Midnight Cowboy (15 page)

“Audition?”

“The trial, the trial run, the trial night.”

Joe was impressed. “Fifty or a hundred? Dollars?” He tapped the table where his money was. “Here. How much you want? Ten?”

Rizzo made a deprecating little laugh; then, smiling indulgently, he said: “Oh, Joe, please. D’you know what I could make in the time it’s gonna take me to find this guy? Oh well, I’m easy. Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll dc : I’ll take the ten.” He stuck the bill into his pocket, handling it as if it were a thing of no value whatever. “But when I hand you over to Mr. O’Daniel, I’ll have to have another ten. Is that fair?” There was a pause. “All right, if it’s not fair, forget it.”

“Answer me something,” Joe said. “What’s the chances of this bird putting me to work
tonight?”

“Chances? It’s got nothing to do with chances. You will be working tonight. Fact. That’s
it
. Period. You just don’t understand New York, Joe. You don’t grasp the situation we got here. You know this expression: a seller’s market?”

Joe shook his head.

“It means like, the demand is far greater than the supply. Y’get that?”

Joe frowned.

“Well, let me put it this way: There’s more women than studs, so you can have all the work you want.”

Joe was on his feet at once.

Walking up Broadway toward Times Square, Joe observed that Rizzo’s leg served him well enough in an open stretch. He would catch hold of a certain target with his eye—the next corner, say—and then set himself in motion, falling at once into a kind of crazy-wheel rhythm that rolled him toward his objective at such a hell-bent pace one wondered if he’d be able to stop himself at the traffic light.

At 42nd Street, Rizzo said, “We’ll try his hotel first. With fantastic luck, I mean fantastic luck, we’ll find him in his room. Come on.” They wove their way through the traffic of people whose complexions appeared never to have seen the real sun, only this topsy-turvy daylight of neon and electricity, a kind of light that penetrated the first layer of skin, even cosmetics, illuminating only the troubled colors under the surface: weary blue, sick green, narcotic gray, sleepless white, dead purple.

“Not that he’ll
be
there,” Rizzo mumbled. “What I expect, I expect I’ll have to drag this leg in and out of every bar in the West Forties; and frankly, I don’t know why I bother, I don’t need a buck that bad.”

As they entered the lobby of the Times Square Palace Hotel, Joe said, “Shee-it, man, this is where I
live!”

Rizzo brought himself to a halt. He looked at Joe carefully. “You live here?” he said in a small, high voice.

Joe nodded. “Yeah.”

“Uh. Do you know anybody
else
that lives here? By any chance?”

“I don’t guess. I only checked in today.”

“You sure?”

“Hell yeah, I’m sure.”

“Well, what do you know.” Rizzo’s smile was weak. “Coincidence, huh?”

He picked up the house phone. “Mr. O’Daniel, please. I want to talk to Mr. O’Daniel.”

During the pause, he winked at Joe, showing him a. circle formed by his forefinger and thumb.

“Mr. O’Daniel? How do you do, sir. This is Enrico Rizzo speaking. … Oh, but I remember
you
. Yes, sir. … Yes sir, many times, it was unforgettable. … Mr. O’Daniel, I’ve got a young man here, a very fine young cowboy. And he’s, uh, he’s ready to, uh—well, frankly, sir, he’s just in from the West and he needs your help—needs it bad. … You think you could work out something for him tonight? I’ve never seen anybody so … I was gonna say, he’s anxious, anxious to get started. … OH, that’s wonderful. … Yes sir, if you could, I uh—”

He held his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Joe: “He’s
dying
to get you started tonight. I guess he’s up to here with orders, and nobody to send. You sure you want to?”

Joe nodded with such vigor that the entire upper half of his body was used in the gesture.

Into the telephone, Rizzo said, “Yes sir, three seventeen. Thank you sir, thank you very much.”

Rizzo hung up the telephone. “He’s
very
excited to meet you already.”

“W-w-what’ll I do? Just go on up?”

“Room three seventeen. Let’s see how you look.” Rizzo stepped back, appraising Joe from head to foot. “Fine, you look fine. Now, I’m gonna have to have that other ten. Right?”

“Listen, kid.” Joe handed Rizzo a ten-dollar bill. Then he took hold of his arm with both hands, one at the wrist, one at the elbow. “I want you to know I appreciate this, and furthermore, when things work out—well, I won’t forget you. You can bet your bottom dollar on that, and I mean it.”

“Nah, you don’t owe me a thing. Look, I’m glad to help already.” With a flick of the finger, the money disappeared into Rizzo’s side pocket.

“No, no,” Joe insisted. “I want to know where I can find you. ‘Cause, dammit, I’m gonna make this thing right with you. Now what’s your address?”

“C’mon, quit it, will you?”

“I want your address,” Joe insisted.

“All right, I’m at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel, now get your ass up there. He’s
waitin’!”

Joe released Rizzo’s arm. He closed his eyes and pressed his temples with his forefingers, saying, “Cherry Neverlin, Cherry Neverlin, Cherry Neverlin. I got it!” When he opened his eyes, he saw Rizzo passing through the glass door and scuttling toward the street at his usual breakneck speed.

Joe used the mirror next to the elevator door. Finding himself somewhat pale, he leaned forward from the waist, dangling his head and arms toward the floor, hoping to bring some color into his face. Then he combed his hair, stuck in his shirt, fiddled for a moment with his cuffs, made a few reassuring clicks with his boots on the tile floor, smiled at himself and boarded the elevator.

The minute the door opened, Joe began to feel like a small child. For the man in Room 317 was clearly some body’s father; he was the age of a father, old but not:
really
old, and he was wearing a fancy, cheap, worn-out bathrobe that looked like a long ago Father’s Day present.

Mr. O’Daniel was fat, and the great sagging pouches in his face were those of a man on a diet or one who has recently been sick. His eyes were his most commanding feature. With dark-colored sacs below them and heavy brows above, they were the faded blue of an old sea captain, half blind from questioning the horizon. Standing there in his bathrobe with lips slightly parted and looking at Joe with these searching eyes, he might even have been a survivor of a shipwreck who has not yet heard the fate of his children:
Are they alive?
his eyes demanded.
Are you one of them?

Joe acted as if he were trying to answer some such question when he said, “How do you do, sir, my name is Joe Buck.”

Mr. O’Daniel nodded. He repeated Joe’s name and nodded again. His eyes said,
This is an ungodly hour to get home, but thank God you’re alive
.

Aloud, he said, “Joe Buck.”

Joe felt he was being appraised and tried to squeeze a lot of worth into his face.

“They tell me you’re a cowboy, is that the truth?”

“No, sir.” Joe surprised himself by telling the truth. Then, somehow inspired to show a touch of humor, he added: “I’m no cowboy, but I’m a first-class fucker.”

This didn’t earn the response he’d hoped for. Mr. O’Daniel was plainly shocked. “Son.” His voice was firm. “They’s no reason to use that kind of talk. Now come on in here.”

Joe felt at once the dreariness of the room, noticed the dirty green walls, the single window giving on an airless airshaft, with the smell of dampness coming from it and of something that had died at the bottom of it.

It never once occurred to him that Mr. O’Daniel would be staying in such a room out of poverty: Undoubtedly he had some sly motive relating to his profession.

“But then again,” said the fatherly man, sitting on the edge of the bed, “why not? It seems to me you’re in the mood for plain talk. That’s why you come up here in the first place, or I miss my guess.”

Joe said, “Yes sir.” He felt he only half understood what Mr. O’Daniel was getting at, but it seemed important, especially in view of that first blunder, to appear intelligent and agreeable.

“You’re—uh.” Mr. O’Daniel was still appraising him. “You’re a little different than a lot of the boys’t come to me. With most of ‘em, they seem to be, well, troubled, confused. Whereas I’d say you knew exactly what you wanted.” The man’s voice had some old-fashioned element in it—a riverboat orator’s elongated vowels, a medicine man’s persuasion—but mostly he sounded like a plain person from Chillicothe or some such place.

“You bet I do, sir.”

“Well, I’ll bet you got
one
thing in common with them other boys: I’ll bet you’re
lonesome!”
Mr. O’Daniel seemed almost angry now. “Am I right? You’re lonesome, aren’t you?”

“Well, I, uh …” Joe stalled for time. He wasn’t certain what was expected of him. “Not
too
. I mean, you know, a
little.”

“There! I knew it, didn’t I?
That’s always the excuse:
‘I’m lonesome.’“ He mimicked a whining person. ‘“I’m lonesome, so I’m a drunk.’ ‘I’m lonesome, so I’m a drug fiend.’ ‘I’m lonesome, so I’m a thief, a fornicator, a whoremonger.’
Poop!
I say
Poop!
I’ve heard it all. And it always boils down to
lonesome, I was lonesome!
Well, I’m sick of it, sick to death!”

Suddenly Joe felt he had a grasp of the situation: the man was no doubt a whopper of a pimp, as Rizzo had promised, but he was also a little bit crazy. Joe wished he had been forewarned.

“Now the Beatitudes is very clear,” said Mr. O’Daniel, looking at the ceiling and beginning to recite:
‘“Blessèd are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. Blessèd are they that mourn …’“

I wonder, Joe thought, if maybe he wouldn’t appreciate if I said a little something to bring his mind back to business, poor old fella….

‘“Blessèd are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
There!” said Mr. O’Daniel, proceeding like a man who has already proved his point and can now afford magnanimity: “Did you hear anything in there about
the lonesome?
Even one word? Oh, you heard about the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, and you heard about them that do hunger after righteousness. Sure you did.
But.”
He leaned forward on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers woven together in a tense snarl of thick X’s, eyes aflame with confusion, looking at Joe. “You didn’t hear a purr, not a
purrrrr!
about the lonesome. And you know why? ‘Cause they’s no Beatitude for the lonesome. The Book don’t say they are blessed.
Not once!”

Mr. O’Daniel seemed to have worked himself up into another anger: “Lonesomeness is something you
take! You take it!
You hear me, dammit, I say
you take it, you take it!”

He sat straight up and hugged himself with both arms like a person taken with a sudden chill. The news had arrived, the word on those children in the shipwreck: All drowned.

“They go do this, and they go do that, and they go do the other thing, and they live the life o’ Riley, and they whatnot, and they follow every little whim, and they think it’s fine fine fine, oh just
fine—
because they was Zone-some! Hm-mm. Hm-mm. Hm-mm. It’s not fine atall.”

His voice was suddenly tired: The oration was over. Rising from the bed, he began to pace the room, speaking quickly and quietly: “Read Matthew five it’s all in Matthew five. Six won’t hurt you either, read Matthew six, now let’s get down to business. A cowboy, huh?”

Happy to return to the matter at hand, Joe said, “Yes sir, I’m a cowboy.”

“Well, we need cowboys, we need everybody we can get.” Mr. O’Daniel looked him over again, then nodded. “A nice-lookin’ fella like you, young, strong, presentable, they’s no end to what you can do in this work.”

Joe was relieved and grateful to be accepted. He burst into a smile and began to relax in the presence of this crazy, fatherly, important person.

“Son, do you know what I think we ought to do?”

“Whatever it is,” Joe said, “I’m ready.”

“Yes, I believe you are.” A heavy hand fell upon Joe’s shoulder, and he was gripped by a pair of blue, moist, benign, searching, questioning eyes. “You know, I’ve got a hunch, Joe Buck.
Just
a hunch: But I think it’s gonna be easier for you than most.”

“I got that same hunch, sir.” Joe nodded and smiled some more. “I think it’s gonna be like money from home.”

“Money from home.” Mr. O’Daniel, impressed by this expression, repeated it over and over again. He looked at Joe as if he had discovered a major poet. “There, you see? That’s another part of your power, your strength. You put things in very earthy terms an ordinary man can understand. Son, I’m warnin’ you, I’m gonna
use
you! I’m gonna run you ragged! Are you ready for hard, hard work?”