the Bar Studs)

by Levinson, Len

  She tapped Donald’s shoulder. With his eyes closed he groaned and pushed her hand away, but she reached for her shoulder again and shook him. Donald straightened his head and opened his eyes. In astonishment he looked at Gina, his father, and Mr. Wilson.

  “Are you awake?” Gina asked softly.

  He looked like he might cry. “What the fuck’s goin’ on!”

  She laughed gaily. “You are. Go brush your teeth and comb your hair, tiger, because you’re gonna get laid.”

  Chapter Seven

  Adrian returned to Julie Bauman’s apartment shortly before noon the next day to get his belongings, having accepted Sandra Goldstein’s invitation to live with her until he could find a place of his own. He had to pound on Julie’s door for a long time before she, sleepy and tousled and wearing Perce Washington’s shirt, opened it.

  “Oh hi,” she said fuzzily, opening the door wide and letting Adrian in. “I was worried about you. I thought maybe you got mugged.” She closed the door and latched it.

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I spent the night with a friend of mine.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Sandra Goldstein.”

  Julie smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She took you back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We all got our jobs back?”

  “No, she’s selling the place anyway.”

  “You couldn’t talk her into keeping it?”

  “No.”

  They entered the bedroom and saw Cindy Johnson cuddled next to Perce under the covers.

  “Hiya Adrian,” Perce said drowsily. “Take your clothes off and come on to bed.”

  “I’ve got to go someplace.”

  “He’s made up with his old lady,” Julie said, crossing her arms and standing beside the waterbed. “Isa’t that nice?”

  “We got the bar back?” Cindy asked.

  “Naw,” Julie said. “He couldn’t pull that one off too.”

  “Aw, shit,” Cindy complained. “What’s the matter with you, Adrian? Maybe if you went down on her like you went down on Julie she mighta give you the bar back.”

  Adrian pulled his suitcase out of the closet and opened it. He did go down on Sandra but he didn’t want to say so. He began taking his clothes off hangers and repacking.

  “You moving in with her too?” Cindy asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Jesus.”

  With an amused expression, Perce watched Adrian fold clothing into the suitcase.

  “Oh by the way,” Julie said, “you got a message.” She walked to her jeans that hung over a chair and pulled Johnny Mash’s message out of the pocket. “Here it is.”

  He read it: Call Al Liggio at 422-8270 about a job.

  “Do you know him?” Julie asked.

  “I used to work for him once. Mind if I use the phone?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Adrian walked to the living room and sat on the pile of brightly-colored pillows beside the telephone. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number on the slip of paper.

  “Palermo Social Club,” said a deep voice after a few rings.

  “Al Liggio, please.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Adrian Graham returning his call.”

  “Hang on.”

  There was a click in Adrian’s ear and then he waited for three minutes and looked around him at empty glasses, filled ashtrays, and nearly depleted bowls of potato chips, pretzels, and pork rinds.

  There was another click. “Adrian?”

  “Al?”

  “Yeah—how you doin’?”

  “So-so.”

  “I heard you was lookin’ for a job.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I got one for you. I’m buyin’ your old bar from that Goldstein broad an’ I want you to run it for me. How’s that for a kick in the ass?”

  Adrian was too stunned to speak.

  “You innerested?”

  “Yeah—sure.”

  “I wanna put the place in your name and I’ll give you a salary and a percentage cuz I know you built up a good business there. You can live in the place upstairs too. How does two hundred and fifty bucks a week an’ twenny percent sound?”

  Adrian calculated quickly and determined that would amount to around four hundred dollars a week. “Sounds good.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m back with Sandra Goldstein—you can reach me through her.”

  Al Liggio chuckled. “You’re back with her already? Maybe she won’t wanna sell to me now.”

  “She’ll sell.”

  “I gotta condition—I wantcha to hire my nephew Johnny Mash back.”

  “I wouldn’t run a place without him.”

  “I guess he can’t do much harm behind a bar. Okay, that’s all for now. I’ll call you in a few days. So long, fella.”

  “So long, Al.”

  Overjoyed, Adrian hung up the receiver and strode back to the bedroom. “Guess what?” he asked Julie, Cindy, and Perce, who were all lying together under the covers. “An old friend of mine is buying my bar and we’re all going back to work.”

  “No shit!” Cindy said.

  “No shit.”

  The girls whooped and cheered, and Perce smiled. He was smoking a joint and lying between both the girls. “That’s real nice, man.”

  “You see?” Julie asked. “You didn’t even have to go back to fat Sandra.”

  “I would’ve gone back to her anyway.”

  “You’re in love with her?” Julie asked incredulously.

  “I think so.” Adrian looked at his watch. “I’d better call a few of the others and tell them to hang loose and not to bother looking for jobs. We can all go on unemployment for a few weeks.”

  “You oughta celebrate,” Perce said, holding the joint up for Adrian to take. “This is some of the Columbian.”

  Adrian accepted it, took a few drags, and the room began to rock like a ship at sea. He passed it to Julie.

  “Why don’t you come on to bed?” Cindy cooed. “You look tired.”

  Adrian was floating through warm oil. “Naw—I’m going to try and play it straight with Sandra from now on.” He leaned against the dresser.

  “Well you don’t have to be a fanatic about it. Come on to bed and let’s celebrate.”

  “I’ve got to go uptown.”

  “Oh man,” Perce spat disgustedly. “You got a cunt collar already?”

  “How about this poor girl here?” Cindy asked, aiming her thumb at Julie.

  “What poor girl where?”

  “Julie Bauman right here,” Cindy replied, raising her voice. “She didn’t sleep with no other cats last night because she thought you was comin’ back. She ain’t had no dooby-dooby for over twenty-four hours, and it’s all your fault!”

  Julie passed the joint to Cindy and smiled seductively at Adrian. “That’s right. You owe me one because you didn’t call to say you wouldn’t be home.”

  “I’ll pay you some other time.” Adrian turned and walked toward his suitcase.

  Julie bounded out of bed and hugged him from behind. “I want it now.” Her right hand slithered down on his crotch.

  “No.” He felt her warm young body squirming against him.

  Perce Washington sniffed disapprovingly. “I ain’t never heard nothin’ so disgustin’ in my entire life, man. That little girl was waitin’ for you all night, savin’ her little self for you when they was cats out there—nice cats too—droolin’ all over her. And where was you? You was uptown someplace fuckin’ Miz Saks Fifth Avenue like the hound you are. I offered to help her out myself, man, out of the goodness of my heart, but she say she wanted to wait for you. And she was the only one who gave you a place to stay when your nutty old lady throwed you out in the cold. How can you be so mean, man? You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”

  Julie was stroking Adrian’s cock and making it hard. He lifted her persi
stent hand away and turned around to say something, but when he faced her she hugged her naked body against him and brushed her lips against his ear. As desire welled up inside him he was able to convince himself that he was morally obligated to screw her one last time.

  * * *

  Johnny Mash dreamed of war and cities on fire all through the night and awoke feeling well-rested and clear-headed at two-o’clock in the afternoon. He sat up in bed and thought it would be just another day but then he had a vision of Tino Fernandez clutching his bleeding wounds and falling over. Johnny Mash smiled as he remembered last night. He was proud of himself; he’d done a good job.

  He rolled out of bed and put on the same clothes he’d worn last night, and then walked to the Eighth Street shopping district where he bought clean underwear and socks, a new pair of jeans, and some silk body shirts in bright colors. He carried his packages to a Chinese restaurant near Mercer Street and breakfasted on a huge meal of spare ribs, lo mein, and tea.

  As he ate he reflected on how smoothly it had all gone last night at the Borinquen. He felt like a professional hit man, the kind of person he’d always admired. Maybe he could stop tending bar and do this full time. All he’d need was four or five hits a year and he could live in a penthouse and screw fancy broads. He’d never forget the thrill he felt when he shot Tino Fernandez. It had been something like coming inside a broad.

  After his meal he returned to his hotel room, took a shower, and shaved. He dressed in his new clothes, put on his leather jacket, and walked back to Eighth Street, where he took the BMT subway straight to Prince Street in Little Italy. At the Palermo Social Club he told Joe he wanted to see Al Liggio, and then shot pool by himself at the end table. He was halfway through his first rack when Joe told him Al Liggio was ready to see him.

  “Hiya, Uncle Al,” Johnny Mash said as he entered the office.

  Al Liggio looked up and said glumly: “Siddown.”

  The button man closed the door and Johnny Mash sat on one of the green leather chairs before Al Liggio. “Well, I did it.”

  “I know you did it. I read about it in the paper.” He pointed to a folded Daily News on the side of his desk.

  “It was in the paper? Lemme see.”

  Al Liggio furrowed his brow and threw the paper to Johnny Mash. “It’s on page three.”

  Johnny Mash eagerly turned the first page and the headline on the third page struck him in the eyes:

  MOBSTER SLAIN IN MIDTOWN CLUB

  Police Fear Gangland War

  There was a picture of Tino Fernandez covered with blood and lying on the floor, and a picture of a crowd outside the Borinquen Cafe. Johnny Mash read the first three paragraphs of the story, which told how a young gunman shot the alleged drug peddler Tino Fernandez in the night club.

  Johnny Mash looked at Al Liggio and slapped the story with the back of his hand. “Here’s the proof that I did it. If you got any other jobs you want me to do just say so.”

  Al Liggio narrowed his eyes and pulled down the corners of his mouth. “You fuckin’ asshole,” he growled.

  Johnny Mash sat upright in his chair. “Whatsa matter?”

  “You’re a stupid bastard, that’s whatsa matter. When I gave you the job I thought you had enough brains to hit the motherfucker on the sly, but instead you hit him in frunna a hundred people in a fuckin’ nightclub and made page three of the Daily News.”

  “So what? I got him, didn’t I?”

  “You got a lot of publicity too, which brings heat from the cops. They’ll be under pressure to show results an’ don’t think they don’t know who might wanna have that spick knocked off. With all them eyewitnesses, somebody hadda get a good look at you.” Al Liggio shook his head. “You fuckin’ dope. I can’t believe how stupid you are.”

  “A lotta guys look like me. I ain’t worried.”

  “That’s cuz you’re too stupid to worry.” Al Liggio aimed his forefinger at Johnny Mash’s head. “I don’t want you comin’ here no more. Don’t call me on the telephone, don’t write me no letters, forget about me—unnerstand? If I knew how to get in touch with you I woulda told you not to come here today.” Al Liggio turned around and opened the safe. He counted some money, faced Johnny Mash again, and handed it to him. “Here—I’ll give you an envelope for it.” He took one out of a drawer and threw it to Johnny Mash. “Now get the fuck outta here. I ain’t in no mood to talk witcha no more.”

  Johnny Mash stuffed the money into the envelope and couldn’t understand why Uncle Al was so mad. Maybe he was getting old. “I’m sorry you feel this way, Uncle Al,” he said as he stood up.

  “Just get the fuck outa here and don’t come back. Oh, yeah—I got you your old job back. Call Adrian Graham and he’ll tell you about it. That’s all—beat it.” Al Liggio swiveled his chair to the side and picked up his telephone. “Get me Mike Zagari.”

  The button man opened the door and Johnny Mash left the office feeling misunderstood and hurt. He thought Uncle Al would have congratulated him and maybe given him another hit to do, but instead he put him down. He thought Uncle Al was making himself crazy over nothing.

  He walked through the pool hall to the outer room where the old men played cards, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He’d take the subway back to the Village and find a broad to fuck. Fucking always cheered him up when he was feeling bad.

  As he headed left toward the subway station he didn’t notice the bum lying on the sidewalk across the street. Bums often drifted into the neighborhood because the Bowery was only three blocks away, but this bum’s eyes were perfectly clear, and he scrutinized Johnny Mash carefully. He was Puerto Rican and Johnny Mash would have been surprised to know that he hadn’t had anything to drink all day.

  * * *

  Teddy Holmes opened the door and stepped into the cold sunshine of Eleventh Street beside St. Vincent’s Hospital. He carried a small satchel with some clothes old Louise had brought from his apartment, and he wore an Army field jacket that he’d bought last winter in a military surplus store. As he walked to the corner he passed a pretty blonde girl who looked at his face and flinched, and a little further on a little boy stared at him. Teddy wished he had a high collar behind which to hide his face.

  He walked up Greenwich Avenue to Horatio Street and then headed toward his tenement building, passing more pedestrians who grimaced and shrank from the sight of his scarred and misshapen face. He felt like a leper, and it was horrible. He couldn’t wait to get inside his apartment.

  When he arrived he saw the apartment was like the police left it after they’d conducted their investigation. His little statues and vases were not in their proper places, a patina of dust covered everything, and right in the middle of the floor was the white flokati rug with dried blood splotched on it. Teddy took off his jacket and sat on the sofa, safe at last from the eyes of strangers. He looked sadly at the rug. That’s where he’d made beautiful love with Mark, and where Mark killed the Teddy Holmes that used to be.

  Teddy arose, rolled up the rug, and carried it outside to the trash barrels, laying it beside them. Then he returned to his apartment and for the next few hours dusted and cleaned until it was like before.

  When finished he looked at his watch and saw it was two in the afternoon. He knew that the owner of the Corral, Milton Glass, was usually there afternoons to tally the previous night’s receipts and go over inventories. Teddy thought he’d visit Milton and pick up his last paycheck. Although he dreaded being seen he needed the money.

  In a drawer he found a yellow scarf, which he wrapped around his neck in a way that covered his chin and mouth. Then he took a swig of vodka straight out of the bottle and left for the Corral.

  There were only three motorcycles in front when he arrived, and a handsome gay man in a blue denim jacket sat on the stoop of the tenement next door. When the man looked at Teddy’s face he glanced away quickly and fidgeted on the stoop, and Teddy felt sick in his gut. No gay man had ever done that to him before. He gritted his teeth and
pushed open the door of the Corral.

  Five customers sat at the bar and his old enemy Dave Eisner worked behind it. As Teddy approached, a smile curved onto Dave’s face.

  “Why Teddy,” he said, holding out his hand. “So glad to see you up and around.”

  Teddy huddled inside his yellow scarf and shook Dave’s slim hand. “Milton around?”

  “He’s in back.” Dave’s eyes scoured the part of Teddy’s face still visible. “You poor dear,” he said superciliously. “Why, your eyes aren’t even the same shape as each other, and, my goodness, look at your nose.”

  Teddy pushed away from the bar and walked back to Milton’s office. In the small kitchen where sandwiches and hamburgers were made he noticed himself perspiring, so he unzipped his jacket and loosened the scarf. This would permit his face to be seen, but he’d have to get used to that and he might as well start now. He knocked on Milton’s door.

  “Who’s there?” asked Milton in his mellifluous voice.

  “Teddy Holmes.”

  There was a pause, and then: “Come in, Teddy.”

  Teddy opened the door and saw Milton sitting behind an antique roll-top desk that faced the left wall of the small office. Milton was a fat bald Jewish fairy of about forty-five with a Fu Manchu moustache and faded denim bib overalls. He looked sideways at Teddy, closed his eyes, and said: “Oh my God, Teddy.”

  Teddy stood with his hands in his field jacket pockets. “I’ve come for my last paycheck.”

  “Of course—I have it right here. Sit down, Teddy.” Milton opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope. “Oh Teddy, I feel like crying. I hope you’ll excuse me if I do. I’m not the strongest person.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Teddy accepted the envelope, tore open the end, and pulled out the check. The amount was correct.

  “Such brutality,” Milton said with a shudder. “How could you invite someone like that home?”

  “You would have invited him home, too. He was a real dish.”

  “Oh, Teddy, I feel so terrible.” Milton clasped his hands together. “You’ve been…desecrated.”