One Night Stands And Lost Weekends Part 6

"A match, please?"

He pulled a box of wooden matches from his s.h.i.+rt pocket without thinking, scratched one on the underside of the bar, and held it to her cigarette. She leaned toward him to take the light, moving her leg slightly against his, touching him briefly before withdrawing.

Right on schedule.

He closed the matchbox and stuffed it back into his s.h.i.+rt pocket, trying to force his attention back to the drink in front of him. His fingers closed around the shot gla.s.s. But he couldn't even seem to lift it from the bar, couldn't raise the drink that might save him for that night at least.

He wanted to turn to her and snarl: Look, I'm not interested. I don't care if it's for sale or free for the taking, I'm not interested. Take your hot little body and get the h.e.l.l out. Look, I'm not interested. I don't care if it's for sale or free for the taking, I'm not interested. Take your hot little body and get the h.e.l.l out.

But he didn't even turn around. He sat still, his heavy frame motionless on the stool, waiting for what had to come next.

"You're lonesome, aren't you?"

He didn't answer. Christ, even her voice had that sugary innocence, that mixture of s.e.x and baby powder. It was funny he hadn't noticed it before, and he wished he hadn't noticed it now. It just made everything so much worse.

"You're lonesome." It was a statement now, almost a command.

"No, I'm not." Instantly he hated himself for answering at all. The words came from his lips almost by themselves, without him wis.h.i.+ng it at all.

"Of course you are. I can tell." She spoke as if she were completely sure of herself, and as she talked her body moved imperceptibly closer to him, her leg inching toward his and pressing against it firmly, not withdrawing this time but remaining there, inflaming him.

His fingers squeezed the shot gla.s.s but it stayed on the bar, the rye out of his reach when he needed it so badly.

"Go away." He meant to snap the words at her like axe-blows, but instead they dribbled almost inaudibly from his lips.

"You're lonesome and unhappy. I know."

"Look, I'm fine. Why don't you go bother somebody else?"

She smiled. "You don't mean that," she said. "You don't mean that at all. Besides, I don't want to bother anybody else, can't you see? I want to be with you."

"Why?"

"Because you're big. I like big men."

Sure, he thought. It was like this all the time. "There's other big guys around."

"Not like you. You got that sad lonesome look, like I can see it a mile away how lonesome you are. And unhappy, you know. It sticks out."

It did; that much was true enough.

"Look," she was saying, "what are you fighting for, huh? You're lonesome and I'm here. You're unhappy and I can make you happy."

When he hesitated, she explained: "I'm good at making guys happy. You'd be surprised."

"I'll bet you are." Christ, why couldn't he just shut up and let her talk herself dry? No, he had to go on making small talk and feeling that hot little leg digging into his and listening to that syrupy voice dripping into his ear like maple syrup into a tin cup. He had to glance at her every second out of the corner of his eye, drinking in the softness of her. His nostrils were filled with the smell of her, a smell that was a mixture of cheap perfume and warm woman-smell, an odor that got into his bloodstream and just made everything worse than ever.

"I can make you happy."

He didn't answer, thinking how happy she would make him if she would just leave now, right away, if the earth would only open up and swallow her or him or both of them, just so long as she would leave him alone. There wasn't much time left.

"Look."

He turned his head involuntarily and watched her wiggle slightly in place, her body moving and rubbing against the sweater and skirt.

"It's all me," she explained. "Under the clothes, I mean."

He clenched his teeth and said nothing.

"I'll make you happy," she said again. When he didn't reply she placed her hand gently on his and repeated the four words in a half-whisper. Her hand was so small, so small and soft.

"C'mon," she said.

He stood up and followed her out the door, the gla.s.s of rye still untouched.

She said her place wasn't far and they walked in the direction she led him, away from the center of town. He didn't say anything all the way, and she only repeated her promise to make him happy. She said it over and over as if it were a magic phrase, a charm of some sort.

His arm went around her automatically and his hand squeezed the firm flesh of her waist. There was no holding back anymore-he knew that, and he didn't try to stop his fingers from gently kneading the flesh or the other hand from reaching for hers and enveloping it possessively. This act served to bring her body right up next to his so that they b.u.mped together with every step. After a block or so her head nestled against his shoulder and remained there for the rest of the walk. The fluffy blond hair brushed against his cheek.

The cheek wasn't numb anymore.

It was cold out but he didn't notice the cold. It was windy, but he didn't feel the wind cut through the tight blue jeans and the flannel s.h.i.+rt. She had lied slightly: it was a long walk to her place, but he didn't even notice the distance.

She lived by herself in a little shack, a tossed-together affair of unpainted planks with nails knocked in crudely. Somebody had tried to get a garden growing in front but the few plants were all dead now and the weeds overran the small patch. He knew, seeing the shack, why she had fixed on the idea of him being lonely. She was so obviously alone, living off by herself and away from the rest of the world.

Inside, she closed and bolted the door and turned to him, her eyes expectant and her mouth waiting to be kissed. He closed his eyes briefly. Maybe he could open them and discover that she wasn't there at all, that he was back at the bar by himself or maybe out cold in his own cabin.

But she was still there when he opened his eyes. She was still standing close to him, her mouth puckered and her eyes vaguely puzzled.

"I'll make you happy." She said those four words as if they were the answer to every question in the universe, and by this time he thought that perhaps they were.

There was no other answer.

He clenched his teeth again, just as he had done when she squirmed before him on the barstool. Then he drove one fist into her stomach and watched her double up in pain, the physical pain of the blow more than matched by the hurt and confusion in her eyes.

He struck her again, a harsh slap on the side of her face that sent her reeling. She started to fall and he brought his knee up, catching her on the jaw and breaking several of her teeth. He hauled her to her feet and the sweater ripped away like tissue paper.

She was right. It was all her underneath.

The next slap started her crying. The one after that knocked the wind out of her and stopped her tears for the time being. His fingers ripped at the skirt and one of his nails dug at her skin, drawing blood. She crumpled to the floor, her whole body shaking with terror and pain, and he fell upon her greedily.

The b.i.t.c.h, he thought. The stupid little b.i.t.c.h.

Couldn't she guess there was only one way to make him happy?

THE DOPE.

I'M NOT VERY BRIGHT. I've never been very smart, and even if I am four years older than Charlie, he's smarter than I am. It's been that way ever since I can remember. When we went to school, I was just one grade ahead of him. He skipped once and I flunked twice, because he's almost as much of a smart guy as I'm a dope. It used to bother the h.e.l.l out of me, but I got used to it. I've never been very smart, and even if I am four years older than Charlie, he's smarter than I am. It's been that way ever since I can remember. When we went to school, I was just one grade ahead of him. He skipped once and I flunked twice, because he's almost as much of a smart guy as I'm a dope. It used to bother the h.e.l.l out of me, but I got used to it.

Then we both quit after a couple years of high school, and me and Charlie were a team. It was just the two of us. Charlie and Ben, the brains and the brawn. That's the way Charlie used to talk about it. I was lots bigger than him and stronger, but he had a brain like a genius. Let me tell you, we were a team.

Did he have a brain! That's what I used to call him-The Brain. And he used to call me The Muscle, 'cause I was so strong. Except when I did something stupid he would call me The Dope. He would be kidding when he said it, and he never did it when anyone was around, so I didn't mind too much.

We had it good-just me and Charlie, just the two of us. We didn't stick around at home 'cause the folks were giving us a hard time ever since we left school. They wanted Charlie to graduate from Erasmus and go to college and be a doctor, but Charlie said the only college he'd ever get to was Sing Sing and he was in no hurry to get there. So we got the h.e.l.l out of Brooklyn and took a room a ways off Times Square.

Let me tell you, that was the life. We bought some nice clothes, real fancy with sharp colors, and we ate all our meals in restaurants. There were loads of movie houses right around where we lived, and I'd see one or two shows a day. Charlie liked to stay in the room and read. He was a real brain, you see.

And once a week or so we'd pull a job. Charlie did all of the planning. He was a clever guy, let me tell you. One day he would go and case a store, and then he wouldn't do anything but plan for the next three or four days. He would sit in the room all by himself and think. He figured every angle.

We went mostly to candy stores. Charlie would get the lowdown on how many people worked and what time the store would close, and he figured everything to the minute. Sometimes I wondered why he brought me along. The way he figured things out he could have done it all by himself.

But once in a while he would need me, and that's when I felt real good. Like for instance the time we hit a candy store in Yorkville-that's a German neighborhood uptown on the East Side. There was just this one old guy in the store, like Charlie figured. He was ready to close when we walked in. Charlie bought some candy and talked to the guy and the guy talked back in a thick accent as if he just got off the boat. Then Charlie had enough, and he pulled out his gun and told the guy to empty the cash register. The gun was another of Charlie's ideas. It looked just like a real gun, but all it would shoot was blanks. It's the kind you see advertised in magazines for when burglars come into your house. That way Charlie figured they couldn't pick us up for armed robbery, but we could scare a guy silly by shooting the gun into the air. Now let me ask you how many guys could have figured that out? He was a brain.

But to get back to the story, the old guy gave us a hard time. He started rattling off a mile a minute in German and he got real loud. So Charlie just turned to me and said, "Take him, Muscle."

That's all he had to say, and he said it just like that. That was what I was waiting for. I stepped right in and belted the guy one in the mush, but not too hard. He went out like a light, let me tell you. We emptied the cash box and got the h.e.l.l out quick.

Those were the days. I was happy, you know. I didn't talk much, but I tried to tell Charlie how happy I was. Most of the time he just nodded, but one time he got mad.

"Happy?" he said. "What the h.e.l.l are you happy about? We're a couple of small-time mugs living in a dump. What's to be happy about?"

I tried to tell him how nice it was, going to shows and just the two of us living together, but I don't talk too good.

"You dope," he said. "You'd be happy being a punk forever. That's not for me, Dope."

I couldn't see what he was getting at so I went out to a show. It was this picture where Jimmy Cagney wants to be the top man in the rackets so his mother will be proud of him and he winds up getting blown up in a factory. It was a d.a.m.n good picture, except for the ending.

When I got back to the room Charlie was sitting on the bed writing something down. I got excited, 'cause I knew he was making notes for the next job. He always wrote everything out in detail, and burned his notes in the wastebasket. He didn't miss a trick.

I sat down next to him and gave him a smile. "What's new, Brain?" He didn't answer until he finished what he was writing, and then he smiled back at me. "A big one," he said. "No more candy store junk."

I didn't answer and he went on to explain it. I didn't get it all because I'm not too bright when it comes to that kind of thing, but there was some sort of office he knew about where they had the payroll set up at night and if we went in and robbed it we could get away with the whole payroll. He asked me didn't it beat knocking over candy stores and I told him it sure did. A guy like me never would have figured out something like that, but Charlie was sharp as a tack.

We pulled the job the next night. It was just a few blocks away from where we lived, and the place was all locked up. Charlie said there was a watchman on duty in the back, where the money was. Then he took a little hunk of metal and got the door open. I don't know where he learned how to do that, I really don't.

I started to walk right in but Charlie made me slow down. He whispered that the old guy could give an alarm unless we got him by surprise. We walked in on tiptoe, and we were practically on top of him before he looked up, and Charlie had the fake gun pointed right at him. I thought he'd have a heart attack then and there.

"Open the safe," Charlie said.

The old guy just stared for a minute, and then he stuck out his chin. "You boys better go home," he said. "I'll give you ten seconds before I call the cops."

Charlie knew how to put the screws on. He didn't say a word, but just kept standing there with the gun pointing right at the guy's head. It was so real that I almost started thinking it wasn't a phony gun with blank bullets.

Then the guy jumped. He fell right down off the chair, and Charlie yelled, "Get him, you G.o.dd.a.m.n dope!"

I went for him then, but he hit the alarm b.u.t.ton before I could get him and the bells started ringing like mad. I was boiling then. I yanked him up off the floor and belted him all the way across the room, and his head hit the wall like Ted Williams. .h.i.ts a baseball.

I started across the room after him, I was so mad. But Charlie stopped me and we ran out. There were people all around, but they didn't know what was happening and we managed to get back to the room.

Charlie wouldn't even talk to me. He sat on the bed listening to the radio, and when the news came that the guy had died of a broken skull he looked at me like I was the stupidest guy in the world. Let me tell you, I felt horrible. It was just like me to swing too hard.

I thought we could still get away, but Charlie straightened me out. He told me how they saw us and they'd get us sooner or later. And he figured out the only way we could get out of it.

We wiped off his gun and got my fingerprints on it, and then we went to the police station. I told them the story just like Charlie told me to, about how I was the older brother and I was bigger than Charlie and made him come along and commit crimes, and how I beat up the guy and killed him. And then at the trial some doctor told how I was a dope and hardly knew what I was doing, and they shouldn't blame me for it. Charlie had to go to jail, but he got out in a year. Because I was such a dope they only gave me ten years for manslaughter.

It's not bad here, either. There are lots of nice guys to talk to, and the food's okay. And the best part of it is that Charlie's out now, and he comes to visit me once a month. He sends me money for cigarettes and everything, which is d.a.m.n nice of him.

I'm just a dope, but I'm lucky. Most guys wouldn't pay any attention to me, especially if they were real smart. But Charlie comes every month, and he says, "Hi, Muscle," and I say, "Hiya, Brain."

We're still buddies, even after what I did.

He's a wonderful brother, let me tell you.

A FIRE AT NIGHT.

HE GAZED SILENTLY INTO THE FLAME. The old tenement was burning, and the smoke was rising upward to merge against the blackness of the sky. There were neither stars nor moon in the sky, and the streetlights in the neighborhood were dim and s.p.a.ced far apart. Nothing detracted from the brilliance of the fire. It stood out against the night like a diamond in a pot of bubbling tar. It was a beautiful fire. The old tenement was burning, and the smoke was rising upward to merge against the blackness of the sky. There were neither stars nor moon in the sky, and the streetlights in the neighborhood were dim and s.p.a.ced far apart. Nothing detracted from the brilliance of the fire. It stood out against the night like a diamond in a pot of bubbling tar. It was a beautiful fire.

He looked around and smiled. The crowd was growing larger, as everyone in the area thronged together to watch the building burn. They like it, he thought. Everyone likes a fire. They receive pleasure from staring into the flames, watching them dance on the tenement roof. But their pleasure could never match his, for it was his fire. It was the most beautiful fire he had ever set.

His mind filled with the memory of it. It had been planned to perfection. When the sun dropped behind the tall buildings and the sky grew dark, he had placed the can of kerosene in his car with the rags-plain, nondescript rags that could never be traced to him. And then he had driven to the old tenement. The lock on the cellar door was no problem, and there was no one around to get in the way. The rags were placed, the kerosene was spread, the match was struck, and he was on his way. In seconds the flames were licking at the ancient walls and racing up the staircases.

The fire had come a long way now. It looked as though the building had a good chance of caving in before the blaze was extinguished. He hoped vaguely that the building would fall. He wanted his fire to win.

He glanced around again, and was amazed at the size of the crowd. All of them pressed close, watching his fire. He wanted to call to them. He wanted to scream out that it was his fire, that he and he alone had created it. With effort he held himself back. If he cried out it would be the end of it. They would take him away and he would never set another fire.

Two of the firemen scurried to the tenement with a ladder. He squinted at them, and recognized them-Joe Dakin and Roger Haig. He wanted to call h.e.l.lo to them, but they were too far away to hear him. He didn't know them well, but he felt as though he did. He saw them quite often.

He watched Joe and Roger set the ladder against the side of the building. Perhaps there was someone trapped inside. He remembered the other time when a small boy had failed to leave the building in time. He could still hear the screams-loud at first, then softer until they died out to silence. But this time he thought the building had been empty.

The fire was beautiful! It was warm and soft as a woman. It sang with life and roared with joy. It seemed almost a person, with a mind and a will of its own.

Joe Dakin started up the ladder. Then there must be someone in the building. Someone had not left in time and was trapped with the fire. That was a shame. If only there were a way for him to warn them! Perhaps next time he could give them a telephone call as soon as the blaze was set.

Of course, there was even a beauty in trapping someone in the building. A human sacrifice to the fire, an offering to the G.o.ddess of Beauty. The pain, the loss of life was unfortunate, but the beauty was compensation. He wondered who might be caught inside.

Joe Dakin was almost to the top of the ladder. He stopped at a window on the fifth floor and looked inside. Then he climbed through.

Joe is brave, he thought. I hope he isn't hurt. I hope he saves the person in the building.

He turned around. There was a little man next to him, a little man in shabby clothes with a sad expression on his face. He reached over and tapped the man on the shoulder.

"Hey!" he said. "You know who's in the building?"

The little man nodded wordlessly.