“Don’t scream,” said Harry, “or I’ll kill you.”
He stood there looking down at her, thinking of his own wife, but never a wife like that. Harry began to sweat, he felt dizzy and they stared at each other.
Harry sat down on the bed.
“Leave my wife alone or I’ll kill you!” said the young man. Bill had just walked him in. He had an arm lock on him and his knife was poking into the middle of the young man’s back.
“Nobody’s going to hurt your wife, man. Just tell us where your stinking money is and we’ll leave.”
“I told you all I’ve got is what’s in my wallet.”
Bill tightened the arm lock and drove the knife in a bit. The young man winced.
“The jewelry,” said Bill, “take me to the jewelry.”
“It’s upstairs…”
“All right. Take me there!”
Harry watched Bill walk him out. Harry kept staring at the girl and she stared back. Blue eyes, and the irises were large with fear.
“Don’t scream,” he told her, “or I’ll kill you, so help me I’ll kill you!”
Her lips began to tremble. They were the palest pink and then his mouth was upon hers. He was bewhiskered and foul, rancid, and she was white, soft white, delicate, trembling. He held her head in his hands. He pulled his head away and looked into her eyes. “You whore,” he said, “you god damned whore!” He kissed her again, harder. They fell back on the bed together. He was kicking his shoes off, holding her down. Then he was working his pants, getting them off, and all the time holding and kissing her. “You whore, you god damned whore…”
“Oh No! Jesus Christ, No! Not my wife, you bastards!”
Harry had not heard them enter. The young man let out a scream. Then Harry heard a gurgle. He pulled out and looked around. The young man was on the floor with his throat cut; the blood spurted rhythmically out on the floor.
“You’ve killed him!” said Harry.
“He was screaming.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“You didn’t have to rape his wife.”
“I haven’t raped her and you’ve killed him.”
Then she began to scream. Harry put his hand over her mouth.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
“We’re going to kill her too. She’s a witness.”
“I can’t kill her,” said Harry.
“I’ll kill her,” said Bill.
“But we shouldn’t waste her.”
“Go ahead then, get her.”
“Stick something in her mouth.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Bill. He got a scarf out of the drawer, stuck it in her mouth. Then he ripped the pillow slip into shreds and bound the scarf in.
“Go ahead,” said Bill.
The girl didn’t resist. She seemed to be in a state of shock.
When Harry got off, Bill got on. Harry watched. This was it. This was the way it worked all over the world. When a conquering army came in, they took the women. They were the conquering army.
Bill climbed off. “Shit, that sure was good.”
“Listen, Bill, let’s not kill her.”
“She’ll tell. She’s a witness.”
“If we spare her life, she won’t tell. It’ll be worth it to her.”
“She’ll tell. I know human nature. She’ll tell later.”
“Why shouldn’t she tell on people who do what we do?”
“That’s what I mean,” said Bill, “why let her?”
“Let’s ask her. Let’s talk to her. Let’s ask her what she thinks.”
“I know what she thinks. I’m going to kill her.”
“Please don’t, Bill. Let’s show some decency.”
“Show some decency? Now? It’s too late. If you’d only been man enough to keep your stupid pecker out of there…”
“Don’t kill her, Bill, I can’t…stand it…”
“Turn your back.”
“Bill, please…”
“I said, turn your god damned back!”
Harry turned away. There didn’t seem to be a sound. Minutes passed.
“Bill, did you do it?”
“I did it. Turn around and look.”
“I don’t want to. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
They went out the same window they had entered. The night was colder than ever. They went down the dark side of the house and out through the hedge.
“Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“I feel o.k. now, like it never happened.”
“It happened.”
They walked back toward the bus stop. The night stops were far between, they’d probably have to wait an hour. They stood at the bus stop and checked each other for blood and, strangely, they didn’t find any. So they rolled and lit two cigarettes.
Then Bill suddenly spit his out.
“God damn it. Oh, god damn it all!”
“What’s the matter, Bill?”
“We forgot to get his wallet!”
“Oh fuck,” said Harry.
A MAN
George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash from his rolled cigarette dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning. Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing it away.
There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of un-opened whiskey in a bag.
“George, I left that son of a bitch, I couldn’t stand that son of a bitch anymore.”
“Sit down.”
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
“I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he was at work. You don’t know how I’ve suffered with that son of a bitch.”
“Lemme have a smoke,” said George.
She handed it to him and as she leaned near, George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
“You son of a bitch,” she said, “I missed you.”
“I missed those good legs of yours, Connie. I’ve really missed those good legs.”
“You still like ’em?”
“I get hot just looking.”
“I never could make it with a college guy,” said Connie. “They’re too soft, they’re milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George, it was like having a maid. He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right out of the crapper. He was antiseptic, that’s what he was.”
“Drink up. You’ll feel better.”
“And he couldn’t make love.”
“You mean he couldn’t get it up?”
“Oh, he got it up. He got it up all the time. But he didn’t know how to make a woman happy, you know. He didn’t know what to do. All that money, all that education—he was useless.”
“I wish I had a college education.”
“You don’t need one. You’ve got everything you need, George.”
“I’m just a flunky. All the shit jobs.”
“I said you’ve got everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman happy.”
“Yeh?”
“Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three times a week. And she’d sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away from her! Her precious Walter! Christ! What a mess!”
“Drink up, Connie.”
George was finished. He waited for Connie to empty her glass, then took it, refilled both glasses.
“He claimed he loved me. And I’d say, ‘Look at my pussy, Walter!’ And he wouldn’t look at my pussy. He said, ‘I don’t want to
look at that thing.’ That thing! That’s what he called it! You’re not afraid of my pussy, are you, George?”
“It’s never bit me yet.”
“But you’ve bit it, you’ve nibbled on it, haven’t you, George?”
“I suppose I have.”
“And you’ve licked it, sucked it?”
“I suppose so.”
“You know damn well, George, what you’ve done.”
“How much money did you get?”
“Six hundred dollars.”
“I don’t like people who rob other people, Connie.”
“That’s why you’re a fucking dishwasher. You’re honest. But he’s such an ass, George. And he can afford the money, and I’ve earned it…him and his mother and his love, his mother-love, his clean little washbowls and toilets and disposal bags and new cars and breath chasers and after-shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman wants, George…”
“Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette.
George filled them up again. “I’ve missed your legs, Connie. I’ve really missed those legs. I like the way you wear those high-heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women don’t know what they’re missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass; it puts rhythm into the walk. It really turns me on!”
“You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you do talk like that. You are one hell of a dishwasher.”
“You know what I’d really like to do?”
“What?”
“I’d like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs. I’d like to make you quiver and cry and then when you’re quivering and crying I’d slam it into you in pure love.”
“I don’t want that, George. You’ve never talked that way before. You’ve always done right with me.”
“Pull your dress up higher.”
“What?”
“Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs.”
“You do like my legs, don’t you, George?”
“Let the light shine on them!”
Constance hiked her dress.
“God Christ shit,” said George.
“You like my legs?”
“I love your legs!”
Then George reached across the bed and slapped Constance hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
“What’d you do that for?”
“You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!”
“So what the hell?”
“So pull your dress higher!”
“No!”
“Do what I say!”
George slapped her again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt.
“Just up to the panties!” shouted George. “I don’t quite want to see the panties!”
“Christ, George, what’s gone wrong with you?”
“You fucked Walter!”
“George, I swear, you’ve gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here, George!”
“Don’t move or I’ll kill you!”
“You’d kill me?”
“I swear it!”
George got up and poured himself a full glass of straight whiskey, drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took his cigarette and held it against her wrist. She screamed. He held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
“I’m a man, baby, understand that?”
“I know you’re a man, George.”
“Here, look at my muscles!” George stood up and flexed both of his arms. “Beautiful, eh, baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!”
Constance felt one of his arms. Then the other.
“Yes, you have a beautiful body, George.”
“I’m a man. I’m a dishwasher but I’m a man, a real man.”
“I know it, George.”
“I’m not like that milkshit you left.”
“I know it.”
“And I can sing too. You ought to hear my voice.”
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang “Old Man River.” Then he sang “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” He sang “The St. Louis Blues.” He sang “God Bless America,” stopping several times and laughing. Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, “Connie you have beautiful legs.” He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head down on Connie’s legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, “Connie, I guess I’m no good, I guess I’m crazy, I’m sorry I hit you, I’m sorry I burned you with that cigarette.”
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George’s hair, stroking him, soothing him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked to the fifth, poured a good jolt of whiskey into her glass, added a touch of water and drank it down. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one o’clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of stars was up there. She got on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She walked in, looked around and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked up and sat down next to him.
“Missed me, baby?” she asked.
Walter looked up. He recognized her. He didn’t answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked toward them. They all knew each other.
CLASS
I am not sure where the place was. Somewhere north-east of California. Hemingway had just finished a novel, come in from Europe or somewhere, and he was in the ring fighting somebody. There were newspapermen, critics, writers—that tribe—and also some young ladies sitting in the ringside seats. I sat down in the last row. Most of the people weren’t watching Hem. They were talking to each other and laughing.
The sun was up. It was some time in the early afternoon. I was watching Ernie. He had his man, was playing with him. He jabbed and crossed at will. Then he put the other fellow down. The people looked then. Hem’s opponent was up at 8. Hem moved towards him, then stopped. Ernie pulled out his mouthpiece, laughed, waved his opponent off. It was too easy a kill. Ernie walked to his corner. He put his head back and somebody squeezed some water in his mouth.
I got up from my seat and walked slowly down the aisle between the seats. I reached up and rapped Hemingway on the side.
“Mr. Hemingway?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’d like to put on the gloves with you.”
“Do you have any boxing experience?”
“No.”
“Go get some.”
“I’m here to kick your ass.”
Ernie laughed. He said to the guy in the corner, “Get the kid into some trunks and gloves.”
The guy jumped out of the ring and I followed him back up the aisle to the locker room.
“You crazy, kid?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Here. Try on these trunks.”
“O.k.”
“Oh, oh…they’re too large.”
“Fuck it. They’re all right.”
“O.k., let me tape your hands.”
“No tape.”
“No tape?”
“No tape.”
“How about a mouthpiece?”
“No mouthpiece.”
“You gonna fight in them shoes?”
“I’m gonna fight in them shoes.”
I lit a cigar and followed him out. I walked down the aisle smoking a cigar. Hemingway climbed back into the ring and they put on his gloves. There was nobody in my corner. Finally somebody came over and put some gloves on me. We were called into the center of the ring for instructions.
“Now when you clinch,” said the referee, “I’ll…
“I don’t clinch,” I told the referee.
Other instructions
followed.
“O.k., go back to your corners. And at the bell, come out fighting. May the better man win. And,” he said to me, “you better take that cigar out of your mouth.”
When the bell rang I came out with the cigar still in my mouth. Sucking in a mouthful of smoke, I blew it into Ernest Hemingway’s face. The crowd laughed.
Hem moved in, jabbed and hooked, and missed both punches. I was fast on my feet. I danced a little jig, moved in, tap tap tap tap tap, five swift left jabs to Papa’s nose. I glanced down at a girl in the front row, a very pretty thing, and just then Hem landed a right, smashing that cigar in my mouth. I felt it burn my mouth and cheek, and I brushed the hot ash off. I spit out the cigar stub and hooked one to Ernie’s belly. He uppercut with a right and caught me on the ear with a left. He ducked under my right and caught me with a volley up against the ropes. Just at the bell he dropped me with a solid right to the chin. I got up and walked back to my corner.
A guy came over with a bucket.
“Mr. Hemingway wants to know if you’d care for another round?” the guy asked me.
“You tell Mr. Hemingway that he was lucky. Smoke got in my eyes. One more round is all I need to do the job.”
The guy with the bucket went over and I could see Hemingway laughing.
The bell rang and I came right out. I began landing, not too hard but with good combinations. Ernie retreated, missing his punches. For the first time I saw doubt in his eyes.
Who is this kid?, he was thinking. I shortened my punches, hit him harder. I landed with every blow. Head and body. A mixed variety. I boxed like Sugar Ray and hit like Dempsey.
I had Hemingway up against the ropes. He couldn’t fall. Each time he started to fall forward I straightened him with another punch. It was murder. Death in the Afternoon.
I stepped back and Mr. Ernest Hemingway fell forward, out cold.
I unlaced my gloves with my teeth, pulled them off, and leaped from the ring. I walked to my dressing room, I mean Hemingway’s dressing room, and took a shower. I drank a bottle of beer, lit a cigar, and sat on the edge of the rubbing table. They carried Ernie in and put him on another table. He was still out. I sat there naked, watching them worry over Ernie. There were women in the room but I didn’t pay any attention. Then a guy came over.
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