The Kind One

by Tom Epperson

  “Come and meet those dancing feet

  On the avenue I’m taking you to,

  Forty-second Street!

  Hear the beat of dancing feet,

  It’s the song I love the melody of,

  Forty-second Street!”

  I’d come to a dead stop as I watched her. Now she looked back at me.

  “Say,” I said, “that’s pretty good.”

  “Thanks. I plan to run away and be a tap dancer in New York.”

  “Why not? Maybe you can be the new Shirley Temple.”

  “I’m much, much older than Shirley Temple. Anyway, I can’t stand that kid. I think she’s just a big phony.”

  “So you seem like you’re in a pretty good mood for a girl with a black eye.”

  She gave me her shy look. “Seeing you—that makes me be in a good mood.”

  Dulwich’s door was open, and we could hear the energetic rattle of typewriter keys, the ding of the bell, and the sliding of the carriage.

  “Sounds like he’s writing something,” I said.

  “Yeah. Maybe a new movie! Maybe he’ll write a part for me!”

  We went in my bungalow. Sophie helped me unpack my groceries and put them away. Coffee, milk, baloney, rat cheese, bread, licorice sticks, and so forth.

  She looked at a bar of Lifebuoy soap.

  “You know what they call me at school?”

  “What?”

  “Soapy. Soapy Gobbler.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Yeah. I hate ’em.”

  I knew she was lying about her black eye, and I felt like doing something for her.

  “Wait here a minute.”

  I went in my bedroom, rummaged through a dresser drawer, then found the pink brush I’d bought from the veteran with no legs. I returned to the kitchen and presented it to Sophie.

  “A brush,” she said, looking it over.

  “Yeah.”

  “How much you pay for this?”

  “A quarter.”

  “You got robbed. But thanks anyway.”

  I walked her to the door.

  “You wanna go over and pester Mr. Dulwich?” she said.

  We walked over and peered in his screen door. Saw him sitting at his typewriter with his back to us, tapping away furiously.

  I knocked on the door frame as Sophie said: “Knock knock!”

  Dulwich looked over his shoulder, broke into a grin. “Hello there!” he said as he got up to greet us. I was relieved to see he seemed to be back to his old self, though his smile went away when he saw Sophie’s face.

  “Sophie, what happened?”

  “I fell down. When I was playing.”

  “And those bruises on your arms? That also happened when you fell down?”

  I’d missed them somehow—a purplish cluster of bruises, like a bunch of grapes, emerging from under her shirt sleeves on each of her upper arms.

  “Yup,” said Sophie.

  “And Jerry? Did he have anything to do with your falling down?”

  Jerry was her mother Lois’s latest boyfriend—a stocky fellow with dark curly hair and a toothy too big smile.

  “Nope,” said Sophie.

  Tinker Bell plodded in from the bedroom, stuck out her front paws and stretched. Sophie said: “Hi, Tinker Bell, have you been sleeping?” and went over to pet her.

  “Sorry about the other day,” said Dulwich to me.

  “Why be sorry? I get down in the dumps too, sometimes.”

  “Are you writing a movie?” asked Sophie, as Tinker purred under her hand.

  “I’m writing a so-called ‘detective’ story, actually. Or at least trying to write one. I always seem to be finding out things aren’t as simple as they seem.”

  There was a pile of magazines on his desk, and he picked up the top one. On the cover were a tough-looking guy and a sultry blonde in a silver convertible, passing a city-limits sign that said:

  NOWHERE

  POP. 0,000,000

  “Now here’s a recent issue of Super Detective Stories.” He leafed through the pages. “All right. Listen to the beginning of ‘Names in the Black Book.’

  “‘“Three unsolved murders in a week are not so unusual—for River Street,” grunted Steve Harrison, shifting his muscular bulk restlessly in his chair.

  “‘His companion lighted a cigarette and Harrison observed that her slim hand was none too steady. She was exotically beautiful, a dark, supple figure, with the rich colors of purple Eastern nights and crimson dawns in her dusky hair and red lips. But in her dark eyes Harrison glimpsed the shadow of fear. Only once before had he seen fear in those marvelous eyes, and the memory made him vaguely uneasy.

  “‘“It’s your business to solve murders,” she said.’”

  Dulwich bit his lower lip for a moment as he studied the story.

  “The writing’s a bit uncouth, perhaps, but I think you’ll agree there’s a certain seductive energy that lures one on. Why is there the shadow of fear in the nameless beauty’s marvelous eyes? What do the three unsolved murders have to do with her? And Harrison, our hero, he of the grunts and the muscular bulk…why is he so restless and uneasy? What terrible event occasioned the previous appearance of fear in the dark eyes of his exotically beautiful companion?”

  Dulwich tossed Super Detective Stories back on the pile.

  “My story seems to have all the dynamic forward motion of the figures painted on Keats’s Grecian urn. The spying eye in the keyhole never blinks. The drooping ash at the end of the cigarette in the long cigarette holder held by the willowy blonde never actually detaches itself and falls.”

  “Mister,” said Sophie, “I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Dulwich sighed. “Precisely the problem.”

  “You seemed to be typing a mile a minute when we walked up,” I said. “Like you were really inspired.”

  “Misleading. A mouse in a cage running frantically in his exercise wheel. But I should persevere, I suppose,” and he smiled cheerfully at us. “After all, one can’t honestly call oneself a scribbler unless one occasionally makes some wretched attempt at scribbling!”

  Tinker rolled on her back and presented her belly to Sophie.

  “She likes to have her tummy scratched,” said Sophie, then she looked up at Dulwich. “Would you write a part for me in your story?”

  “A part for you in my story,” Dulwich mused. “How would that work exactly?”

  “It’s easy. You just write about a cute smart kid named Sophie!”

  “Sophie Antoinette?” I suggested.

  Sophie laughed. “Yeah. And her faithful cat Tinker. They can solve crimes together. Tinker can climb trees and look in people’s windows and report back to Sophie. And Sophie can wear all kinds of disguises! And she can trap the crooks and—”

  “I thought I heard your voice, you little devil!”

  We all looked toward the door. Jerry was there, in a red plaid sports jacket with a matching tie. He looked exactly like the door-to-door salesman that he was.

  “Your ma’s been looking everywhere for you,” and then he flashed his smile at Dulwich and me. “Hello, Mr. Dulwich! How are you today, Danny?”

  Jerry was one of those people that after meeting you for three seconds remembers your name forever and repeats it every chance he gets.

  “Fine day today, isn’t it? Not like Foggy Old England, huh, Mr. Dulwich! And Danny boy! When are you going to a ballgame with me! I caught a homerun the other day, and you know who hit it? Jigger Statz! He signed the ball for me after the game, Danny, I’ll bet it’ll be worth a ton of money someday!”

  Tinker disdainfully turned her back on Jerry and went back in the bedroom.

  “Come on, Sophie. Your ma’s got things she wants you to do.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Jerry’s smile started looking a little rigid.

  “How should I know? Let’s go, Sophie. Quit bothering these two gentlemen.”

  “Oh, she’
s no bother,” said Dulwich. “Quite the opposite.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice of you to say so! Good seeing you, Mr. Dulwich! And you too, Danny boy!”

  Sophie got up and listlessly slumped toward the door. “Bye,” she said without looking at us.

  We went to the door and watched them walk toward Sophie’s bungalow. Jerry put his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched it off like a horse would a horsefly, then they disappeared inside.

  “So you think Jerry beat her up?” I said.

  “I think it likely, yes. Something happened over there on one of the nights you were gone. I could hear all three of them shouting and shrieking like banshees; it calmed down only when Mrs. Dean came out and knocked on the door and threatened to call the police.”

  “How could anybody hurt a little girl?”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve grown unsurprised at anything human beings do. Not excluding me. I believe Sophie’s ideas for my story are better than mine. I’ll make us a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about Lake Arrowhead. Hm, Danny boy?”

  It was like I was at the bottom of a deep black well, and I listened to a phone for a long time ringing way above my head, till finally I awoke and stumbled into the living room and picked it up.

  “Danny? It’s Darla.”

  It was about three in the morning. I tried to get my wits about me.

  “Darla? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, really. I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

  “S’okay. Where are you?”

  “At Bud’s. Downstairs. He’s upstairs. Asleep. I had the most terrible dream.”

  A yawn tried to pry my mouth open.

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “Doc. He was out on the balcony. He was trying to get in. He was beating on the window with his fists. The glass was breaking. He was so mad at me, Danny. So mad.”

  “What happened to Doc wasn’t your fault.”

  “He’s buried out there somewhere, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do monkeys have ghosts?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  A long silence.

  “Darla?”

  “I’m here. Do you really love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night, Danny.”

  “Good night.”

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS FUNNY. It was like the clean mountain air Nuffer was talking about really did have some kind of effect on me. I came back from Lake Arrowhead and started having fewer headaches, and my left arm was feeling stronger when I did my morning pushups, and it seemed like I was walking with less of a limp. And the dark veil separating me from my past seemed thinner now, and a little light was passing through. For instance, not only could I see myself as a kid pissing my name in the snow, but I could see the snow was on the rocky bank of a river, and the river was half frozen, and a skinny mutt of a dog was walking on the ice and I was afraid it would break through, and beyond the river rose the tall buildings of a mighty city.

  Also, I understood better how I felt about Darla. I loved her, but I didn’t love her without reserve. Because there was the other girl, Gwynnie. The lost girl, the ghostly girl. Who was still loved by some lost, ghostly part of me.

  I didn’t see Darla for about a week after we got back. I was told she was laid up in bed with a cold, though when I’d talked to her on the phone she hadn’t sounded sick, and it didn’t seem the right season for a cold. But Bud called me one night and told me to come to the Peacock Club and she was there.

  “Feeling better?” I said.

  “Sure. I’m on Cloud Number Nine.”

  We were in Bud’s booth. I was on the outside, then next to me was Goodlooking Tommy, then came Bud, Darla, and Moe Davis, and Nello Marlini was sitting across from me at the other end of the U.

  Moe was so fat he could hardly fit in the booth. He probably weighed as much as three Dick Pretties put together. He had a basket of bread in front of him, and he was loading up a piece with one pat of butter after another without even bothering to smear them around. Then he took a big bite and said: “Great fucking bread.”

  Bud looked pleased. “Baked fresh on the premises every day.”

  “Yeah? Well my compliments to the chef.”

  He pronounced the ch in “chef” like the ch in “champ.” Butter shined on his blubbery lips, and he was chewing with his mouth open. I noticed Darla was watching him too, like she was about to be sick, then our eyes met and she snorted out a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” said Bud.

  “I was just thinking about a joke.”

  “Why don’t you share it with the rest of the table?”

  “Too late. I already forgot the punchline.”

  Bud had an office called the Security Finance Company on the second floor of a building on Cahuenga. It was the front for a bookie joint and Moe Davis ran it.

  “Guess who I seen walking down the street the other day,” said Moe. “Louie Vachaboski.”

  Bud grinned. “So how’s Fay Wray doing?”

  “He seemed kinda nervous. But he said to give you his best regards.”

  “How’d his eye look?” said Nello.

  “Kinda squinty. Like he was winking at me.”

  Everybody laughed. But Darla wasn’t laughing. She was sucking down a cigarette, and getting tanked on martinis; the waiter came by and she ordered another one. Bud frowned at her.

  “How come you drink so much?” he said.

  “How come you commit so many crimes?”

  “That supposed to be funny? ’Cause I ain’t laughing.”

  “I wouldn’t expect somebody to laugh whose idea of funny was putting out somebody’s eye with a cigarette.”

  It got quiet around the table as Darla puffed on her cigarette and tried to pretend she didn’t feel Bud’s eyes boring into her; then you could see him deciding to let it go. He looked at Moe as he wiped his hands off with a Kleenex.

  “You talk to Phegley?”

  Pete Phegley was a lieutenant in administrative vice, and a frequent loutish visitor to the Peacock Club.

  “Yeah. He still says he needs twenty percent.”

  Bud shook his head. “Phegley’s already gotta be the richest police lieutenant in Los Angeles, if not the fucking world. And yet he still wants more.”

  “I think we all got in the wrong perfession,” said Moe. “We all shoulda been cops. That way all we’d have to do all day is ride around town and eat free and screw whores without paying for ’em.”

  “And stick our fucking hands out for envelopes filled with dough,” said Bud.

  “Why do you put up with him?” I said. “If he’s such a prick.”

  “We can’t just go around getting rid of cops, Danny,” said Bud, like a patient parent explaining life to a five-year-old. “They’re necessary evils.”

  “Yeah, like broads,” said Goodlooking Tommy, and he and Nello laughed.

  Stan Tinney, the manager, walked over.

  “How is everything? Darla, you’re looking lovely tonight.”

  “Thanks. So where’s the body?”

  “The body?”

  “It’s like a wake in here. So I figure there must be a body around someplace.”

  The club was pretty empty. A bored-looking orchestra was playing, and two or three couples were shuffling round on the dance floor like zombies in a nightclub in hell.

  “Well, you know,” said Stan, “it’s Thursday night.”

  “Stan,” said Bud, “is it also Thursday night over at the Pom Pom Club?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you think the Pom Pom Club is this empty?”

  “I’ve got no way of knowing that.”

  “Maybe I’ll drop by later and see for myself.”

  “All I know is, the Peacock Club is still a popular place. Especially with the right people. Why, just last night Lionel Barrymore was here.”

  “And Dick said he thought he seen Ginger Rogers in here last wee
k,” said Nello.

  “Who wants to dance?” said Darla.

  Silence around the table.

  “Come on, it won’t cost you much. I’m just one of them dime-a-dance dames.”

  “You know I got two left feet,” said Bud.

  “Danny?” said Darla. “You got a dime? I’ll dance with you for a dime.”

  Goodlooking Tommy laughed. “Danny dancing. That’s a good one.”

  Darla glared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Goodlooking Tommy was losing confidence.

  “Well, you know—his leg, and all.”

  “I’ll give it a try, I guess,” I said.

  We went out on the dance floor. I didn’t remember ever having danced before, but I had a feeling I’d be okay at it; and after a minute or two Darla said: “You dance real nice, Danny.”

  She was wearing a beige beaded dress with no back; two slender straps made an X centered just below her shoulder blades, and just below the X my hand rested on her bare flesh.

  It was a slow song, and she snuggled in pretty tight.

  “Were you ever really a dime-a-dance girl?”

  “No. But I had a friend who was. Bombina. This Italian girl from Boyle Heights. She worked at a club on the Santa Monica Pier. She said one night she was dancing with a handsome stranger, and she looked down and saw he had one goat foot and one chicken foot. Then her skin started burning where he was touching her, and she looked in his eyes and realized she was dancing with the devil. Then she could feel herself fainting.

  “Bombina said the next thing she knew, she was waking up on the beach. She was all by herself. The pier was about half a mile away. And she had burn marks on her arms.”

  “You really believe all that?”

  “Well, I saw the marks on her arms. And they did look kind of like fingers.”

  We drifted along with the dreamy music; then: “I’m proud of you, Danny,” Darla said.

  “What for?”

  “I heard you and Nucky got into it. Because you were sticking up for a shoeshine boy.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Oh, a pretty little bird told me. But you gotta be careful, Danny. Don’t turn your back on Nucky,” and then she giggled. “Nucky the knucklehead. I’m drunk.” And then, in a singsongy voice: