by Ward, Robert
I came to her door, room 27, and started to knock, but voices stopped me. Happy voices, laughter.
“Oh, Larry,” the voice said. My mother’s voice.
I stopped my hand in midknock.
“God, Larry,” the voice said this time.
“Ruth … You are so good to me, Ruth,” a man’s voice said. A husky voice. Drenched in sex.
“No,” my mother said. “You’re the one that’s good.”
“To hell with it,” the man’s voice said. “We’re both good.”
“Could you hand me a beer, hon?” my mother said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the man said.
I felt dizzy, breathless, and staggered back from the door.
“Your program is gonna be on the TV soon, hon,” my mother said.
“Oh, yeah,” the man said, laughing. “But on the other hand, the program can wait.”
“I’ll have a little drink to that,” my mother said.
Then I heard them both laughing again. I didn’t stay for any more. I walked very quickly down past the black-eyed susans, took the steps three at a time, and headed for the car.
Miss Kissable Lips, I thought. Miss Kissable Lips has finally found her man.
It was 3 A.M. when I got back to Chateau Avenue. I’d stopped at the Hollow and had about twenty beers and in a moment of pure perversion I’d gotten into an argument with an out-of-work plumber over who was the greatest quarterback, Johnny Unitas or Y. A. Tittle. All my life I had worshipped Unitas but tonight I made my case for old Yel-berton Abraham and in the process found myself taking on the entire bar. The “debate” had quickly declined into a name-calling contest, and finally the plumber had told me I was a “cheese-eating daddy-jacking son of a bitch who didn’t know jack shit about football.” I had told him to stick his ratchet up his ass, and there had been a pushing and shoving battle, which poured out into the street. He’d finally landed a little punch on my head, which raised a small welt. It wasn’t big enough to assuage my guilt, but it would have to do.
My parents were breaking up. The little fiction that I told myself, “They really loved one another in spite of all their troubles,” was a lie. I had known it was a lie for a long time, and yet, I still clung to it and I felt like a fool.
I climbed the steps to my room and saw Val lying there asleep. She had been right. There was no point in me going out there, none at all.
I looked at the desk across from the bed and saw my journal. And thought of the lie I’d told my father about it.
In the last week I’d barely touched it.
I sat down heavily in the cane chair by the window and stared up at the moon.
I thought of Raines guiding my father’s hand, my father kicking out his swing to the stars, and the sound of my mother’s sexual laughter, which made me cringe. Yeah, I was a new man. Nothing could bother me.
I picked up my journal and a pen.
And sitting there, by the moonlight, I began to write.
That night I wrote for four straight hours, wrote scene after scene, snatches of dialogue, fragments of my life at Chateau Avenue. I felt possessed of some strange energy; language, pain, laughter, and sex all met in one great confluence of my mind and heart. Whether it was any good at all, I had no idea, but I knew I had to get it all down, and I had to keep getting it down from then on.
Finally, around seven, I decided to get up and go downstairs for coffee.
I walked down the steps, half asleep, still buckling my Levis, when I was shocked by the sight of a stranger in the living room.
He was a pillow-fat man with a head like a huge olive. His hair was piled up like black whipped cream, and he wore a tan raincoat as big as a tarpaulin and five-inch-high Cuban heels. In his hand was a cigar about the size of an oar. At that moment, the Babe came walking out of the kitchen. She had on a green see-through off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and the tightest pair of red short shorts known to man.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The fat man took a great long look at her, blew a black puff of smoke in her face, and shook his head.
“Raines around here?” he grunted.
“Upstairs asleep,” the Babe grunted back in a parody of his guttural voice. “Wish you would put out that cigar.”
The fat man looked at her hard then. The playfulness disappeared from his little pig eyes.
“Oh, you do, do you?” he said.
“Yes, I do,” the Babe said. “Sorry, but I’m just not into them.”
“Oh, really,” the fat man said. “Well, what is it you are into? ‘Cause from the looks of things it ain’t business.”
I was going to intervene at that point, but Eddie walked in from the kitchen. He took one look at the fat man, and grimaced.
“I don’t know who you are, mister,” he said, squinting his eyes like a gunslinger. “But this is our place, and since you walked in without ringing the bell, it would be wise for you to do as she says and put out the cigar.”
The fat man said nothing but simply stared at Eddie with an insolent little smirk on his face. It was as though he were a scientist investigating a bug.
“Sorry, I didn’t send youse an invitation,” he said. “Name’s Johnny Martello. Maybe you know of my employer, Mr. A.”
“No,” Eddie said, “I do not know of your employer, but I do know that that cigar is choking the Babe here, so I’m asking you one last time …”
“Ah, that’s all right, Ed.” I heard a voice from behind me. I looked up and saw Jeremy coming down the steps. His cowlick stood straight up on his head like a rooster’s crown, and he was wiping the sand from his eyes. But when he saw Martello, he snapped to attention.
“Johnny,” he said in a voice that was thick with insincerity. “Johnny, my friend, don’t mind Eddie and the Babe. They’re just being a little overly sensitive. Come in, and I’ll have Lulu cook us up some breakfast.”
He turned and pointed to Lulu Hardwell, who was trailing down the steps behind him in a shockingly revealing blue nightgown with so many ruffles she looked like a walking curtain.
Martello squinted and looked up the steps.
“Innaresting,” he said. “But I don’t got no time for innaresting. The truth is I got a check for you, but first I wanta’ see your setup.”
Jeremy looked as though he was going to squirm out of his pants.
“Yes, of course, the setup,” Jeremy said. “And ordinarily we could do that. But today I have clients out in western Maryland, and I’m running late.”
“No see, no money,” Martello shrugged. “See you all of a sudden.”
He laughed, flicked a huge ash on the floor, and started to leave.
“Ah, Johnny,” Raines said. “Don’t run along. We’ll make time.”
He tried to give the words a devil-may-care spin, but there was terrific tension in his voice.
“Good. And, by the way, who are these dudes?” Johnny Martello said.
There was a long and terrible silence, and I had to restrain Eddie by grabbing his stump.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” Jeremy said, “this is some of my staff, and there isn’t a better one around.”
Martello looked at Jeremy Raines and shook his head.
“I heard you was a put-on artist,” he said. “So I’ll go along with you. Yeah, this is your staff. Right.”
He cocked his huge head and looked at us with a sly and knowing expression.
“Hi ya’, staff,” he said, then gave a short little contemptuous laugh.
I felt something breaking inside of me. My breath came up short, and I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to grab Johnny M. by his throat.
Martello looked carefully at each of us and then a dull light came on in his eyes.
“Hey, you’re like serious?” he said. “These people are really your staff? Well, we’ll see about that.”
There was another long silence. Then Raines signaled Martello to come follow him to the kitchen and down the
crumbling cellar steps to the Hole.
I stood waiting with Val, Lulu, Eddie, and the Babe and the quiet was like five blindfolded prisoners waiting for the first shock of the firing squad.
“That guy needs a new asshole,” Eddie said.
“You said it,” the Babe said. “I can’t believe we’re gonna be working with him.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Jeremy will charm him into submission.”
“Don’t count on it,” Lulu said.
She started for the kitchen.
“I don’t think he wants you to go down there,” I said.
“Bullshit,” Val said, “Jeremy needs all the support he can …”
She never finished her sentence, for that second we heard Jeremy and Johnny tromping up the cellar steps.
The five of us stood there in the living room as still as statues.
Johnny looked at us and shook his head.
“I know what you all think,” he said. “You think I am going to make a speech about how lame this organization is. You think I am going to do a whole number on the complete lack of professionalism, what a shithole the cellar is, but you are completely wrong. I’m going to say only this. You got a note due in five days. First installment on the loan Mr. A. so generously laid on you. If you do not have the payment, then this company becomes part of the Rudy Antonelli Corporation, from which day forth it’ll be run right, so I wish you good luck.”
He started to turn and stalk out, his big belly bouncing in front of him like the prow of a battleship. Eddie Eckel could stand no more. He moved in front of Johnny and glared at him with pure hatred.
“You are a complete and total asshole,” Eddie said.
Johnny said nothing. Instead, he reached into his pocket.
“Better get outta’ my way, stumpy,” he said in a reptilian hiss, “or I pull my hand outta my pocket and then you ain’t gonna need either hand.”
For the longest time the two men stared bullets at one another. Then, finally, Eddie moved aside.
“Five days, beatniks,” Johnny said, then turned and waddled through the front door.
We stood in complete silence. I felt a helpless rage rolling inside me, and I looked at Jeremy, who slumped onto the steps.
“All right, the guy’s a goombah, so what? Five thousand is no problem,” Jeremy said. “We finish Catholic University today, and they owe us seven grand.”
“Great,” I said, “And then what? We’ve still got this jerk coming around here every day. Listen, Jeremy, I know I’m not an expert in business, but something just struck me. Mr. A. wants us to fail so he can take over the business.”
“That’s crazy,” Jeremy snapped. “You’re paranoid.”
“Am I? You told him all about the potential of the card business. He’s no dummy. He knows we’ve got a shaky scene here. He figures he pressures us a little, we either go under or sell out at some low figure. This is just the beginning. No matter what we do, they’re going to be hounding us from now on.”
There was a long silence, then Jeremy jumped up from the steps.
“That’s bullshit. He’s not Al Capone. He has some assholes working for him, but believe me, if we come up with the bread, he’ll lay off. Now let’s stop spinning these paranoid fantasies and get to work.”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said suddenly. “I think the prof might be right. You saw that guy. These are pricks, Jeremy. I say we give ‘em their money back now, find some other way to raise the dough.”
“Oh, really,” Jeremy said. “Well, what do you have in mind, Ed? Because I’m happy to entertain any brilliant financial solution you have.”
There was a real edge of mockery to his voice. It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak that way to anyone, and I knew in my heart that he was scared now, scared to death.
“Don’t talk to Eddie in that way,” Babe said.
“Hey, he didn’t mean anything,” Val said, jumping in. “What’s Eddie, a sensitive little lamb?”
“You shut the hell up,” Eddie said. He moved toward Val and thrust his finger in her face.
“Hey, watch it,” I said, moving in front of her and pushing my face a half inch from his.
We were one second away from punching one another when Raines spoke.
“Listen to you all,” he said. “Listen to you! We’ve made it through worse times than this. And we’re going to be fine, fine. Here’s what we are going to do. We’ll get a few more colleges to buy our cards, then when they pay us we will pay off Rudy A. and find other more legitimate investors. Relax, and remember, we’re family.”
That shut us all down. I stared at my shoes, as did Eddie.
“I’m sorry, man,” Eddie said.
“No, it’s nothing. We’re all just tense. Forget it.”
He pat me on the shoulder, and when I looked across the room, Val and Babe were hugging one another. But it didn’t feel good, not good at all. And when I turned to look at Raines, he gave me a forced, painful smile, and I knew that he was as worried as the rest of us.
Still, though Martello had shaken us all, we refused to panic. Now, more than ever, we were determined to save Identi-Card from ruin. I placed a tense call to the development lab and found out that the latest batch of pictures had come out perfectly. That buoyed our spirits considerably. Now all we had to do was make certain the right pictures went with the proper names, laminate each card with plastic, pull a massive all-night embossing stint, and roll over to Catholic U. on Friday, cards in hand. They’d pay us, we’d pay Rudy, and for another month, at least, we’d stay alive.
Two days after Martello had come into our lives, the weather changed. The first signs of real winter were in evidence and the falling brown and orange leaves blew up and down Chateau Avenue, covering the steps, the sidewalk, and the parked cars. Jeremy wore an old green corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves and a pair of oversized khakis and had an ancient battered but rakish green plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. He was never without his black plastic wraparound sunglasses. The total effect was that of some bizarre hybrid, part Maryland horseman-gentleman and part downtown hipster.
As we walked toward the Nash, Jeremy kicked through the leaves happily, like a sweet-natured child.
“We’ll surprise Mr. A., my boy,” he said. “We’re going to bring home the proverbial bacon.”
“Where are we headed, Chief?” I asked. “Out to some new colleges?”
“Not yet,” Jeremy said, smiling. “We’ve got to make a little trip to Larson-Payne first.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Now?” I said. “With Rudy A. hanging over us?”
“You worry far too much,” Jeremy said. “Relax, I have to do this now. While I feel inspired. Business can wait.”
In a white room, with only a stool inside, Billy McConnell sat stock-still. Jeremy, Dr. Hergenroeder, and I looked at him through the one-way mirror.
“No progress at all,” Dr. Hergenroeder said. “He hasn’t budged one inch.”
“Maybe this sounds like a stupid question,” I said. “But have you ever considered Billy’s problem might be physiological?”
“No, it’s not a stupid question,” she said, running her hands down the lapels of her lab coat. “Of course Billy’s been completely checked out, and from everything we can tell, physically he’s completely normal.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said. “Today is the day. It’s going to happen. Count on it, friends.”
Dr. Hergenroeder shook her head and sighed. It was obvious that she felt badly that Jeremy was going to be disappointed again.
“Did you get the paintings?” Jeremy said.
“Yes, he brought them in yesterday. They’re very good.”
She walked behind her great steel desk and brought out a painting, though it was impossible to say what it looked like because it was covered with old newspaper.
“What’s this?” I said.
Jeremy smiled at me mysteriously and took the painti
ng from Dr. Hergenroeder.
“The audio ready?” he asked as he slowly unwrapped it.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re all set up.”
“Good,” he said. There was something very strange going on. As he unwrapped the painting, he smiled at me.
“What have you done now?” I asked, feeling an uneasiness in the pit of my stomach.
Then he tore off the last of the paper, and I gasped. The picture was a beautifully drawn watercolor of a high castle and a deep blue moat. Looking down forlornly from the castle window was a handsome little boy, a boy who looked exactly like Billy McConnell. There was such longing in that face, such loneliness. It was as if he was silently waiting for someone to come cross that castle moat and unlock his heart.
“That’s my father’s work,” I said, astonished.
“Yes, sir,” Jeremy said, smiling and putting his hand around my back. “Painted it in three days. Did a brilliant job, too.”
“It’s good,” I said, stunned. “I mean look at that. How many times did you have him in here to see Billy?”
“He never saw him. I showed him a photograph.”
“You’re kidding. How’d he pull this off?”
Jeremy nodded and smiled at me.
“Maybe he knows about some other kid who was locked in a castle.”
Ordinarily I would have jumped all over such an obvious psychological interpretation, but the sadness and compassion in the painting rendered any such protests beside the point. I felt a lump form in my throat, and suddenly I was turning my head and coughing hard.
Then I noticed that there were other paintings on the floor, still wrapped, but when I reached for them, Jeremy grabbed my hand.
“All in good time, my boy,” he said. “All in good time. Now Dr. Hergenroeder, let’s get this show on the road.”