Love Ain't Nothing but Sex Misspelled (10 page)

Bernice stuck her tongue out at me. "You've just become too big a deal to remember people like him. Not everybody makes it. This little guy apparently lives a lie, but it's all he's got. I think you stink."

And that was what formed my decision. "All right, Miss Humanitarian, I'll tell you what let's do: let's find out where he lives and go pay him a visit. You'll see him for himself, as he really is, stripped of all the sadness and tarnished glory. He probably lives in some fleabag hotel on Prospect, with crotch shots out of Playboy on the walls, and a card file on how to fleece suckers like you."

So we looked it up, and it was in the phone book, but it was an address out on the West Side, in a not too pleasant section of the depressed area. A section getting Poverty Program money.

There were ten of us by the time our cavalcade got to Kantor's street. We had picked up two of the musicians from the combo that backed the Well-Known Male Singer, and all ten of us, in three cars, had turned it into quite a little party. We were all pretty smashed by the time we got out there and it was four or five in the morning.

The street was dark and the houses were paint-peeling, sad-faced, a bit too grim for us really to laugh much. But so intent were we--all of us except Bernice--on revealing G. Barney Kantor as a fraud and a poltroon, that not even the slim neighborhood could really dampen us.

We found the house, and stopped in front. "Here, let me get a couple of my books out of the glove compartment," I said. We had brought them along for the tv show earlier in the day, and I'd shoved them in the compartment when the director of the show said he already had them. "I'll use them to reestablish our 'friendship.' After all, it has been thirteen years." The others in the car all smiled and egged me on. All except Bernice.

We got out of the car and walked up the weed-spotted walk, the tiles of the pavement thrust up and cracked from too many changes in temperature, too few repairs.

I rang the bell and didn't really pay any attention to the fact that it was five o'clock in the morning and the house was black. A light came on somewhere inside, and after a moment the door opened a trifle. I looked down at a woman's face. "Yes?" she asked, half-frightened.

"We're friends of G. Barney Kantor. Is he here?"

I thought it must surely be a rooming house.

The door opened a little wider.

"Barney? No, he's out this evening. May I help you? I'm Mrs. Kantor."

She was built like a muffin, and had her hair up around her head in a large braid. She was wearing a faded housecoat ant a pair of bedroom slippers from which the fuzz had departed. Another figure, a young girl, came to stand behind the older woman.

I suddenly felt very foolish.

"Well, uh, my name is Walter Innes. I'm a writer, and, uh, a friend of Barney's; I--uh--I thought I'd drop by to--uh--" I looked around at the nine others, trying to find some help. They had suddenly developed Little Orphan Annie's Disease: blank eyeballs.

"Oh, Mr. Innes!" the little woman chirped. "Oh, my gosh, yes! Barney has spoken of you many times, won't you come in, it's so cold out there."

She opened the door wide and admonished the young girl to, "Gwen, run and turn on the lights and put on some coffee!"

We came in and she led us into the living room. It was furnished in Early Squalor. I wanted to get out of there very badly.

And yet, at the same time, I was really angry at G. Barney Kantor, really infuriated. Here was his wife and what was apparently his daughter, living in a dump and consigned to a life of poverty, while he ran around Cleveland wasting money sending night letters and playing the poseur. I wanted to tell her what I thought of her blasted husband and his ridiculous antics. I was perhaps a bit too drunk.

"Oh, Mr. Innes, it's such a pleasure to meet you at last. Barney has told us many times how he gave you your start. I'm just sorry he can't be here to see you; he's out on a very big promotion tonight."

I was too amazed by having learned G. Barney Kantor had given me my start to say anything. But the daughter, Gwen, chimed in, "Daddy always said you were his finest hour. Daddy always talks like that." Coffee was apparently on.

I nodded dumbly, and beside me I heard Bernice moving up to whisper, "You bastard!" in my ear.

"Well, uh," I said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

"Please sit down, won't you all," G. Barney Kantor's wife said. I then realized no one had introduced the small army she had let into her living room this wee small hour. As I went around introducing everyone, telling who they were, the two women's faces lit up. They recognized The Singer, immediately, and when he said, "I'm sorry we missed Barney, Mrs. Kantor. He's been a great help to me whenever I play Cleveland," she practically erupted in joy.

Well, it was an agonizing hour and a half. We sat there and heard what a great man G. Barney Kantor was, how this was only a temporary accommodation, how they were going to hit the big time soon, how Barney had connections in Hollywood, how the mayor was thinking of citing him for civic contributions, and on and on and on.

Finally, we made ready to depart. I took out my pen and signed the two books: To my dear friend, G. Barney Kantor, for all his invaluable help and for showing me a special part of the universe. Walter Innes.

I gave them to her, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She said good-bye to us all, and we left.

Bernice didn't say anything all the way back to the hotel, but when we left the car with the doorman, and he said, "We watched you on tv today, Mr. Innes. You were great," Bernice snorted and gave me a knowing grin that told me I'd either have to fire her or marry her.

--Cleveland, 1962

The freight car was cold, early in the morning.

He wore a filthy, ripped suit jacket, with pieces of newspaper and magazines stuffed against his skin, for extra protection; but the chill found him just the same, uncaring.

Feathertop Ernie Cargill brushed a trembling hand back through the silky, almost white baby-hair that tumbled over his forehead. Hair that was smooth, and the slightest breeze picking its way through the shuddering freight made it toss and rise. He cursed dimly, finger-raking it back for the thousandth time. He touched the bottle in his pocket, hut did not remove it.

The cotton bales were soft, but the smell of pig shit was strong. He moved gently, making a deeper depression among the stocked bales.

He was a young man, an ex-musician, and down as down could get on his luck.

"No luck, no buck," he would say, hugging himself tightly, shoving his fisted hands into his armpits to keep himself warm. His teeth chattered gently.

He was thin and tall, with a nose that skewed sidewise from a clarinet case across the kisser during his thirty-five-minute gig with a symphony orchestra once. "Bastards," he would say, "all I did was nice; I syncopated Vivaldi and the first chair clobbered me!"

Since then, and since the panther sweat had gotten him divorced from every decent--and even indecent--group from Greenwich Village to the Embarcadero, he had become a sucker-rolling freighter-jumper.

"There ain't nothin' faster, or lonelier, or more direct than a cannonball freight when you wanna go someplace," Feathertop would say. "The accommodations may not be the poshest, but man, there ain't nobody askin' for your ticket stub, neither."

He had been conning the freights for a long, long time now. Ever since the hootch, and the trouble with the Quartet, and Midge and the child. Ever since all that. It had been a very long time that had no form and no end.

He was--as he told himself in the vernacular of a trade no longer his own--riding the dark train out. Out and out and never return again. Till one day the last freight had been jumped, the last pint had been killed, the last measure had been rapped. That was the day it ended. No reprise.

The occasion of Feathertop Ernie Cargill's first killing was an interesting story.

The freight car was cold, early in the morning.

He was pressed far back into the corner of the car on his cotton bales, the rattling and tinning of the wheels striking at the rails almost covering the sound of his ocarina.

He held his elbows away from his body, and the little sweet potato trilled neatly and sweetly as he tickled its tune-belly.

The train slowed at a road crossing, and the big door slid open.

The boy lifted the girl by the waist and slid her into the freight car. She pulled her legs up under her, to rise, her full peasant skirt drawing up her thighs, and Feathertop's music pffft-ed away. "Now that is a very nice, a very nice," he murmured to himself, back in his corner.

He took in the girl, in one sharp all-seeing look.

A little thing, but the right twist for the action that counted. Hot, that was the word, hot! Hair like a morning-frightened sparrow's wings, with the sun shining down over them. A poet, yet! His thoughts for the swanlike neck, the full, high breasts, the slim waist, and the long legs were less than poetic, however.

Then the boy straight-armed himself up, twisting at the last moment so he landed sitting, where she had sat.

He was less to see, but Feathertop took him in, too, just to keep the records straight.

Curly hair, high cheekbones, wide gnomelike mouth, a pair of drummer's blocky hands, and a body that said well, maybe I can wrestle you for ten minutes--hut then I'm finished. Feathertop went back to the girl. With no regrets.

"We made it, Cappy," the girl said sweetly.

A brilliant observation, thought Feathertop.

"Yeah, seems so, don't it." The boy laughed, hugging her close.

"Ah-ah!" Feathertop interrupted, standing up, brushing the pig shit from his dirty pants. "None of that. We run a respectable house here."

They whirled and saw him, standing there dim in the slatted light from the boarded freight wall. He was big, and filthy, and his toes stuck out of the flapping tops of his shoes. He held the black plastic kazoo lightly.

"Who are you?" The boy's voice trembled.

He was scared birdless.

"Come sit," said Feathertop, motioning them toward him. "The crap is softer over here."

The girl smiled, and started forward. The boy yanked her back hard, tugging her off her feet. She landed with a stumbling plop next to him, and he gathered her into the crook of his arm, as he must have seen it done on the cover of some cheap detective magazine.

"Now stay with me, Kitty!" He sounded snappish. "I vowed to take care of you--and that's what I'm gonna do. We don't know this guy."

"Oooo, square bit." Feathertop screwed his face up. This guy was really out of it. But nowhere!

"What is with this vow jazz?" Feathertop smiled, lounging against the freight's vibrating wall.

"We--we eloped," Cappy said. His head came up and he said it defiantly. He stared at Feathertop, daring him to object.

"Well, congratulations." Feathertop made an elaborate motion with his hand. These two were going to be easy pickings. They couldn't have much dough, but then none of the freight-bums Feathertop rolled had much. And besides, the chick had a little something the others didn't have. That was gonna be fun collecting!

But not just yet. Feathertop was a connoisseur. He liked to savor his meat before he tasted it. "Come sit," he repeated, motioning to the piled cotton bales, over the pig leavings. "I'm just a poor ex-jazz man, name of--uh--Boyd Smith." He grinned at them wolfishly.

"That ain't your name, Mister," the boy said accusingly.

"And you know--you're right!" Feathertop aimed a finger at him. "That gets you the blue ribbon banana. But it's safer for anyone riding the redball to know someone else as somethin' other than what he is. Makes it easier all around." He winked.

"Oh, come on, Cappy," the girl said. "He's okay. He's a nice guy." She started to move toward the cotton bales, dragging the reluctant Cappy behind her.

Feathertop watched the smooth scissoring of her slim, trim legs as she walked to the bales. She sat down, tucked her legs beneath her, smoothing the skirt out in a wide circle. He cleared his throat; it had been a long, hot while since he'd seen anything as nice as this within grabbin' distance.

He had it all clocked, of course. Slug the kid, grab his dough--at least enough to get him to Philadelphia--and then have a ball with the doll.

"Where'd you come from, Mr.--uh--Mr. Smith?" Kitty inquired politely, as she maneuvered on the cotton bales. She smoothed the peasant skirt around her again, shaking it off at the same time.

"Where from?" He thought about it. "Out. I been riding the dark train out for a ways now."

"Yes, but--"

Her boy friend cut her off peremptorily. "He doesn't want to tell us, Kitty. Leave him be."

She looked piqued and stepped-on, so Ernie cut in: "I came from Jersey originally. Been a long time, though."

They lapsed into silence, and the freight wallowed up a hill, and scooted down the other side, shaking and clanking to itself like a hypochondriac.

After a while, Kitty murmured something to Cappy, and he held her close, answering, "We'll just have to wait till we pull into Philly, honey."

"What's the matter, she wanna go the toilet?" Ernie found it immensely funny.

The boy scowled at him, and the girl looked shocked.

"No! Certainly not, I mean, no, that isn't what I said!" She snapped at him. "I only said I was hungry. We haven't had anything to eat all day."

Joviality suffused Feathertop Ernie Cargill's voice as he reached behind him, pulling out a battered carpetbag, with leather handles. "Whyn't ya say so, fellow travelers! Why we got dinner right here. C'mon, buddy, help me set up the kitchen and we'll have food in a minute or two."

Cappy looked wary, but he moved off the floorboards and followed the dirty ex-musician to the center of the refuse-littered boxcar.

Ernie crouched and opened the carpetbag. He took out a small packet filled with bits of charcoal, a deep pot of thin metal, some sheets of newspaper, a book of matches and a wrinkled and many-times folded piece of tinfoil with holes in it. He put the charcoal in the pot, lit the paper with the matches, and carefully stretched the tinfoil across the top of the pot.

"A charcoal pit, man," he said, indicating the slightly smoking makeshift brazier. "Fan it," he told Cappy, handing him a still-folded sheet of newspaper.

"Yeah, but what're we gonna eat? Charcoal?"

"Fellah," Ernie said, waggling a dirty finger at the younger man, "you try my mutherin' patience." He reached into the carpetbag once more and brought up a cellophane-wrapped package of weiners.

"Hot dogs, man. Not the greatest, but they stick to your belly insides."

He ripped down the cellophane carefully, and laid three dogs on the tinfoil. Almost immediately they began to sizzle. He looked up and grinned with a toothiness that belied his thoughts. Fattening them up for the kill. He blew through puckered lips and his baby hair flew up, only to fall back over his eyes again.

"A Krogers's self-serve," he explained. "I self-served."

Kitty grinned and a small, musical laugh fell from her cupid's bow lips. The boy scowled again; it was getting to be a habit.

When they had licked the last of the weiner's taste from their fingers, they settled back, and Cappy offered Ernie a cigarette. Nice kid, Ernie thought. Too bad.

"How come you're riding the rods, kids like you?" Ernie asked. "There's damned little of that done these days, even by old stiffs like me. Most kids today never even been on a train."

Cappy looked at his wide hands, and did not reply. But surprisingly, Kitty's face came up and she said, "My father. He didn't want us to get married. So we ran away."

"Why din't he want you to get hitched?"

This time even she did not answer. She looked down at her hands, too. After a few seconds, she said, "Dad didn't like Cappy. It was my fault."

Cappy's head came around sharply. "Your fault, hell! It was all my fault. If I'd been careful it never woulda--" He stopped abruptly.

Ernie's eyebrows went up. "What's the matter?"

The girl still did not raise her eyes, but she added simply, "I'm pregnant."

Cappy raged at himself. "Oh he was stupid, her old man! You never heard nothin' like it: Kitty's gonna go have an abortion, and Kitty's gonna go away to a convent, and Kitty's this and Kitty's that ... like he was nuts or somethin', y'know?"

Ernie nodded. This was a slightly different matter. He remembered Midge, and the child. But that had been a time before all this, a time he didn't think about. A time before the white lightning and the bumming had turned him inside out. But these kids weren't like him.

Oh, crap! he thought. Pull out of it, old son. These are just another couple of characters to roll. What they got, you get. Now forget all this other.

"Wanna drink?" Ernie pulling the pint of Sweet Lucy from his jacket pocket.

"Yeah. Now that you offer." The answer came from the open door of the boxcar. From the man who had leaped in from the high bank outside, as the train had slowed on the grade.

Ernie stared at the man. He was big. Real big, with shoulders out to here, and hair all over him like a grizzly. Road gang, Ernie thought, staring at the great, pulpy muscles of the man's arms and neck.

"You gonna give me a drink, fellah?" the big man asked again, taking a step into the boxcar.

Ernie hesitated a moment. This character could break him in half. "Sure," he said, and lifted the pint to his own lips. He guzzled down three-quarters of the strong home-blend and proffered the remainder. The man stalked toward them, his big boots heavy on the wooden flooring. He took the bottle with obvious belligerence, and making sucking noises with his thick lips, drained it completely.

He threw back his head, closed his eyes, and belched ferociously. He belched again, and opening his eyes, threw the bottle out through the open door.

"Well, now," he said, and reached into his pocket. "I didn't know I was gonna have company in this box."

"We're going to Philadelphia," Kitty said, pulling her skirt down around her legs all the more.

"No, I don't think so," said the big man, and it was the final clincher for Ernie. He had suspected this guy was trouble, and now he was sure of it, with the first verbal assurance the man had given.

"Maybe you and me will, girlie, but these two bums ain't goin' nowhere but out that door."

He advanced on them, and abruptly there was a shocked electricity in the car. Ernie was screaming inside himself: No, damn you, you ain't gonna take my meal ticket away from me! I been milkin' 'em for fifty miles. Get outta here, you lousy sonofabitch!

Usurpation on the high road. He had planned to boot the guy out the door in a few miles when they got to the next little town. That way he wouldn't have far to walk to get to civilization, but far enough so they would be near Philly and he could have enjoyed himself at his leisure with the broad. But now this! Damn you!

The newcomer stalked toward them, and Kitty shied back, her hand to her mouth. Her scream split up the silence of the car, accompanied by the rattling of the freight, and then Cappy came off the floor, his legs driving him hard. The kid hit the bigger man with an audible thwump! and carried him backward in a linebacker's tackle. They went down in a heap amid the pig scum, and for a long minute there was nothing to see but flailing arms and legs.

The kid showed for an instant, and his arm was cocked back. The fist went down into the pile of flesh, and Ernie heard the bigger man's deep voice: "Aaawww!"

Then they were tumbling again, and the big man reached into the same pocket he had gone for earlier, and came up with a vicious switchblade.

He held the knife aloft an instant--an instant enough to press the stud. The blade came out with a snick; he fisted the knife overhand, and drew back to plunge it into the kid's throat.