‘Oh, by the way, I got a postcard from Leopold,’ Maxie said. ‘He’s in Paris. He beat the rap, the maggot! I miss you, Joe, honestly I really do. But … Oh, by the way again …’ she unbuttoned her shirt and showed him her bosom. ‘I stopped wearing Catapres patches again. My blood pressure is nifty-peachy. You’re just too unstable. Instability is so tiresome and maddening. I want to lead a quiet life, without bumps.’
In Louisville, the first person he’d seen when he came into the lobby of the Floyd-Taylor Hotel was little Roscoe, the dwarf from the 4 Straight Club.
‘Your Majesty the King!’ he shouted. ‘Noblesse oblige!’ He spelled it. ‘N-o-b-l-e-s-s-e-o-b-l-i-g-e! The taproom’s this way, follow me!’
He was retired now, in his nineties – at least – tinier and more buffoonish than ever, resembling a fossilized pygmy.
‘The club’s closed down,’ he lamented. ‘All boarded-up. The roof caving in. Everybody gone away, scattered to the four winds. All those wonderful people. Nothing left but nostalgia and Heimweh. H-e-i-m-w-r-no!-w-e-h. Did you know Maxie’s here?’
He called up her room and she came downstairs and joined them in the bar.
‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘This looks like a reunion of the Santa Monica goon squad!’
The three of them had lunch in a pub called ‘The Merry Jarvey.’ It was packed with racing fans and as usual she knew everybody there.
‘If you come back,’ she told Joe, ‘you’ll have to promise me you’ll try to behave normally for a change, instead of freaking out all the time. I just can’t deal with your goofiness any more.’
It was an ultimatum and an invitation. He was tempted to accept. It would give him a few days’ rest. He could always sneak away later. But no … that wouldn’t be fair to her. She deserved better than that.
‘I can’t come back, Maxie.’
‘Speaking of goofiness,’ Roscoe said, ‘do you recall our dear friend the Movie Star? He cracked up. Coke and pills and scotch. The last picture he made was never released. They say he was stoned in every scene, babbling like a madman, tripping over the decor. Then he tried to cut off his wife’s nose with a razor. She had him committed, poor fellow.’
‘Why can’t you come back?’ Maxie asked.
‘No wait,’ Roscoe snapped his minuscule fingers. ‘It was that sailorboy. Remember him? The one who was building a yacht. His wife had him committed. He went bankrupt and sold his yacht then started acting ding-dong. Like throwing flowerplants out the window and setting fire to the furniture and such. The Movie Star’s in Hawaii, I think.’
‘Oh, brother,’ Maxie sighed. ‘There’s Milch.’
It was Milch indeed, dressed as a male today, wearing his cowboy hat and his stained and wrinkled yellow suit. He was drunk.
‘Louisville phooeyville!’ he yelled. ‘All the races are fixed!’ He came wobbling over to their table.
‘I dropped a grand already and I only been here two days. Is it true, Roscoe, you gotta normal-sized cock?’
‘Keep your voice down, you vulgar motherfucker!’ Roscoe was blushing. ‘I’ve knocked bigger dudes than you on their ass for talking to me like that! Drunken sot!’
‘I gotta drink,’ Milch whined. ‘Otherwise I start stutterin like I was retarded. It’s called ophasier.’ He sneered at Joe. ‘We gotta have a talk, smartass.’
‘Aphasia,’ Roscoe corrected him. ‘A-p-h-a-s-i-a.’
‘Shit,’ Maxie groaned. ‘S-h-i-t.’
Joe lit a cigar. What an odd quartette they were! His only friends. God! It was true. They were his only friends. The realization jarred him. He had no one else in the world to talk to, to have lunch with, to argue with, to like or dislike. Everyone else on earth was an alien stranger. These three wandering vagrants were the sum total of his entire life.
‘Joe.’ Maxie poked his arm with her finger. ‘Come back.’
‘I wish I could,’ he said.
‘What room are you in?’
‘I haven’t even checked in yet.’
‘Don’t bother. Move in with me. I’m in 232.’
‘Okay.’ He thought about it. 232. That was on the second floor. Not too high up. In an emergency, he could always climb down a drainpipe or something.
They all went to the track together.
A horse named Crimewave won the first race. Roscoe knew the owner and they’d all bet on him. Except Milch. He knew the jockey riding Junk Dealer and risked four hundred on him. And lost.
‘That’s the s-s-s-story of my life,’ he hissed, sobering up. ‘The jock’s a f-f-fag. He wears p-pantyhose. I got news for you, sh-shithead. Come ’ere.’
He led Joe behind a stairway, sweaty with excitement.
‘I sewer again,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘The blonde!’ He pulled out a flask, took a swig. ‘I sewer again.’
‘You told me. In Berkeley.’
‘N-n-n-no! Right here in Louisville. Yesterday at the airport.’
Joe began to sweat too. He thought he was going to black-out. Dots and flashes invaded his eyes. He wiped them away.
‘Did she say anything, Milch?’
‘Yup, we talked about you. She said you might be comin here …’ He belched. ‘She said you was in Wheeling last week and won ten big ones. Is it true?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You lucky prick! I want twenty-five percent. Otherwise I’ll tell her where you are. She gave me another number to call.’
With an effort, Joe forced all his muscles to relax. She didn’t know he was in Louisville. She said he might be coming here. So she wasn’t sure. There was time to lose her. All he had to do was stall greedy Milch.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five percent. You got a deal. Meet me at the hotel tonight. Maxie’s room. 232.’
‘Joe!’ Maxie found them. ‘Come on! Hurry up! Roscoe says there’s a sure thing in the next race. A horse called Morgan.’