, something a dog wouldn't eat.'

  There was some faraway swearing in RALPH PACKER FILMS, INC. Wilson threw the crumpled-up hundred-dollar bill over Bogus's shoulder out onto the sidewalk, and Bogus barely had time to roll out the open door before the thug gunned the car ahead, the door handle catching Trumper's pants pocket and spinning him down to the curb.

  Trumper picked up the hundred-dollar bill before he picked himself up; he'd skinned his knees, and he sat on his suitcase with his pants pulled up, peering at his wounds. When he heard people coming out of the film studio, he fully expected a horde of Ralph's henchmen who, as surrogates for Wilson, would kick him to pieces in the street. But there were only two people: the kid in Day-Glo orange and the instantly recognizable shuffling gait of the hairy man beside him.

  'Hello, Ralph,' Trumper said. He thrust the hundred-dollar bill into Ralph's paw and got up off the suitcase. 'Get my bag, would you, boy?' he said. 'I understand you're in need of a sound tracker.'

  'Thump-Thump!' Ralph cried.

  'It was the other one,' Kent mumbled. 'The guy who was driving the car ...'

  'Get the suitcase, Kent,' Ralph said. He put his arm around Bogus, looked him over, noticed blood and worse. 'Jesus, Thump-Thump,' Ralph said, 'you don't exactly look as if you've found the Holy Grail.' He unwrapped the hundred-dollar bill, which Trumper snatched back.

  'No Holy Grail to be found, Ralph,' Bogus said, trying very hard not to wobble.

  'You've been duck hunting again, Thump-Thump,' Ralph said, steering him toward the studio door. Bogus managed a faint smile at this joke. 'Jesus, Thump-Thump, I think the ducks won again.'

  At the steep step down to the viewing room, Bogus lost his balance and had to let Ralph carry him into the place. Here I go, he said witlessly to himself. Into a life of art. It didn't seem to be the life for him, but right now, he thought, any life would do.

  'Who is he?' Kent asked. He hadn't liked what Bogus had said about sound tracking. Kent was the sound man now; he was appallingly bad at it, but he thought he was learning.

  'Who is he?' Ralph laughed. 'I don't know,' he said, and leaned down to where Bogus sat slumped on the projector bench. 'Who are you, really, Thump-Thump?' he teased.