by Paul Ableman
“Sure, I remember—”
And Pony’s eyes had verified, in one quick glance, my claim. He stood back from the door.
“Great to see you, Tornado. But very unexpected. You must want something—”
“Now—”
“It’s okay, friend, everyone wants something. That’s the American way of life. Can I get you a drink?”
“Scotch—if you got it—”
“I’ve got scotch—and Irish. You ever taste John Jameson?”
“Don’t recall.”
“It’s the best whiskey there is. That’s not just patriotism. There’s something in the Irish water—some kind of element—that gives it a fine taste. Like to try it?”
“Sure—great, Pony.”
“Come on out on the patio.”
He lived like a prince that pint-sized killer. He had this sweep of flagstones on the thirtieth floor above Chicago with small flower beds, bushes in tubs, even a little pool with goldfish and a fountain. Gazing out over the parapet you could sense rather than see the great dark-cold of the lake, swept from time to time by the tiny flare of a beacon. From beneath came the continuous warning growl of the city and sitting there, waiting for Pony to wheel out the drinks-trolley, I suddenly felt what an amazing thing it was to be a man. Not to live in a hole in a tree or hillside, not to huddle from the cold in a tuft of grass, but to make yourself a garden in the sky and sip whisky there.
“Thanks, Pony.”
Some time later, I became aware that Pony was stroking my leg. I was stretched on a lounger and my first reaction was nausea, followed by a flush of rage and embarrassment. I made an effort to orientate myself. How long—half an hour? An hour maybe? No good looking at my watch because I didn’t know what time I’d arrived. “You’re drunk, man,” I whispered to myself. “But why didn’t you ask him about Lotte?” another part of me queried. Why had I accepted his drink, chewed the fat awhile and then drifted off to sleep? Why was it the minute I’d stepped out on to his terrace I’d forgotten all about Lotte? And now the little vermin was feeling me up!
You must understand, Horace, no man or boy had ever before set vicious hands on Tornado Pratt. When the kids at home went out into the long grass to handle each other, I went proudly the other way. There was no taint of that in me. From the start—from when I was twelve or thirteen and first kissed and explored Polly Robard and other girls—I was a man with a man’s feelings and a man’s equipment. It was highly disgusting to me to imagine myself doing anything like that with a guy. But I wasn’t a fool, Horace. And by that time, I wasn’t unsophisticated either. As I lay there on the lounger, going hot and cold like someone having water thrown over him in a Turkish bath, I asked myself honestly if I’d set this up—unconsciously—without realizing it. Had I, in the first place, suspected that Pony Roach had such tendencies? For instance, had I ever seen him with a broad? No, I never—hell, yes I had!—a kid called Josephine or something—one of the hostesses at Al’s place—about a year back she’d kept pretty steady company with mighty midget Pony Roach. So that proved it! I felt a surge of relief. I couldn’t have been lured by sick, scented, secret wishes to this terrace. Yeah but—why hadn’t I asked about Lotte? Maybe I’d just passed out from exhaustion. Hell, I’d been flit-assing about all night—all over Chicago—after a day’s work that would put most guys on their back—so maybe I’d just succumbed to the sheer comfort of Pony’s place.
“Cut that out,” I said softly.
“It’s okay, Tornado,” he whispered and his hand went on moving lightly down my leg, over my pants of course, and then back up to near my crotch.
“Goddamm it!” I roared. “I said, cut that out!”
But the trouble was, I didn’t roar it out loud. I roared it inside my head and I accompanied the bellow with a kick to Pony’s chin, causing him to yelp and topple over backwards. However, he didn’t do this because I had performed the action, like the bellow, inside my head and Pony didn’t even know they’d occurred. So he just continued to crouch there beside me, softly stroking my leg with his left hand and, emboldened by my apparent acceptance of his attentions, beginning to stroke my arm with his right hand.
What the hell’s going on? This is a very remarkable situation: Tornado Pratt, who has flattened guys twice his size for half his offence, allowing a perverted little gunman to seduce him. Why? I asked myself again: is it doing anything for you?
I couldn’t locate that it was, Horace. All I located was the whisky-cigar breath of Pony Roach which was getting stronger. Then, with a pang of dismay, I realized why it was getting stronger. The dwarf reptile was stooping to kiss me. His scaly, purple face was gliding out of the night towards me. Revulsion squeezed a gasp from my lips and, for an instant, my muscles tensed, preparatory to hurling taut knuckles into the intruding face. An instant later, I relaxed again, so quickly that Roach did not appear even to have noted my spasm of fury, or perhaps he interpreted it as a little convulsion of love. The reason I had relaxed again was because proximity had enabled me to see Roach’s face clearly. And, Horace, that face had on it an expression of such exalted anticipation, of such tender yearning, of such amazing innocence, that I was robbed of all resistance. Not, I hasten to emphasize, because I suddenly felt lust for Roach or discovered a spring of perversity bubbling amidst the thickets of my normal masculinity, but just because—well, goddamm it, I just couldn’t bring myself to refuse him something that shouldn’t cost me much more than the price of a bucket of mouthwash and, judging from that rapture on his face, was going to plant him, for a minute or two anyway, on the banks of Jordan. Sure, he was a gangster and a murderer. Oak View Graveyard was thick with his victims. He was an excrescence on time but what was coming down into my arms was simple longing, like that of a child for its mother or the bride for the bridegroom or Christ for his cross. So I reached up, took him gently in my arms and pressed my lips to those of Pony Roach.
And I held it as long as he wanted, which seemed a long time. I tried to make my mind blank and scour from my awareness the pressure of his lips and of his tightening hands. But he took me to the limits of my tolerance and when he finally detached his lips from mine and eased back a little, I twisted out of his grip, jumped up and hopped away from that lounger. I was numb with misery, Horace. I guessed it would be all over Chicago in a week. Pratt the cock-sucker. Ever see a mincing Tornado? Gum-chewing ball players would snigger in the night spots. Business contacts would give me a special neutral stare to prove they hadn’t heard anything. Girls would giggle. And everywhere I went, the camouflaged army of perverts would flock round with winks and nudges. My palms would be raw from the scratching of secret handshakes. If I wanted to take a piss I’d have to barricade myself in the john! I—
And that was the moment Pony picked to come up beside me and slip his arm round my waist. I spun round, Horace. The mush had set into steel and my simple, instinctive movement sent Pony staggering back, reaching for his automatic. Only he wasn’t wearing it. And anyhow he wouldn’t have shot me. He was in love with me. He said:
“I don’t get it.”
What could I say? I’d let him kiss me. I’d kissed him. Now I wanted to pinch him out of time. I tried to control my voice. I explained:
“I’ve been drinking.”
“Sure, but—”
“Forget it!”
“But, Tornado—”
“I mean, forget it! Listen—think what you like—you’ve got a right to—but if I get any kick-back—if any rumour or murmur bounces back to me—I’m going to pull you apart, Pony.”
“You don’t think I’d tell anyone?”
He should have understood, Horace. He should have sensed that I was in a morose frame of mind. I lurched over to the lounger and picked up my jacket. I began to put it on. I didn’t want to hurry, to admit to myself that here was a situation beyond the capacity of Tornado Pratt to regulate, that I felt the impulse of a cornered racoon to be somewhere else but I prayed that he’d keep his trap shut be
cause I knew I was on the edge—
“Why don’t you stay the night, Tornado?”
“Just—”
“I have a lot of feeling for you. You know that, Tornado.”
So I sighed very deeply and I walked slowly over to Pony Roach. I took him by his shirt collar in a tight grip and I shook him pretty hard. His square face rocked back and forth like a Russian doll’s. I explained:
“You’ve got the wrong idea about me, Pony.”
I shook him harder and harder until it occurred to me that I might break his neck. At the same time I heard him croaking:
“Okay! OKAY!”
And so I stopped. He gasped and his left hand flew to his throat and rubbed it. I wanted to say I was sorry but it seemed insulting, so I just sighed, shook my head and then turned and began to leave. I entered his living-room and had nearly reached the quilted front door when I heard his voice behind me.
“What are you then, a sadist?”
This gave me a turn because it is not the kind of thing people think about me—or that I think about myself—but I clenched my teeth and marched on. Then I gave a little snort of laughter because it struck me how ludicrous it was to be accused of being a sadist by someone reputed to have shot more than fifteen people. I shouldn’t have weakened because Pony caught that snort of laughter and came staggering after me. He grabbed my arm.
“You think it’s funny, huh?”
I didn’t want to exert myself any more. I didn’t want to assault Pony again. I just wanted to escape. But he held my arm tightly. I sighed and turned:
“Look, Pony—”
He looked terrible. His face was blue and his eyes were yellow. Thick black tears rolled down his cheeks and his shoulders twitched. And again it happened. A wave of pity for the little monster swept over me and I halted.
“It’s nothing personal,” I explained gently. “I’m just not built that way.”
“You ever tried it? You ever tried it with a guy?”
“I never have, Pony. Just now—out there—that was the first time I ever even—well—”
“Ever even what? Kissed a man?”
“Yep.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?”
“I sure as hell can’t prove it.”
“That’s the truth, Tornado. It would be a hell of a tough thing to prove. I mean you come knocking on my door practically at dawn, mumbling some excuse about a dame and straightaway go to sleep on my terrace—I mean suspicious-minded people might think you came here looking for it.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t I see you at the ball game last Monday?”
“How do you mean?”
“There was a guy at the ball game, sitting just five or six rows in front of me. I could have sworn it was you, Tornado. He was with Kit the Kitten.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Kit the Kitten! You know, the fruit that hangs around the pool room—looks like a clapped-out boy scout—takes it any way—”
“Now, look—”
“Get it off your chest, Tornado. Come clean. You think I never noticed before? Man, I had you taped for one of us for a long time.”
I felt a touch of giddiness then, Horace, because I began to perceive how I was trapped. My instinct was to flare up in a fury, to bellow denials, perhaps to mash Pony with my fists, but I could see that the harder I struggled the more securely would I be caught in his web. So I breathed very deep and tried to speak calmly:
“Now look, Pony—”
“Okay.”
He flung a silencing palm at me and turned away. A couple of paces, however, and he turned back.
“I understand. Don’t think I don’t. You’ve got a lot riding on your reputation. You’re good at blending with the background. I’ve seen you strutting along with a dame on each arm.”
“The point is—”
“You want another drink? How’d the John Jameson go down?”
“I don’t want another drink. I just want to get this thing unsnarled.”
“Well, you can have a drink with me, can’t you? That doesn’t signify we’re gonna elope?”
“I—okay I’ll have a drink with you. Have you got any scotch? I’d prefer it.”
“Sure, I got scotch. I got practically every drink there is. You want Polish vodka? You can have it. Let’s go back on the terrace.”
And to prevent me refusing, he turned and hopped out there before I could speak. Sighing, I followed him back on to the amazing terrace. And then I really did gasp, Horace, for the first thing that hit my eyes was the red dome of the rising sun. Golden beams of light flared over Chicago, tipping sky-scrapers with glory and gilding clouds. Pony indifferently followed my glance.
“Worth fifty bucks a week, that view. And I’ve only seen it twice—three times now—since I been here. Take a seat, Tornado.”
“I’m fine.”
“Aw, c’mon. I don’t know what your tastes are but what you’re acting like is a school kid.”
Again I had to choke down rage, Horace, but I seated myself. Pony squatted down in front of me, looked up at me humbly and asked:
“Why don’t you like me, Tornado?”
“I’m going to try to explain: I let you kiss me a while back, not because it’s my style but—well, just because I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
Pony’s face screwed up into an astonished frown.
“You were just being kind to the orphan?”
“That’s not—”
“You weren’t getting anything out of it yourself?”
“A sick stomach.”
Nodding sadly, Pony got to his feet. He nibbled the side of his glass. Then he said shyly:
“You didn’t seem in any hurry to break off.”
So I gave up trying to spare his feelings and said:
“Listen, I’d as soon kiss a skunk as you.”
“Yeah? A smelly old skunk? How about a rattle-snake? How would you feel about kissing a rattler?”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“Oh, I get the message, Tornado. You’re a great man and I’m just some kind of creep. I dunno how you can bring yourself to foul your lungs breathing the same air I do. I mean to begin with: I’m just a runt. I’m not a big, muscley, white-toothed all-American like you. Well, I’m not as dumb as you maybe think I am, Tornado. I never looked in a mirror—not once in twenty years—without bleeding a drop of blood that I’m such an ugly little runt. But then, there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Tornado? There’s education. I ain’t had much. Oh I can read the papers and I know pretty well what’s going on in this town but I never got deep into history or literature like you. Or art. I heard someone say that you was a big wheel in art, Tornado. The only pictures I ever look at are on the sides of cans. Or in magazines—like muscle-building magazines. But I bet you despise that kind of thing, eh, Tornado? Then there’s something else. You’re rich—I mean, really rich. I heard someone say you could buy Vasari before breakfast. Maybe that’s true. Most people don’t realize just what Jay’s worth but I figured out a long time ago that to be in the real big time you gotta be honest. I guess since the beginning of the world they’ve been locking up and electrocuting crooks to try and discourage them. But some guys always go on heisting because otherwise they’re never going to get their head up out of the dirt. But the big money and the big houses and the big yachts and the big life—why they always go to the straight guys—the honest guys—the respectable guys. How many crooks wind up with palaces? Now hang on, Tornado. Flip yourself another scotch. I don’t get a chance to talk very often straight from the heart—like we’re doing. That’s some view, huh? Yeah, to continue: there’s innumerable reasons why you should shun me like a louse; your classy friends would not relish knowing you were palling about with a criminal. Is that how you think of me. Tornado? As a criminal?”
“Yeah, as a criminal.”
“Only one stretch, though. And I was paroled in a year. See, Jay fix
ed the judge. No harm telling you that because it would only be your word against mine. Cost Jay a packet. A pretty good thing to do for a hired man, wouldn’t you say, Tornado? But you’re right—I am a criminal. You want to know how it happened?”
“Look, Pony—”
“This is great, talking like this, here in my apartment. Makes me feel almost like high society. What was it—yeah, why I’m a criminal. It was love. That’s what made me go bad. It’s a fact. I felt love.
Now, we were a terrible family: all runts and cripples. Two of my brothers were crippled. One of my sisters was blind. I was practically the Tarzan of the family, which’ll give you some idea what we were like. And always squabbling and bawling and praying—see, we all lived in three rooms which we shared with a good few rats and thousands of cockroaches. So home was a very good place to get out of. Every one of us had to do what we could to help. I started off with a paper round, went on to shining shoes and that’s when I met Rocky Recetti who ran all the gambling concessions on the south side at that time. I used to shine his shoes and we got talking and the result was, before I was fifteen, I was working for a racketeer. I was just a runner for a long time. But I earned more than any of my brothers and helped support the family. Rocky treated me all right but he had no real feeling for me. The same was true when I went to work for the big Russian. He was fair but I never had the notion that he was interested in me—in Kevin Roach.
Then one day when I was eighteen, nineteen, I was practising the clarinet in a practice room I used sometimes when a plump little guy—Italian I could tell—comes over to me and congratulates me. Says I play very well, asks me if I’d like to play duets with him sometimes. Sure, I say, what do you play? Me, he says, I play the violin—Neapolitan style. You wouldn’t believe this but we had these great music sessions for about three months before I discovered who he was. He was Jay Vasari and I’d fallen for him by then. He was the kindest, most generous guy I’d ever met. So it was natural I went to work for him. There were big guys in the organization but I had a special place right from the word go. Then, one day, he puts me in a milk churn on the back of a truck to find out if someone’s double-crossing him and when I discover it’s only Tony the Trick who’s supposed to be one of his most trusted assistants, I was so mad I pushed up the lid of that churn, pulled out the automatic I’d only ever fired at targets before and killed Tony on the spot.”