Pulp (4 page)

I found myself back at my apartment. I dove into the chicken and the potato salad. I rolled a grapefruit across the rug. I felt frustrated.

Everything was defeating me.

Then the phone rang. I spit out a half-cooked chicken wing and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Belane?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve won a free trip to Hawaii,” somebody said.

I hung up. I walked into the kitchen and poured a vodka with mineral water plus a touch of tabasco sauce. I sat down with it, had half a hit, then there was a knock on the door. I got a bad read on the knock, but I went ahead anyhow and said, “Come on in.”

Much to my regret. It was my neighbor from 302, the mailman.

His arms always hung kind of funny. His mind too. His eyes never quite looked at you but somewhere over your head. Like you were back there instead of where you were. There were a few other things wrong with him too.

“Hey, Belane, got a drink for me?”

“In the kitchen, mix your own.”

“Sure”

He walked into the kitchen, whistling Dixie.

Then he came sauntering out, a drink in each hand. He sat down across from me.

“Didn’t want to run short,” he said, nodding at his drinks.

“You know,” I informed him, “they sell that stuff in a lot of places.

You ought to stock up.”

“Forget that…look, Belane, I’m here to talk turkey.”

He drained the drink in his right hand, smashed the glass against the wall. He’d learned that from me.

“Look, Belane, I’m here to start us both on the road to easy glory.”

“Sure,” I said, “let’s hear it.”

“Loco Mike. Ran the other day. Speed like a leper’s tongue on a virgin tit—ran the first quarter in 21.0. Came blazing into the stretch with a 5 length lead, 20 thousand dollar claimers, only got beat by a length and a half. Now he’s dropping down against 15 thousand claimers. Rabbit like that, at 6 furlongs. All they’ll see is his asshole.

The
Racing Form
has him listed at 15 to 1! A steal! I’m cutting you in on the action, good buddy!”

“Why cut me in? Why don’t you take
all
the action?”

He drained his other drink. Then looked around. Raised his glass.

“Hold it!” I said. “You smash that glass and you’re going to have two assholes.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it.”

The mailman quietly set his glass down.

“Got any more to drink?”

“You know it. Pour me one too.”

He walked into the kitchen. I felt myself gradually losing my patience.

Then he came out, handed a drink to me.

“Hold it,” I said, “I’ll take your drink.”

“How come?”

“It’s stronger.”

He handed me the other drink, then sat down.

“Now like I said, mailbag, why cut me in?”

“Well, ha,” he said.

“Yes, go on…”

“I’m a little short of green. Got nothing to put down. But after we score I can pay you from the profits.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Look, Belane, I just need a little scratch.”

“How much?”

“20 bucks.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

“10 bucks.”

“10 fucking bucks?”

“O.k., 5 bucks.”

“What?”

“2 bucks.”

“Drag your sack out of here!”

He drained his drink and stood up. I finished mine.

He just stood there.

He said, “How come all these grapefruits are on the floor?”

“Because I like them like that.”

I got up and moved toward him.

“Time to go, fellow.”

“Time to go, huh? I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready!”

The drinks had made him bold. That happens.

I slammed my fist into his gut. I had on my brass knuckles. Damn near went right through him.

He dropped.

I walked over and scooped up some broken glass from the floor.

Then I came back, opened his mouth and dropped the glass in there.

Then I rubbed his cheeks around and slapped him up a bit. His lips turned redder.

Then I went about my business of drinking. I suppose about 45 minutes passed and the mailman began to move. He rolled over, spit out a shard of glass and began crawling toward the door. He looked pitiful. He crawled right up to the door. I opened it and he crawled out and down toward his apartment. I’d have to watch him in the future.

I closed the door.

I sat down and found half a dead cigar in the ashtray. I lit it up, took a drag, gagged. Tried it again. Not too bad.

I felt introspective.

I decided not to do any more that day.

Life wore a man out, wore a man thin.

Tomorrow would be a better day.

The next day I was back at Red’s bookstore. I was on the Celine case again. The racetrack was closed and it was a cloudy day. Red was marking up the prices on some rare items.

“How about Musso’s?” he asked.

“I can’t, Red. I seem to be eating all the time. Look at me.”

I pulled back my coat. My gut was pushing out through my shirt.

A button had popped off.

“You better get that fat sucked out. You’ll have a heart attack.

They suck the fat out through a tube. You can put it in a jar and look at it, it’ll remind you to lay off the jelly donuts.”

“I’ll think about it. You want some grapefruit?”

“Grapefruit? That’s not fattening.”

“I know but I fell over one when I got up this morning, they’re dangerous.”

“Where’d you sleep, in the refrigerator?”

I sighed.

“Look, let’s change the subject. You know this guy who looks like Celine?”

“Oh, him…”

“Him. He been in lately?”

“Not since you were here. You trailing this bird?”

“You might say so.”

Then, just like that, he walked in. Celine.

He slid past us and went down the aisle and plucked up a book.

I walked over close to him. Real close. He had the signed copy of
As I Lay Dying
. Then he noticed me.

“In the old days,” he said, “writers’ lives were more interesting than their writing. Now-a-days neither the lives nor the writing is interesting.”

He slid Faulkner back into place.

“You live around here?” I asked.

“Maybe. How about you?”

“You once had a French accent, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Maybe. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing like that. Listen, did anybody ever tell you that you resembled somebody else?”

“We all, more or less, resemble somebody else. Look, do you have a cigarette?”

“Of course.”

I dug for my pack.

“Please,” he said, “take one and light it, smoke it. It will keep you busy.”

He began to walk away.

I lit my cigarette, took a drag. Then I followed him. I gave Red a goodbye nod, then stepped into the street. Just in time to see him get into an ’89 Fiat at the curb. And who was parked right behind him? My Bug was parked right behind him. What luck! Talk about fornicating the odds! First time I had found curb parking in months! I leaped in, gunned out and followed him.

He went east down Hollywood Boulevard.

Lady Death, I thought, watch me, at your service.

Then I almost lost him at the next signal, but I sliced through the beginning of a red light. No problem except for a little old lady in a Caddy who called me a dirty name. I smiled.

Soon Celine and I were on the Hollywood Freeway as the sun burned through the clouds. I kept Celine in my sights. I felt good.

Maybe I’d get the fat sucked out through a tube. I was still a young man. My life was before me.

Then Celine was on the Harbor Freeway.

Then he was on the Santa Monica.

Then he was on the San Diego. South.

Then Celine took a turnoff and I followed him along. The territory seemed to look familiar. I followed along about half a block back. I hoped he wasn’t checking his rear view too much.

Then I saw him slow, pull over and stop. I slid over to the curb, parked and watched.

He got out of his car and walked down a few houses, then he crossed the street while looking over his shoulder. He stopped, looked around again, then went up a walkway to this house. He stepped onto the porch, looked around and knocked. It was a large house and had a familiar look.

The door opened and Celine went inside.

I pulled away from the curb and slowly drove by. It was Jack Bass’s place. Say that real fast. It was only 2:30 p.m. Cindy’s red Mercedes was parked in the drive.

I circled the block and parked at my old spot.

I was going to kill two birds with one stone. I was going to uncover Celine and I was going to nail Cindy’s ass.

I’d give them some time. Ten minutes.

When I was in grammar school we had a lady teacher who asked us, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And almost all the boys said they wanted to be firemen. That was dumb, you could get burned. A few guys said they wanted to be doctors or lawyers but nobody said, “I want to be a detective.” And now, here I was one. Oh, when she came to me I said, “I dunno…”

The ten minutes were up. I grabbed my mini-camcorder, kicked the car door open and moved toward the house. I felt myself trembling a bit, inhaled deeply and stepped up to the door. The door lock was no problem. Within 45 seconds I was inside.

I walked down the hall, then I heard voices. I walked up to a door.

They were in there. I heard their voices. Their tones were low. I pressed forward and listened.

I heard Celine.

“You need this…you know it…”

“I…” I heard Cindy, “I’m not sure…Suppose Jack finds out?”

“He’ll never know…”

“Jack is a violent man…”

“He’ll never know. This is for your own good…”

Cindy laughed.

“My good…? Won’t you get anything out of it?”

“Of course…Here, here, look, take this in your hand…It’s a beginning…”

I waited a few seconds, then I kicked the door open and swung in there with my camcorder. I had it on and focused.

They were sitting over a coffee table and Cindy appeared to be signing some papers. She looked up and screamed.

“Oh shit,” I said.

I lowered the camcorder.

“What the hell is this?” Celine asked. “You know this guy?”

“I never saw him before!”

“I have,” said Celine. “He hangs around this bookstore asking me stupid questions.”

“I’m going to call the police!” Cindy said.

“Hold it,” I said, “I can explain everything!”

“It better be good,” said Cindy.

“It better,” said Celine.

I couldn’t think of anything. I just stood there.

“I’m going to call the police,” said Cindy, “now!”

“Hold it,” I said. “Your husband, Jack Bass, he hired me. I’m a dick.”

“Hired you? For what?”

“To nail your ass.”

“To nail my ass?”

“Yes.”

“I was just trying to sell this lady some insurance,” said Celine,

“and you come busting in here with your camera.”

“I’m sorry, it was an error. Please allow me to rectify it.”

“How the hell are you going to rectify this?” asked Celine.

“I don’t know right now. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll find something to make all this better. Really.”

“This guy is some kind of jerk,” said Cindy, “a mental case!”

“I’m sorry. But I’m going to leave now. I’ll contact you about everything.”

“We’re going to turn you over to the police!” stated Cindy.

“I must be leaving,” I said.

“Oh, no!” said Cindy, “you’re not going anywhere!”

She hit a buzzer as I turned to move out through the door. But there stood a reasonable facsimile of King Kong. He was monstrous.

He moved slowly toward me.

“Hey, boy,” I asked him, “do you like candy?”

“Punk,” he said, “you’re my candy!”

“How about some toys? What kinda toys you like?”

King Kong ignored that. He turned to Cindy.

“You want me to kill him?”

“No, Brewster, just fix him so he can’t move around so well for a while.”

“O.k.”

He moved toward me.

“Brewster,” I said, “who did you vote for President?”

“Huh?”

He stopped to think.

I took the mini-camcorder and hurled it straight at his playground.

It slammed in on target. He bent over, grabbed his privates.

I ran forward, picked up the camcorder and brought it down on the back of his neck. I heard glass breaking.

King Kong toppled over. He fell face forward on the couch, out cold. Half his body was on the couch, the other part somewhere else.

I stepped forward and picked up what was left of the camcorder.

I looked at Cindy.

“I’m still going to nail your ass.”

“This man is crazy!” she yelled.

“I believe that you are right,” said Celine.

I spun on my heel and got the hell out of there.

Another wasted day.

The next day I was in my office. Everything seemed to be at a dead end. It had been a terrible night, I had tried to drink myself to sleep.

But the walls to my apartment were thin. I had heard everything next door…

“Hey, baby, this turkeyneck is loaded with sticky white paste and it’s got to get out or I’m gonna have a stroke or something!”

“That’s your problem, buster.”

“But we’re married!”

“You’re too ugly.”

“What? Huh? You never told me.”

“I just decided.”

“Well, the cream’s rising to my ears, baby! I gotta do something!”

“You’ll do it without me, Jackhammer!”

“O.k. O.k. Where’s the cat?”

“The cat? Oh no, you bastard,
not Tinker Bell
!”

“Where’s that god damned cat? I just saw it a minute ago!”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!
Not Tinker Bell
!”

I hadn’t been able to drink myself to sleep. I had just sat there, pouring them down. No luck.

And now, like I said, it was the next morning, back at the office. I felt totally useless. I was useless. There were billions of women out there and not one of them was making her way toward my door.

Why? I was a loser. I was a dick who couldn’t solve anything.

I watched the fly crawling across my desk and I got ready to take it into the darkness.

Then there was a flash of light!

I leaped up.

Celine was selling Cindy
insurance! Life insurance
on Jack Bass!

Now they were going to take him out, make it look natural! They were in it together! I had them by the balls. Well, I had Celine by the balls and Cindy—well, I’d nail her ass. Jack Bass was in trouble.

And Lady Death wanted Celine. And the Red Sparrow still had not been found. But I felt myself moving toward something. Something big. I took my hand out of my pocket and picked up the telephone.

Then I put it down. Who the hell did I think I was going to call? I knew what time it was. And Jack Bass was in deep. I had to think.

I tried to think. The fly was still crawling along the desk. I rolled up the
Racing Form
, took a swat at it and missed. It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.

I sat back in my chair. Born to die. Born to live like a harried chipmunk. Where were the chorus girls? Why did I feel like I was attending my own funeral?

The door swung open. And there stood Celine.

“You,” I said, “it had to be you.”

“I know the song,” he said.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“Depends,” said Celine. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Yes, but go ahead.”

He reached into my cigar box, took one out, unpeeled it, bit off the end, took out a lighter, lit up, inhaled, then exhaled a gorgeous plume of smoke.

“They sell those things, you know,” I told him.

“What don’t they sell?”

“Air. But they will. Now, what do you want?”

“Well, good buddy…”

“Cut the crap.”

“All right, all right…Well, let’s see…”

Celine placed his feet up on my desk.

“Nice shoes you got there,” I told him. “You buy them in France?”

“France, Schmantz, who cares?”

He exhaled another plume of smoke.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Good question,” he said. “It has thundered down through the centuries.”

“‘Thundered’?”

“Don’t be so picky for Christ’s sake. You act like a guy who had an unhappy childhood.”

I yawned.

“So,” he said, “it’s like this. You’re in deep shit on at least two counts. Breaking and entering. Assault and battery…”

“What?”

“Brewster is now a eunuch. You crushed his balls with that camcorder, they look like a couple of dried figs. Now he can sing ultra-soprano.”

“And?”

“We know the whereabouts of the culprit who broke and entered, who eliminated the manhood of another.”

“And?”

“And it is possible that the police might be informed.”

“You got any real evidence?”

“Three witnesses.”

“That’s a bunch.”

Celine took his feet down, leaned over the desk close to me, staring directly into my eyes.

“Belane, I need a loan of ten grand.”

“I got it.
I got it! Blackmail! You swine! Blackmail!
”

I felt myself getting excited. It felt pretty good.

“It’s not blackmail, sucker. I am only asking you for a loan of ten grand. A loan, got it?”

“A loan? You got any collateral?”

“Hell no.”

I stood up behind my desk.

“
You god-damned snail! You think I am going to hold still for this?
”

I moved around the desk toward him.

“BREWSTER!” he yelled, “NOW!”

The door opened and in strolled my old friend, Brewster.

“Hi, Mr. Belane!” he said in a high pitched voice. But it didn’t make him any smaller. He was the biggest son of a bitch I had ever seen. I walked around behind my desk, slid open the drawer and pulled out the.45. I leveled it at him.

“Sonny boy,” I said, “this thing can stop a train! You wanna pretend you’re a choo-choo? Come on, come on, choo-choo! You come along the tracks toward me! I’m gonna derail you! Come on, choo-choo! Come on!”

I flipped the safety catch off and aimed for his massive gut.

Brewster stopped.

“I don’t like this game…”

“O.k.,” I said, “now see that door over there?”

“Uh huh…”

“That’s the bathroom door. Now I want you to go in there and sit on the potty. I don’t give a damn if you pull your pants down or not. But I want you to go in there and sit on the potty until I tell you to come out!”

“O.k.”

He walked over to the door, opened it, closed it and then he was in there. What a pitiful mass of dangerous nothing.

Then I pointed the.45 at Celine.

“You,” I said.

“You’re fucking up, Belane…”

“I always fuck up. Now, you…get in there with your boy. Go on, now…move!”

Celine put out his cigar, then slowly moved toward the crapper door. I followed along behind him. I goosed him with the.45.

“Get on in there!”

He walked in and closed the door. I took out my key and locked it. Then I went to my desk and slowly began pushing it toward the crapper door. It was a very heavy desk. I had to go inch by inch. It was hell. It took me ten minutes to move it 15 feet. Then it was shoved directly against the door.

“Belane,” I heard Celine say through the door, “you let us out now and we’ll call it even. I won’t need the loan. I won’t go to the heat. Brewster won’t hurt you. And I’ll take care of Cindy.”

“Hey, baby,” I said, “
I’ll
take care of Cindy! I’m going to nail her ass!”

I left them there. I locked the office door, walked down the hall and took the elevator down. Suddenly I felt better about everything.

The elevator hit the first floor and I walked out into the street. First bum who hit on me, I gave him a dollar. I told the second bum I had just given another bum a dollar. Third bum, same thing, etc. There wasn’t even any smog that day. I moved forward with a purpose. I had decided on lunch: shrimp and fries. My feet looked good moving along the pavement.