The Kind One

by Tom Epperson

  “How can you drink that belly-wash?” said Kid McCoy. “Only queers and Communists drink that shit.”

  “I know a girl that drinks it. She got me started.”

  “A girl, huh?” He shook his head and stared broodingly into space like I’d just explained everything.

  McCoy had been the middleweight champ of the world back in the 1890s. The phrase “the real McCoy,” meaning the genuine article, came from him. He’d got in a fight in a saloon with a guy who’d refused to believe he was Kid McCoy. When the guy woke up ten minutes later, he rubbed his jaw and said: “Geez, I guess that was the real McCoy.”

  McCoy got really rich then spent every dime on women and booze and the high life. He was married nine times. Then he met somebody he wanted to make wife number ten. But she started getting nervous that he wanted to marry her for her money, because she was getting divorced from this wealthy guy and was about to make a big pile of dough on it. She started talking about maybe moving to New York after the divorce instead of marrying McCoy, so one night he got drunk and shot her in the head with a .32 revolver. And then he left her apartment and ran amok and shot and wounded three other people before the cops finally stopped him. Both the judge and the jury went easy on him because he used to be famous, and all he got was an eight-year bit in Quentin.

  He’d been out a couple of years now. He’d gotten married again. He had a head like a potato with some messed-up hair on top.

  “Nothing weakens a man like pussy,” said the Kid.

  “How true,” said George. “One curly little pussy hair is stronger than the strongest rope or steel cable.”

  “Depends on whose pussy it’s from,” said Sonny philosophically. “Some old ugly bitch—one of her pussy hairs wouldn’t be all that strong.”

  “Eye of the beholder,” said George. “Believe it or not, there’s probably a woman somewhere on the planet who would even find you sexually attractive.”

  “Hardy har har,” said Sonny.

  “I can hardly get a hard-on anymore, thank God.” George included us all in a fond smile. “It’s much more pleasant sitting here with my friends sharing a drink in a convivial setting than chasing around town after some treacherous little chippie whose only goal is to break my heart.”

  George wasn’t shy about letting people know he was a college graduate and he used to have a top job at an oil company till he lost it due to drink. He wore shabby but once-fine suits. His spectacles and pipe gave him an English-professor air.

  Sonny was from West Virginia. He had thin reddish hair and his skin was so white he approached albino status. He said he used to have a good job at the Chrysler plant in Maywood till he had to bust the boss’s jaw because he wouldn’t get off his back then got thrown in the clink for assault for a year.

  Kid McCoy reached into a big jar of boiled eggs sitting on the bar, two for a nickel. The eggs were floating in a piss-colored liquid, and I watched his gnarly-knuckled dirty-fingernailed hand fishing around until he snagged a couple. He bit one in two and held the other out to me.

  “Hungry?”

  “No thanks. I just ate.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Sonny.

  McCoy tossed him the egg. “You’re always hungry, you scrawny hillbilly sack of shit.”

  “Them eggs ain’t free,” said Henry, the bartender. “The owner comes in and counts ever one of them eggs. If everything don’t add up, my pay gets docked.”

  McCoy started to reach in his pocket, but George stayed his hand. “It’s on me, Kid.” He threw a nickel down on the bar, it rolled and wobbled around like it was drunk then toppled over.

  “That’s one for the history books,” said Sonny. “George paying for something.”

  “You mock me as you eat the very egg I paid for.”

  Sonny finished the egg then picked up a yellow egg crumb off the bar and ate that too then licked his fingers. “You know what the problem is? The problem is, we got some people eating five times a day, and other people going five days without eating.”

  “You sound like a socialist,” said George.

  “Well if a socialist is somebody that wants to string ever rich guy up by his heels and gut him like a hog, I guess I’m a socialist.”

  “You’re probably going to vote for that fool Sinclair.”

  “Who?” McCoy said.

  “Upton Sinclair. He’s a writer running for governor. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “I only read the papers if they got a story about me. I love reading about me. But I ain’t been in the papers for years.”

  “Why do you say he’s a fool?” I said.

  “Because he believes in the improvability of the human heart. And he thinks he can actually beat the powers that be. I personally prefer to keep our corrupt status quo. Why? Because you can always trust a dishonest man. Now I realize that sounds like a paradox. What I mean is, you can trust our present leaders to act in a predictable fashion, which is to do everything they can to line their own pockets and the pockets of their cronies. But an idealist might do anything. Society would be disrupted. Chaos might ensue!”

  “Five days without eating,” mumbled Sonny, who seemed faint with hunger himself, or maybe just drunk.

  George said: “What are your political persuasions, Danny?”

  I tried to remember but came up dry. “I don’t guess I have any.”

  “I believe we’ve found a free thinker. A man with a mind of his own! That calls for another round, Henry.”

  So I bought another round, and another, then started feeling as wobbly as the nickel and knew it was time to go.

  There were these two guys at the other end of the bar I should have paid more attention to. I hadn’t seen them in Healy’s before. They must have watched me pulling out a fat roll from my pants pocket to pay for the drinks. They must have seen how drunk I was as I headed for the door and how I was limping on my left leg. They probably pegged me as any easy mark. Not knowing, of course, that I was Two Gun Danny Landon.

  My car was parked about a hundred feet from the bar. The traffic light at the next corner was changing colors but it could have saved itself the trouble since there wasn’t a car on the street. The only living thing I saw was a skinny yellow alley cat that looked me over, then trotted away briskly like it suddenly remembered it was late for a previous engagement.

  I heard their shoes on the sidewalk behind me. When I looked over my shoulder, they started running at me. I tried to land a Sunday punch on the nearest guy but missed completely, and took a fist in the face and one in the gut then hit the sidewalk.

  They were about my age. They were dressed maybe just a little bit better than tramps. They didn’t say a word as they proceeded to kick the living shit out of me. A foot connected with the back of my head and it was like I’d taken a direct hit from a lightning bolt as light exploded inside my skull. Then I felt them going through my pockets. I heard one of them say: “Come on, hurry, hurry!” He sounded scared. Maybe they’d never done anything like this before. Maybe they hadn’t eaten in five days and they were desperate.

  Then I could hear their footsteps moving off. I pushed myself up off the concrete. Saw them walking quickly, and excitedly counting my money. It was mainly ones, so they’d probably be disappointed.

  I was on my knees now. I reached in my coat and took out my gun. I pointed it at them.

  One of the guys happened to look over his shoulder and saw me and got kind of a yikes! look on his face and yelled something at his buddy and they started to run. I kept the gun pointed at their bouncing backs, shifting the aim slightly from one back to the other.

  They reached the corner where the traffic light was, headed down a side street, and disappeared.

  Chapter 6

  LUCKILY, THE ORANGE Blossom Bungalow Court was just a few blocks from the bar, so I managed to drive home okay. But I couldn’t make it all the way up the seven steps that led up from the street. I sat down on the fifth step, and put my elbows on my knees and my hea
d in my hands.

  I felt like I’d spent the last few hours rolling around inside a cement mixer then had climbed out and been trampled on by a runaway horse. My head was killing me. Blood was dripping out of a cut on my cheek.

  I became aware of the presence in my stomach of the chicken dinner from the Hottentot Hut, it was like an animal that wanted out and I stretched out my neck and spewed puke down the steps. A few seconds passed, and I did it again. Then I heard myself groan, and I sat there with my eyes closed and my nostrils filled with the stink of the mess I’d made.

  “Danny?”

  I looked up. Somebody was standing over me, lit faintly from behind by a street light.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lionel Dulwich. Your neighbor.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but—you seem to be a bit under the weather.”

  “I’m okay.”

  I put my head back in my hands and closed my eyes.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded; then I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  “Come on, old man, you’re being silly, you’re not okay and I’m taking you inside.”

  I didn’t argue with him. He helped me up, then we headed up the sidewalk that ran between the eight bungalows. I was feeling dizzy, and the sidewalk seemed to move beneath me like I was walking across a trampoline.

  “How’d you know my name?” I said.

  “The day you moved in, I overheard you talking to Mrs. Dean and Sophie. Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  I remembered the grin from under the Mexican hat. He guided me toward his bungalow. “I keep a medical kit in preparation for every sort of emergency: earthquake, fire, flood, famine, pestilence, war—and young neighbors coming home late from an adventurous night on the town. There’s Tink coming to greet us. Hello, Tink!”

  The black and white cat was looking out the screen door at us. We went inside. Dulwich had me sit down in an armchair, then went in the kitchen to get me a glass of water.

  His bungalow was exactly like mine and not at all like mine. Mine was shabby and depressing, but Dulwich’s looked like a home. The furnishings were classy and comfy and some of them seemed like they might have cost a pretty penny. A floor lamp with a lampshade covered with long-tailed monkeys and many-colored parrots sent a soft warm light spilling across the room. On the wall was a painting of a beautiful girl with long blonde hair; she was dressed like a princess from the days of King Arthur and was standing on a rocky gray cliff and gazing out at a stormy sea. A cabinet radio was playing an elegant sunny song, like something Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers might dance to. And Tink sharpened her claws on a Persian rug then walked over and sniffed at my shoes.

  They were spattered with vomit, as were my pants legs. The cat opened its mouth and wrinkled its nose and generally acted like it had never encountered anything so disgusting before as me. Dulwich walked back in with the water.

  “Getting better acquainted, are we? Tink is short for Tinker, which is short for Tinker Bell. And Tinker Bell rules the house.”

  I drank half the glass, then took the aspirin tin out of my pocket.

  “Head hurt?” said Dulwich.

  “Yeah.”

  I drank down the aspirin, then gave the empty glass back to Dulwich. “Thanks.”

  “Let me take your hat and coat.”

  I handed him my hat, then winced a little getting out of my coat. He looked at my dent, looked at my gun; then he went away again.

  On top of the cabinet radio was a photograph in a silver frame. It showed a young man in a soldier’s uniform. He had light-colored hair parted in the middle and a strong chin with a cleft in it. He was as handsome as a motion picture star. He was looking right in the camera, and smiling a little.

  “Aubrey Joyce,” said Dulwich. He’d come back in the room with his first-aid stuff. He looked at the picture smiling a little like Aubrey Joyce. “The look on his face is so characteristic of him. That sly, mischievous, I-know-something-but-I-shan’t-tell-you expression.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He was my best friend. We were in school together. We were twenty-one when the war started, and we both rushed to enlist. Or rather, he rushed to enlist, and I rushed to keep up with him. He was mad for glory, mad for medals, and he won more than a few. But of course his mood darkened as the war progressed. He was seriously wounded on three separate occasions. He could have gotten out of the war if he wished, but he always insisted on returning. Not because he still believed in the war, but because he thought his men needed him. His ‘lads,’ he called them. ‘My lads are helpless without me,’ he would say. ‘Who else is going to wipe their silly little noses for them, and make sure they eat their vegetables and say their bedtime prayers?’ He survived the war, rather miraculously I thought, but then died six weeks after the Armistice. On Christmas Day. Of the Spanish flu.” Now Dulwich smiled ruefully at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get into all of that. Now let’s take a look at you.”

  With a wet washcloth, he wiped the blood off my face. His touch was gentle, nearly tender. He had sandy hair that fell over his forehead, hazel eyes, a large round nose, a wide mouth with big lips, and ears that stuck out from his head. He was over six feet, and very thin. He was wearing soft tasseled slippers, and an exotic-looking silk jacket with a sash; the jacket seemed to have a hundred shimmering colors in it.

  He peered at the cut on my cheek. “Don’t believe we need stitches. But this will sting a bit.”

  He soaked a piece of cotton with some rubbing alcohol and dabbed at the cut. “What happened?”

  “I was coming out of a bar, and two guys jumped me. And stole my dough.”

  His eyes drifted to my gun.

  “Smith & Wesson? .38?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t get it out in time. Otherwise…”

  Dulwich thoughtfully said: “Mm,” and put a band-aid on my cheek.

  “Vision all right? Not blurred?”

  “It’s fine.”

  He began putting away his first-aid stuff.

  “I’m terribly curious about what you do. Would it be impolite to ask?”

  “I work for the Los Angeles Projects Corporation.” That wasn’t untrue. Bud had a company, and that’s what it was called. “I’m sort of a…a guard.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, thanks for the help. I should go.”

  “You’re quite sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I just need to go to bed. I had a lot to drink.”

  He grinned at me; the space in the middle of his front teeth was big enough to slip a kitchen match through. “A bit sozzled, are we?”

  “Yeah. If sozzled means drunk.”

  He got my hat and coat for me and walked me to the door. His cat followed us, and he scooped her up in his arms.

  “Well, thanks again, Mr. Dulwich.”

  “What are neighbors for, hm, Tinker?” he said, scratching her head. “And by the way, please just call me Dulwich. Mr. Dulwich brings my father to mind, and the less he is brought to anyone’s mind the better. And only my mother and my lovers call me Lionel.”

  “You can call me Danny.”

  “Good night, Danny.”

  “Good night, Dulwich.”

  I limped away across the lawn. Looked back once—and saw Dulwich and his cat still in the door, watching me go.

  Chapter 7

  “NO WONDER THEY call you the Kind One,” said Max Schnitter. Bud had just been telling him what happened to this guy named Sal Tagnoli. Bud used to own this little speakeasy just south of downtown on Flower, and he had a nickel slot machine in it. And every night Tagnoli would come in, and he’d make out like a bandit on that nickel slot. So Bud got the idea that Tagnoli was cheating the machine somehow. But when he confronted him, Tagnoli denied it. He said how do you cheat a fucking slot machine, and Bud said maybe with magnets or some kind of tool and Tagnoli said search me and Bud had him searched but they didn’t find anything. Tagnoli said:
“See? I’m just lucky.”

  But Bud wasn’t convinced. He had the boys take him into the back room and work him over, but Tagnoli continued to insist he was just lucky. “I’m gonna cheat Bud Seitz for a buncha fucking nickels?” he said. “You think I’m crazy?” Then Bud turned him over to Nucky Williams. Nucky slipped on his brass knuckles, which was Nucky’s thing and how he got his name. He made Tagnoli’s face look like a ripe tomato splitting open but he still just kept screaming that he was lucky. Then Teddy Bump took some wire pliers and started working on his nose and nipples and nuts and toes, but that didn’t do the trick either.

  So Bud was really exasperated now. He had the guys tie Tagnoli up and throw him in Bud’s car along with the slot machine. They drove to San Pedro and got in a boat and went out about halfway to Catalina. Then Bud had Tagnoli tied up to the slot machine, and he told him: “This is your last chance, Sal. Tell me how you was beating my machine.”

  Tagnoli started yelling: “Bud, you gotta believe me, I’m just lucky! I been lucky ever since I was a little kid! I’m just one of them lucky guys!”

  Bud just sighed and said: “Sal, you’re tied up to a slot machine and you’re about to be dropped in the fucking ocean. How lucky can you be?”

  Then Sal started screaming his head off in Italian and they threw him over the side, and Max Schnitter laughed and said: “No wonder they call you the Kind One.”

  We were at the Surf Club in Redondo Beach. We were in a private room where there were some card and dice tables and a row of slot machines. Sitting in a booth besides myself and Bud and Schnitter were Teddy Bump and Vic Lester, a pug-nosed little guy with Schnitter.

  Schnitter was about sixty, and maybe an inch or two north of five feet tall. He was bald and had pointy ears that gave him a slightly inhuman look, like an evil elf. I’d heard he was from Germany, and he’d got a job on a ship as a cabin boy when he was twelve. Then he jumped ship in Panama and walked all the way to America and now he was one of the most powerful guys in Los Angeles.