The 25th Hour (19 page)

That night he wore his brand-new midnight-blue suit and a wildly expensive pair of Italian suede cap-toe boots, carefully slicked his hair back from his widow’s peak, arranged his silver rings, and surveyed the crowd at Madison Square Garden. I own this town, he told himself. Someday I’ll own this team and make myself the starting point guard. He winked at the usher and walked down the concrete steps to courtside. One of his seats was occupied by a fat man in an orange T-shirt sipping Coca-Cola through a straw.

‘Time to go,’ said Monty. ‘Let’s go, out.’

‘Fuck you,’ said the fat man. ‘This is my seat.’ He waved his ticket at Monty.

‘Where the fuck did you get that?’

‘My sister. She told me to say hi, and she’s sorry she couldn’t make it tonight. She’s waxing floors in Riverdale.’

Monty grinned and sat down. ‘Let me buy you a beer.’

The next ticket Monty left for Naturelle was to a modern dance recital at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. His note read:
Tell Hector the curtain goes up at eight sharp and they won’t let him in after that. And tell him not to wear the orange shirt. He got mustard stains all over it
. And at five to eight, in the lucky borough of Brooklyn, Naturelle Rosario walked down the aisle and took her seat next to Montgomery Brogan.

In VelVet, early in the morning of the last Friday in January, Monty watches as a pretty woman unzips his fly and slowly runs a long fingernail along the underside of his cock.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks her.

‘Maggie.’

‘Maggie, huh? I like that. Maggie.’

‘Short for Marguerite,’ she tells him, smiling.

She is kneeling now on the blue cushions and Monty shuts his eyes, gives himself over to her skill, to the undeniable solace of a good blow job. Behind closed eyes he is stripping the clothes off Naturelle: the black tights, the green plaid skirt, the white blouse. He is running his hands down the smooth swell of her flanks, gripping her to him, this body he knows so well, the smell of it, the taste of it. Then it begins to break down. His hands are on the slick Naugahyde of the sofa, not Naturelle’s skin. The smell in the air is from old cigarettes and spilled alcohol. He opens his eyes and stares at the blue walls and when he tries to imagine Naturelle again her face is blurred, refusing to take form. He feels himself weakening in Marguerite’s mouth even as she bobs her head with increased vigor, doing her best to stimulate him. He shuts his eyes again and tries to will Naturelle into life but it’s not working. Naturelle is gone from his mind; now he is traveling north through the cold countryside, on the long bus ride to Otisville. Monty has never lived anywhere but the city; he has never left for more than a week. He counts the telephone poles, the depressed little towns that line the highway, the snow-covered fields.

Finally he taps Marguerite gently on the shoulders and she backs away from him, looking up at his face for a moment before blinking and licking her lips.

‘It’s my fault,’ he says. ‘You’re very beautiful.’

‘You’re very handsome,’ says Maggie, after taking a long swallow of champagne. ‘Are you an actor?’

‘Yeah,’ says Monty, zipping his fly. ‘I’m a star.’

When the woman leaves he raises his glass of champagne to his eye, turning the blue walls green. Somewhere in this city children are screaming and nobody can hear them. Somewhere in this city a fire is burning and nobody is there to put it out, no wonderful fireman to douse the flames.

Eighteen

Naturelle finds Slattery sitting at a bar in a tucked-away corner of the club, hunched over his whiskey, a blue handkerchief pressed against his face with one hand, his black cashmere coat draped over the neighboring stool. The room is meant to look like the library of an English country manor: dark wood paneling, walls lined with bookshelves filled with old leather-bound books, flickering sconce lights mimicking gas lamps. Two men with dreadlocks sit facing each other over a chessboard in the middle of the room; one taps his queen’s crown thoughtfully while his friend shakes his long hair back and forth in time to D. J. Dusk’s beat.

‘Francis Xavier,’ says Naturelle, squeezing the back of his neck, ‘what kind of party is this?’

Slattery wipes the handkerchief over his eyes, folds it, stuffs it in his pocket. He sits up and smiles at her, his eyes red, and Naturelle feels a shock of guilt. Before this moment she could not have imagined Slattery crying.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Saw you dancing before.’

‘Why are you all alone?’ She sits on the stool next to him and touches his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

He nods. ‘I couldn’t sit in that goddamn red room anymore. It’s a mob scene. I don’t know any of them. These are Monty’s friends?’

‘I guess so. They’re around a lot, anyway.’

Slattery nods and tilts his glass, watching the whiskey lap up against the rim. Each time he turns his wrist the whiskey seems sure to spill over, but it never does. Naturelle stares at the rolling whiskey, mesmerized, until Slattery puts the glass to his lips and finishes it.

‘I hate this place,’ he says. ‘That’s the gap between me and your man. I hate places like this and he loves them. Also, he’s better looking.’

She laughs. ‘Now you’re getting all Irish, drinking whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself. Have you seen him around?’

‘Wasn’t he dancing with you?’ Slattery checks his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be at work in an hour. Jesus, I can’t even imagine working today. You just gave me the flu, okay? I’m calling in sick.’

‘I wish Monty could call in sick,’ she says, looking at Slattery’s empty glass. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s around somewhere. He’s probably saying goodbye to all the bouncers. And the manager, what’s his name? Saying his goodbyes.’ Slattery turns to check on the chess players. ‘I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes and that guy still hasn’t moved.’

Naturelle smiles. ‘Haven’t you noticed something strange about that game?’

‘He ought to center his rooks, for one thing. They’re no use to him sitting in the corners.’

She jabs him in the ribs with her finger. ‘All the pieces are black, Frank.’

Slattery blinks and then widens his eyes. ‘What are they doing? They’re both playing black? Who went first?’

‘I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. They’re all on the same side.’

‘So what’s the game?’ asks Slattery. ‘Where’s the fun? The bishops fondle the pawns?’

‘Listen, I wanted to ask you, can you do me a favor?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Keep an eye on Monty, would you? Try to stick with him tonight. He’s making me nervous.’

Slattery turns away from the chess game and studies Naturelle’s face. ‘What happened?’

‘Monty’s not Monty right now. This is killing him, the waiting. I don’t think he really understands fear, you know? I think this is the first time in his life he’s scared, and he doesn’t get it; he doesn’t know what’s happening.’

Slattery shakes his head. ‘He’s been scared before. How old was he when his mother got sick, seven? He told me he didn’t sleep the whole time she was in the hospital. You know how long she was in the hospital?’

‘Three months.’

‘This is all so stupid,’ says Slattery, the blood coming to his face. ‘It’s so stupid. He’s got so much going on, he’s so smart, and what does he do? He throws it all away. And here I am, his supposed best friend – I mean, right? I’m his best friend?’

‘He loves you, Frank. You know that.’

‘His best friend, and what do I do to stop it? Nothing. Never a word. When he started selling pot to kids in Campbell-Sawyer, did I say anything? When everyone’s talking about buying from Monty, the whole school, and I knew they were going to nail him,
knew it
, did I say a word? The last ten years, I watch him get deeper and deeper, and these friends of his, these fucks you wouldn’t want petting your dog, did I say,
Hey, Monty. Careful now. Get out of this
? Nothing, not a word. His best friend. Goddamn, Naturelle, I’m his best friend and I just sat there and watched him ruin his life. And you did too. Both of us, all of us, we just sat there and let him.’

Naturelle runs a fingernail down her forearm and inspects the faint white trail. ‘Monty never listens. You know that; you know how stubborn he is. I told him he should quit a hundred times—;’

‘Did you? Was that before or after moving into his apartment?’

She knows the signs of a Slattery periodical: the slitted eyelids, the thick-knuckled fingers twitching. Still, she’s always been able to calm him before. ‘Don’t start,’ she says quietly, touching his knee. ‘Not tonight, Frank.’

‘Was that before or after he gave you those diamond earrings? Or let you drive his Corvette around town so you wouldn’t have to carry shopping bags on the subway? Were you confused about where that money was coming from? What paid for those earrings, Nat? The two of you fly down to San Juan – hey, great time, introduce him to your grandmother – did you pay for the tickets? First class all the way, right? What paid for Puerto Rico? You told him to quit? The hell you told him to quit. Come on, that whole bullshit story about how he got you to go out with him, the gifts, the courtside seats – what paid for it? You knew then what he was, everyone in every private school in Manhattan knew what he was. You didn’t complain then, did you? You’ve never had a real job in your life. You’ve been living off the fat, Naturelle, and you never said a goddamn word.’

Naturelle stares at him, her nostrils flared. ‘Who are you to get all righteous with me? Did you disown him? You’re his best friend and you never said a thing, but this is
my
fault? I’m the evil one?’

‘I never took his money.’

‘How long have you been saving this? One minute ago I thought you were my friend. I sat down thinking, There’s Frank, my friend, I want to talk to him. Are you drunk, Frank? Tell me you’re drunk. Tell me you’re sorry, you’ve been drinking too much, you don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘I know exactly what I’m saying. Seven years from now I’ll be waiting at the gate and you’ll be married to money.’

‘Frank, what is wrong with you? You want me to be the bad guy? Okay, I’m the bad guy. You want to hit me now? Will that help? What do you want to do to me? What do you want, Frank?’

Slattery sits silent, his thick neck red.

Naturelle stands up and smooths the wrinkles in her silver dress. ‘When you see Monty, tell him I went home. Tell him I’m waiting for him there. And Frank? If you remember this conversation tomorrow, if you get the urge to send me flowers, or call up and apologize? Don’t.’

Slattery watches her walk away. He watches the dreadlocked men intent upon their impossible chess game. He watches his hands, sitting open on his lap, meaty-palmed, crook-fingered. This way is better, he tells himself. This way there won’t be any temptations.

Nineteen

If you transported a man from the Middle Ages into this nightclub, thinks Jakob, he would surely believe himself damned to hell, imprisoned among a swaying horde of ill-lit souls who wet the dance floor with their sweat, boys and girls and girls and boys, no couples, everyone dancing together or everyone dancing alone.

We are in hell, thinks Jakob. The great bad kiss has sobered him and given him an immediate hangover, his tongue dry and heavy, his stomach dyspeptic, his skull throbbing in time with D. J. Dusk’s bass line. He needs to speak with someone, to confess his crime, to come up with a plan, but he’s sure nobody here can help him. Slattery won’t pay attention, or else will laugh and make a joke of it. Monty won’t understand the problem. Naturelle? Naturelle will think I’m a pervert. And why should they care, anyway? They have more important things to worry about than a stupid, stupid kiss.

He asks a bouncer where the telephones are and the giant, never looking at Jakob, unfolds his arms, gestures vaguely with a long finger, refolds his arms. Jakob finally finds the phones in a narrow corridor across from the bathroom marked XX, a cute touch he would normally find aggravating but now scarcely notices. A line of women snakes out the door, most of them slouched against the wall, resting their feet and inspecting the ash on their cigarettes.

Jakob picks up the nearest phone and shudders as the receiver comes free in his hand, the chrome-encased wire dangling like a severed umbilical cord. He carefully replaces the receiver in its cradle and moves to the next phone, deposits two quarters, dials Brooklyn.

LoBianco picks up on the eleventh ring. The only man Jakob knows who has never bought an answering machine.

‘Anthony? It’s Jakob. Were you sleeping?’

‘They’re playing
Shane
. I must have seen this movie forty times, and it still gets me. Alan Ladd was a bit of a fattie, wasn’t he? A bit of pork on him. Different times. Women used to like their men meaty. You know what I realize, watching this? Jack Palance is the real star. Look at those eyes. He looks more like a snake than a snake looks.’

‘I really need to talk with you.’

‘You
are
talking with me. That’s what we’re doing. We’re talking.’

Jakob looks at the line of women propped against the wall, exhausted suspects waiting to be fingered by a witness behind one-way glass. ‘I did something really stupid just now. Can you pay attention for a minute? Are you drunk?’

‘What have you done?’ asks LoBianco, perking up. ‘Have I inspired you? Have you crossed to the other side?’

‘What?’

‘Let me guess. It was a kiss.’

Jakob drops his forehead onto the plastic partition separating the telephones. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh-ho, oh-ho, well, this is cause for celebration, my boy. I think I deserve a little credit, no? For my prod. My little push. Just a little push in the right direction. It’s often that way. It’s like jumping into the deep end; you need your father there, you need someone to goad you on. So who was this boy, mm? Where did you meet him?’

‘What are you talking about? I kissed Mary D’Annunzio.’

‘Mary D’Annunzio?’

‘I’m in a nightclub and I was drunk and she’s drunk or stoned or whatever and . . . okay? I kissed her. I kissed Mary D’Annunzio.’