Going, Going, Gone

by Jack Womack

  What was strangest was that I knew the scene I’d lightfooted into so casually wasn’t in the gone world, or in the world of tomorrow, but in the now world; and whoever’s now it was, it wasn’t mine, at least not yet. Maybe my ghosts, or my gals, were having some kind of lasting effect on me; having had enough of Fortean phenomena for one evening, I snagged a cab and headed back to my castle doubletime.

  FIVE

  Man’s walk tells you if he’s buck, bull, or baby. Mine’s a limber stride, when I set out I imagine that my legs roll in my hipjoints like they were fit with ball bearings. A walk like that lets the nosy parkers know no matter what shit comes down, it’s not going to bug you. Jim Kennedy’s walk told me that he was pretty much prepared for and expecting anything. His tightrope stroll along the sidewalk made me think of Frankenstein, or the Greek statues the Greeks sculpted before they learned how to sculpt. He kept his knees locked like they had pins inside, kept his arms glued to his sides, his fists clenched as if trying to figure out who to hit next. Jim moved like he knew in a place deeper than his bones that if he didn’t always hew to the straight and narrow he wouldn’t last longer than the time it took him to fall.

  A bar called Shaugnessy’s became our regular hangout. Place was your standard Irish dive, stuck between a cafeteria and a dry cleaners on Broadway, just north of 83rd before you got to Loew’s. We’d keelhaul a booth, I’d order bourbon, he’d signal for the first of an endless series of seltzers. (His bicarb tab must have been frightening; he drank so much fizzeroo that I’m surprised he never blew up.) ‘Down the hatch,’ I’d crow and we’d down our respective poisons. The old traditional lost weekend isn’t my favoured format but I’d learned how to drink when I needed to. Back in ‘63, during the Panama crisis, I earned my bones not only with Martin but with his bossmen, ingratiating myself as directed with a gang of commies in the Village. Half were Russian-born, and half of those were on the wagon, so I had to learn how to tie on the bag around sots and de-sotted alike if I was going to keep the wheels nice and greasy. During the first round of chuckle juice I’d act like I was guzzling a king-size snort, but I’d really only sip, and splash out the extra from the shotglass when I slammed it down; or, if it was a highball, artfully rearrange the ice, shaking the glass like a maraca. Made it look like I was just like one of the boozehounds, long as you seemed drunk as they were they were happy; and (most usefully when it came to Jim) by acting in such fashion the boys riding the wagon would think you’d never remember anything you heard once you sobered up. I had the poor bastards coming and going. On the last night I enjoyed their company (enjoyed, well; if you’ve ever been cornered by a Trot symp at cocktail hour you know there are more exact words) we went to the White Horse and I carried over the first round. First, though, I sprinkled their vodka with a little C9-Algernon4 (which, among much else, gives you Korsakov’s Syndrome for the duration of the seventeen-hour trip). After I was done with ’em not a one was capable of any action, overt, covert or subvert, on Amity Street for the duration of the emergency.

  The first week or so Jim and I got together it was hard for us to talk about anything other than records – put two obsessive shellackers in a room and they won’t stop yakking till they pass out from lack of oxygen – and it was clear to me Jim was no dilettante. We spent one entire evening going over nothing but the Broadway 5000 series and whether or not the Reverend J.M. Gates and Congregation had recorded a version of ‘Death Will Be Your Santa Claus’ for the label (I thought he had, but Jim demonstrated to me he hadn’t; the number I thought matched the non-existent master was actually 5025; B 6927-1 and 6929-1, ‘I Know I Got Religion’ backed with ‘The Funeral Train A-Coming.’ Excuse my tangent; you may not dig the essentiality of knowing this for sure, but believe me, both of us did). Even so, the time finally came to talk about something other than discs, and so one evening as he ordered his third seltzer I bit the bullet.

  ‘When did you buy the store, anyway?’ I asked. ‘I hadn’t been in there for a dog’s age till a few months ago.’

  ‘A year,’ Jim said. ‘Took ages to get George to sell.’

  Former owner Crazy George, that is, one of New York’s more accomplished psychopaths. Always looked like he slept in the Indian cave in Central Park, hadn’t had a bath since 1931, would as soon spit at you as look at you, but the man did know his platters. Knew’em too well to ever find bargains in the bins, but I could have lived with that. Real problem was he was the kind of storeowner wouldn’t sell you anything if he didn’t think you were worthy. You may have been worthy, once, but things always change. Don’t have to tell you that eventually no one was worthy – but then it probably saved him time, counting out at night, if he didn’t make any sales during the day.

  ‘He needed the money?’ A chunky-shouldered shrug.

  ‘How’d you get him to sell, then?’

  ‘The family handled it.’

  Surprising to hear him say the word family himself; several times before that I’d use it in passing or we’d overhear it on the radio, or coming out of one of the barflies as the woozer beefed about the home life, and Jim’d go all pasty and woolly-eyed as if the very notion of what plays together stays together made his stomach try to hop out of his mouth. ‘Never figured George’d give it up. Must have been pretty persuasive.’

  ‘They can be,’ he said. ‘Mom took care of the money. Two of my brothers handled the actual deal.’

  Hm, yes, that made me suspect George was probably spending his golden years in an oil drum at the bottom of the East River. ‘Your dad help out too?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ Jim smiled; not a chance he meant to, but he did. He shot me one of those grins where you know the grinner knows he shouldn’t be happy but can’t help himself. It gave me the willies now whenever I saw him flash the choppers, knowing his bloodline; every time this brother’s teeth hit the high beams it was impossible not to see his four siblings.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Heart attack,’ he said, adjusting his stonepuss. ‘Quick, at least.’

  True enough, hearts tend to seize up fast when bullets plough through them. That was the last time Old Black Joe made the newsreels, back in 1954. He was just about bald by then but the hair he had left he treated first-class. Whenever he’d come to New York he’d see the same barber, regular as clockwork. The shop was a Fancy Dan off the lobby of the Ritz Carlton, over on Madison in the forties. He’d doff the chesterfield and the homburg, tuck the bifocals into his shirt pocket and lie back to be fitted for the shroud. Hitman that day was kind enough to wait till the barber clipped the last few strays around the neck before moving in for the kill. Splash of witch hazel, a quick whisk with the broom; kerbang! sneezed the roscoe. Barber conveniently had his back turned in that instant, dipping combs into the blue stuff – that was his story, anyway. Hooligan made tracks, ditching the gun behind him. No fingerprints, trail cold as Siberia. Word was Hoover was behind it, he was in a stew about how Joe’d sold McCarthy out once that gig was blown. Long before I knew I’d be palling around with any Kennedy, I asked Martin if he had any inside dirt. Looked at me like I’d asked him which route his mom preferred, French or Greek, and I didn’t ask again.

  ‘What’d you do before this?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, and brushed his hair back, trying to cover the shiny skin at the peak. Probably he’d started shedding soon as he stopped boozing; Sophia knew brothers in gin always kept thick rugs above the snowline. ‘Wall Street. Day trader.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Had the knack for it when I was younger. Pressure got me after a while. That and the sauce. Couldn’t take it any more.’ He shook his head, and guzzled down the rest of his fizz. ‘Went all blooey.’

  ‘Blooey?’

  ‘You know.’ I nodded. ‘Just had to take off. Told everyone that I was going to become the sheriff of Waco, Texas.’ He pronounced it whacko, which wasn’t the exact pronunciation, but from what I’d heard, it fit.

  ‘Inventive.’
>
  ‘Wasn’t any of their business,’ he said, and I heard a knife in his voice. ‘Went back to my place. Got a suitcase and emptied it out. Went down to the liquor store and filled it with scotch. Checked into the Seymour over on 44th, stayed there five days. Mostly stayed there. Then they found me.’

  ‘Who?’

  He shook his head, and his eyes wavered. I was starting to think I should abandon this conversational tangent for the nonce. ‘My brothers,’ he said. ‘Their mugs, anyway.’

  I took a very, very small sip of my drink.

  Needless to say while going through the initial motions with Jim I was still contending with my ghosts and losing three falls out of three. Though neither of my transparent moochers did anything especially annoying other than being there, the guy started trying to talk to me more often; seemed to try, at any rate. Never elaborated on his riff: Walter, he’d blow; Walter. Repeat for sixty-four bars, second verse same as the first. But however many times he spun the tune, no matter how I was sometimes disappointed if I didn’t see them first thing when I walked in, I never stopped feeling those campfire shudders. It was anybody’s guess when they would drop in. Usually after the initial start I’d be okay, but then sometimes I’d be sitting on the throne reading the paper, not hurting a fly, and suddenly Marie’d pour through the door laying on with that heavy moan. Make me want to pull the chain and flush myself down to live among the alligators.

  My happy couple’d be there every morning come roostertime. When I’d get up I’d hope Eulie’d be there too, lurking in the kitchen or parking that cute keister of hers on my sofa, but every morning I was hit with a no-show. Wasn’t hard to see she was the kind of cookie you couldn’t keep your mitts on for long, but after two weeks dripped by I started to think they figured they’d put me through enough grief, and went off to haunt somebody else. The more I missed her, the heavier the black dog sat on my shoulders. I’m not one for the mushbowl – flowers and candy do nothing for me; as Trish knew well I can gape at a full moon and the only thing that makes me howl is how utterly groovitudinous it’d be to perambulate over its chickenpox scars. But when I thought of Eulie I knew considerably more than just the old kielbasa was involved; it worried me, the way I was thinking about her – I was never that serious about anything.

  One cold crispy evening Jim was under the weather and since I had no desire to coop with the spirit world I paraded over to Max’s. Got there too early for real action, showing up sometime around ten. That fabulous Trish was five deep in dopesters and jugheads at the far end of the bar, hard at work playing queen of the night. She heaved a bottle sky-high in salute and shouted at me. ‘Get over here, Walter. Got somebody you should meet. Come on.’

  No use fighting it. Hacking my way through the underbrush of coolies I waded across the room. Trish sloughed off her more useless admirers as I hit my mark. She struck attitudes with a lush little chickadee holding up the bar. Her pal was a five-footer tagged out in a shiny gold print mini; she’d swept up her blonde curlies in a bubblehead do. Standing next to Trish made her look like she was standing in a hole.

  ‘Every time I’m raring to carouse I catch a glimpse of your pickle puss,’ Trish said, slapping me in the chest. ‘Stop sucking on those lemons. Here. Walter, Vivian. Vivian, Walter.’ She prodded her silent sidekick with an elbow. ‘He’s prime suspect number one in my book.’

  ‘Charmed,’ I said, broadcasting over the din. ‘One of the Vivian girls?’

  She cocked a hand to her ear and aimed her noggin sideways at me, crooking her neck and looking like a parrot zeroing in on a cracker. She wore the kind of perfume that smelled like she bought it at Woolworth’s even though you knew she hadn’t.

  ‘What?’ she squeaked. Didn’t sound like her voice had changed yet.

  ‘Enchanté,’ I said. ‘Ma cherie.’

  She threw me a flutter or two of the black rakes above her peepers. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said. ‘You’re French?’

  Gritting my teeth I hauled myself towards the summit, looking forward to sliding down on the far side. ‘Washington state,’ I said. ‘Where’d you get your diapers changed?’

  Poor missy looked like she’d been hit over the head with a duck. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Excused,’ I said. ‘Where were you before you hit New York?’

  The lightbulb went on, though I could tell it was flickering. ‘Cleveland.’

  Trish hopped in before I could make disparaging remarks about Euclid Avenue and her grand plan completely collapsed. ‘Vivian works at Bonwit. She’s in fragrances.’

  As guessed. ‘So I’ll get a discount?’ I asked. Got a blank stare from Viv and an especially evil glare from my dishy delight. ‘How long you been in New York, cookie?’

  She seemed like she’d need an earhorn in a library. ‘What?’

  ‘Here. New York. How long been you?’

  ‘Year,’ she yelped. All tweeter and no woofer; painful to hear at top volume.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m an old hand in the batter, myself.’

  ‘What?’

  Our tête-á-tête continued in this merry manner until finally she smiled, I smiled, we signalled mutual toodle-loos and she let the crowd swallow her up. Best to put these kinds of moments out of their misery as soon as possible. Once she disappeared from view Trish punched me on the shoulder like a schoolyard bully.

  ‘What’d I do?’

  ‘You’re so malevolent,’ Trish said. ‘Rolling over her like Ike over the Japs. Deliberate miscommuniqués. You know you can send any smoke signal you want if you want to.’

  ‘I was coming in on the beam,’ I said, perusing the room, hoping to spot Big Bertha and my little sweetie as they looked to sweep me off on some madcap, potentially life-threatening adventure. ‘Now I know you didn’t think we were perfect match. She still in junior high, by the way?’ Trish frowned. ‘Can take the girl out of the hay, can’t take the hay out of the girl, notwithstanding her trendomatic threads. I’m sure she meant well, but –’

  ‘Maybe she can’t tell Blind Lemon from Blind Asparagus. I could?’ She fired up one of her long and leans. ‘Be nice if you could flap your tongue about something besides slipping discs.’

  ‘I do, I do,’ I pleaded. ‘But what was the point here? None. So why waste –’

  ‘Where’s your mystery date been, anyway? Talk about dying calf eyes. I’m going to bring over the bucket and start calling you Bossy.’

  ‘She said she’d be back. She’s just –’

  ‘Flaky,’ she said. ‘And you’re not going to convince me she’s not a Holiday Girl. Maybe she acey-deucy’s if Wonder Woman’s not looking but all the same –’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ I said, but I knew better than that. There wasn’t a jealous bone in Trish’s carcass; whole time we were together, until she decided it was time to snap the twig, she’d kept an open mind. Then suddenly the madness took hold, she started talking about putting up a wigwam and making a basket for the papoose, I started feeling the need to set back out for the high country and the next thing we knew we were both back on our own again. But jealousy had had nothing to do with it. Only money, and how much of it I had, or didn’t have, and where I got it.

  ‘Bordo, get over here,’ she shouted across the room. Our mutual pal was already winging his way in our direction, tippytoeing over like he was sneaking up to the cookie jar. ‘What’s shaking?’

  ‘Overseas assignment,’ he said, ‘Feeling 1A?’

  ‘I’ll enlist,’ she said, hooking my arm and hauling. ‘You too, Walt. This’ll be just the ticket to bring you out of this.’

  ‘Maybe better call it a day tonight.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t stop making with the sourpuss,’ she said. I’ll admit it, my brothers; I’m not much of one for physical threat. ‘Join the glee club and let’s go. You can’t wait forever for Rapunzel to let down that hair.’

  Knowing it was useless to fight I cried uncle, and fell in with the parade. We took the air and started o
ff down the street. It figured the one time I’d finally meet somebody of interest she’d be harder to catch than I was. No matter how often I tried prying Eulie out of my head she was a hard tenant to evict.

  ‘Walter,’ Trish said, shaking my arm as we crossed Seventeenth, heading down Park. ‘What’s got you hypnotized?’

  ‘Just distracted,’ I said, watching steam rise out of the street over by Union Square. The usual gaggles of junkies and hooligans were scuttling through the underbrush, waiting to snare stray passersby. Far too many lackies on white crosses and mean reds for me to deal with; I hadn’t been in that park for maybe eight years. Rather deal with a D train full of Fordham Baldies. Steam oozed upward from the Belgian block, circled slowly and curled around, tried to gel and blew apart. For a second I’d thought my ghosts were on the prowl. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘So where’s the circus?’ Trish asked Borden.

  ‘Go east, young girl.’

  ‘Not without a chauffeur,’ Trish said, lifting her hand and giving the high sign. A yellow Checker shot across three lanes of honkers and screeched up to the curb. We hopped in, Trish and I taking the chaise lounge and Borden commandeering one of the jump seats, shouting directions at the hack all the while.

  ‘Wake up, Snoozy,’ Trish said, poking my side as we hit Fourteenth and cruised past Luchow’s as we sped under the el. ‘What kind of trip are you on tonight?’

  ‘Nothing natural,’ I said. ‘Out of body experience, I guess. Don’t clip the cord.’

  Turned out the bash was down in the East Village on 12th between B and C. The sensible man steered clear of the neighbourhood even at high noon these days, but when in the company of the adventurous one tends to stop fighting the current and swim faster towards the waterfall. Two blocks from where we were heading was New York HQ for Hell’s Angels; uptown Tong wars broke out weekly on 10th and 11th; the Third Balkan War was in its fifty-second year at the corner of A and 13th. Nothing that untoward, considering, but then the hippies showed up. Starting the summer before all the nitwits who couldn’t figure out that San Francisco was at the far end of the country started pouring into town, flower girls and gurus and Sergeant Peppers, every one a fat little pigeon waiting to be plucked. Now ten months later the wreckage was all over town, plucking lutes in Herald Square, wandering back and forth in front of Saks hustling spare change, drawing the cops no matter how low they tried to lie. Bad scenes all the way around; last October, in the block we were shooting towards a Greenwich deb who’d dropped out of NYU got her 36-24-36 run through a meat grinder and fed to her boyfriend’s Alsatian after she complained he spent more time over the meth boiler than with her. He called himself Otter; she called herself Trout’s Dream. Let me tell you, my brothers, the world of altered consciousness used to attract a much more sophisticated element than had lately been moving in on the territory.