by Jack Womack
‘I don’t even know what your proposal is,’ I said. I’d turned them down simply because I hadn’t liked their looks; you get to my level and you can start getting away with that, sometimes. ‘Told you I like to see the sandwich before I bite down.’
‘Son, your qualms are understandable,’ Hamilton said. ‘Ordinarily we’d have already enlightened you, but I fear a certain restraint was and is called for in this situation.’
‘Restraint’s my middle name.’
‘So Martin has told me. And Bennett, as well.’ Little mongoose glared at me with beady blue eyes. ‘All the same your talents are such that we’re willing to make allowances for your, uh, personal style.’
‘I appreciate your appreciation,’ I said. ‘Need more than that, though.’
‘In the fullness of time you’ll be provided with all necessary information.’
‘Time’s filled up. Spill or I’m walking.’
‘Walter!’ Martin looked ready to come down hard, but I fired back my own daggers and he eased off on playing up the Great White Father bit. Hamilton didn’t look any more or less upset than he had when I’d said no, two days earlier. There was something about this I hadn’t liked from the start. Since I wasn’t officially on the payroll, and wouldn’t have been one of Martin’s Bennetts even if I had been, I wasn’t covered with the kind of insurance you have to have when you get too far out in the jungle.
‘Hear Hamilton out, Walter,’ Martin said. ‘It’s a very simple proposition. Once you have all the details I’m sure you’ll change your mind.’
‘OK, so let’s play catch. You going to tell me, or am I going to have to guess?’ Our waiter slunk back to top off the percolations, but I shooed him away.
‘I always appreciate forthrightness.’ Hamilton’s eyebrows hopped like caterpillars doing a mating dance. ‘What would you guess, if you guessed?’
‘This have anything to do with pharmaceuticals?’ I asked.
That’s to be decided.’
‘Will I be playing the old sucker game?’
‘Could be.’
‘Sowing the seeds of disarray?’
Hamilton dipped a shard of toast into a pool of yolk. ‘Do you read the newspaper, son?’ he asked, leaning over so far I could count his fillings.
‘How else do I know what I’ve been up to?’
Hamilton hooted. Hmnf hmnf hmnf, said Frye. They were in on somebody’s joke, that was for sure. ‘Surely an intelligent man such as yourself,’ said the Grand Codger, ‘understands that at moments sotto voce is preferable to fortissimo. You understand the broader problems with which we constantly grapple –’
‘We who?’ I asked.
‘Is that a question, Walter?’
‘Who are you, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘Walter –’ Martin started to say.
‘You don’t have J. Edgar’s thumbprint on you,’ I said, thinking I’d better start sharpening the pencils. ‘Since you’re out in daylight and aren’t moist, I can rule out CIA.’ Hmf hmf hmf. ‘You’re about as military as I am. My man Martin generally doesn’t let on who pays for the groceries long as I make the delivery. Usually, I don’t care. But truly, my brothers, all this incognito cum laude is making my mind start to wander. Feel like I’m in a tryout for Skull and Bones.’
‘You’re thinking of Yale, Walter,’ said Bennett. ‘We look like Yalies?’
Martin glared like an icy road. For a minute I gave them the benefit of the doubt, thinking they simply feared being taped al fresco. In truth there’s no better place to talk trouble than out in the out and about. Every time Martin and I faced off to swap tales we took to the ozone, and hit the bricks. An old trick, never fails to keep nosy parkers from tuning in on the party line. It’s a subtle concept for the layman to grasp, and these two clowns were no laymen. Just as I was starting to give in the old gringo flipped me such a death’s head that I realized he was doing the Miss Priss bit purely for entertainment value. I got the notion he didn’t care who heard what he said, since he never exactly said it.
‘Walter, are you aware of what happens this November?’ Hamilton asked.
‘This is February.’ Hmnf hmnf hmnf said Frye.
‘Good things take time,’ Bennett said.
‘There’s an election this November,’ said Hamilton. ‘You’ll be voting?’
‘Never,’ I said. ‘99 bottles of beer on the wall. I don’t sing along.’
Hamilton made with the tut-tuts. ‘Possibly we’re not as cynical as you are.’
‘Try me.’
‘Are you familiar with the field of candidates? Does anyone in particular come to mind?’
He had me there, but I wasn’t going to let on. Thinking for a second, the obvious name popped into my head. ‘President Lodge.’
‘Thought we were going to have to cue you, Walter,’ Bennett said.
‘What about on the Democratic side?’ Hamilton asked.
‘Usual suspects, I suppose. Johnson, Humphrey. Pritchard. You think it’ll matter?’ ‘You are cynical, son.’
‘Call me son once I’m in the will,’ I said. ‘If I had to guess I’d say Lodge’ll be re-elected. Incumbents always are.’ Hamilton eyed me like I was a puppy who wet the rug. ‘No?’
‘We’ll be clear on that by the end of next month, Mister Smith,’ he said. ‘But that’s no concern of yours.’
‘There’s a name you’ve forgotten, Walter,’ Bennett said. ‘Among possible candidates. Who do you think you’ve forgotten?’
I shrugged. ‘Gimme a phone book.’
‘An old family name,’ Martin said.
‘But not that old.’ The shift in Hamilton’s vocalese as he purred his way into a growl made me appreciate the ease with which this old coot could hop from his wheelchair and whip out the shiv. Takes practice to glint like Jehovah when you’re wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, but he had it down pat. ‘The Kennedys –’
‘Them?’
‘Walter, hear us out.’
‘Not a chance. I’m no steeplejack. I work the ground floor and mezzanine and I want to keep it that way. ‘Not a chance –’
Hamilton lobbed his dentures my way and flashed those big blue peepers. ‘This would entail your serving in the traditional agent provocateur position, Walter.’
‘Walter, you could do it in your sleep,’ Martin said.
‘Probably done it in your sleep,’ said Bennett.
‘There’s nothing to it –’
All signs on this eightball pointed to no. Number one swoon tune in DC was Never Waltz With A Kennedy. Once you involved yourself, even with a third cousin of a third cousin, it was only a question of time till Old Black Joe, reliable as napalm, caught you and dipped you in his deep-fryer. Giving his public rap sheet the onceover could crack your mind like a bullwhip, and nobody knew scratch about the deals that strayed from the path en route to Grandma’s. His five boys couldn’t match him except in pawing frails, try as they might and by all indications they tried. Nature herself had taken the girls out of the competition, there were five of them but every one strangled themselves in the womb to keep from coming out. Every spring through the thirties the Kennedy Curse struck anew. Once between the cartoon and part six of Perils of Nyoka I caught a glimpse of the gang in the ‘Ten Years Ago Today’ segment of The March of Time, filmed just before they went to London in 39’. They’d lost another one, the last. The boys wore black tie, Rose shrouded her weeds. Old Joe pried the top off the blarney jar and told the reporters Willa God, boys, all’s jake but you got to watch Willa. She’ll get you every time.
‘Not a chance, not one in a million.’
‘Walter, you need to hear specifically,’ Hamilton started to say, but I wasn’t listening. I heard something else.
Help.
Like I needed to see old brother Jell-O and his snoozy moll just then. They hung out by the cash register as if intending to clean out the till while a crony caused a distraction.
Help us
.
Without signalling, my ghosts took the off-ramp and faded. I told myself I’d kicked back too long in the tub last night and was still pruny. But I wasn’t kidding anyone, the luck of genes makes my system flush like a storm drain. Possible, though, that this new product was time-release. That could bring any number of complications about on down the line. Might mean all kinds of trouble uptown as well but the Dupont Circle boys could find out on their own without a park ranger. Even now their slammerful of potential perps were probably tearing the roof off the drunk tank, ripping out the porcelain, shitting on the ceiling, standing there franks in hand and howling for the bastards to turn the northern lights back on.
‘What’s so funny, Walter?’ I heard Bennett say.
‘Is he having a stroke?’ Hamilton said.
‘Just weighing the odds against the house,’ I testified, coming out of my stew, laying both hands near but not on the Big Book. ‘Pardon the trance.’
‘No question you’re the man for the job,’ Martin said, and then demonstrated the folly of total self-assurance. ‘You’re Irish as they are, why wouldn’t it work?’
Fortean ghosts were hard enough to bear but this took first prize in the Stupid awards. Something must have short-circuited in Martin’s head, or else he was feeling more comfy around these characters than he had any right to be. He was no more tater tot than I was, and he knew that as well as I did. Now neither of us played the rules according to Hoyle, and while no VIP players who might suspect ever admitted seeing us deal with our spades hidden, we knew they always kept their guns on the table. Couldn’t speak for my boss but I had no yen to scope scenic Guatemala and the deeper south unless I had a return ticket tight in my hand. It especially made me sweat buckets when his idle comment provoked Frye into burping up something other than chucks.
‘Black Irish, maybe.’
Bad, bad news. No question his superior snagged it, but old Methuselah didn’t return fire. Martin’s mask slipped enough to show me he knew he’d been bugging too frantic on the canyon’s lip. ‘If you would hear us out, Mister Smith, you’d understand what a valuable opportunity this could prove to be for you,’ Hamilton said, steepling his hands as if to pray to himself. ‘Carpe diem. A new world hitherto unimaginable to you will either open or close, depending upon your decision. May I continue?’
His picnic basket was starting to sit heavy on my grave. ‘Pass the mustard,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Need to spread it on those fat slabs of spamola you’re slicing off.’
‘Now, Mister Smith –’
‘I’m passing. Thanks anyway.’ Easing myself up slowly, I aimed a finger at the timepiece hanging on the wall. ‘Got to roll, I fear, New York’s waiting.’
‘You strike me as an infinitely adaptable fellow of subtle resources,’ Hamilton said. The smile he gave me would have shamed a wax museum. ‘Martin knows you’re the man for the job. Perhaps we should agree to leave the matter open. It seems to me you should be considerably more interested in hearing us out than you’ve yet understood.’
I understood he could probably corner the market in nasty if he wanted, but I didn’t want to wait around and find out. ‘Tally ho, my brothers, that train’s at the gate.’
‘I’ll be calling you,’ Martin said.
Didn’t look back as I strolled but I knew they kept me in the crosshairs. Took the long way out through the lobby, to tell the world I was in no rush. Soon as I was out of range I let my feet do their business. Had the admiral outside whistle up a cab, and two minutes later I was cruising up Connecticut en route to DuPont Circle. Neglecting to stop by the stationhouse to give the gang my regards I bounded down the escalator and hopped the noon express. Settling into a crowded car I switched off the seat’s radio and settled back, trying to put breakfast, that song, those ghosts, everything out of mind. In two hours I’d pipeline straight into Penn Station’s warm marble barn and then it’d be hello, New York. I couldn’t wait.
Once I was back in the free world I wasted no time heading for my castle. No sooner did I get there, though, than I realized I might as well have left the drawbridge down. My greeting committee floated above the corner of the living room, near the window and to the left of the hi-fi.
Help.
What really made my bag rise this time was my quietude in the face of this species of unnatural. Bad pennies are forever turning up but not being surprised when you find them is another matter indeed. There was only one thing left to try. Hair of a different dog taken in ideal conditions proves an unfailing remedy in most cases of aftershock, and I could see no reason it wouldn’t work here. I have to be truthful and say I don’t know how hard I looked. Unplugging the phone, I greased and papered my Victrola’s spinner and slid a new needle in the tone arm. Thumbed through the C shelf until I spotted the right man. Lay down the shellac, grooved the point and let it spin. No crime in listening. Never was.
‘Pastafazoola, Tallullah –’
No crime in singing along, though the neighbours might disagree.
‘Pass me a pancake, Mandrake –’
No doubt about it, these palefaces weren’t hep to the jive. My two ghosts took the hint and condensed. Suspected they’d be back but that was then and this was now.
Alone again I stashed the cash Martin’d slipped me for my efforts in the strongbox, then pulled down my humidor to keep a date with Mary Jane. Dressed her in something tight and kissed her down to her toes. Got a Pepsi out of the fridge and lent Cab my ears. Though I don’t teetotal I’m not one for putting on the boozebag. Body trips leave me too full of that old ennui. The ideal agents as I see it are the ones that take your head off and let you hold it awhile. I cooped inside, content, till delirious night came creeping through the streets. Then, after a quick rinse and shave, I snatched up my wrapper and ankled downstairs.
Two blocks west on the slum end of Park was my crib away from crib. Those up on their long-gone New York know the tale of McGurk’s Suicide Hall, famed Bowery hotspot of the gay nineties, a most favoured lure for the addled and unsavoury, whilom HQ of the fearsome Coney Boys. If you soaked McGurk’s in cheap black and Chinese red you’d get Max’s. All the ambience of an opium den full of Dada girls, though louder. El perfecto, in the vernacular. No Packards lined the curb two deep so I suspected the night’s talent didn’t attract the riffraff. When I checked the marquee I saw that I was right, WELCOME THE VELVET UNDERGROUND AND NICO TO MAX’S KANSAS CITY. I’d head upstairs to revel after I perambulated the lower depths to see who was where. Before I could go in I noted out of the corner of one eye some character in a Rogers Peet suit, passing out flyers at the corner. He had a small table set up and a sign hung on the front. MAX YOUR PO INSTEAD, Some kind of anti-war gig I figured, and headed inside.
Smoke of all notions hit me like perfume as I stepped out of the ozone into the pressure chamber. Once my peepers adjusted for night vision I made out the personnel on board. In the far distance Warhola’s full moon hair beamed through the night. Candy and Jackie had been bookending him but now they got up and were making for the stairs. Judging from the pudding bowls at the far end of the bar I reckoned Mancusian talent passing through town had dropped by to judge the competition. Closer still huddled the usual gaggle of Brooklyn tomatoes and Bronx bagel babies, decked out in their slickest Serendipity flash. If you didn’t choke on hayseeds those farmgirl charms could warm the coolest heart. In the middle of the action were my two most usual suspects, and I gladhanded cheer all around.
‘What’s happening, hepcats?’ I asked, doffing my homburg, and calling for the drink that hits the spot.
‘Walter,’ Trish said. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’
‘Here there everywhere,’ I said. We pecked cheek and did the vertical rub. Trish and I were hard on the sheets not that long ago but when she showed too much interest in how, exactly, I harvested my cabbage, I took to the fields. Knowledge is danger, knoweth the man, and I doubted she’d have approved of my every escapade. Ev
en so we remained tasty pals. She was wanton that night, a flame-haired vixen, smoky and dazzling, total Gernreich on the hoof. As I eased my paw down her treacherous rear slope I found myself as always sliding across a Lothrop and Stoddard unitock. Trish had spent her heedless youth in a stately Wayne Manor out on the Philly main line, and the domestication clung. ‘What’s with the girdle, Myrtle?’ I said. ‘I’ll need brushes to keep the beat on this tom-tom.’ Our compadre Borden lounged close by, swilling with a smile, his fedora’s awning hanging low. As usual he rode out in standard Fourteenth Street undertaker drapes. Good to see he’d regrown his chin shrub, made him look like a top shrink doing field work. Over time I’d clipped my own hedge down to its most nefarious essential. Kittens purr like mad when you brush their fur with the old pussy tickler.
‘How deep’s the scene, my brother?’
‘Subcutaneous,’ he said, a man of select words.
‘You’ve been missed,’ Trish said, playing bumpercars with my hip.
‘Just a weekend cruise,’ I said. ‘Felt like a month.’ A sudden flood of would-be cognoscenti streaming in threatened to do a Johnstown on us. Felt like I was taking the Sea Beach Express on the fourth of July. We started sliding our feet to the rear of the bus, trying to miss the wave.
‘Care to divulge?’ she asked.
‘Lips, ships,’ I said, shaking my head. Realized, scanning the room, that I half-expected to spot my silent Cals floating somewhere over the backbar, trying to find space before coming in for a landing. Wished I’d upped the dosage on my nerve tonic. ‘I earn my gold stars. You?’
‘Mother’s pearl,’ she said. ‘You have to ask?’
‘When’s showtime?’ No sooner did I wonder than I felt the vibes ripple through the floor, and saw the lamps start to shake.
‘Shortly. Let’s move,’ said Trish, and with Borden we carved a path through the wall of superfluous flesh, making for the ascent. ‘I’ve been on tiptoes all day looking forward to this. They’re so fabulous.’
‘Utmost,’ said Borden, playing jungle guide as he led us off. ‘Utmost fabulousity.’