“Never mind…” I paid for the drinks.
I raised my drink. Lady lifted hers.
“Long life,” Lady said.
“Yeah, long life,” I said.
We clicked the glasses and drank.
I reordered…
We’d been sitting there about 30 minutes when somebody else walked in. Another woman. She walked around and sat herself on the stool to my left. Two women meant twice as much trouble as one woman. Now I had trouble on either side. I was in the vise. I was screwed.
The other woman was Jeannie Nitro.
I got the barkeep to make another scotch and water.
“Nicky,” she whispered, “I’ve got to talk to you. Who’s that bitch sitting with you?”
“You’d never guess,” I said.
Then Lady Death was whispering to me, “Who’s that bitch?”
“You’d never guess,” I said.
The drink came and Jeannie tossed it off.
“Well,” I said, “I guess it’s time for introductions…”
I turned to Lady Death.
“Lady, this is Jeannie Nitro…”
Then I turned to Jeannie.
“Jeannie, this is Lady…Lady…”
“Lady d’Heat,” Lady supplied.
They stared at each other.
Now this, I thought, could prove to be very interesting.
I waved the barkeep down for refills…
39
Here, basically, I was sitting between Space and Death. In the form of Woman. What chance did I have? Meanwhile, I was supposed to locate a Red Sparrow that maybe didn’t exist. I felt very odd about everything. I had never expected to get tangled up like this. I hardly understood the why of it. What could I do?
Play it cool, fool, came the answer.
O.k.
The drinks had arrived.
“Well, ladies, here’s to you!”
We clicked glasses and had a hit.
Why couldn’t I be just some guy sitting watching a baseball game?
Involved in the outcome. Why couldn’t I be a fry cook scrambling eggs and acting detached? Why couldn’t I be a fly on some person’s wrist, crawling along sublimely involved? Why couldn’t I be a rooster in a chicken pen pecking at seed? Why this?
Jeannie nudged me with her elbow, whispered, “Belane, I’ve got to talk to you…”
I put some bills on the bar. Then I looked at Lady Death.
“I hope this doesn’t piss you but…”
“I know, fat boy, you’ve got to talk to the lady alone. Why should that piss me? I’m not in love with you.”
“But you always seem to be hanging around me, Lady.”
“I hang around everybody, Nick, you are just more aware of me.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Well, you helped me with Celine…”
“Yes, Celine…”
“So, I’ll leave you alone for a while with your lady. But only for a while. You and I have some unfinished business, so I’ll be seeing you.”
“Lady d’Heat, I have no doubt of that…”
She finished her drink and rose from her stool. She turned and walked toward the door. Her beauty was foreboding. Then she was gone.
The barkeep came down for his money.
“Who was that?” he asked. “I got kind of dizzy when she walked by.”
“Be glad you only felt dizzy,” I told him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it,” I said.
“Try me,” he said.
“I don’t have to. Now look, give me a little space here, I want to talk to this lady.”
“All right. But just tell me one thing.”
“O.k.”
“How come a fat ugly guy like you gets all the action?”
“It’s because of the buttermilk I put on my waffles. Now, get the hell out of here.”
“Don’t get fresh, buddy,” he said.
“You asked.”
“But you didn’t have to get nasty!”
“If you think that was nasty, just keep hanging around.”
“Fuck you,” he said.
“That was brilliant,” I said. “Now move off while you can.”
He slowly moved down to the end of the bar, stood there a moment, then scratched his ass.
I turned back to Jeannie.
“Sorry, baby, but I seem to get into these negative dialogues with almost every bartender I meet.”
“It’s all right, Belane.”
She looked sad.
“Belane, I’m going to have to leave.”
“Oh, that’s o.k., but have one for the road.”
“No, I mean I’m going to have to leave, the people I have with me are going to have to leave…the earth. I don’t know why, but I got kind of fond of you.”
“That’s understandable,” I laughed, “but why is your gang leaving the earth?”
“We’ve thought it over, it’s just too awful. We don’t want to col-onize your earth.”
“What’s too awful, Jeannie?”
“The earth. Smog, murder, the poisoned air, the poisoned water, the poisoned food, the hatred, the hopelessness, everything. The only beautiful thing about the earth is the animals and now they are being killed off, soon they will be gone except for pet rats and race horses. It’s so sad, no wonder you drink so much.”
“Yeah, Jeannie. And don’t forget our atomic stockpiles.”
“Yes, you’ve dug yourself in too deep, it seems.”
“Yes, we could be gone in two days or we might last another thousand years. We don’t know which and so it’s hard for most people to care about anything.”
“I’m going to miss you, Belane, and the animals…”
“I don’t blame you for leaving, Jeannie…”
I saw the tears form in her eyes.
“Please don’t cry, Jeannie, damn it all…”
She reached out for her drink, drank it down, looked at me with eyes I had never ever seen anywhere else nor would I ever see the like of them again.
“Goodbye, fat boy,” she smiled.
And then she was gone.
40
So, there I was the next day, back at my office. One assignment left: locate the Red Sparrow. Nobody was beating at my door with new work for me to do. That was fine. It was a time for a tabulation, a tabulation of myself. All in all, I had pretty much done what I had set out to do in life. I had made some good moves. I wasn’t sleeping on the streets at night. Of course, there were a lot of good people sleeping in the streets. They weren’t fools, they just didn’t fit into the needed machinery of the moment. And those needs kept altering.
It was a grim set-up and if you found yourself sleeping in your own bed at night, that alone was a precious victory over the forces. I’d been lucky but some of the moves I’d made had not been entirely without thought. But all in all it was a fairly horrible world and I felt sad, often, for most of the people in it.
Well, to hell with it. I pulled out the vodka and had a hit.
Often the best parts of life were when you weren’t doing anything at all, just mulling it over, chewing on it. I mean, say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can’t be quite senseless because you are aware that it’s senseless and your awareness of senselessness almost gives it sense.
You know what I mean? And optimistic pessimism.
The Red Sparrow. It was like the search for the Holy Grail. Maybe the water was too deep for me. And too hot.
I had another hit of vodka.
There was a rap on the door. I took my feet off the desk.
“Come on in.”
The door opened and there stood this guy, slight of build, dressed in raggedy-ass clothing. There was a smell to him. Something like kerosene. I wasn’t sure. He had small slitted eyes. He moved toward me sidewise. Then he stopped, right at the edge of my desk, leaned forward. He had a slight head twitch.
“Belane,” h
e said.
“Perhaps,” I answered.
“I got it all here for you,” he said.
“Good,” I said, “now take it the hell out of here.”
“Easy, Belane, I got the word.”
“Yeah? What’s the word?”
“Red Sparrow.”
“Tell me more.”
“We know you’re looking for it.”
“‘We,’ huh? Who’s ‘we’?”
“Can’t say.”
I got up, walked around the desk, grabbed him by his pitiful shirt front.
“Suppose I make you say? Suppose I kick it out of you?”
“Can’t. I don’t know.”
Somehow, I believed him. I let go. He almost fell to the floor. I walked around, sat behind my desk again.
“My name’s Amos,” he said, “Amos Redsdale. I can put you on the road to the Sparrow. You want it?”
“What is it?”
“An address. She knows about the Sparrow.”
“How much?”
“75 dollars.”
“Screw you, Amos.”
“O.k., you don’t want it? I gotta go. I gotta make the first post. I got a tip on the daily double.”
“50 bucks.”
“60,” said Amos.
“All right, let me have the address.”
I dug out 3 twenties and he handed me a slip of paper. I opened it and read it. It said: “Deja Fountain, apt. 9, 3234 Rudson Drive. W.L.A.”
“Look, Amos, you could write any kind of shit here you want.
How do I know this is any good?”
“You just go there, Belane. It’s good stuff.”
“For the sake of your ass, Amos, it had better be.”
“I gotta make first post,” he said. Then he turned, walked to the door and was gone.
And I was sitting there out 60 bucks and holding a piece of paper.
41
I waited until that night, drove over, parked outside. Nice neighborhood. Definition of a nice neighborhood: a place you couldn’t afford to live in. I had a nip of vodka, slid out of the seat, locked the door and walked up to the apartment complex. I pushed the button by the nameplate: Deja Fountain. The voice came through, sweet but with just an edge: “Yes?”
“For Deja Fountain. Regarding the Red Sparrow. Sent by Amos Redsdale. My name is Nick Belane.”
“Sir, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ve been taken…”
“I was just jesting with you, Nicky. Please enter.”
There was a loud buzzing sound. I tried the front door. It opened.
I walked along the plush rug until I found apartment 9. What was it about 9? There seemed something dangerous about it. But most numbers worried me. I only liked 3, 7 and 8 or combinations thereof.
I pressed the button. I heard footsteps. Then the door opened.
She was a stunner. In a red dress. Green eyes. Long dark brown hair. Young. Class. Ass. A smell of mint. Her lips smiled.
“Mr. Belane, please come in.”
I followed her into the room. Then there was a hard object in my back.
“Freeze, motherfucker! Except your arms! Stretch them up! See if you can reach the ceiling, motherfucker!”
“You black?” I asked.
“What?”
“Only blacks say ‘motherfucker.’”
He was patting me down. He found my piece, took it.
“All right, you can turn around now, Mr. Belane.”
I turned and looked at him. Big guy but white.
“But you’re white,” I said.
“So are you,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be a motherfucker,” I said.
“That’s up to you. You can have your piece when you leave.”
I followed Deja into another room. She waved me to a chair.
It was a big room. Cold. Felt dangerous.
Deja placed herself on the couch, pulled out a small cigar, un-sheathed it, licked it up a touch, bit off the end, lit up, exhaling a sexy blue plume of smoke. She fixed me with her green eyes.
“I understand you’re looking for the Red Sparrow.”
“Yes, for a client.”
“Who is?”
“That’s confidential.”
“I have the feeling that we can be good friends, Mr. Belane, very good friends.”
“You do, huh?”
“You’re a handsome man, in your way, you must know that. You have that well-lived-in look. It’s quite becoming. Most men don’t live well at all, they just wear down.”
“Is that right?”
“You can call me Deja.”
“Deja.”
“Ummm…why don’t you come over here and sit near me?”
I moved it over and dropped it near her on the couch. She smiled.
“Care for a drink?”
“Sure. Got a scotch and soda?”
“Bernie,” she said, “one scotch and soda, please.”
A few moments passed and here came the motherfucker who had taken my piece. He set the drink down before me on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Bernie.”
He moved off, vanished.
I had a hit of the scotch. Not bad. Not bad.
“Mr. Belane,” she said, “I’ve been told to tell you that you must forget all about the Red Sparrow.”
“I never drop a case unless my client so desires.”
“You’ll drop this one, Mr. Belane.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Does my smoking this cigar offend you?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Would you like to try a drag?”
“Uh huh.”
Deja handed me the cigar. I took a good pull, inhaled, exhaled, gave the cigar back. The room was clear for a moment, then the walls began to shift a bit, the rug rose up, fell back down. A shot of blue light flashed in front of me. Then her mouth was on mine. She kissed me, then pulled away. She laughed.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a woman, Belane?”
“I can’t remember…”
She laughed again and then her mouth was on mine again. It had been a long time. Her tongue slithered into my mouth like a snake.
Her body was like a snake.
Then I heard footsteps, a voice: “HOLD IT!”
It was Bernie. He was standing there with two guns, one in each hand. One of the guns I recognized as mine.
“O.k., Bernie, o.k.,” I said.
Bernie was inhaling heavily as if there were no oxygen in the air.
He was staring at Deja. His eyes were misted.
“DEJA,” he said, “YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU! I’LL KILL HIM! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL MYSELF!”
I was in a perfect position. I swung my right leg up and got him right between the nodules. He screamed and dropped, holding his center. I picked up the guns, put one in my holster, held the other in my right hand. I lifted him with my left and dropped him into a chair. I pulled his head back by the hair until his mouth fell open.
Then I slid the gun into his mouth.
“Suck on this awhile, chap, while I think about what I’m going to do.”
Bernie made a gurgling sound.
“Don’t kill him!” said Deja. “Please don’t kill him!”
“What do you know about the Red Sparrow, motherfucker?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer.
I shoved the gun deeper into his mouth. Then I heard him fart. It was a loud fart. And a stinking one. I pulled the gun out and threw him to the floor.
“That was disgusting! Don’t ever do that again! ”
I turned and looked at Deja.
“Does he have a room here?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Bernie.
“Now, you go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out!”
Bernie nodded.
“Now get going,” I told him.
&n
bsp; He got to his feet and slumped off, went around the corner. Soon I heard a door close.
Deja had put out her cigar. She was no longer smiling.
“O.k., baby,” I said, “let’s get back to where we left off.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What? Why? You had your tongue halfway down my esophag-us.”
“I’m afraid of you, you’re too violent.”
“But he said he was going to kill you, didn’t you hear him?”
“He probably didn’t mean it.”
“You don’t go on ‘probably’ when love and guns are in hand.”
Deja sighed.
“I’m worried about Bernie. He’s sitting in his room all alone.”
“Doesn’t he have a tv? Crossword puzzles? A comic book?”
“Please, Mr. Belane, please leave!”
“Baby, I want to get to the bottom of this Red Sparrow thing.”
“Not tonight…not tonight.”
“When then?”
“Tomorrow night. Same time.”
“Send Bernie to a movie or something.”
“All right.”
I reached down, grabbed my drink, finished it off. I left her sitting on the couch, staring at the rug. I closed the door behind me, walked down the hall, out the front door and back to my car. I got in and kicked the engine over. I sat and let it warm up. It was a warm moonlight night. And I still had a hard-on.
42
I drove down to a bar where I hadn’t been in trouble yet—Blinky’s.
It looked fair at first glance: lots of leather booths, fools, darkness, smoke. A congenial deadliness floated in the air. I found a booth, sat down. Waitress arrived dressed in some silly outfit—pink playsuit with cotton pushing up her breasts. She smiled a horrible smile, showed one gold tooth. Her eyes read empty.
“What’ll it be, honey?” her voice grated.
“Two bottles of beer. No glass.”
“Two bottles, honey?”
“Yeah.”
“What brand?”
“Something Chinese.”
“Chinese?”
“Two bottles of Chinese beer. No glass.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna drink both those beers?”
“I hope so.”
“Then why don’t you drink one, then order another? Stay cold that way.”
Pulp Page 11