Stars and Bars: A Novel

by William Boyd

  He crept up to the apartment door. The lobby was lit, but no one sat at the lectern. He pressed the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened. He was beginning to feel nervous and ordinary again, now that his heroic, epic run was over. It was beginning to disappear, wear off. He was being normal once more, ringing doorbells, visiting, asking favors. He pressed the buzzer again.

  A door opened in the rear wall of the lobby and a small man came out, shrugging on a jacket. Henderson, suddenly wary—like an Amazonian native suspicious of his first encounter with strangers—shrank back against the wall out of sight.

  “Yeah?” came a metallic voice from the loudspeaker.

  “I want to see Ms. Stein,” Henderson whispered loudly in its direction.

  “What?”

  “Come to the door.”

  The man advanced cautiously. With dismay Henderson saw that it was Bra.

  “Who is it?” Bra asked, peering into the shadows.

  “Bra,” Henderson whispered from his hiding place, “it’s me, Mr. Dores.”

  “Who are you? Where are you?”

  “Here. To the side. Your right.” Henderson waved.

  “Come out of there, ya fuckin’ freak!”

  Henderson stood up and stepped into view. Bra backed off in patent shock.

  “Hello, Bra. It’s me, Mr. Dores. I need to see Ms. Stein. I’m in terrible trouble.”

  “What? … Get outa here! What are you?”

  “Look, Bra. It’s … it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Get your ass outa here, ya fuckin’ geek! I warn you, I got a gun in here!”

  “Bra, it’s me. Mr. Dores. You know me. I was here the other day.”

  “I count to ten. I call the cops.”

  He saw Bra lift the phone. With bitter, disgusted tears in his eyes he ran off into the dark. That little bastard knew it was me, he swore. He had done that deliberately. He ran full tilt down the road toward Central Park. A significant portion of his box came away, revealing a section of pallid haunch. The rain still fell with healthy force; it showed no sign of relenting. At this rate he’d be naked again in half an hour—swaddled only in a plastic belting. But now he didn’t feel so wonderful—so transformed at the prospect. He had no money; he couldn’t even phone anyone.… What he needed were clothes. They had never struck him as the key prerequisite for survival in the West. If you’re half naked you are a nonperson, a subversive, a deviant. You can do nothing unless you are properly dressed. Shoes, trousers, a shirt—the sine qua non of social action.

  He needed clothes.… Perhaps he could mug somebody? Dare he return to his apartment? But what if Freeborn and Sereno were there? What if they had discovered his escape by now? And then, suddenly, he remembered where he kept a second suit of clothes. The Queensboro Health Club. His fencing gear. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Only a matter of hours until it opened. He looked up at the sky. Keep raining, he implored. He set off. Straight down Fifty-ninth Street, all the way.

  Henderson found a place to hide in a basement well opposite the gym. To his alarm it was beginning to get light with inconsiderate speed. Soon the first keen commuters would be arriving. Like witches and hobgoblins, people like him should be off the streets by the time the first cock crowed, he thought. He felt, lurking close behind him, rank breath stirring the hairs on his nape, a vast implacable exhaustion waiting to pounce. He confirmed the time: half five. The gym opened at seven. He was suddenly gripped by a fierce hunger and realized he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours.

  He looked at the gray empty streets, still hosed by curtains of rain. A puddle the size of a football pitch swamped the intersection of York and Fifty-eighth. A car had been abandoned in the middle, the water lapping at the radiator. Around its perimeter stepped a neat, waterproofed, track-suited figure, carrying small dumbbells in each hand. See, Henderson told himself, there are madder people than me out on the streets.…

  “Teagarden! Eugene, over here! Over here!”

  Teagarden trotted over and looked down at him.

  “Well, Mr. Dores. What a surprise.”

  Henderson clambered out of his basement well. His Marymount No-Slak box was now the consistency of porridge. With every step part of it fell away.

  Teagarden looked at him.

  “Yeah …” He nodded. “Pretty good.”

  Henderson shrugged. “Well …”

  “Told you you shouldn’t ought to have gone down there. What happened?”

  “Long story, Eugene.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Going to the gym?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saved my life, Eugene.”

  They strolled across the street to the gym. Teagarden unlocked the door and switched on the lights. Henderson sat down opposite his locker with a squelch. He suddenly felt like crying. He also felt like telling Teagarden that he loved him, so abject was his gratefulness, but he refrained.

  “Whew,” Henderson said. “Quite a night, one way and another.” Now that it was over all the emotions he had pent up overwhelmed him, like a football crowd invading the pitch. For a few moments his brain succumbed to the mindless violence.

  “Like a coffee?” Teagarden said.

  “Please.”

  The gym was quiet and cool; it seemed like a sanctuary, a holy place. Teagarden went off to boil a kettle. Henderson stood up. With both hands he ripped away chunks of his Marymount box. A shower. A meal. A change of clothes …”

  “Well, hello there, Mr. Dores.”

  He looked up. Freeborn, Sereno and Gint stood at the end of his file of lockers. Gint was pointing his gun at him. “Quite a dance you’ve led us, Mr. Dores,” Sereno said. “Luxora and back in twelve hours. Quite a dance.”

  “Shoot the fucker,” Freeborn implored. “Off him, Peter.”

  “First he has to tell us where the paintings are.”

  “How did you …? I mean …”

  Sereno waved his address book. “Not many New York addresses, Mr. Dores. Peter spent the night in your apartment. We’ve just been there. Missed you by minutes at Ms. Stein’s.”

  “Blow him away, Peter! Waste the bastard!”

  Sereno glanced suspiciously at Freeborn.

  “Where are the paintings, Mr. Dores?”

  “They’re burned, destroyed. Duane burned them on Loomis Gage’s instructions. Ask Freeborn.”

  “Give me the fuckin’ gun!” Freeborn leaped for Gint’s hand but was elbowed easily away. Then Gint went very still.

  “Don’t move,” Teagarden said. “Or else this thing’s gonna be stickin’ out your mouth.”

  Teagarden held a saber to the back of Gint’s neck, the point on his hairline. Gint stood like a man who has just had an ice cube dropped down his shirt, back arched, chest out.

  “Drop the piece and kick it over to Mr. Dores.”

  Gint did this. Henderson picked the gun up. It was somehow much heavier than he had imagined. He pointed it vaguely at Freeborn.

  Teagarden walked around Gint, keeping the point of his saber at his neck.

  “OK, shitbrains, beat it.”

  Freeborn turned and ran. Sereno watched him go.

  “So the paintings are burned,” Sereno said. “Making sense, at last.” He and Gint backed off.

  “Duane burned them. Look at the bottom of the garden behind the Gage Mansion.”

  “Shame,” Sereno said. “I never really wanted the house. But beggers can’t be choosers.”

  He and Gint turned and left.

  “Very impressive, Eugene,” Henderson said weakly. “Thanks a lot. Here, you can keep the gun.”

  chapter four

  WHEN Henderson next appeared on the streets of Manhattan he was slightly better dressed. He wore his whites—polo neck, knickerbockers, socks and gym shoes. Tea-garden had lent him a green windcheater and ten dollars for a taxi. In gratitude, Henderson had signed up for a two-week crash course in épée.

  He hailed a taxi and it drove him to his apartment. On the
way he wondered what Sereno and Gint would do to Freeborn when they caught him.

  At his apartment he picked up his mail. The doorman handed him a parcel.

  “Special delivery,” he said. “Just arrived from the airport. Your friend was here earlier, but he said he couldn’t wait.”

  Henderson ascended in the elevator. The whole ghastly adventure was now, he hoped, over. He pressed the buzzer on his door. Sereno and Gint had his clothes, wallet, address book, keys. Minor inconveniences.

  Bryant opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said. “God. What are you wearing?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t take it anymore at home, Henderson. Mom, those fucking dogs—”

  “Bryant—”

  “Sorry.” She paused. “Henderson, can I stay here? I don’t want to go back. Please?”

  “Yes, by all means, of course.” He went in. She seemed to have forgotten Duane.

  Shanda sat on the sofa.

  “My God, what are you wearing?” She got up and waddled over. “Hi.” She pecked him on the cheek. “That Peter Gint was here all night. Boy, is he off the wall.… Then Freeborn and Ben came by real early. Freeborn messed the place up a bit. I was cleaning up when Bryant arrived. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Freeborn took his denim jacket back. Can you believe that?”

  Henderson sat down heavily in his ransacked sitting room, dumping the parcel on the coffee table. He shuffled his mail: catalog, bill, bill, catalog, letter. He ripped it open.

  Dear Henderson,

  Enclosed is a bill for cleaning: $23.50 for removing oil stains from my jacket sleeve. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked. The suit cost $275.00. We can settle up when you get back. Too bad about the Gage pix. But it’s an ill wind … Remember the man in Boston with the Winslow Homers? Ian Toothe went up there last week. It seems he also had two Pissarros and a Renoir and Ian persuaded him to sell them all. Good old Ian—saved our bacon.

  Yours,

  Pruitt

  “You want some breakfast?” Bryant asked.

  “Some, uh … coffee, please.”

  Bryant went into the kitchen. Shanda came and sat on the arm of his chair, her belly at eye level, her musky farinaceous smell filling his nostrils.

  “Freeborn’s throwed me out. He says you can keep me.”

  “Oh, really? Very big of him.”

  “Could we get married, Henderson? I’d kinda like for the baby to have a daddy.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  He got up, went into the bathroom and ran a bath. He locked the door, stripped off and soaked for twenty minutes or so. He thought distractedly of the last few days. He got out, shaved and went through to his bedroom. He fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke it was midday. He changed into clean clothes.

  Back in the sitting room the air was blurry with cigarette smoke. Shanda scrambled some eggs and brewed some coffee. As he was eating, the telephone rang. Shanda answered.

  “No,” she said. “My name is Shanda McNab.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, I am staying here. Who is this, please?”

  Pause.

  “No, I’m Henderson’s fiancée. Oh.” She looked around. “She hung up.”

  “Who was it?” Henderson asked with sudden alarm.

  “Bryant’s mommy. She says you’re a cheap bastard and she never wants to see you again.”

  “Typical,” Bryant said. “Hey, are you guys getting married? Congratulations.”

  Henderson opened another letter. It was from his car rental firm. The letter informed him that the car he had hired in New York had been written off during a car chase after a bank robbery in Biloxi, Mississippi. Could he throw any light on the matter? The cost of the car was $18,750.00.

  He asked Bryant to make him some more coffee. Shanda sat opposite him smoking a cigarette. He wondered what he was going to do. He leafed through his mail. Circular, bill, bill, airmail.

  Airmail. His own handwriting. Postmark GALASHIELS. Inside, scored sheets of Campbell Drew’s strong uncompromising hand.

  Dear Mr. Dores,

  Thank you for your letter. As you know your father was in six column of Wingate’s first expedition across the Chindwin. On the twenty-first of March, 1943, we had made camp just prior to attacking a Japanese base at Pinbon. Before we were to attack we were notified of an airdrop for new supplies.

  It had been decided that, due to our being behind enemy lines, it was not safe for airdrops to be made by parachute. The procedure was for the supply plane to fly low over the jungle and the provisions and ammunition were simply thrown out of the hatch. Of course many stores went missing, but, for security reasons, it was far safer than parachutes.

  Captain Dores ordered the company to spread out along the area marked for the drop. We had been on the march for weeks and were short of all supplies. This drop was crucial for us.

  The plane, a Dakota, as I remember, came over fast and low, the crates tumbling out of the hatchway. We gathered up what we could and reported to company HQ. We assembled there with our collection of supplies. Then it was noticed that Captain Dores was missing. I and three other men went in search of him.

  I am very sorry to say, sir, that your father was killed by a tin of pineapple chunks. A crate of supplies had broken up in midair, scattering the tins haphazardly. Your father was hit full on the head. I know he died instantly.

  I am very sorry to bring you these unfortunate details. I had been with your father since Imphal. He was a very brave man.

  Yours faithfully,

  Campbell Drew

  Henderson carefully folded up the letter. A tin of pineapple chunks. Embedded in his skull.

  “Are you OK, Henderson?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Bad news?”

  “No, no. Entirely expected.”

  “What’s in your parcel?”

  He breathed in deeply. Ach well, he thought, where’s the sense? He tore open the parcel. Demeter and Baubo, frameless, and a letter from Cora.

  Dear Henderson,

  Duane couldn’t bring himself to burn this one. I found it in his room and he told me everything. I guess Sereno and Gint will be down for the house next week. I thought you should have this, as it’s your favorite. Think about it.

  Cora

  Bryant and Shanda looked over his shoulder. Henderson knew he couldn’t keep it. Cora might be able to buy off Sereno.

  “I’ve seen that before,” Shanda said, frowning. “Somewhere.”

  “I don’t like it much,” Bryant offered.

  Henderson held Drew’s letter in one hand and Demeter and Baubo in the other. What was it old man Gage had said? … He knew now what he was going to do. He folded up his letter. Collision of soft gray brain with hard tin of pineapple chunks. A good way to go.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said to Bryant and Shanda. “I’ll be back later.”

  Henderson Dores walks briskly down Park Avenue toward the Forties. It looks quite different now that the rain has stopped, and the warm midday sun makes everything steam and exhale. He finds it hard to believe that a few hours ago he was creeping through the neat shrubs of the central reservation, clad only in a cardboard box. It might have happened to a different person.…

  He cuts over on Fifty-seventh and then down Fifth. Huge puddles still prove obstacles to traffic and there is much irate hooting of horns, and colorful oaths fill the air. He turns onto Forty-seventh and walks along it until he sees the delicatessen where Irene goes for lunch. He walks with measured purposeful tread.

  If everyone wants to be happy, and everyone is going to die, then there’s really no option, he tells himself, suddenly seeing everything with a new clarity. The whole can of worms takes on some sort of focus; the immense hill of beans arranges itself in some sort of order. Teagarden and his zencing, his own shyness, Beckman’s blinks, Melissa and her dogs, Bryant’s breasts, Gage’s boxing, Shanda’s baby, Cora’s sa
dness, the general’s WAC, Demeter and Baubo and, finally, his own father’s fatal encounter with a flying tin of pineapple chunks one hot day in the Burmese jungle in 1943.

  He pushes open the door. Irene sits with a pleasant young man, not unlike Pruitt Halfacre. Henderson approaches.

  “Irene,” he says, “I’m back. It’s all over.”

  Irene swings around, an ambiguous expression on her face.

  “Dores, you bastard!”

  People scream; plates drop with a crash. Henderson crouches instinctively and the first shot smashes into the plasti-pine veneer above Irene’s booth.

  Duane stands in the doorway, his fat face shiny with hot tears, shaking gun in both hands.

  “You stole her, you bastard!”

  Henderson, bent double, plunges through the bright plastic strips that hang from the lintel of the kitchen door. Various Oriental chefs in damp singlets are surprised to see him scramble through the cookers and kitchen units toward the rear exit. From behind him come more screams and crashing furniture as Duane pursues.

  Henderson explodes into the mean alleyway between Forty-seventh and Forty-sixth, barging heavily into a tramp picking through the trash cans.

  “Sorry,” Henderson gasps, regaining his balance.

  The tramp’s face is familiar. The shades, the trilby, the raincoat …

  “The furrier at midnight—”

  “I know,” Henderson yells. “I know all about that now!”

  He turns and runs up the alleyway, running as though his life depended on it (and it does), his legs pounding, his hands clawing air, striving with all his might and all his effort to reach the distant, sunlit vision of the teeming streets ahead.

  ALSO BY WILLIAM BOYD

  ARMADILLO

  The life of Lorimer Black, insurance adjustor, is about to be turned upside down. The elements at play are a beautiful actress with whom he is falling in love; an odd associate whose hiring, firing, and rehiring make little sense; and a rock musician whose loss—in this case of his mind—may be “adjusted” by the insurance company.