Pulp

by Charles Bukowski

  “Now, I want you to rip this guy apart like an old newspaper, just tear him to shreds and throw him to the fucking winds, got it?”

  “I got it, Mr. McKelvey.”

  “Good, then what are you waiting for, the last rose of summer?”

  Tommy stepped toward me. I slipped the luger out of the drawer, pointed it towards Tommy’s gross immensity.

  “Hold it, Thomas, or you’ll be spouting more red than the jerseys of the Stanford football team!”

  “Hey,” said McKelvey, “where’d you get that damned thing?”

  “A dick without a gat is like a tomcat with a rubber. Or like a clock without hands.”

  “Belane,” said McKelvey, “you talk goofy.”

  “I been told. Now tell your boy to back off or I’ll put so much daylight through him that you’ll be able to toss a grapefruit through!”

  “Tommy,” said McKelvey, “come on back here and stand in front of me.”

  They stood there like that. I had to figure out what to do with them. It wasn’t easy. I’d never won a scholarship to Oxford. I’d slept through biology and I was weak in math. But I had managed to stay alive up until now.

  Maybe.

  Anyhow, I momentarily held some kind of an ace in some kind of a stacked deck. I had to make a move. Now or never. September was coming. The crows were in council. The sun was bleeding.

  “All right, Tommy,” I said, “down on your hands and knees!

  Now!”

  He looked at me like he didn’t hear so good.

  I gave him a wan smile and clicked the safety catch off the luger.

  Tommy was dumb but not totally.

  He dropped to his hands and knees, shaking the whole 6th floor like a 5.9 earthquake. My fake Dali fell to the floor. The one with the melted watch.

  Tommy clumped there like the Grand Canyon and looked at me.

  “Now, Tommy,” I said, “you are going to be the elephant and McKelvey is going to be the elephant boy, got it?”

  “Huh?” asked Tommy.

  I looked over at McKelvey.

  “Go on! Get on! Mount!”

  “Belane, are you nuts?”

  “Who knows? Insanity is comparative. Who sets the norm?”

  “I don’t know,” said McKelvey.

  “Just get on!”

  “All right, all right! But I never had trouble like this before when a lease ran out.”

  “Get on, asshole!”

  McKelvey climbed onto Tommy’s back. He had real trouble getting his legs over the sides. Almost split his butt.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, Tommy, you’re the elephant and you’re going to carry McKelvey on your back, down the hall and into the elevator. Begin now!”

  Tommy began crawling across the floor of the office.

  “Belane,” said McKelvey, “I’ll get you for this. I swear by my mother’s pubic hairs!”

  “Mess with me again, McKelvey, and I’ll ram your cock down a garbage disposal!”

  I opened the door and Tommy crawled out with the elephant boy.

  He crawled on down the hall and as I slipped the luger back into my coat pocket I felt something in there, a crumpled up piece of paper. I took it out. It was my examination paper for the written test to renew my driver’s license. It was full of red marks. I had failed.

  I tossed the paper over my shoulder and followed my friends.

  We reached the elevator and I pressed the button.

  I stood there humming a bit from “Carmen.”

  Then out of nowhere I remembered long ago reading about how they found Jimmy Foxx dead in a skid row hotel room. All those home runs. Dead with the roaches.

  The elevator came up. The door opened and I gave Tommy a boot in the ass. He crawled in bearing McKelvey. There were 3 people in there, standing, reading their newspapers.

  They kept reading. The elevator went down.

  I took the stairway. I was 30 pounds overweight. I needed it.

  I counted 176 steps and then I was on the first floor. I stopped at the cigar stand, bought a cigar and The Daily Racing Form. I heard the elevator coming.

  Outside, I moved through the smog resolutely. My eyes were blue and my shoes were old and nobody loved me. But I had things to do.

  I was Nicky Belane, private detective.

  5

  Unfortunately, I ended up at the racetrack that afternoon and that night I got drunk. But the time wasn’t wasted, I was cogitating, sifting out the facts. I was right on top of everything. Any moment, I’d have everything figured out. Sure.

  6

  The next day I took a chance and went back to the office. After all, what’s a dick without an office?

  I opened the door and who was sitting there behind my desk?

  Not Celine. Not the Red Sparrow. It was McKelvey. He gave me a sweet, false smile.

  “Good morning, Belane, how they hanging?”

  “Why do you ask? You want a peek?”

  “No thanks.”

  Then he scratched his, and yawned.

  “Well, Nicky, my boy, your lease has been paid up for the next year by some mysterious benefactor.”

  Lady Death, said a voice inside of my head, is playing with you.

  “Anybody I know?” I asked.

  “Swore on my mother’s honor to keep it quiet.”

  “Your mother’s honor? She’s handled more turkeyneck than the corner butcher!”

  McKelvey rose up from behind the desk.

  “Take it easy,” I told him, “or I’ll turn you into a basket case.”

  “I don’t like you getting on my mother.”

  “Why not? Half the guys in this town have.”

  McKelvey moved around the desk toward me.

  “Come closer,” I said, “and I’ll have your head breathing up your butt.”

  He stopped. I looked awesome when I was pissed.

  “All right,” I said, “fill me in. This benefactor…it was a woman, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Never saw a babe like that!”

  His eyes looked glazed but they always looked like that.

  “Come on, Mac, fill me in, tell me more…”

  “I can’t. I promised. Mother’s honor.”

  “Oh Christ,” I sighed. “O.k., get out of here, my lease is paid.”

  McKelvey shuffled slowly toward the door. Then he looked back at me over his left shoulder.

  “All right,” he said, “but keep the place nice and clean.

  No parties, no crap games, no crap. You got a year.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, closed it and was gone.

  7

  Well, I was back in my office.

  Time to go to work. I picked up the phone and touch-keyed into my bookie.

  “Tony’s Pizza Take Out,” he answered, “at your service.”

  I gave him my code name.

  “This is Mr. Slow Death.”

  “Belane,” he said, “you’re into me for $475, I can’t take your action.

  You’ve got to clean the slate first.”

  “I’ve got a 25 buck bet, that will make half-a-string. If I lose I’ll cough it all up, my mother’s honor.”

  “Belane, your mother is into me for $230.”

  “Yeah? And your mother’s got warts on her ass!”

  “What? Listen, Belane, you been…?”

  “No, no. It was another guy. He told me.”

  “O.k., then.”

  “All right, I want $25 to win on Burnt Butterfly in the 6th.”

  “All right, you’re covered. And good luck. Yours seems to be running out.”

  I hung up. Son-of-a-bitch, a man was born to struggle for each inch of ground. Born to struggle, born to die.

  I thought about that. And thought about that.

  Then I leaned back in my chair, took a good drag on my cigarette and blew an almost perfect smoke ring.

  8

  After lunch I decided to go back to the office. I opened the door and there was a
guy sitting behind my desk. It wasn’t McKelvey. I didn’t know who it was. People liked to sit behind my desk. And, besides the guy sitting, there was a guy standing. They looked mean, calm but mean.

  “My name’s Dante,” said the guy behind the desk.

  “And my name’s Fante,” said the guy standing.

  I didn’t say anything. I was fumbling in the dark. A chill ran up my back and right on through the ceiling.

  “Tony sent us,” said the guy sitting.

  “Don’t know a Tony. You gentlemen have the right address?”

  “Oh yeah,” said the standing guy.

  Then Dante said, “Burnt Butterfly ran out.”

  “Tossed the jock coming out of the gate,” said Fante.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. Ask the dust.”

  “As a handicapper you are handicapped,” said Dante.

  “And Tony says you owe us half-a-string,” said Fante.

  “Oh that,” I said, “I’ve got it right here…”

  I moved toward my desk.

  “Forget it, sucker,” Dante laughed. “We’ve confiscated your water pistol.”

  I stepped back.

  “Now,” said Fante, “you realize that we can’t let you walk around blissfully sucking air while you owe Tony half-a-string?”

  “Give me 3 days…”

  “You got 3 minutes,” said Dante.

  “Why is it?” I asked, “that you guys take turns talking? First Dante, then Fante, on and on, don’t you ever break your rhythm?”

  “We’re here to break something else,” they both spoke together.

  “You.”

  “That was good,” I said. “I liked that. A duet.”

  “Shut up,” said Dante. He pulled out a smoke and stuck it in his lips. “Hmm,” he went on, “seems like I forgot my lighter. Come here, asshole, light my cigarette.”

  “‘Asshole’? You talking to yourself?”

  “No, you, asshole, come here. Light my smoke! Now!”

  I found my lighter, walked forward, stopped in front of one of the ugliest faces I had ever seen, flicked my lighter, put the flame to his fag.

  “Good boy,” said Dante, “now take this cigarette out of my mouth and stick it into yours, burning-end first and keep it there until I tell you to take it out.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said.

  “Either that,” said Fante, “or we blow a hole in you big enough for the little people at Disneyland to dance through.”

  “Wait a minute…”

  “You got 15 seconds,” said Dante, taking out his stopwatch, setting it, then he said, “Now, you’re on. 14, 13, 12, 11…”

  “You don’t mean it?”

  “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…”

  I heard the click of a safety catch being taken off.

  I snatched the cigarette out of Dante’s mouth and stuck it into mine, burning-end first. I tried to engender a mass of saliva and to keep my tongue out of the way, but no luck, I got it, I got it good, it HURT!!!! It was vile and painful! I began to gag and had to spit the thing out.

  “Bad boy!” said Dante. “I told you to keep it in until I told you to take it out! Now we are going to have to start all over again!”

  “Fuck you,” I said, “kill me!”

  “O.k.,” said Dante.

  Just then the door opened and Lady Death walked in. She was really dolled up. I almost forgot about my mouth.

  “Hey,” said Dante, “what a babe! You know her, Belane?”

  “We’ve met.”

  She walked over to a chair, sat down, crossed her legs, her skirt riding high. None of us could believe those legs. Even I couldn’t and I had seen them before.

  “Who are these clowns?” she asked me.

  “They’re emissaries from a guy called Tony.”

  “Get ’em out of here, I’m your client.”

  “All right, fellows,” I said, “it’s time to leave.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Dante.

  “Oh yeah?” said Fante.

  Then they started laughing. Then, all at once, they stopped.

  “This guy’s real funny,” said Fante.

  “Yeah,” said Dante.

  “I’ll get rid of them,” said Lady Death.

  Then she started staring at Dante. At once, he began to lean forward in his chair. He began to look pale.

  “Jesus,” he said, “I don’t feel so good…”

  He turned white, then he turned yellow.

  “I feel sick,” he said, “I feel awful sick…”

  “Maybe it was those fishsticks you ate,” said Fante.

  “Fishsticks, smishsticks, I gotta get out a here! I need a doctor or something…”

  Then I saw her staring at Fante. Then Fante said, “I’m getting dizzy…What is this?…Flashes of light…Rocket flares…Where am I?”

  He moved toward the door, Dante followed him. They opened the door and walked slowly toward the elevator. I walked out and watched them get in. I saw them just before the door closed. They looked horrible. Horrible.

  I walked back into the room.

  “Thanks,” I said, “you saved my ass…”

  I looked around. She was gone. I looked under the desk. Nobody.

  I looked in the bathroom. Nobody. I opened the window and looked down in the street. Nobody. Well, I mean, there were plenty of people but not her. She could at least have said goodbye. Still, it had been a nice visitation.

  I went back and sat behind my desk. Then I picked up the phone and touched in Tony’s number.

  “Yeah?” he answered, “this is…”

  “Tony, this is Mr. Slow Death.”

  “What? You still able to talk?”

  “I talk real good, Tony. I’ve never felt better.”

  “I don’t understand this…”

  “Your boys were by, Tony…”

  “Yeah? Yeah?”

  “I let them off easy this time. You send them again and I’m going to take them all the way out.”

  I heard Tony breathing into the phone. It was a very confused breathing. Then he hung up.

  I took a pint of scotch out of the lower left hand drawer, uncapped it and had a good hit.

  You messed with Belane, you were in trouble. It was as simple as that.

  I capped the bottle, put it back in the drawer and wondered what I was going to do next. A good dick always has things to do. You’ve seen it in the movies.

  9

  There was a knock on the door. No, it was 5 rapid knocks, loud, in-sistent.

  I can always take a reading on a knock. Sometimes when I get a bad reading I don’t answer.

  This knock was only half-bad.

  “Come in,” I said.

  The door swung open. It was a man, mid-fifties, semiwealthy, semi-nervous, feet too big, wart on upper left forehead, brown eyes, necktie. 2 cars, 2 homes, no children. Pool and spa, he played the stockmarket and was fairly dumb.

  He just stood there, sweating just a bit and staring at me.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  “I’m Jack Bass,” he said, “and…”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “You think your wife is copulating with somebody or somebod-ies.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s in her twenties.”

  “Yes. I want you to prove that she is doing it, then I want a divorce.”

  “Why bother, Bass? Just divorce her.”

  “I just want to prove that she…she…”

  “Forget it. She’ll get just as much money either way. It’s the New Age.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s called the no-fault divorce. It doesn’t matter what anybody does.”

  “How come?”

  “It speeds up justice, clears the courts.”

  “But that’s not justice.”

  “They think it is.”

  Bass just sat in his chair, breathing, and looking at me.

  I had
to straighten out the Celine matter and find the Red Sparrow and here was this flabby ball of flesh worried because his wife was screwing somebody.

  Then he spoke. “I just want to find out. I just want to find out for myself.”

  “I don’t come cheap.”

  “How much?”

  “6 bucks an hour.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much money.”

  “Does to me. You got a photo of your wife?”

  He dug into his wallet, come up with one, handed it to me.

  I looked at it.

  “Oh my! Does she really look like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m getting a hard-on just looking at this.”

  “Hey, don’t be a wise guy!”

  “Oh, sorry…But I’ll have to keep the photo. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

  I put it in my wallet.

  “Is she still living with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you go to work?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then, sometimes, she…”

  “Yes.”

  “And what makes you think she…”

  “Tips, phone calls, voices in my head, her changed behavior, any number of things.”

  I pushed a notepad toward him.

  “Put down your address, home and business, phone, home and business. I’ll take it from there. I’ll nail her ass to the wall. I’ll uncover the whole thing.”

  “What?”

  “I am accepting this case, Mr. Bass. Upon its fruition you will be informed.”

  “‘Fruition’?” he asked. “Listen, are you all right?”

  “I’m straight. How about you?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m all right.”

  “Then don’t worry, I’m your man, I’ll nail her ass!”

  Bass rose slowly from his chair. He moved toward the door, then turned.

  “Barton recommended you.”

  “There you go then! Good afternoon, Mr. Bass.”

  The door closed and he was gone. Good old Barton.

  I took her photo out of my wallet and sat there looking at it.

  You bitch, I thought, you bitch.

  I got up and locked the door, then took the phone off the hook. I sat behind my desk looking at the photo.

  You bitch, I thought, I’ll nail your ass! Against the wall! No mercy for you! I’ll catch you in the act! I’ll catch you at it! You whore, you bitch, you whore!