The Men From the Boys

by Ed Lacy

  He was sporting a silk polo shirt and a crew cut, a big book under his arm. He was always reading, and was probably a fag—went around with the Village artists. He glanced at the way my suit hung on me, asked, “A circus come with that tent?”

  “Why? You want a job as a fire-eater? Probably the only thing you don't eat.”

  “Your humor is like your suit—it doesn't fit you. Up early, aren't you, Mr. Bond?”

  “Yeah, I'm checking on your time.”

  His thin lips gave me what passed for a sneer. “They got a nerve, with the twelve-hour day I put in.”

  “You going for a union here?” Wouldn't surprise me if the smart bastard was a radical. We all put in long hours, but the gravy was worth it. And Lawson didn't do a damn thing but read. We never got busy till late afternoon and Dewey was on then.

  I walked over to Hamilton Square and had coffee and toast, got hungry and knocked off a stack of pancakes, a hunk of pie, and more coffee. It was only seven and I had nothing to do.

  Walking over to Washington Park, I sat around for a while watching some old nut open a bag of crumbs and feed the pigeons. When a couple of them hopped up on his hands, he glanced at me proudly. I decided to take a bus ride uptown, buy some socks and a couple of shirts. I rode up to Fifty-seventh Street and then down to Macy's, but the store wasn't open yet. I had a glass of iced coffee and tried smoking a cigarette.

  A lot of gas hit my stomach and I began belching, so I took an Alka-Seltzer and bought a pack of mints. The pain in my gut hit me and I forgot about shopping.

  I phoned Art Dupre's office and got one of these answering services. I found his home phone in the Bronx book. He answered with “Dr. Dupre speaking.”

  “Doctor, I'm in trouble,” I said in a gal's voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, doctor, I'm in trouble and I ain't married and the druggist said you'd fix it for me.”

  “Who is this? What doctor do you want?”

  “Oh, you a doctor? I want Sergeant Dupre!” I said in my regular voice.

  Art said, “Marty Bond—you and your lousy gags. How are you?”

  “Got a touch of ptomaine poisoning, or something, Art. My belly is acting up. Can you work on me sometime this morning?”

  “Of course. How about eleven?”

  “All right.”

  “How sick are you, Marty? Vomiting?”

  “Naw, but I feel like it at times. Mostly the runs and an upset gut. I'll live till eleven—the question is, Will I live after you work on me?”

  “That's a bright question, the enlisted man's dream come true—having his C.O. coming to him for help. See you at eleven, and don't drink anything cold or strong in the meantime.”

  “Okay, boy.”

  I still had a couple of hours to kill so I took the bus downtown. The sun was already out strong, another scorcher. I took off my coat and thought about going to Coney Island, or surf casting at Jones Beach. But I was looking forward to seeing Art. He'd been a medic in my M.P. outfit and saved me from a lot of grief over in England when I nearly killed a cocky A.W.O.L. wop.

  That kid Art had the stuff, he wanted to be a doc and he'd made it. G.I. Bill was something, except for us older guys. I would have looked silly going to college. And what could I learn — you never needed no bill to go to my college, the University of Hard Knocks.

  I got off at Hamilton Square and headed for the precinct. Some white-haired bag was standing on the corner, rattling a red tin can. Pushing it up in my face, she gave me the pitch-smile as she asked, “Please help fight cancer?”

  “Let the government shell out the dough for it. They're always spending dough like water.”

  “We must all chip in and do our part,” she said sweetly. She probably worked for a percentage of the take.

  “Your sexy smile does it, sister,” I said, dropping a couple of dimes in the can.

  “Thank you. Like to put this on your coat?” She held up a red tin button shaped like a sword.

  “They giving medals for being a sucker now?” I asked, winking at her and walking on.

  It was a big morning for me. When I asked the desk man for Lieutenant Ash he said, “The lieutenant isn't in yet. What do you want to see him about?”

  He was another of these slim cops, young too — under forty. “Just dropped in for some chatter. When do you expect him?”

  “About noon.”

  “I'll be back. Tell him Marty Bond called.”

  “I'll tell him.” He gave me a mild stare.

  “Yeah, Marty Bond the ex-cop,” I said, walking out. I dropped in at the Grover and Lawson said, “Mr. King is in the office.”

  “So what?”

  “Just thought you'd like to know. Room 703 checked out leaving the room a mess. The rug will have to be cleaned.”

  “It's about time.”

  “Mr. King was miffed about it.”

  “He miffs too easy.” I took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Lilly, one of the old colored chambermaids, was cleaning 703. She said, “Look at this mess. It's disgusting.”

  “Couple of drunks. I had to quiet them last night. By the way, Lilly, they left this as a tip for you.” I handed her five bucks. “Clean up the room good before King comes sniffing up here.”

  She pocketed the fin quickly. “I'll take care of it. That was nice of them to think of me.”

  “I sort of suggested it. Put it all on a number and you can retire—maybe. What do you like for today?”

  “I usually stick along with my house number, 506.”

  “All right, play a buck for me.”

  “I'll get it in. Where's the money?”

  “Lilly, out of the five. Wasn't for me you wouldn't have nothing.”

  I went down to my room, considered shaving, dabbed some after-shave lotion under my armpits, put on a fresh shirt, and went out. Art had his offices on East Fifty-eighth Street—pretty swank. I took a bus to Fifty-second Street and walked through the ratty section between Sixth and Fifth Avenues that's full of night spots. I knew Flo was stripping in one of the joints and for no reason I wanted to see her picture.

  She wasn't the feature strip; they only had an 8” x 10” of Flo, one of her old snaps. I stared at the strong long legs, the hard body, the hard beautiful face, the small, perfect breasts. This snap was taken nine years ago, but Flo hadn't changed much. Whenever she worked one of the burleycue houses in New Jersey, I'd go over to watch her. Almost gave me a queer bang to see the clowns gaping at her, recalling all the times I'd had what they were eyeballing.

  Although I never really had Flo. I was tough, but she was tougher. She was about the toughest babe I ever knew. She knew what she had, and her only aim in life was to make it pay off in folding dough. I remembered the first time I saw her, in the chorus of a crummy Broadway musical. Guess she went with me for a resting period. My salary gave her a chance to hunt around for a feature role, study up on her dancing and acting. Everything she did was part of this drive to “get to the top.” You couldn't even beat this drive out of her—I tried it a couple of times.

  Maybe one of the reasons I got a kick out of seeing Flo do her act, these last couple of years, was the satisfaction in knowing she'd never made the top. She left me for a bastard who took her out to Hollywood. Flo had all the whistle stops, enough ability, but she must have slept with the wrong jokers. Over the years I'd see her in a few bit parts, then in '48 she started doing burlesque work, night clubs. Flo had to be hitting thirty-eight or thirty-nine now, just sticking around for the crumbs.

  I walked slowly toward Madison Avenue thinking of Flo. If only she had had something in her blood besides ambition we might have hit things off—for a short time we had it pretty good. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, light a match and stare at her, wondering how a slob like me ever got so lucky. Dot had the brains and the warmth, Flo had the body. Although Dot could surprise the hell out of you—sometimes.

  Art was sharing the first floor of a brownstone with
two other doctors. I gave the nurse at the reception desk my name and she told me to sit down. I slipped a mint in my mouth and watched her legs under the desk, wondered why I was looking—Barbara had better stems. And in any event what good would...?

  I belched and watched her face to see if she'd heard. She hadn't. I glanced around the office, all the modern furniture. The last time I had Art work on me was a year ago. He had a modest office up on Eighty-third Street then. The boy was climbing fast.

  After a couple of minutes Art came in, looking fine in his white jacket. Although he wasn't a ladies' man, he could be—had one of these lean, homely maps that women go for, like Gary Cooper. And Art was big and fairly muscular although he never did any physical work or exercise. Once in the army when we were swimming in Venice, I asked him how he stayed in shape and he'd said, “I don't know, lieutenant. I suppose I was just born this way.” Art never called me “sir,” always “lieutenant,” which was okay with me.

  After the usual hard handshake and cracks about neither of us looking a day older, I followed him into his neat office, sat down in a chair that looked like a giant ice-cream cone and which turned out to be comfortable. “How's the hotel business, Marty?” he asked, taking out my file.

  “All right. With the housing shortage, hotels are making out.”

  He nodded, as though he was interested. “What's all this about ptomaine? Upset stomach? According to my records you're a typical hard rock. An interesting specimen, a throwback, as I kept telling you, a ...”

  “All right, cut the big words. So I'm a specimen, pickled in alcohol, and all that. Art, I think I have a case of the old G.l.'s. Been that way, off and on—and that's no pun—for the last few weeks. Nothing seems to help. Also, I have a lousy taste in my mouth, like something died in me a long time ago.”

  “Any fever or chills?”

  “Nope, I don't think so. I sweat, but that's because of the dog days we've been having. I belch a lot.”

  “Still drinking?”

  “Nope. Funny thing, haven't had a desire for a shot, or for a cigarette either.”

  “According to my records you haven't had anything worse than an acid stomach in the last five years. You look like your usual burly gorilla self. Though what's left of your hair is turning gray. Marty, you worrying about anything?”

  “Me? I never worried in my life.”

  He stood up. “I'd say you're in good shape—for an old man.”

  “I'm only fifty-four, you punk.”

  “Okay, pops, take off your shirt and I'll give you the works.”

  The boy really gave me a thorough examination, worked me over with several gadgets, put me in front of a fluoroscope... all the time asking questions about what I liked to eat and what I didn't, the color and shape of my bowels, any pains, and other exciting remarks.

  At first we were wisecracking a lot, but after a while I knew he was putting on an act with the gags—Art was really damn serious, even frightened.

  After about an hour he told me to dress and we sat down at his desk. Art asked,. “Marty, you say you're always tired, weak, not much of an appetite, lost weight and...”

  “All right, Art, stop stalling, what's wrong with me?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I think you have a tumor, a growth next to your intestines... far as I can make out. You may need an operation. I'm sending you to a specialist for a gastric X ray. He'll know much more about it than I do.”

  “I have a tumor in my gut?” I repeated.

  “I thinly you have one.”

  “Can't penicillin, one of these new wonder drugs, do the trick?”

  “Perhaps. We'll see what the specialist says. You may not even require surgery. But I think it will be best to take a sample of the growth. Merely routine...”

  “A sample? You mean it might be cancer?” The words seemed to sting as they tumbled out of my lips.

  “Might be anything,” Art said casually. “Marty, I'm only a pill-and-temperature man, wait till we hear what the big shot says. I can be all wrong about it being a tumor. I'll make an appointment for you.”

  I sat like a dummy, hearing Art pick up the phone, make an appointment for 1130 the following afternoon. I couldn't think. All I could do was taste the dry garlic stink on my tongue. There was a horse cop I knew who died of cancer of the gut. He'd been a pro boxer once and we used to work out together. He'd starved to death because the cancer squeezed his intestines tight. I spent a lot of time with him in the hospital, watching him become a bag of bones.

  As Art put the phone down I told him, “I was never afraid of dying because if you don't fear death you got the world by the tail. But this... what a crummy way of going out.”

  “Stop it. It could be an ulcer, an inflated stomach, a hundred and one things besides ...”

  “Don't talk a hole in my head, Art!”

  He stared at me for a second, then pulled a pipe out of a drawer, carefully packed and lit it. “Marty, this isn't something you can lick with hard talk or slugging, so don't be a goddam amateur doctor. Every growth isn't cancer, just as every headache isn't a nervous breakdown. If it is a tumor they cut it out and in a few weeks you're good as new. It's that simple.”

  I shook my head. “It'll be cancer.”

  “Oh for—How do you know? I...”

  “Hell, I just know!”

  “You're spouting sheer nonsense. Wait till you hear what the specialist tells you tomorrow before starting the dramatics and self-pity. Not like you, I always thought you were too tough for fear.” Art smiled. “That's hot air I'm handing you, Marty. I don't blame you for being frightened, but if I don't know what it is, you certainly don't. Let me know what the specialist tells you tomorrow.”

  “As if he won't call you. Art, if it should be cancer, how much time ...?”

  “I refuse to answer that, even think of it.”

  “I once knew a guy that had it, right in the gut too. Lay in bed for over three months before he finally kicked off, looked like a goddam skeleton.”

  “Marty, let me give it to you straight. If it is cancer you may die. I said if and may. Not every cancer patient dies, most of them live. As for dying, you know the old bromide— a car may splatter your brains all over the street the second you leave this office.”

  “Hell, that's quick.”

  Art came around the desk, slapped me on the shoulder. “Marty, you make me ashamed of myself for being such a bad doctor, scaring a patient. Wouldn't have told you except I thought you were such a tough bastard. I don't have the knowledge or equipment to diagnose this, so if it turns out to be a gas pocket, something as silly as that, don't try to whip my head. Now, here's the specialist's name and address. Be on time and be ready to shell out about fifty bucks. Need any money?”

  I got up. “No. What do I owe you?”

  “I enjoyed your company.”

  I dropped a five spot on his desk. “This do it?”

  “I told you...”

  I shoved his hand away. “I've heard that north wind before. So long, Art.”

  “Marty, let's have supper together. I never see you except when you're sick. How about making it for Friday...?”

  “Sure. I'll call you.”

  I walked out, passed by the receptionist, and the lousy taste was strong in my mouth. The taste of death, the greasy crummy taste of death. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes trying to swallow, clear my mouth. The sun was making me sweat. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to talk to somebody, go home. But home was a flea-bag hotel room.

  I had a sudden desire to see Flo, to be with her in the flashy four-room apartment we used to have, the little bar and bar stools like in the movies. There was the bedroom with Flo's dolls....

  Dolls made me snap out of it. I had no time for dolls or for much of anything else. I walked to a corner drugstore, bought some mints and drank two glasses of orangeade that I damn near threw up.

  I took a cab down to Hamilton Square. Bill Ash had been my boon buddy for a lo
t of years. He was a good listener, a guy with a level brain. I crossed the Square and headed toward the station house. Bill and I had been attached to a precinct uptown for almost six years before we were sent... The white-haired lady with the red tin can came over to me. “Will you help fight...? Oh...” Her mechanical smile vanished and she turned away.

  Grabbing her arm, I jerked her to me. “What's the matter? You see something on my face?”

  “Why... mister... My God, you're hurting my arm!”

  “Tell me what you see on my face?”