He was asking himself whether he should stay there.
He heard her saying, “Incidentally, my name is Tillie.”
She stood there waiting.
“Kenneth,” he said. “Kenneth Rockland.”
But that wasn’t what she was waiting for. Several moments passed, and then somehow he knew what she wanted him to say. He said, “I’ll be here when you come back.”
“Good.” The candlelight showed her crooked grin, a grimace on the scarred face. But what he saw was a gentle smile. It seemed to drift toward him like a soothing caress. And then he heard her saying. “Maybe I’ll come back with some news. You told me it was two men. There’s a chance I can check on them if you’ll tell me what they look like.”
He shook his head. “You better stay out of it. You might get hurt.”
“Nothing can hurt me,” she said. She pointed her finger at the wreckage of her face. Her tone was almost pleading as she said, “Come on, tell me what they look like.”
He shrugged. He gave a brief description of Oscar and Coley. And the Olds 88.
“Check,” Tillie said. “I don’t have 20–20 but I’ll keep them open and see what’s happening.”
She turned and walked out and the door closed. Ken lifted himself from the floor and picked up the candle. He walked across the cement floor and the candle showed him a small space off to one side, a former coal-bin arranged with a mattress against the wall, a splintered chair and a splintered bureau and a table stacked with books. There was a candleholder on the table and he set the candle on it and then he had a look at the books.
It was an odd mixture of literature. There were books dealing with idyllic romance, strictly from fluttering hearts and soft moonlight and violins. And there were books that probed much deeper, explaining the scientific side of sex. There was one book in particular that looked as though she’d been concentrating on it. The pages were considerably thumbed and she’d used a pencil to underline certain paragraphs. It was clear that she was faced with the hell of a personal problem she was trying to solve intelligently and couldn’t.
He shook his head slowly. He thought, It’s a damn shame . . .
And then, for some unaccountable reason, he thought of Hilda. She flowed into his mind with a rustling of silk that sheathed the exquisite contours of her slender torso and legs. Her platinum-blonde hair was glimmering and her long-lashed green eyes were beckoning to say, Come on, take my hand and we’ll go down Memory Lane.
He shut his eyes tightly. He wondered why he was thinking about her. A long time ago he’d managed to get her out of his mind and he couldn’t understand what had brought her back again. He begged himself to get rid of the thought, it was a white-hot memory that disturbed him profoundly. Without sound he said, Goddamn her.
And suddenly he realized why he was thinking of Hilda. It was like a curtain lifted to reveal the hidden channels of his brain. He was comparing Hilda’s physical perfection with the scarred face of Tillie. His eyes were open and he gazed down at the mattress on the floor and for a moment he saw Hilda on the mattress. She smiled teasingly and then she shook her head and said, Nothing doing. So then she vanished and in the next moment it was Tillie on the mattress but somehow he didn’t feel bitter or disappointed; he had the feeling that the perfection was all on Tillie’s side.
He took off his shoes and lowered himself to the mattress. He yawned a few times and then he fell asleep.
A voice said, “Kenneth—”
He was instantly awake. He looked up and saw Tillie. He smiled at her and said, “What time is it?”
“Half-past five.” She had a paper bag in her hand and she was taking things out of the bag and putting them on the table. There was some dried fish and a package of tea leaves and some cold fried noodles. She reached deeper into the bag and took out a bottle containing colorless liquid.
“Rice wine,” she said. She set the bottle on the table. Then again she reached into the bag and her hand came out holding a cardboard box.
“Opium?” he murmured.
She nodded. “I got some cigarettes, too.” She took a pack of Luckies from her pocket, opened the pack and extended it to him.
He sat up and put a cigarette in his mouth and used the candle to light it. He said, “You going to smoke the opium?”
“No, I’ll smoke what you’re smoking.”
He put another cigarette in his mouth and lit it and handed it to her.
She took a few drags and then she said quietly, “I didn’t want to wake you up, but I thought you’d want to hear the news.”
He blinked a few times. “What news?”
“I saw them,” she said.
He blinked again. “Where?”
“On Tenth Street.” She took more smoke into her mouth and let it come out of her nose. “It was a couple hours ago, after I come out of the Chinaman’s.”
He sat up straighter. “You been watching them for two hours?”
“Watching them? I been with them. They took me for a ride.”
He stared at her. His mouth was open but no sound came out.
Tillie grinned. “They didn’t know I was in the car.”
He took a deep breath. “How’d you manage it?”
She shrugged. “It was easy. I saw them sitting in the car and then they got out and I followed them. They were taking a stroll around the block and peeping into alleys and finally I heard the little one saying they might as well powder and come back tomorrow. The big one said they should keep on searching the neighborhood. They got into an argument and I had a feeling the little one would win. So I walked back to the car. The door was open and I climbed in the back and got flat on the floor. About five minutes later they’re up front and the car starts and we’re riding.”
His eyes were narrow. “Where?”
“Downtown,” she said. “It wasn’t much of a ride. It only took a few minutes. They parked in front of a house on Spruce near Eleventh. I watched them go in. Then I got out of the car—”
“And walked back here?”
“Not right away,” she said. “First I cased the house.”
Silly Tillie, he thought. If they’d seen her they’d have dragged her in and killed her.
She said, “It’s one of them little old-fashioned houses. There’s a vacant lot on one side and on the other side there’s an alley. I went down the alley and came up on the back porch and peeped through the window. They were in the kitchen, the four of them.”
He made no sound, but his lips shaped the word. “Four?” And then, with sound, “Who were the other two?”
“A man and a woman.”
He stiffened. He tried to get up from the mattress and couldn’t move. His eyes aimed past Tillie as he said tightly, “Describe them.”
“The man was about five-ten and sort of beefy. I figure about two hundred. He looked about forty or so. Had a suntan and wore expensive clothes. Brown wavy hair and brown eyes and—”
“That’s Riker,” he murmured. He managed to lift himself from the mattress. His voice was a whisper as he said, “Now let’s have the woman.”
“She was something,” Tillie said. “She was really something.”
“Blonde?” And with both hands he made a gesture begging Tillie to speed the reply.
“Platinum blonde,” Tillie said. “With the kind of a face that makes men turn round and stretch their necks to look at. That kind of a face, and a shape that goes along with it. She was wearing—”
“Pearls,” he said. “She always had a weakness for pearls.”
Tillie didn’t say anything.
He moved past Tillie. He stood facing the dark wall of the cellar and seeing the yellow-black play of candlelight and shadow on the cracked plaster. “Hilda,” he said. “Hilda.”
It was quiet for some moments. He told himself it was wintertime and he wondered if he was sweating.
Then very slowly he turned and looked at Tillie. She was sitting on the edge of the mattress and drinking from the
bottle of rice wine. She took it in short, measured gulps, taking it down slowly to get the full effect of it. When the bottle was half empty she raised her head and grinned at him and said, “Have some?”
He nodded. She handed him the bottle and he drank. The Chinese wine was mostly fire and it burned all the way going down and when it hit his belly it was electric hot. But the climate it sent to his brain was cool and mild and the mildness showed in his eyes. His voice was quiet and relaxed as he said, “I thought Oscar and Coley made the trip alone. It didn’t figure that Riker and Hilda would come with them. But now it adds. I can see the way it adds.”
“It’s a long ride from Los Angeles,” Tillie said.
“They didn’t mind. They enjoyed the ride.”
“The scenery?”
“No,” he said. “They weren’t looking at the scenery. They were thinking of the setup here in Philly. With Oscar putting the blade in me and then the funeral and Riker seeing me in the coffin and telling himself his worries were over.”
“And Hilda?”
“The same,” he said. “She’s been worried just as much as Riker. Maybe more.”
Tillie nodded slowly. “From the story you told me, she’s got more reason to worry.”
He laughed lightly. He liked the sound of it and went on with it. He said, through the easy laughter, “They really don’t need to worry. They’re making it a big thing and it’s nothing at all. I forgot all about them a long time ago. But they couldn’t forget about me.”
Tillie had her head inclined and she seemed to be studying the sound of his laughter. Some moments passed and then she said quietly, “You don’t like black pudding?”
He didn’t get the drift of that. He stopped laughing and his eyes were asking what she meant.
“There’s an old saying,” she said. “Revenge is black pudding.”
He laughed again.
“Don’t pull away from it,” Tillie said. “Just listen to it. Let it hit you and sink in. Revenge is black pudding.”
He went on laughing, shaking his head and saying, “I’m not in the market.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” he said. Then, with a grin, “Only pudding I like is vanilla.”
“The black tastes better,” Tillie said. “I’ve had some, and I know. I had it when they told me he had done away with himself.”
He winced slightly. He saw Tillie getting up from the mattress and moving towards him. He heard her saying, “That black pudding has a wonderful flavor. You ought to try a spoonful.”
“No,” he said. “No, Tillie.”
She came closer. She spoke very slowly and there was a slight hissing in her voice. “They put you in prison for nine years. They cheated you and robbed you and tortured you.”
“That’s all past,” he said. “That’s from yesterday.”
“It’s from now.” She stood very close to him. “They’re itching to hit you again and see you dead. They won’t stop until you’re dead. That puts a poison label on them. And there’s only one way to deal with poison. Get rid of it.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll let it stay the way it is.”
“You can’t,” Tillie said. “It’s a choice you have to make. Either you’ll drink bitter poison or you’ll taste that sweet black pudding.”
He grinned again. “There’s a third choice.”
“Like what?”
“This.” And he pointed to the bottle of rice wine. “I like the taste of this. Let’s stay with it until it’s empty.”
“That won’t solve the problem,” Tillie said.
“The hell with the problem.” His grin was wide. It was very wide and he didn’t realize that it was forced.
“You fool,” Tillie said.
He had the bottle raised and he was taking a drink.
“You poor fool,” she said. Then she shrugged and turned away from him and lowered herself to the mattress.
The forced grin stayed on his face as he went on drinking. Now he was drinking slowly because the rice wine dulled the action in his brain and he had difficulty lifting the bottle to his mouth. Gradually he became aware of a change taking place in the air of the cellar; it was thicker, sort of smokey. His eyes tried to focus and there was too much wine in him and he couldn’t see straight. But then the smoke came up in front of his eyes and into his eyes. He looked down and saw the white clay pipe in Tillie’s hand. She was sitting on the mattress with her legs crossed, Buddha-like, puffing at the opium, taking it in very slowly, the smoke coming out past the corners of her lips.
The grin faded from his face. And somehow the alcohol-mist was drifting away from his brain. He thought, She smokes it because she’s been kicked around. But there was no pity in his eyes, just the level look of clear thinking. He said to himself, There’s only two kinds of people in this world, the ones who get kicked around and the ones who do the kicking.
He lowered the bottle to the table. He turned and took a few steps going away and then heard Tillie saying, “Moving out?”
“No,” he said. “Just taking a walk.”
“Where?”
“Spruce Street,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
He shook his head. He faced her and saw that she’d put the pipe aside. She was getting up from the mattress. He went on shaking his head and saying, “It can’t be played that way. I gotta do this alone.”
She moved toward him. “Maybe it’s goodbye.”
“If it is,” he said, “there’s only one way to say it.”
His eyes told her to come closer. He put his arms around her and held her with a tenderness and a feeling of not wanting to let her go. He kissed her. He knew she felt the meaning of the kiss, she was returning it and as her breath went into him it was sweet and pure and somehow like nectar.
Then, very gently, she pulled away from him. She said, “Go now. It’s still dark outside. It’ll be another hour before the sun comes up.”
He grinned. It was a soft grin that wasn’t forced. “This job won’t take more than an hour,” he said. “Whichever way it goes, it’ll be a matter of minutes. Either I’ll get them or they’ll get me.”
He turned away and walked across the cellar toward the splintered door. Tillie stood there watching him as he opened the door and went out.
It was less than three minutes later and they had him. He was walking south on Ninth, between Race Street and Arch, and the black Olds 88 was cruising on Arch and he didn’t see them but they saw him, with Oscar grinning at Coley and saying, “There’s our boy.”
Oscar drove the car past the intersection and parked it on the north side of the Arch about twenty feet away from the corner. They got out and walked toward the corner and stayed close to the brick wall of the corner building. They listened to the approaching footsteps and grinned at each other and a few moments later he arrived on the corner and they grabbed him.
He felt Coley’s thick arm wrapped tight around his throat, pulling his head back. He saw the glimmer of the five-inch blade in Oscar’s hand. He told himself to think fast and he thought very fast and managed to say, “You’ll be the losers. I made a connection.”
Oscar hesitated. He blinked puzzledly. “What connection?”
He smiled at Oscar. Then he waited for Coley to loosen the armhold on his throat. Coley loosened it, then lowered it to his chest, using both arms to clamp him and prevent him from moving.
He made no attempt to move. He went on smiling at Oscar, and saying, “An important connection. It’s important enough to louse you up.”
“Prove it,” Oscar said.
“You’re traced.” He narrowed the smile just a little. “If anything happens to me, they know where to get you.”
“He’s faking,” Coley said. Then urgently, “Go on, Oscar, give him the knife.”
“Not yet,” Oscar murmured. He was studying Ken’s eyes and his own eyes were somewhat worried. He said to Ken, “Who did the tracing?”
&nb
sp; “I’ll tell that to Riker.”
Oscar laughed without sound. “Riker’s in Los Angeles.”
“No he isn’t,” Ken said. “He’s here in Philly.”
Oscar stopped laughing. The worry deepened in his eyes. He stared past Ken, focusing on Coley.
“He’s here with Hilda,” Ken said.
“It’s just a guess,” Coley said. “It’s gotta be a guess.” He tightened his bear-hug on Ken. “Do it, Oscar Don’t let him stall you. Put the knife in him.”
Oscar looked at Ken and said, “You making this a quiz game?”
Ken shrugged. “It’s more like stud poker.”
“Maybe,” Oscar admitted. “But you’re not the dealer.”
Ken shrugged again. He didn’t say anything.
Oscar said, “You’re not the dealer and all you can do is hope for the right card.”
“I got it already,” Ken said. “It fills an inside straight.”
Oscar bit the edge of his lip. “All right, I’ll take a look.” He had the knife aiming at Ken’s chest, and then he raised it and moved in closer and the tip of the blade was touching Ken’s neck. “Let’s see your hole-card, sonny. All you gotta do is name the street and the house.”
“Spruce Street,” Ken said. “Near Eleventh.”
Oscar’s face became pale. Again he was staring at Coley.
Ken said, “It’s an old house, detached. On one side there’s a vacant lot and on the other side there’s an alley.”
It was quiet for some moments and then Oscar was talking aloud to himself, saying, “He knows, he really knows.”
“What’s the move?” Coley asked.
He sounded somewhat unhappy.
“We gotta think,” Oscar said.
“This makes it complicated and we gotta think it through very careful.”
Coley muttered a four-letter word. He said, “We ain’t getting paid to do our own thinking. Riker gave us orders to find him and bump him.”
“We can’t bump him now,” Oscar said. “Not under these conditions. The way it stacks up, it’s Riker’s play. We’ll have to take him to Riker.”
The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction Page 50