The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (22 page)

But the girl wasn’t paying any attention to him. Chernow turned back to me. He took hold of my arm. “Hey, you’re not running off so soon. Have another drink with me. Or will Momma spank you if you miss that first bus home?”

What can you say to a remark like this? If you deny it, then go, you make it sound true, anyhow. I thought about the girl at the bar. She was listening to this. The loud way Chernow always talked, she couldn’t help it.

I knew what Ronnie Chernow really thought about me: I was stuffy, not a sport, a guy who never had any fun, was regimented, never varied his routine – a man on a treadmill, going like hell but never getting anywhere. I didn’t care what Chernow thought about me. But I cared what
I
thought. And suddenly, crazily, I wondered if he was right. I had to prove that he wasn’t.

“Okay, Ronny,” I said. “
If
you’re buying. I hear you’re a tight man with a buck.”

That got him. Chernow was always talking about how much money he made and spent.
“Me?”
he said. “What are you talking about? Why, I spend more in one—” Then he stopped and grinned, realizing I’d turned the needle around on him. “Okay, Kip,” he said.

While Herb made the second Manhattan, I looked at the clock. It was five-twenty. By now, I should have been a block away, on my way home, on the way to that five-thirty-seven Express. I knew now that I was going to miss it. It was the damnedest feeling. Maybe it was silly, but I felt a little sick and scared, apprehensive. In the five years we’d been living in Wildwood, I hadn’t missed that bus. I’d never stayed in town one night, even. Now that I realized that, it seemed a little ridiculous. At the same time I felt a slight exultation, a sort of breaking loose feeling, of strange freedom. I drained half of the Manhattan at one gulp. I looked at Ronny Chernow in the mirror behind the bar.

He was big, handsome, in a red-faced, square-jawed sort of way. His carefully tousled, boyishly curly hair made him look younger than he was. A lot of the girls in our office were crazy about him. He was the vigorous, aggressive, breezy type and he was always kidding around with the girls and always letting hints drop to other guys in the place that he’d dated a number of them and found them vulnerable.

He was the business manager of Emcee Publications and I don’t know what he made, but it must have been somewhere around ten thousand a year. But he spent and dressed as though his salary was three times that. Being single, though, with nobody else’s way to pay through life but his own, I guess he could do that.

It was hard to like the man. He was big-mouthed and overpowering. But it was just as hard not to admire him. He was everything that I was not and I thought about that, sitting here. At least Ronny Chernow had color. I was drab. His kind of life was excitement. Mine was boredom, monotony. Men like Chernow felt sorry for worms like me.

I began to rebel against that. I told myself:
I’m going to have a little change. I deserve it. I’m way overdue. I’ll show this big, handsome jerk next to me that I can have fun, too. I’ll call Fran and tell her I won’t be home until late. I’ll stay here, have another drink or two and then go someplace for dinner. Later, I’ll go to the fights at the Garden.

“Ronny,” I said. “You’re a real round-town boy. Where’s a good place to have dinner? I’m staying in town tonight.”

His thick handsome brows rose as though I’d said I was going out to stick up a bank. “What!” he said. “You’re finally going to break away from Momma’s apron strings? Congratulations, kid. I’d just about given you up. Maybe you are human, after all.” He slapped me on the back again. “Where you going? Got a date?”

I began to enjoy this. I wanted it to last a little longer. I began to almost like Chernow. “Now, look,” I said and winked at him. “Have I asked you where you’re going tonight, who you’re going to be with? Does Gimbels tell Macy’s. It’s none of my business. Maybe this isn’t any of yours.”

He looked dubious but didn’t press the point. We finished our drinks and Chernow said: “Well, since you don’t have to run, let’s do this again.” He flipped his empty glass with the back of his forefinger.

I didn’t answer. I looked at the clock. It was five-thirty. I should call Fran. Somehow I dreaded that. That would be the final break with my routine. I hated to make it. Yet I had to call her. Then I remembered that she wouldn’t be expecting me until six-thirty. She wouldn’t leave to meet the bus at Wildwood until six-twenty. I still had plenty of time for that call. I watched Herb make two more drinks. Then I looked toward the glass and saw the girl at the end of the bar staring at me again. Chernow noticed, too.

“Hey!” he said. “That baby is giving you the eye. If she even half looked at me like that, I’d be down there sitting on her lap by now.”

“Well,” I said, sarcastically, “you’re the Casanova type, anyhow.”

He missed the sarcasm. “Listen,” he said. His eyes appraised me. “You could do all right, too, if you’d give yourself half a chance. You’re a good-looking guy – a little on the slim side, but not bad. You’re too timid, though. Women like aggressive guys. You gotta go after them. You—”

“Hey!” I broke in. He was beginning to embarrass me. “Not to change the subject, but did you find out from the advertising department how come we lost that second cover ad?”

“They’ve switched to the Tripub Comics group for the next six months. But they’ll be back as soon as Tri’s circulation drops and you can goose ours up again. How about getting on the ball and doing that, huh, kid?”

“Sure,” I began to burn a little. As editor of Emcee’s Comic magazine group, I was responsible for circulation. “That’s easy. Just get the old man to allow me five bucks a page more for the artists and a dollar a page more for the writers. Better art and better stories are what the kids are buying. I do the best I can on the lousy budget I got.”

“I suppose,” Chernow finished his drink, swung around on his stool. He was looking at the legs of the girl at the end of the bar. He made a whistling sound. “Man, look at those legs!” he said. “Kip, kid, if you don’t make that before you leave here, I’ll disown you . . . Well, I got to run. Have a good time, boy. Live dangerously!”

I waved and in the bar mirror, watched him breeze out of the place. I told myself to hell with him. The next time I caught the eye of the girl at the end of the bar, I smiled. She looked frightened and turned her eyes right away.

“Herb,” I said. He came toward me, wiping his hands on his bar apron, his amber eyes doleful. “Herb, ask the lady if she’ll have a drink on me. At the end of the bar there.”

The bartender’s dolorous voice said: “You sure you want to do that, Mr Morgan? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but . . .” He broke off, half apologetically.

Something like a bell of warning seemed to toll inside my head. But I was looking at myself in the bar. Like Chernow had said, I wasn’t a bad-looking guy. And that third Manhattan had hit home. I wasn’t drunk but I was feeling – well – aggressive, cocky.

“Don’t be silly, Herb,” I said. “See if the lady’d like a drink.”

He ambled down to the other end of the bar, spoke to the girl. I watched her in the mirror. She registered a little surprise, a little confusion, just the right amount of each, very cutely. I didn’t hear what she said, but saw Herb start to mix a martini, then take it down to her. She looked at me in the bar mirror, raised the glass and formed the words, “Here’s luck,” with her full lips.

I said: “Herb, make me another drink. I’ve got to make a phone call.” It was a quarter to six, now. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I went through into the lobby to the phone booths. I called Fran, told her I’d been detained at the office, but was leaving now.

“I haven’t looked at the schedule yet, Baby,” I said. “So I don’t know which bus I’ll be able to get at this time. I’ll call you from Wildwood and you can run out. Okay?”

“Kip,” Fran said. “Are you all right?”

My heart skipped a couple of beats for no reason at all. “Sure. Of course I’m all right. What do you mean?”

“You haven’t been drinking?”

I didn’t answer for several seconds. Then I said: “Well, I stopped off and had a couple with Ronny Chernow. Why, I don’t sound drunk, do I?”

She giggled. “No, silly. But you never call me ‘Baby’. It sounded funny, coming from you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay,
Baby!
” She hung up.

I realized as soon as I left the phone booth that the instant I’d spoken to Fran, I’d forgotten all about my resolve to stay in town for dinner and the fights. At the sound of her voice I’d instinctively reverted to my role of the faithful home-loving husband. Routine had won out. I shrugged. It was probably just as well. Away from the dim lighting of the bar and the sight of the girl sitting there all alone, I realized that I just wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing, let’s face it. I would go back, finish that last drink I’d ordered and take off for the bus terminal.

Back in the Marlo bar, as I passed behind the girl at the end, she half turned, said, huskily: “Thanks for the drink. Why don’t you bring yours over here? I mean, it’s silly for the two of us not to talk.”

I got kind of choked up. My heart felt too big and thick inside my chest; I was sure she could hear it. I was suddenly glad that I’d made that mistake on the phone and committed myself about going home, now. If I hadn’t, I’d probably take this girl up on her invitation. The way the sound of her voice hit me, the impact her eyes had upon me – well – a guy is only human.

I said: “Uh – thanks – but I’ve got to run, now. Some other time.”

I went to my own end of the bar, gulped down the Manhattan, gagging on it a little. When I set the empty glass down, I misjudged the distance, set it down a little too hard. I knew then that I was a little tight. I knew when I got outside it was going to hit me. I turned away from the bar and the girl spoke again:

“How about letting me buy you one, before you go? I mean, I don’t want to be obligated. Please? Pretty please?”

This time her voice didn’t get under my skin. It even annoyed me a little. She seemed suddenly overanxious and the soft huskiness had become harsh with the almost desperation tone of her voice now. And that repeated ‘I mean’ business grated, too. I was glad this was almost over and I’d had sense enough to get out from under before it was too late.

I had to pass her again to go out through the lobby exit. I said, almost abruptly: “No. No thank you. Next time. Good night.” She half swung around on the stool as I started past and I had a nervous intuition that she was going to jump off the stool, confront me, block my exit, try to stop me from leaving. But she didn’t.

I got out into the lobby and she must have been moving on tiptoe because I wasn’t aware that she’d followed me out until she was right up beside me. She hooked her left arm through mine. At the same time I felt something hard being jammed against my right ribs. The arm hooked in mine pulled me forcibly to a stop. I looked at her. Out here in the bright light of the small hotel lobby, she didn’t look so good. Her eyes were still beautiful but now their intensity, their broodingness looked sullen, almost angry. Lipstick was too thick on her wide mouth. Under the powder and rouge, her skin was coarse, grainy. But she was smiling up at me, invitingly. At least it would look that way to somebody else. But it didn’t to me. Her face was too tight. The smile was too forced.

“Just a min—”

“Shut up, stupid,” she cut me off. She was whispering, through her teeth, without breaking the smile. “I’ve got a gun in your ribs and if you make me, I’ll use it right here. I could get away before anyone even realized what happened. Understand? Do as I say.”

I wanted to laugh and at the same time a chill ran all over me. This was ridiculous. I was Kip Morgan, managing editor of the Comic Magazine Group at Emcee Publications, Inc., right across the street. I had never been arrested in my life. I bad never known any woman like this before. All my friends were respectable. And this was New York City, at the dinner hour. This was the Hotel Marlo, right in the public lobby, with the desk clerk and a bellhop only a few yards away and a portly old gentleman sitting in a lobby chair only a few feet away. This was all crazy.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “You . . .” I let my voice trail off. I was looking down at her other hand and it was thrust inside the trenchcoat where nobody could see it. The hand that was holding a gun, she said, against my ribs. I began to know, right then, that she wasn’t kidding.

“Just walk with me slowly, toward the elevator. Don’t say anything. Don’t make any commotion or try to signal anyone. Don’t try to break away. Behave yourself and you won’t get hurt. I promise.”

Sickness suddenly twisted at my stomach. I knew what it was, now. This was payday. It was a Friday and the Fifteenth. Payday for almost everybody in New York City. This was some kind of a new holdup gimmick. I thought of the hundred and twenty-five dollars in cash I had in my pocket. A full week’s take-home. A whole week of getting up every morning at six-thirty and not getting home until almost seven at night. A week of deadliness and cajoling artists and script writers into getting their stuff in on time, of making out vouchers, and editing scripts and going over silverprints and a million other little chores and details.

A hundred and twenty-five bucks. And a mortgage payment due on the house. And food money next week for Fran. The new suit for young Stevie. The party dress for little June.

Fury seared through me. And shame. Fury because this girl was going to try and steal my money, that money that meant so many things to so many people. Shame because she was obviously cheap and vicious and I’d almost let myself be led on into taking her out. Because I hadn’t gone home at the usual time, like someone sensible, because I’d let myself be jived into an extra drink.

I started to wrench violently away from her, then to grab her and howl for help. But she must have felt me tense. We were in front of the elevator, now. The gun ground deep into my ribs, hurting. She whispered. “You’d die, instantly. You wouldn’t have a chance. Don’t be a jerk. Be good for just a few more minutes and you’ll be alive tomorrow.”