Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  I looked at him.

  “The guitarist,” he explained.“Joe Puma. Haven’t you ever heard of him?” I shook my head.

  He sipped his coffee.“About the best in the world, for my money. Real fine. I’ve a record of his you can have.”

  From behind the bar, Eddie signalled Pete, and Pete stood up.“My master’s voice,” he said.“Listen carefully, Fidelia. I’m going to open with another new one.”

  Her eyes followed him.

  When she looked back at me, I said, “He’s still it, isn’t he?”

  “No,” she said.“It wouldn’t work. It didn’t work; it wouldn’t work.” She lifted her empty glass.“More? How about you?”

  “More,” I said.“Tonight’s the night for it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Don’t get your signals mixed; I’m no boozer. I had worked hard, had come up with the only answer — and had walked into a wall. Frustration was tying me into a psychological knot; I had to unwind.

  The bourbon warmed me. The piano of Pete Richards soothed me, leading the mind into channels far from the weary, working world. Across from me, Fidelia sat motionless and entranced.

  When Richards finished his first session, he came back to sit with us, bringing a cup of coffee along. He sat next to Fidelia and, though my vision was blurring by this time, I could still see what a fine-looking couple they made.

  From what I’ve seen of marriage, people who belong together never seem to get together. It was a damned shame. In the background, I saw the moon-faced friend of Leslie Elkins sneering at me.

  “What are you staring at?” Fidelia asked.

  “Leslie Elkins’ friend.”

  She turned around. “You can’t see him from where you’re sitting. Joe, are you drunk?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m — just right. I wish you two would get married again.”

  Pete Richards smiled. “I’m too talented and Fidelia’s too rich and beautiful. Don’t you worry about us, Joe. We have finally arrived at a perfect working agreement.”

  A couple of young moderns, and they were so wrong. So right for each other and thinking so wrong….A great one-hundred-proof compassion moved through me and I ordered another drink.

  “You Latin lush,” Fidelia mocked me. “This is another of your unbridled appetites, is it?”

  “Rarely,” I said. “I had some knots that needed untying.”

  “I’ll have another one, too,” she said. “And I’ll have another cup of coffee,” Richards said….

  And then the intricate semi-melodies of Pete Richards were coming from the piano again, but Pete still sat across from me, only now with a drink in front of him.

  “Time is being telescoped,” I told Fidelia.

  “I’ll bet it is,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Pete sitting next to you and the piano playing. Is it a player piano? Pete shouldn’t drink.”

  “This isn’t Pete,” she said. “He’s at the piano. This is Lou Serano drinking next to me.”

  I focused my eyes carefully, but it looked like the moon-faced man to me.

  Lou’s voice came from the moon-face. “Cheers, Joe! What’s new?”

  “My guitar,” I said. “Where’s Foy? Foy should be here.” Lou laughed. “We could stick him with the check.” “Let’s get off the Foy kick,” Fidelia said. “I will if you will,” I told her. “Let us here and now take a solemn pledge, the three of us, to give up Foy.” Nobody answered me.

  “We’re either brothers or we’re not,” I insisted. “This is the test, brothers.”

  “I’m not a brother,” Fidelia said. “And you wouldn’t want me for a sister. You’d worry. You’d worry all the time. I’d never have any dates; you’d chase them all away.”

  In my addled mind, something triggered a response and I reached for it — and it slipped away, intangible as smoke.

  The piano moved into a new tune, and Fidelia finished her drink and stood up. “Pardon me. Don’t go away, boys; I’ll be back.”

  Lou’s face came into focus. “I didn’t want to say anything, Joe, while she was sitting here, but the police have taken Dr. Foy into temporary custody.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Maybe. But don’t say anything to Fidelia, will you? We don’t know if she’s cured of Foy.”

  “She’s cured,” I said. “To hell with Foy. You should meet his wife, Lou, and let her tell you about Dr. Arnold Foy, graduate of the Sunset College of Clinical Psychology.”

  “The Kunket Sollege?” he said. “What’s that?”

  “You heard me, Lou. Don’t give me any trouble.”

  Fidelia’s voice. “Here we go again! Now, what’s the rub? You live in a state of constant indignation, don’t you?”

  “Welcome home,” I said. “Where have you been?”

  I don’t know what she answered; there was a blank here, longer than the others.

  When cognizance returned, the moon-face was there again, complete with sneer.

  “You’re not kidding me with that mask, Serano,” I said. “I know your voice.”

  “How bright of you,” the moon-face said, and it wasn’t Serano’s voice.

  And there was another face next to the moon-face now. It wasn’t Leslie Elkins', though it was just as thin and petulant. And next to that face there was still another and I looked around for Fidelia, for Richards and his piano, for Lou Serano and Eddie.

  All I could find around me was the night. And a dim light coming through a window and reflecting off a wall not six feet away. I had the damnedest feeling that I was in an alley, but that couldn’t be. How would I get into an alley?

  “Tough guy,” Moon-face said. “Inside, you were so mouthy. Why so quiet now?”

  “You got me, chubby,” I said. “I just feel quiet, I guess. Where am I? I got this silly feeling I’m in an alley. What would I do in an alley?”

  Moon-face chuckled. “Fight or fall, that’s what you’ll do in this alley. Or fight and fall. Or maybe just fall?”

  “Fight?” I said. “That’s okay. I like to fight. but are we mad at each other? You should tell me that so I know how to fight, full strength or half.”

  “Fight full strength,” the man with the petulant face said. “We want to take you at your best.”

  I forced my eyes to focus and they focused on the moon-face. I spread my feet a little and smiled — and threw the first big punch at the middle of the moon.

  That, I think, was my best punch of the night. Because I could feel the cartilage go in his nose and a tooth snap on the left side of his mouth. Considering all the life-giving bourbon I was loaded with, I’m surprised now his neck didn’t break.

  Someone hit me a trivial blow in the side, and I backhanded lustily and accurately — because that someone yelped. And was someone else crying? Someone was whimpering. I hoped it was old moon-face.

  Wham! One of them could hit. The punch missed my chin but caught my throat and I fought for breath, searching the darkness desperately for the next one.

  It came, high on the chin this time, and I went back into a rough stucco wall, and started to go down. What was I doing, fighting with my fists like a lousy amateur boxer? As I started to go down, I threw the right foot straight out in front of me, my back firmly anchored by the wall.

  It had to be a groin I caught. Because the sickening grunt and the piteous moan that followed contact came from a throat too weak for a sound to match the pain.

  And now there were two whimpers, the sad cries of broken men, too badly hurt to be shamed by their tears.

  And in my right hand there was a throat and above the throat there was the face as thin as Leslie Elkins’ that didn’t belong to Leslie Elkins. And I could feel my forearm muscles tightening and the pull of them going into my bicep muscles. And the big shoulder muscles were coming into action….

  When, from the ground, someone said hoarsely, “Puma, you’re killing him! Let go, please let go of him! Please, please, please!”


  I was killing him. And I say this right now, honestly — I’m not sure I would have quit squeezing if I hadn’t heard the siren. I was drunk — dead, stinking drunk — and full of the day’s rage.

  But the siren was loud and close, so I dropped him. I looked toward the light at the open end of the alley and knew I couldn’t go out that way.

  I turned, hoping to hell it wasn’t a dead-end alley.

  I took about five steps, and walked into a wall. It was a dead-end.

  Desperately, I turned back, but there was the squeal of braking tires at the curb in front now. My only exit was blocked.

  And then my hand felt a doorknob and I held my breath. The doorknob turned, the door opened — and I stepped into a dimly lighted washroom. I expelled my breath and locked the door behind me.

  Through the other door, I could hear the sound of a piano and it was Pete Richards’ piano. I was finding my point in time and space.

  In the mirror above the sink, I could see my face; it was bruised but not bloody. In the mirror above the sink, I could see the whole damned washroom and my grievous error.

  Some important plumbing equipment was missing for me. It was the ladies’ washroom.

  Cautiously, I opened the door and looked out. There was only a small screen disguising this door, and a woman stood at the end of it, talking to Eddie. I closed it again and headed for the only sanctuary in sight, the room’s single cubicle.

  I went in and sat down.

  If my victims squealed to the police, now out in front, the police would come looking for me. I smiled. They would look every place.

  Every place but here.

  I was surrounded by sheet steel and there was a sliding bolt lock on the sheet steel door in front of me. Great stuff, steel. Great protector of the innocent, guardian of the oppressed.

  Only when the hubbub in front died down would I leave this handy sanctuary.

  I heard the door open and some footsteps come in. I heard a feminine voice ask, “What’s all the fuss about?”

  And another feminine voice answered, “I don’t know. Some kind of trouble outside. A fight, I guess. Eddie says the law is looking for that big man who was in here with the Sherwood dame.”

  “Joe Puma, you mean?”

  “That’s the name — Puma.”

  “I hope they don’t find him,” the other voice said. “I wish I could find him first. What a man, huh?”

  “I guess. I don’t go much for them foreign types.”

  “Honey, you need glasses. Yum, yum, yummy!”

  “Glasses I don’t need,” the other voice said. “Just some light in this dump. The business Eddie is doing on that Richards, you’d think he’d splurge on a big bulb for the johnny. How do I look?”

  “Thirty-three and badly used,” my admirer answered. “Is that growler occupied or did Eddie lock it up again?” There was a rap on the steel door in front of me. “Anybody in there?”

  I leaned over and rapped back.

  “You sick, honey? Can’t you talk?”

  I rapped back again.

  “Hey,” my admirer said worriedly, “I’ll bet this dame is over the edge. Maybe she needs help. You’d better tell Eddie, huh?”

  I took a breath and said in my sweetest falsetto, “I’m all right. It won’t be long now.”

  A long, long silence. And then my non-admirer said, “If that’s a dame in there, I’m Gregory Peck.”

  My admirer said quickly, “You’re damned right it’s a dame. If you want to break up a seven-year friendship, Genevieve Pelson, go ahead. If you don’t, that’s a girl in there; a sweet, friendly girl.”

  Genevieve said, “Dorothy, you’re insane!”

  “Like a fox,” Dorothy said. “Genevieve Pelson, if — ”

  There was a knock on the door leading to the bar — and silence. And then a muffled voice that sounded like Eddie’s. “Girls, you all right? Would you check that place for the police? They’re looking for Puma.”

  “There’s no Puma in here,” Dorothy said, “unless she’s hiding in the drain.”

  “It’s not a she, it’s a he,” Eddie said. “The private investigator, Joe Puma.”

  Then Genevieve put in her nickel’s worth. “We’ll look again, Eddie, though with this bulb you got in here, it’s hard to see anything.” Some shuffling of feet. “Nobody here but us chickens, Eddie.”

  Silence.

  Relief flooded through me and the haziness came back.

  One little vignette stands out in my memory, though I couldn’t swear to it. Somebody passed a drink under the door and I drank it.

  A face came into my vision again. The face was Fidelia’s, but the voice wasn’t. The voice was Mona Greene’s.

  “Lover,” the voice said. “Strong, gentle lover.”

  I reached for the body with the face of Fidelia and the voice of Mona Greene. The breasts were full, but there was some sag to them. Was this the body of Mrs. Foy?

  Only in the breasts was there any sag; the legs were firm and long, the tummy taut. In the moonlight coming through the window, I could see the whiteness that had been covered by a bathing suit.

  She chuckled. “Jen should see me now.”

  “Who’s Jen?” I asked.

  “My girl friend. Genevieve Pelson. Don’t you remember? I room with her. That’s why we came here?” “Where is here?”

  “At your friend’s apartment. Don’t you remember? You said you couldn’t go home, so your friend brought you here. And you insisted I come along.”

  “Now I remember,” I said. “Genevieve is the one who doesn’t go much for foreign types. I’ll bet you’re Dorothy.” I paused. “The cute one.”

  A silence. With women, a silence so often means trouble, trouble, trouble….

  A sniff. “I like that. You aren’t that drunk, Joe Puma. I like that! What do you think I am, some tramp or something?”

  I put a hand on her tight tummy. “No, no, no. You’re darling Dorothy. You saved my neck.”

  “That’s better,” she said, mollified. “I felt like kind of a tramp, your friend sleeping in the other room and all — putting him in the living room, I mean. I guess he’s … modern, though, isn’t he?”

  “He sure is,” I agreed. Which friend, which friend? I didn’t have the courage to ask her. I whispered, “Don’t you think he’s a great guy?”

  “I guess. I don’t know him well. He sure plays my kind of piano, though.”

  That friend. I put a hand in her hair. It was soft and clean and fragrant. I moved closer.

  “Again?” she whispered. “You’re some man!”

  Again? I had missed one. Or more? That’s a hell of a thing to miss.

  “Who counts?” I said. “Do you count, darling Dorothy?”

  “Not with you,” she said. “It’s always the first time, with you.”

  Darling Dorothy. I pulled her close, wondering what she’d look like in the morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the morning, she wasn’t there. An unclouded sun poured through the unshaded window and I was wet with perspiration. The odor of Dorothy’s perfume was still faintly in the room. Through the door came the soft sound of Richards’ piano.

  The bathroom was off this bedroom; I showered before going out. From the piano, Richards looked over and smiled. “Alone?”

  “It seems that way. How did I get here last night?”

  “I drove your car. You weren’t in any shape to drive it. And you figured the law would be waiting for you at your place.”

  On a sofa against the far wall of the room, a sheet and two blankets were folded. “You gave us your bed,” I said.

  “Why not? You like eggs?” He stood up. “Toast, orange juice or tomato juice, Wheaties.” “Eggs, thanks,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Around ten. How about some baking soda and water?”

  “Just a couple aspirin, if you have ‘em.”

  He smiled wryly. “I’ve got a million I’ll never need again. In the bathroom.
How many eggs, Joe?”

  I said humbly, “Don’t flinch, but I usually have six.”

  He went to the kitchen and I went after the aspirin. When I came into the kitchen there was a cup of coffee waiting for me, and the Times.

  The Times had the story on Dr. Foy, but he had been released after a short questioning. The paper didn’t have the story of my alley brawl. Nor anything new on the first murder; simply a tired rehash and various pronouncements by politically-minded officials. Tampett’s murder had stirred the papers, who were now stirring the people, making the politicians restless.

  At the stove, Pete Richards put a huge, rectangular aluminum griddle over two of the burners. “Sunny-side up?” he asked.

  “Right. Who took Fidelia home last night?”

  “Eddie. She stayed until closing.”

  “What happened to Lou Serano?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t there when we closed the joint.” He turned around. “How did you get into the alley with those drips?”

  I shrugged. “The whole night’s full of blanks for me. But this I remember, what a fine couple you and Fidelia make.”

  “Get off that, please?” he asked quietly. “There are reasons; I mean — ” He expelled his breath irritatedly. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about it in front of Fidelia. It’s — -embarrassing.” He turned back to the sizzling eggs.

  I said nothing. Embarrassing? Why? I continued to say nothing. The smell of eggs and butter filled my nostrils, making my impatient stomach growl.

  He put some toast into the toaster and came over to slide six white and golden eggs onto an enormous plate. He sat down across from me with two fried eggs of his own.

  The silence continued through three of my eggs. And then I said, “I don’t understand that. About it being embarrassing, I mean.”

  He took a deep breath and looked at me with great patience. “Joe, I gave you, and your friend, lodging for the night, after driving you here, keeping you out of jail. And then I cook you six eggs. Now, all I ask in return is, don’t pry!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “These are fine eggs.”

  He ate quietly, his head down. He’d been genial enough before breakfast; I must have hit a nerve. I read the theatrical news in the Times while he read the sports pages. You’d think we were married, the way we ignored each other.