“Want a taste?” She said it deep in her throat and her smile mocked him.
Without moving from the wall where he stood, Hillary turned, looked first at the smile and then at the hand laid without meaning on his arm. “Keel asked me to ask you.”
Hillary had wanted to see something hard about her: the eyes or even the lines around them; the set of the jaw perhaps or a characteristic twist of the lips. There was nothing but an elusive softness hidden behind the dancing eyes.
Hillary nodded and waited for Della to tell him where it was. “It’s in your room,” she said. “Don’t kill yourself with it.”
“I won’t,” Hillary said. She seemed to possess the same knack for satire that everyone else around here did. He made his way past her, then past Keel and into his room. He closed the door and listened to the murmur of voices from outside. Someone in the Musicians’ Room played Coleman Hawkins’ “Body and Soul.” The bass vibrated and Hillary felt it inside his room. He clutched the bottle and slowly opened it, remembering how he and Angela liked to ballroom on the first part of that record and then, laughing at themselves, to break into a smooth lindy on the second part where Hawk took it double-tempo. He drank—slowly and deliberately—thinking first to empty the bottle; but he stopped and corked it viciously. Someone liked that record; it was playing again. Well, it was a classic of sorts.
He left the room after a half hour. One of the two musicians shouted, “Hey, you, Prof.” Both of them looked like the old guys Hillary remembered from the small joints in hick towns, or like off-avenue players in the second-rate clubs though they might have inhabited Childs, the Metropole or the Stuyvesant Casino at one time or another.
Hillary nodded.
“Keel said to take care of things. He cut out.”
Hillary nodded again and without bothering to look around knew that Della, too, was gone.
He selected a table near the kitchen, in the shadows, so that he might watch the door. Somebody played Billie’s “Porgy,” and Hillary, liking it, wanted the person to play it again. He sat and waited. The voices of the two musicians, harsh but with a quality of guile, came out of the inside room. One remaining couple, near the front door, held hands and dawdled over their coffee. Hillary, warm now with the liquor, wondered where Keel and Della had gone. Not, he hoped, to Eagle’s place. His thoughts returned to Della. It had been some time now since he had wanted a woman; the whisky had always killed it for him, but now he wished for one—Della or one like her.
The door slammed and a big man entered, walking slowly through the room, bumping tables. Under his snap-brim hat his face was heavy and sagging. His gray eyes moved up and down the room, rested on the door of the Musicians’ Room. His overcoat was draped over his shoulders.
He lifted his drooping chins and called to Hillary. “Hey, man, you seen Eagle?” The voice was deep and rough.
“No,” Hillary said.
“Keel around?”
“He’s left.”
“Who you?” The man was quite close now, and Hillary saw that he held a pair of gloves tightly in one hand.
“Dave Hillary.”
“Musician?”
“No.”
“I dug. Never saw you around.” The man turned back to the Musicians’ Room, where he bowed from the waist and smiled. “Hey, you cats, lay some bread on me and I’ll play your sides.” He broke out in a laugh. Both musicians began to curse him.
“All right-ee. Eva’body knows I make a cat. But they ain’t no freebees here. No suh.”
“Say, friend,” the man addressed Hillary again. “Tell Eagle, Rod Tolen’s got a gig for him. Tell him to call me.”
“Sure.”
“Later.” The big man walked out of the shop without looking back. The hand-holding couple bent together to whisper, then started after Tolen.
“Hey,” the boy said to Hillary, “was that Rod Tolen?”
“Yeah.”
“I listen to his program every night. It’s great.”
Hillary didn’t answer.
He wanted the young couple and the two past-prime musicians to leave. He wanted to go out. Now one of the musicians played “Porgy” again, while Hillary went to his room for another drink. In the darkness he thought about a woman, perhaps one here on his bed in the quietness of the last dark hours of the morning. Maybe. When he came out the musicians were at the door, talking with the couple. He waited until they passed through, then said “Good night.” He locked the door behind them and took the cups and spoons to the kitchen, washed them hurriedly and put them away. Then he dashed water over his face and went to his room for his coat.
The cold wind that races from river to river across St. Mark’s Place and 8th Street set the tails of his coat to flapping. He lowered his head and went to Second Avenue and then south. He passed a doorway dimly lit from either side by two small shops, a haberdashery and a bakery. A little woman stood huddled in the darkness. Hillary passed her, wondering, got to the corner, turned around and passed her again. By the time he was abreast of her the third time she had spotted him and kept her eyes on his. She inclined her head ever so slightly in the direction of the hallway, and Hillary, with one more furtive glance, stepped in.
“Hello,” he said. He had never done this before.
“Hello.” She was Puerto Rican. “You wish to make love?”
Hillary nodded.
“You will come with me, upstairs, then?”
“I live around the corner,” Hillary said. Her eyes were dark and hard, but her smile was soft.
“Oh, no. Must make the love here. Upstairs.”
“Why?”
“My children. They are sleeping, and I do not wish to go away from them.”
“All right,” Hillary said. He leaned forward to kiss her. She gave him a dry, hasty peck on the lips and started upstairs; Hillary followed. Her legs were thin, but her body was sturdy from the hips up. He wished she were Della. The hall, with its worn slate stairs and stamped tin ceiling, smelled of insect spray. Bags of refuse had been put out to be picked up in the morning.
“This one,” the woman said, when they had arrived at a door on the top floor. She placed a key in the lock and pushed the door open slowly. “Come.”
Hillary passed inside and waited until she had closed and locked the door. She took his hand and led him carefully through the darkness. He allowed her to pull him down on a bed. A child whimpered and they tightened into stillness. “You pay now,” she whispered.
“How much?”
“Five.”
There were three singles in his left pocket and a five in the right. Hillary pulled out the five and felt for her hand in the darkness. She took it and leaned away from him. A light went on and then off; she had checked the bill, while Hillary had had time to see the room with a baby in a nearby crib, its tiny clothes dangling over.
The bed creaked and there were the sounds of clothes—zippers, snaps, elastic bands—being manipulated. The woman settled in the bed and Hillary slowly removed his clothes, refusing to let his distaste for the woman, the place, and himself continue its slow flood through him. His fingers, a minute later, ached to touch and grasp. Her breasts were small and limp, though the rest of her body was firm. She talked to him soothingly at first as she would have to a child, moving slowly, urging, caressing, kissing him. But just before it was over, when Della’s image—white skin, copper hair, rose lips, green eyes—sighed in Hillary’s mind and he gave himself in great spasms, the woman beneath him groaned, “Dios mio! Dios mio!”; and then, with his body stilled, efficiently extricated herself.
Downstairs once more, Hillary bent into the wind and returned to the shop, still restless. He sat on his bed and drained the bottle. He would not have to work until late the following afternoon. Besides, if Keel—he visualized his long face, the color of stained oak, his glistening, heavy, black mustache overhanging chiseled, dark red lips, his dropped eyelids which still saw everything—could take the time off with Della, he could ta
ke some off himself.
CHAPTER 4
“Get up!”
Hillary felt the covers being pulled off him. Wretchedly, he tried to pull them back. A strong hand gripped his wrist. “What, are you drunk, goddamn you! Get up, Prof!” Now Hillary felt his legs being lifted from the bed and placed on the floor, The hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him to a sitting position. Two slaps stung his face, and blinking his eyes open, he stared angrily at Keel.
“What’s the matter?”
“Put your shoes on.” Keel was holding Hillary’s jacket for him. “C’mon, will you man?”
Through the little window the light came in gray-blue; morning was no more than an hour away.
“What is it?” Hillary asked. Had Keel become suddenly angry with him? Was he going to put him out now, after he’d become somewhat used to human comforts? What had he done? He hadn’t meant to bother Della—Hillary’s mind snapped back. He hadn’t been with Della. But had Keel read his mind? “I’m drunk,” Hillary said. It was not a protest, just a statement.
“I can’t help that. I need your help.”
The idea penetrated. Hillary was pleased. He was standing now, weaving back and forth, and Keel was kneeling to tie his shoes on. “You need my help?”
“Shut up.”
“But you said—”
“Shut up.” Keel was up now, pulling on Hillary’s coat. “The cold air will straighten you out.”
Outside the shop, in the quiet morning, Keel came close to him. “Listen, Prof, and listen good.” Keel paused and shook Hillary by the shoulders. “Understand? Can you understand?”
Hillary nodded.
“We have to get Eagle—”
“Somebody was looking for Eagle tonight—”
“Shut up, Prof. Eagle is strung out. He might be dead. We have to get him and bring him back and take care of him, and we have to do it fast before the streets begin crawling with cops. We’re going to take a cab.”
Hillary’s eyes had closed.
Goddamn him, Keel thought, and slapped him hard and watched the eyes open wide, fill with pain and hate and then go devoid of emotion. “Prof? Prof?”
“Hummm?”
“We have to move fast. If you don’t move fast enough I’ll have to leave you: don’t you understand that? Fuzz, Prof, cops.”
At Third Avenue they took a cab. Keel rolled down Hillary’s window for the air. They rode uptown along the almost empty street. Daylight leaned softly across the city from the East River, but there was still that shadow of night reluctantly drawing away toward the west. Looking down the broad cross streets, Keel saw the blackness still thick over the Jersey sky. They had about forty-five minutes at the most. Once they hit the street with Eagle between them up there between Fifth and Madison, the cops would be on them like white on rice. You didn’t see drunk Negroes in that area at any time.
Goddamn that Candy anyway, Keel thought How could she let something like this happen? Maybe he had the junk before he got to her place, but even so she’d been around long enough to know when too much was too much.
But it wasn’t Candy who had called him at Della’s. Keel sat up in his seat and for a second saw the ludicrous emptiness of 42nd Street. Della had said it was a man. Keel leaned against the seat. Yes, maybe that had registered. Perhaps that’s what explained his haste. Something was wrong. “Goose this mother,” Keel said to the cabby. He turned to Hillary, “How you doin’?”
Hillary nodded. His profile was highlighted by the streetlights outside the cab. He looked young and lost.
“You’ll be all right,” Keel assured him.
They swung off Third, across Yorkville, across the quiet, boundary-like Park Avenue. They eased down the street. “Go around the block,” Keel told the driver. The driver was a Negro. That was sometimes the nice thing about operating at night; at that time New York was filled with Negro cabbies and bus drivers and subway motormen, and they knew what was happening and rolled with it. They had no choice. The day spots went to their white fellow workers.
There were no small, fast-looking, unmarked black cars pulled up beneath the small trees, only Porsches, Mercedes-Benzes, and ostentatious Cadillacs or Lincolns. “All right,” Keel said.
“Want me to wait?” the cabbie asked.
“Yeah, and put your light out. I’ll straighten you.”
“Crazy.”
“C’mon Prof. We got to go.”
They entered the building and walked softly down the carpeted hall. From out of one of the adjoining passageways, two uniformed men strolled, halting at sight of them. “Where you boys going?” one of them asked.
“To Miss Matthews,” Keel replied with relief. They were the elevator operator and the doorman. Their expressions hardly concealed their disgust. This woman had an odd assortment of friends.
“Get in,” the elevator operator said.
They stepped into the car, and he followed, closing the door softly behind. The car cruised upwards and finally stopped. “You going to be long?” the operator asked.
Keel stopped dead. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I’ll ring when I need you.”
The operator watched until they had rung Candy’s bell, then he closed the door of the car but did not go down. Keel leaned on the bell again; it sounded loud in the stillness of the building.
“Who’s there?”
“Keel, Candy. I’ve come for Eagle.”
There was the snapping of locks and a latch. The door opened. Candy Matthews stood in tight pajamas, her honey-colored hair falling over her sharp, angular face.
“Where is he?” Keel asked.
“In the bedroom.” She eyed Hillary as he shambled in.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I thought he’d come around.” She brushed back her hair. “Who called you?”
“I don’t know. Some guy.” Keel paused before he went into the bedroom. “What the hell’s going on here, Candy?”
“He’s had a little too much, maybe, but it’s happened before.”
“You give him any?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did he take any here?”
“No. I was with him all the while.”
They walked into the bedroom and looked down at Eagle, black and grotesque against the silk sheets. Keel raised one of Eagle’s eyelids. “Let’s get him out of here,” he said to Hillary. He turned to Candy. “He’s damned near dead, but I haven’t got time to talk to you now. I don’t know what you’re doing to Eagle, but if it’s what I think it is, I’m going to kick your ass from here back to Las Vegas.”
“How dare you talk to me that way?” Candy straightened her shoulders and snapped her head. The hair whisked backwards and the violet eyes narrowed.
“Don’t upset me,” Keel said. “Not now.”
“Hurry and make it,” she snapped. “I don’t want a square like you here.”
Keel ignored her and turned to Hillary. “Let’s get him outa here. Hurry!”
They bent and lifted the motionless Eagle and hustled him out of the bedroom. Candy held the door for them and they stepped into the hall.
“Ring for the car, Prof,” Keel said.
Hillary walked ahead and rang, then came back to help Keel. While they waited Keel kept saying, “Damn, I think he’s had it. He’s had it.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Hillary asked.
“An overdose of heroin, you damned fool.”
Hillary glanced down at the man between them. That had to be it. Eagle was addicted and Keel his guardian angel. The car came and the operator distastefully held the door for them and they went down. The doorman stayed in his seat, staring at them as they emerged on the ground floor. They went out supporting Eagle between them.
The cabby leaped out to help. “Richie Stokes, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but cool it,” Keel warned.
“Strung out?”
“Pretty far out.”
“What’re you goin’ to do?”
&n
bsp; “Man, don’t worry, just take us back downtown.”
“Just thought I could help. I dig Richie.”
“It’ll be all right. And if it isn’t, the less you know and do the better off you’ll be. Now drive, man.”
Keel slapped Eagle all the way back downtown. Hillary winced with each blow. Once the cabby asked, “Is he comin’ around?”
“I think so. His eyelashes moved a couple of times. Hurry up, man.”
“We’re making it,” the cabby answered.
The sky was light now, and the early morning people, construction workers, service people, bakers, and laundry men, moved hastily along the streets. The downtown avenues were filling up with cars coming from the Jersey and Brooklyn tunnels. Beneath them, the subways carried their first overflow crowds.
The apartment house janitors were carrying out refuse; some of them, a little ahead of schedule, were already sweeping the walks.
“Here we go,” Keel cautioned the driver. “The next house.”
The cab slowed and stopped. Keel paid the fare and said, “Thanks, man.”
“Need any help?”
“No. Thanks, though.”
“Take good care of him.”
“We will. Don’t worry. If we can’t straighten him out, he can’t be straightened.”
Hillary and Keel went up the steps, Eagle dragging between them. “This mother sure is heavy when he’s out,” Keel muttered as they struggled up the flights with him. “All this ought to make you sober, man,” he puffed.
Hillary, in fact, had reached a degree of soberness. The sight of Candy, her face—and perhaps her body too—sleek as a shark’s so that one was bludgeoned with the fact that there was something odd about her, had helped; the understanding that Eagle was dying helped also, and finally the frenzied necessity of staving off that death had worn away the fuzziness in Hillary’s mind. Now he was more exhausted than drunk.
Night Song Page 3