A House in Naples

by Peter Rabe

  “Notice that bottle?” he said. “I ain’t been in the States for twenty years, buddy boy, but I know my way around.” He watched for Charley to look impressed but Charley only smiled.

  “Twenty years on one bottle. You’re doing real good.”

  The drunk answered something but Charley wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch, checking time, and thought the drunk hadn’t turned out to be the funny kind.

  “High-hat a countryman, you sonofabitch,” the drunk was saying. He sounded vicious. “Maybe you’re one of them slumming tourists coming around here, having fun with the local color? I’ll give you color, you damn sonofa — ” and the drunk hauled out with his bottle.

  It didn’t take much to grab the bottle away from him and push him back in his chair. But Charley was getting irritated. The time was grating him, his side hurt like hell, and he had to sit without getting anything done. He was dying for aspirin. The drunk reached for his bottle but Charley knocked his hand out of the way.

  “Behave, bum. Or I’ll have you deported.”

  It made the drunk laugh till his pale scalp turned red.

  “Deported, he says! Deported where, Officer? To hell, maybe? I been there. To the U.S.? I can’t get a visa. Or maybe back where I come from just a few days ago? Oh, wouldn’t they love that back there. A guy pays my way all the way back like I never been gone and oboyoboy — ” he ended up gurgling and reached for the bottle again.

  Charley let him. He watched the wrinkled neck with the Adam’s apple jerking around and then he wiped his hands. Fifteen minutes till the call, and then run again. Back to Alivar, maybe, but first a few other stops. He had to swing it one way or another.

  “You can’t deport me,” the drunk was saying. He sounded off-hand, made an important gesture. “On account of the people I know. Besides, I’m an Italian. Been that ever since Thirty-five. Boy, those were the days. Ever hear of Benny?”

  “Sure. Big wheel at the Last Chance Mission.”

  “Listen, you sonofabitch. Benito. I mean Benito.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re the one arranged for the Abyssinian War.”

  “Those were the days,” said the drunk. His eyes were up and he thought about those days. “Whaddaya mean, war?” He came back to earth, looking mean. “I was at the reception. Two of ‘em! Benny’s buddy, one of his buddies was renting my villa on Ischia so that’s how we were pals. And I got to go to all the receptions, tourist! Me!”

  “So what happened to Benny?”

  “Who cares about Benny. Listen, tourist, I don’t need nobody. I got my own life, nobody tells me nothing, and I go where I please.” The drunk leaned his chin in one hand and looked coy. “Bet you don’t know where I was two days ago?”

  “Did they have polka-dot elephants there?”

  “Listen, tourist. Don’t talk. I was in Cairo, buddy boy. Five years in Cairo!”

  “That’s big stuff. Real big stuff.”

  “I hope to tell you,” said the drunk, and tilted the bottle. “And how did I get back?”

  “By boat.”

  “Right! And me, Delmont, I come and go with nobody telling me nothing. What a joke!” he laughed. “What a joke!”

  “What joke?”

  “Five years in Cairo, tourist, and me with no papers! All that time they’re lying here in my trunk, safe as safe, and me without papers. That’s operating!”

  “I’ll say. So they threw you out. That’s real operating.”

  “Who, the police?” and he gurgled his laugh again. “Listen, tourist, my buddy Amir brung me back, on his little yacht. I come back the way I left, nobody the wiser. That’s how I operate!”

  “Good old Amir,” said Charley, but it sounded mechanical. He had enough of the game. It was time to phone.

  “Amir is a sonofabitch,” said the drunk, “another of you high-hat sons-abitches, only Egyptian. After five years he throws me out, me, Delmont, what showed him how to operate. Listen, tourist, that lurch is no friend of mine. I only got one buddy. Me. And Bantam, maybe.”

  Bantam. Charley knew of a Bantam.

  “My buddy Bantam. I gotta go see him tomorrow maybe. Ten years is a long time for buddies to be apart; maybe my buddy — “

  The drunk was getting whiney and Charley saw it was time. He didn’t listen any more because the drunk had done his job. Time was up. Call Joe. Charley squeezed to the bar and said he wanted a phone. He went through the curtain in back, found the door with light behind it and went in. There was a phone on the beat-up desk and a guy sleeping on a couch. Charley got Naples.

  “Joe?”

  “Ya. I’m here.”

  “Look, Joe, it isn’t good. It’ll be a while, unless I dig something up between now and tomorrow. The merchandise I want is scarce.”

  “I know. You shoulda done like I done. Start early and take your time.”

  “Don’t preach, dammit. Now look, I’ll be back tomorrow late, because — ”

  “That’s too early, Chuck.”

  “What?”

  “Hell broke loose.”

  “What are you talking about! Vittore lose his head?”

  “He just talked.”

  “Oh that everloving bastard! What — ”

  “They been here, looking for you. They figured I knew something, seeing Vittore hangs around our place. They’re around asking for Charley. You.”

  “That figures. What did you tell them?”

  “Just that they were wrong. I set up a story for you, like you told me. I told ‘em — “

  “Never mind, never mind. They got me identified for sure?”

  “I don’t know, Chuck. Maybe not. But enough to dig up the works if you come back.”

  Charley kept still after that because it was worse than ever. Don’t come back, hide someplace else, maybe let me know where you are in a while and I send you your suitcase. Or maybe you don’t even need your stuff seeing the way you’re going to be traveling, seeing you’re going to be needing a total change anyway.

  “That’s how it is, Chuck. Anything you want?”

  And then again this would be the time for everybody to do a little pushing, except Charley of course. He’d be the one that gets the push. Chuck pushing out, the carabinièri pushing after, Uncle Sam pushing up with some unfinished business.

  “ — and better don’t call any more,” said Joe, and Charley could just see that mouth hanging open, the eyes looking lazy and maybe Fanny was standing there, within reach unless there was a new model by then.

  “I won’t,” said Charley.

  It didn’t sound like the same voice to Joe. Something had happened at the other end of the line, something that he better know about. Then Charley told him.

  “I’m coming back. With bells on.”

  He hung up, went back to the bar. He wasn’t limping any more. While he paid his bill he looked around the room like he knew what he wanted.

  “And gimme an empty glass,” he said to the barman who brought the change.

  “And keep the change,” he said when he got the glass. Then he went and sat down where Delmont was, holding the bottle.

  • • •

  The drunk had been coasting with just a nip here and there because what he mostly wanted was talk. That tourist bastard was okay. A little out of focus maybe and kind of snotty when he opened his mouth but he didn’t talk much. He listened. He didn’t impress much but that would come, tourist bastards always impressed after a while. Might even be good for some fun, or a sucker play. Somebody was due for a sucker play right around then because Delmont himself had been getting it in the neck lately, too much lately, like getting the boot from that buddy bastard Amir in Cairo, like being stranded with just one bottle left between him and the screaming willies — so when Charley sat down and took the bottle out of his hand it was a surprise. Charley poured into his glass, gave the bottle back, and hoisted his glass.

  “To Delmont,” he said and drank.

  If Delmont had known that Charley never drank, almo
st never, he would have watched out. He would have held on to his bottle and made a bee-line for the first open door or window or crack in the wall.

  “Hey,” he said and worked his tongue around that tooth.

  “That’s better, Delmont. Talk it up. Make it gay. Come on, up on your feet. This place is too noisy. I can hardly hear what you’re saying.”

  “Hey,” said Delmont, but Charley had him up and talked friendly.

  “Where’s your room, buddy? You got a room?”

  “What in hell — ”

  “So you can talk some more. Big shot like you ought to have lots to talk about. All right, big shot. You do the talking and I bring the bottle. A full one, big shot.”

  “Upstairs,” said Delmont. “Upstairs in the back. And you bring the — ”

  “Yeah. I’ll bring the.”

  Charley got a quart of bar cognac and steered the drunk to the rear. There were doors all along the corridor and in back, where the lightbulb hung, there was a staircase. The downstairs rooms didn’t have permanent guests, just rabbit jobs like the two sailors. But upstairs you could stay all night, even longer. Maybe it wouldn’t take all night, Charley was thinking. Plan it right, get to work with no small talk in between, and maybe it wouldn’t take all night. It wouldn’t take a month, that was a cinch. After all, what’s four questions?

  Delmont opened the room in back and switched on the light. There was a bed, a table, two chairs, and a suitcase under the bed. The drunk looked around, then at Charley, as if he was waiting to be commended. In the adjoining room somebody giggled.

  “This one’s on me,” said Charley and plunked the full bottle on the table.

  Delmont got it open and drank. There was a small window behind the drunk. It gave out to a blind wall where a storehouse backed up to the yard. Charley watched the wall and waited for Delmont to get done with the bottle.

  When Delmont was through he wheezed in his throat, put the bottle down and eyed Charley. Charley was smiling again. Cold-nosed like a dog. One queer sucker, thought Delmont. Better have one more drink. But now Charley had the bottle, filling his glass, and then he hoisted it like before.

  “To Delmont.” he said.

  Chapter 6

  “Number one,” said Charley. “Tell me about that Amir.”

  “To hell with that Amir. Him and me is through. Are through,” he added.

  “Fine. When will you see him again?”

  “Never!” yelled Delmont. “That pig darsen’t show his face over here, and good riddance.”

  “You saw to that, eh, big shot?”

  The drunk liked that so he laid it on thick. “For once, buddy boy, I didn’t have to lift a finger. Amir can’t get in the country anyway. They don’t think he’s desirable. So I didn’t have to do a thing.”

  “Fine friends you got, big shot.”

  “Friends! I’ll kill that bastard next time I see him! Five years in Cairo I show that bastard the ropes, introduce him to all the right elements, and then, so help me — “

  “I know. He dumped you.”

  “Wanna know what that bastard is doing? He — ”

  “Never mind, big shot.”

  “He sells dope. I show him how. I show him the ropes and then he don’t trust me — me, his buddy — and gives me the boot.”

  “Nice guy, big shot. He coulda just set you up for a hit. Save himself a trip back to Italy.”

  The drunk got sly then and looked around like in a melodrama. “Not to me he wouldn’t do that, tourist buddy. I got powerful friends!”

  “And they wouldn’t want you any deader.”

  “That’s right, buddy, and Amir knows it. All the time I kept telling Amir don’t bend a hair on my head, Amir buddy, I got powerful friends here — ”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  Charley pushed the bottle over, which interrupted the drunk. Number one was fine. Question number one was out of the way. Delmont had been in Cairo, maybe five years, and he wasn’t likely to run into that crowd over here. And when he came back he didn’t go through Customs.

  “Number two,” said Charley.

  “Two what, buddy boy?”

  “Who’s Bantam?”

  The drunk looked at the wall between here and the next room. There was mumbling and the sound of a bed.

  “Rabbits,” said the drunk.

  “Who’s Bantam?”

  The drunk made a disgusted face. “Like I was telling you, buddy boy, he’s my powerful friend. He’s in business here, and what he says goes. He says no to Amir and Amir don’t operate. That’s who Bantam is, and he’s a buddy of mine.”

  That’s who Bantam was, only the drunk had it backwards. Bantam was from the States and all he was doing was keeping up the contacts. He got paid from the States, he did what his bosses told him to do, and he was middle man for some of the syndicate’s business that went through Italy and maybe the Near East. If Amir was anything to Bantam, he was one of his suppliers. In that circle Bantam was small potatoes. To Charley he wasn’t. To Charley he was a man who knew Delmont.

  “He’d give you his right arm, eh, big shot?”

  “Sure. Haven’t seen old Bantam in maybe ten years, but we’re buddies. Always been.”

  “Sure. You set him up in business.”

  “That’s right, tourist buddy, that’s how it was. One day I meet Bantam — in Milano, I think — and being a countryman I take him in hand. He just got here. Green, I tell you, real green.”

  “So you set him up.”

  “Fixed him up. I show him this house where they got nothing but the best. High class from all over the world. You don’t just walk in there, buddy boy, and say ‘how about a jump?’ You gotta be introduced!”

  “You introduce him.”

  “Yeah. I show him the house. We been buddies ever since.”

  “You get your cut, buddy?”

  “Cut? This was friendship, you bastard. Like the other time. The other time — in Genoa, I think — I see him in that café there just by chance. I walk up to Bantam and say, ‘How’d you like some more of the same? Right here in Genoa?’ I don’t wait for an answer but run right over where I know this chick — I mean nice all around — and take her back to the café.”

  “And Bantam is so horny since Milano he takes her right around the corner.”

  “He wasn’t there,” said the drunk. “Been called away on business. That’s how big my buddy is. Sitting right there in that café — “

  “That’s enough, big shot,” and Charley pushed the bottle over.

  So number two was out of the way. Delmont didn’t know Bantam from Adam.

  “Number three,” he said. This time he had to take the bottle away because Delmont had started to feel low. Delmont let go of the bottle but he almost fell off the chair, that’s how little he cared.

  “And me that showed him the ropes, me — ” Then he noticed the bottle was gone and turned mean again. “Look, tourist, get one thing. Nobody messes with Delmont, hear? Gimme that bottle, tourist.”

  When Charley wasn’t fast enough the drunk spat in his face, from right across the table.

  “You hear, tourist?”

  Charley just wiped his face.

  “I’m going downstairs now, tourist, and get that girl. Time those rabbits were off and gone, and when I come back you better be gone. I hate Peeping Toms, tourist.”

  “I’m not, big shot. I’m not even making a peep. Here’s your bottle.”

  “You wanna stay, huh? Wanna see how she screams, huh? I learned ways in Cairo, buddy boy, and I give no quarter!” He had started declaiming. “They mess with Delmont and they don’t even get a nickel!”

  “Sit down, Casanova.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Big shot.”

  “Gimme that bottle.”

  “Number three,” said Charley and he drank from his glass. His head was starting to pound, but that was better than the feel of pressure inside his chest, a pressure like any minute som
ething was going to explode. Just a little while longer and then there would be no more of that ache, as if he were running without a breath but running to catch one.

  “You got big friends,” said Charley. “You got any little ones? Just common-type people, like downstairs, like in Rome, in Naples — “

  “Bastards,” said the drunk.

  “Or Genoa?”

  “Never been in Naples. Not since the place on Ischia.”

  “In Thirty-five.”

  “Before.”

  “Don’t get around much any more, huh, big shot?”

  “I get around. I get around plenty!”

  “And make lots of buddies all over.”

  “I don’t got the time, buddy boy. I don’t bother with small fry. Only reason I bring you up here is because you asked me. And I don’t often do favors, buddy boy, so watch your step.”

  “That’s why you haven’t got any friends, big shot. You’re too big.”

  “I got lots of ‘em, boy. Don’t you worry.”

  “But I do,” said Charley, and he smiled.

  “Well, don’t. I don’t. Good riddance to those bastard friends.”

  “What happened?”

  “I run outa dough, that’s what happened, you bastard friend!”

  “I know how it is, big shot. They sponge on you while you’re good for it and — ”

  “Naw. My friends is loaded. They don’t sponge.”

  Charley waited.

  “Know how I lost my dough, buddy?”

  “At the tables.”

  “The tables! You couldn’t lose that much dough at the tables! In the Crash, boy, in the big Crash!”

  That was a long time ago. So must have been Delmont’s friends. He lost his dough in the Crash, sold his place on Ischia, stuck around, drifted, ended up the way he was now. Maybe he still had an income, some rich aunt back in the States….

  “Made it all myself, boy. Every cent! I was made for that market, boy. When I hit New York from down New Hampshire way, I started running circles around that market. I — “

  “That’s enough,” said Charley, but this time he let the man have the bottle. He hadn’t had any friends since ‘29.