Chapter 10

In the corridor, going toward the elevator, he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. As it hit him, the pain in his head went away. Then the twinge went away and the other pain came again, throbbing along the side of his head where Donofrio had clouted him, and also the searing pain in his ribs where Donofrio had kicked him. In the elevator he pushed the street-floor button. As the elevator went down he leaned back against the wall, shaking his head slowly. He had no specific thoughts, just a negative feeling, everything on the gloomy side.

The elevator came to a stop. Corey got out and walked slowly along the corridor. As he approached the doorway on the Banker Street side of city hall, he saw a framed poster on the wall. It showed a blue-uniformed policeman smiling cheerily and pointing to a large rubbish can. The caption read, “Let’s Keep This City Clean.” Underneath the caption there was a penciled comment consisting of two words.

On Banker Street, walking toward a taxi stand, Corey took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face. It was cold sweat. He told himself he needed a drink. In the taxi he said, “Second and Addison.”

The driver said, “Right.” There was no further talk. Corey leaned back, then leaned sideways, to lessen the pain in his ribs. He touched the side of his head, felt the bump and wished the throbbing would go away. Suddenly he sat up straight, forgetting the black and blue of his ribs and his bruised head. He reached for the back pocket of his trousers, took out his wallet and opened it. He looked at the police identification card that read, “Night Squad.” Then he looked at the badge.

It’s one for the puzzle fans, he thought. You’ve been clobbered by the Squad, you were damn close to getting torn to pieces by the Squad, and yet according to what you see here, you’re still a member of the Squad.

But don’t try to account for it. Don’t try to account for anything that happens up there in Room 529. What happens in that room is something for the head doctors to figure out. And they couldn’t do it in three weeks or even three months. You can believe that.

But look now, just look at this here card and this here badge. Whaddya make of this? Sure, you can tell yourself that McDermott took it for granted you were booted off the Squad; and he just forgot to mention it to make it official. You can say he just forgot to tell you to hand over the card and the badge. He was occupied with other matters, like dancing around with Donofrio. That would be a simple explanation. Except that ain’t the explanation at all. You know it ain’t.

You know there’s gotta be another explanation why you still got the card and badge. It’s out there in the fog somewhere, maybe a little too far out for this explorer. But Jesus Christ, what are you trying to explore? You think there’s any way to explore McDermott? To do that you gotta go all the way down to hell, because that’s where he lives. He lives there with Mrs. McDermott who won’t let him come near her. Not because she don’t care for him. It’s a cinch she cares for him plenty; you can bet she worships the ground he walks on. You can also bet that she don’t hardly know what year it is. Or let’s say it don’t matter to her what year it is, considering the fact that she went away from everything some thirty-three years ago on that night when they jumped her. Them nine. Them nine from the Third Street Dragons.

Does that tell you anything? Does that give you any hint at all or bring in any connection? The only connection is Walter Grogan who these days is a respected member of the Southeast Boat Club. Some thirty-three years ago this same Walter Grogan was a member of the Third Street Dragons. This Walter Grogan was the leader.

You know what that tells you? It tells you absolutely nothing. The fog just gets thicker, that’s all. And the fog-maker is Detective-Sergeant Henry McDermott, the man with the mild eyes and the soft voice. The man who I swear it’s like he’s with you right now and he’s forcing you to look at the badge.

Why? Why me? Of all people, why me?

And here’s another silly question. The gun. How come he pulled that ass-backwards caper and handed the gun back to you and letcha walk out with it? But wait now, that sorta ties in with the card and the badge. He letcha walk out with the card and the badge. But the gun, it ain’t no police pistol. It’s Grogan’s gun, or to be more accurate it’s the gun that Grogan gave you. So what it amounts to, you’re sitting here with the badge that says you’re a policeman, the card that says you’re attached to the Night Squad, and the .38 that says you’re working for Walter Grogan.

“Let’s Keep This City Clean,” it said on the poster. And somebody took out a pencil and scribbled two words. You go along with them two words, you save yourself a lotta worry, a lotta complications. Because it’s them two words that simplify the issue, stating clearly and positively that we all come from the caves or the trees or maybe the bottom of the goddam ocean; and wherever we come from it’s them two words that put us where we are today and give us what we got today, like for instance meat for the table.

Don’t believe that, the badge said.

Corey grimaced, biting the corner of his mouth. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. He closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket. Then he leaned back and his hand drifted toward the bulge where his polo shirt covered the .38. His hand touched the bulge and he smiled dimly. Some greed came into his eyes. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars.

At Second and Addison the taxi pulled away and Corey walked into the Hangout. At the far end of the bar he found sufficient space to set his foot on the rail and get an elbow on the wood. The bartender looked at him. Corey nodded and the bartender served him a double gin. On either side of him some drinkers decided to call it a night; they moved off and he had that section all to himself. For some reason it was like being marooned.

And that’s as it should be, a soundless heckler remarked.

Corey nodded slowly, in dismal agreement. He was thinking about Leonard Ward Ferguson.

But actually it wasn’t your fault, he tried to veer away from the accusing finger. I mean, it wasn’t your fault directly, it was just some circumstances—

And who set up them circumstances? the heckler came in again.

But what I mean—

Don’t tell me nothing, the heckler cut in rudely. You ain’t got nothing to tell. You’re a wrong number from way back and the vote on that is unanimous.

Corey lowered his head and shut his eyes tightly.

A voice boomed above all other voices at the bar. It was Nellie, going over to aid the bartender who had his hands full with two youths wearing duck-tail haircuts and blue rayon club jackets. The youths claimed they were over twenty-one and therefore entitled to buy drinks. They looked about seventeen. Nellie told them to get away from the bar. They didn’t move. They grinned at her. She asked them if they wanted stitches in their heads. The juveniles went on grinning and didn’t move. Nellie gestured to the bartender. The bartender reached under the bar, came up with a foot-long section of lead pipe and handed it to Nellie. The two youths looked at each other. Then they walked away from the bar.

“Out the door,” Nellie said. They hesitated a moment, one of them mumbling inaudibly. Nellie took a step toward them. They hurried to the side door, opened it and went out. Nellie returned the lead pipe to the bartender, grimacing with disappointment because she hadn’t been given an excuse to use it. She moved along the bar, her eyes alert for any unruly behavior or antisocial chicanery. She came to a stop where Corey was bent low over the bar, gazing morosely at his double shot.

“Go on, drink it,” Nellie said. “It don’t do you no good just sittin’ there.”

He turned and looked at the big woman. “You pushin’ sales?”

“Just nursing the trade, that’s all. That’s part of my job. I’m here to keep the customers happy.”

“I’m happy,” Corey said.

“Yeah. You look happy.”

“Get off me,” he mumbled. He gulped the gin. Nellie grinned at him and he said tightly, “Now what the hell’s so comical?”

Nellie chuckled lightly. She said, “It always tickles me—”

“What tickles you?”

“When the slick ones get it. When the screwer gets screwed.” She started away from him. Something zigzagged through his brain. He reached out and took hold of her huge arm. She stopped, looked at his hand on her arm.

“You messin’ with me?”

“Just socializin’.” Corey forced a smile. It was a weary smile, sad and lonely. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

“It’s rye. Beer chaser.”

He ordered a double rye and a tall beer for Nellie, a double gin for himself. The big woman reached for the shot glass, brought it to her mouth, then frowned thoughtfully and set the glass on the bar. “How come?” she asked.

“What?”

“You never done this before. Buyin’ me a drink.”

“Don’t make it a big deal.”

“Jesus,” she said. She stepped back and looked at him in wonder. Then her eyes narrowed and she peered at him as though studying a chart.

Corey Bradford squirmed and muttered, “Cut it out, Nellie. God damn it, cut it out.” He snatched at his drink and tossed the gin down his throat. As he lowered the shot glass to the bar, he saw that his hand was quivering. He glanced quickly at Nellie. Her eyes aimed at his quivering hand.

“And now it ain’t no joke,” she said quietly, solemnly. “Whatever it is, you really been clobbered hard.” She moved closer to him. “You wanna tell me, Bradford?”

He shook his head.

“Come on, tell me,” Nellie said. “Lean it on me.”

“It can’t be handled that way,” he mumbled. And wondered, now what does that mean? A voice burdened with sadness and choked with remorse called out to the bartender for another gin. It was his own voice and he said to himself, it can’t be handled that way, neither. But as the double shot arrived, he went for it like an empty-bellied bird diving desperately for a breadcrumb in the snow. So you know what happens now? he asked the desperate drinker. It’s them eleven faces you’ll hafta live with, the face of Leonard Ward Ferguson and the face of his widowed wife and the nine faces of them fatherless children. Because you did it. Just like McDermott said, you done him in. And don’t say it couldn’t be helped. Don’t even say you’re sorry. If you were really sorry you’d go to Grogan and tell him the deal is off, and you don’t need his fifteen grand. Can you picture yourself doing that? Can you picture a larceny expert running to the lost-and-found department with a five-dollar bill he found in the subway?

He heard Nellie say, “You know how long I’ve known you, Bradford? Since grammar school. Since fifth grade. And you still got that dent in your forehead.”

“What dent?”

“Right there. Right above your left eye. Where I hit you that time in the schoolyard. With a brick. I threw a brick. You remember?”

“Too far back.”

“You were calling me Ellie instead of Nellie. And I asked you why. And you said Ellie was short for elephant.”

“You coulda picked up a stone. It didn’t hafta be no brick.”

“A stone wouldn’t of left no mark,” Nellie said. “Guess I wanted it to leave a mark. So you’d never forget.”

“To call you Nellie instead of Ellie?”

“That’s one thing.”

“And the other thing?”

“We won’t talk about that.”

“But I don’t know what it is.”

“That’s what I mean,” Nellie said. She gulped the double rye and chased it with some beer. She started away from the bar. Again he reached out and took hold of her arm. She said tightly, “Now what?”

“Lemme buy you another.”

“I don’t want no more.”

“The hell you don’t,” Corey said. He pulled the big woman toward the bar. He released her arm. She stood there and he ordered more drinks.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” she muttered sullenly, almost bitterly. “You wanna get me drunk?”

“Let’s both get drunk.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll be drunk. We’ll be good and drunk, and what’s better than that?”

“You asking me?”

“I’m asking anybody. What’s better than getting really plastered? Absolutely looped?”

“Well now, let’s see—”

“See what?” he cut in gruffly, almost angrily. Their shot glasses were empty and he called for refills. They drank the refills. He ordered more and said, “Ain’t nothing to see. Ain’t nothing better than when you’re soused and I mean all the way soused, don’t-give-a-good-goddam delirious, way out there where they got no clocks and there ain’t no stipulations what you gotta do because of what you done. You’re out there, you don’t see no fingers pointing.”

Nellie frowned thoughtfully, “Is that what they mean when they say blind drunk?”

“Who knows what they mean?” He lost track of the question. “Who cares what they say?” He turned and yelled to the bartender for more drinks. The refills came and then came again.

The refills kept coming.

At one of the tables there was a disturbance, two women were on their feet, going for each other’s hair. Another woman moved in to stop it and got her face clawed for her good intentions. Someone yelled for Nellie as the female combatants went at it with more fury. Then others were yelling for Nellie and she turned toward them. She looked at the two women who were now on the floor, grappling, biting, scratching and screeching. A man shrieked at Nellie, “Come on, bouncer, don’t stand there, do something.”

“Go jump a giraffe,” Nellie said.

The man turned away. He enlisted the aid of some other men and they managed to pacify the two women. Someone put a dime in the jukebox and a blues singer lamented all the empty nights and wasted years. A bearded neurotic got up on a table and attempted to recite poetry that contradicted the singer’s lyrics, and from the bar some unpoetic creature pegged a half-eaten, hot-pork sandwich that hit the poet in the mouth.

“But I’m a vegetarian,” the poet declared in a tone that was neither male nor female. To shut him up, someone handed him a fifteen-cent Tokay. He got down from the table and sat on the floor, murmuring phrases of endearment to the yellow wine in the glass.

The bartender brought another double rye for Nellie and another double gin for Corey Bradford.

From the jukebox the blues singer was bewailing the moon and the stars and all the flowers of spring for having gone away. Nellie said to the jukebox, “Don’t tell me about it. I got my own grief.”

“What grief?” Corey queried.

The big woman looked at him. Her hand came up. It seemed she was going to hit him in the face just because he happened to be there. But then her hand moved slowly and hesitantly, and finally her fingers came to rest on the dent in his forehead above his left eye. In the touch of her fingers there was something very tender.

And what’s all this? His liquor-drenched brain groped for an answer. Then through the alcoholic haze he saw the yearning in Nellie’s eyes.

So Carp was right, he said to himself, remembering last night when Carp had stated flatly, “She’s hot for the man.”

That’s why she threw the brick when we were only nine years old. That’s why in all these years the only words you got from her were cuss words and the only looks were mean looks. Last night when she broke your wagon down in front of all these Hangout people, her big hand tight on your arm, her thick fingers digging in to hurt you, to bruise you; it was just her way of saying, cantcha see, Corey? Cantcha see how it is? How it’s always been?

But now Nellie’s hand was away from his face, aiming at the shot glass on the bar. She lifted it, gulped the rye and said, “All right, I’ll tell you what the grief is. I been told he’s cheatin’ on me.”

“Who’s cheatin’?”

“Rafer.”

“You been going with Rafer?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Nobody tells me nothin’,” Corey said.

“How can they tell you? They never get close enough.”

“Look, I live in this neighborhood.”

“No you don’t, Bradford. You live all alone on a cliff somewhere. Or maybe at the edge of a cliff.”

“Well anyway, what’s this with Rafer?”

“I gotta have somebody, don’t I?”

“Let’s have another drink,” Corey said.

“This one I’ll buy.”

“No you won’t,” Corey said determinedly. Then he realized he was getting very drunk, evil drunk. Gotta have somebody, he gritted without sound. They all gotta have somebody. He turned and looked toward the far side of the taproom, focusing on the table near the door leading to the back room. There was no one at the table. Then he saw Lillian coming toward the table with a glass in one hand and a quart of beer in the other. He said to Nellie, “Order them drinks, I’ll be back in a minute.”

He made his way across the room, bumping into standing drinkers, shoving and getting shoved, finally arriving at the table where Lillian was pouring the beer. She looked up and saw him. Some beer spilled over the edge of the glass.

He said, “Look, I don’t have no goddam dimes. So here’s a quarter, and you owe me fifteen cents.”

She stared at the coin on the table. “What’s this for?”

“The phone call. The call you made to Night Squad.”

She didn’t look up. She didn’t say anything.

Corey said, “Now listen, you. Listen good. Don’t do me no more favors. I don’t want no favors from you. I don’t want nothing. You hear me?”

“I hear you.” She sipped some beer. “I’m wondering what you’re all worked up about.”

“Don’t gimme that,” with his gin-glazed eyes seeing two blurred Lillians and then three blurred Lillians. “You know whatcha did,” his gin-cracked voice was just above a whisper. “Looked out the kitchen window and saw me running from that alley. Saw them chasing me. Saw they had guns. Then later you heard the shooting. Next thing, you’re scooting for a phone booth and putting in a call.”

“So?”

“Whaddya mean, so? I wanna know why.”

“Why I put in the call?” She shrugged. “You needed help.”

“From you?”

“From anyone.” She shrugged again. “Someone hadda call in. If that phone call wasn’t made, you probably wouldn’t be here now.”

“You ran out in all that rain—”

“And spent a dime,” she said. “So you owed me a dime and you gimme this quarter and I owe you fifteen cents.” She opened a purse, put the quarter in and took out three nickels. “There’s your fifteen cents.”

He looked at the three nickels on the table. He reached for the coins and missed them. His hand hit the beer glass and knocked it over. Beer streamed over the edge of the table and dripped into Lillian’s lap. Corey made another try for the three nickels. He missed again and his hand went sliding through the beer on the table as he lost his footing. His weight came against the side of the table, causing it to tilt. The bottle fell off, hit the floor and broke.

“Now look what I done,” Corey said dismally. “Just look at what I done here.”

Lillian had pushed back her chair and was on her feet, her fingers flicking futilely at her wet skirt.

“Gotta make it up to you,” Corey said, reaching for his wallet. But his hand couldn’t find the rear pocket of his trousers and he moved around in a gin-distorted circle. “Gotta pay for the beer,” he mumbled. “Gotta pay for the skirt, to get it cleaned.” He went around in another circle, still trying for the wallet. “Gotta settle all debts and meet all obligations.” He tugged fretfully at his trousers that didn’t seem to have a rear pocket. Then he found it, started to take out the wallet, but in that moment his legs got tangled and he fell to the floor. Sitting there, he saw Lillian headed toward the side door. “Hey you,” he called to her. “Hey you—”

She didn’t turn to look; she just kept moving toward the door. Then the door was open and she walked out.

Corey sat there for a while, wondering if this was really a taproom floor. It seemed more like a slanting boat deck, the boat bouncing around in rough water. Corey tried to get up, couldn’t make it, tried again and kept trying. Finally he was on his feet and staggered toward the bar. He saw Nellie reaching for a double rye, and called to her, “Hey wait—we’re drinkin’ together.”

She waited while Corey lurched closer to the bar. She pointed to the double gin she’d ordered for him. In a solemn and slightly ceremonious way they lifted the glasses, clinked them together. Then instead of drinking, they stood holding the glasses.

Nellie said, “So what’s the toast? Who do we drink to?”

“The precinct,” Corey suggested. “The tried and true of the Thirty-seventh.”

“Why drink to them?”

“They preserve law and order. They protect the citizens.”

“From what?”

“From bingo games, that’s what. Them wicked bingo games.” Nellie thought it over for a moment. She said, “Tell you what. Let’s drink to Sally Sullivan.”

“And who the hell is Sally Sullivan?”

“The captain’s wife. The wife of the captain of the Thirty-seventh Precinct. And she’s also vice president of the Women’s Committee.”

“Committee for what?”

“To wipe out filth. Prevent immoral influences. They’ve had her on one of them local TV programs, the city give her an award. And she goes around to them lunches, makes speeches. Gets her picture on the woman’s page damn near every Sunday. Now I’ll tell you something else, if you care to hear it.”

“By all means,” Corey said politely, patiently. But he wished she’d hurry up with it so they could drink the toast. He gazed thirstily at the gin in the shot glass.

Nellie said, “This Sally Sullivan, she’s the one that Rafer’s been seein’.”

“The captain’s wife? With Rafer?”

“Whenever she gets the chance. I won’t tell you what they do. I mean, what she does. It would make you sick in your stomach.”

“Who tipped you?”

“Rafer himself. So you know I got it on good authority.”

“But Rafer’s your man. Why would he tell you a thing like that?”

“He was high,” Nellie said. “He was forty thousand feet up. On that mixture he drinks. Calls it California Clouds. Mixes it himself. A bottle of some cola drink, six aspirin tablets, two tablespoons of snuff. Puts it all together in a bowl and sips it from the spoon. In no time at all he’s up there. California Clouds.”

“Let’s drink to that,” Corey said. “Them clouds. And your man Rafer. Your cloud man Rafer.”

They drank. Nellie called for refills. The bartender poured. Nellie reached for her glass, but a smaller hand was there first and by the time she looked around, the drink snatcher was halfway across the room snatching at another drink. Corey turned and saw Carp gliding past a table with his left hand getting rid of Nellie’s empty glass while his right picked up someone’s whiskey. Corey sighed and reached for his gin.

Then he and Nellie leaned against each other. His knees gave way and he started to go down. She held him up for a moment. Then they both leaned against the bar.

Nellie said, “Just answer me one thing. Do I hafta put up with it?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, and wondered what she was talking about.

Her thick hand came down on the edge of the bar. “I’m gonna have a clear understanding with Mister Cloudman Rafer. He’s just gonna hafta mend his ways, that’s all. Wantsa climb up in them clouds, let him do it in a closet or someplace. Not sittin’ there on the goddam bed where I’m tryin’ to get some sleep.”

“Absolutely,” Corey mumbled.

“Sittin’ there on the bed, dippin’ that spoon and sippin’ all that cloud soup. It hits him and he gets to talkin’ all that talk. Just ain’t no way to shut him up, and some nights it goes on all night long. Only thing I’ll say for him, at least he never repeats himself. Except when he tells me the fairy tale—”

“What fairy tale?”

“Well, there’s this palace he’s gonna buy. A real palace, with everything in it only the best. With triple-size bathtubs so’s we can take baths together. And all kindsa colognes and talcum powders on the shelves. With sterling-silver toilet seats—”

“Say what?”

“I’m just tellin’ it like Rafer tells it. This fairy tale. What sorta worries me, it’s like he actually believes it. Keeps sayin’ he’s gonna buy that palace, and when I ask him where he’s gonna get the money, he starts to giggle like a loon. Says he won’t hafta work to get it. Says all he needs to do is make one fast grab because it’s all in one package.”

Corey shut his eyes tightly. A streak of bright light stabbed his liquor-soggy brain. He heard himself saying, “It takes a lotta dimes to buy a palace.”

“This ain’t dimes, the way he tells it. This is paper money and it comes to a million five.”

The streak of light stabbed deeper. He said, “Lemme hear that again.”

“A million five.” And then, through a hiccup, “He says it’s hidden somewhere.” She hiccuped again. “Just a fairy tale. It’s gotta be a fairy tale.”

“Sure,” Corey said.

“Because—a million five, that’s fairy tale money. And besides, a million five, you just don’t go and hide it somewhere. You put it in the bank.”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

“But the way Rafer tells it, when he’s up in them clouds, he says he promised Grogan that he’d never open his mouth. Because it’s only the two of them who know where all that money is. And then he’s bawlin’ like a baby, sayin’ how it hurts him in his heart because after all he’s been with Grogan all these years. And he’s in Grogan’s corner all the way, but Jesus Christ it’s a million five and where it is now it ain’t doin’ nobody no good. And bawlin’ with real tears, sippin’ more of that mixture from the bowl and then wavin’ the spoon over his head like he’s winding himself up. Like some mechanical toy, or like a talkin’ doll that can cry and say Mama. And that’s what he was sayin’. He was sayin’ Mama it’s a million five and it ain’t doin’ nothin’ for nobody. It sure ain’t doin’ nothin’ for the Chinaman—”

“The who?”

“The Chinaman. And don’t ask me what Chinaman. Remember, it’s just a fairy tale—” She hiccuped again. Then she let out a louder hiccup, followed with a grunt as the alcohol jolted her. Nellie finally closed her eyes, her knees giving way. She was going to the floor. Corey grabbed her, dragging her away from the bar. He managed to get her into a chair. She put her head on the table and fell asleep.

Corey Bradford leaned heavily against the table and wondered if he could make it to the street. He started toward the door, bumped into a seated drinker, went to the floor and got up, weaving, then swaying as he kept trying for the door. You’re really soused, he told himself. You’re just about ready to fall out.

Someone opened the door for him and he staggered through, trying to straighten up, telling himself he mustn’t fade out. But that’s what’s gonna happen? he asked the gin-hound who just couldn’t straighten up, who’d had one too many double shots and nothing in his belly to soak it up. Because you didn’t have no supper, he chided the goofy-eyed boozer. All you had today was a goddam cinnamon bun and coffee. But what’s that she said about the Chinaman?

Well, we’ll get to that later. That is, if we get the chance. If we live long enough. But according to percentages, it looks to be strictly up the creek and, jim, I mean a one-way excursion. There’s some hunters out to bag you and the condition you’re in now, you can’t move fast. You can hardly move at all. You’re just an easy piece of cake for Kingsley and company.

Maybe what you oughta do is go back to the Hangout and put your head on a table and just drift off. At least you’d be safe at the Hangout. Until closing time, anyway. But that’s just stalling the issue, and there ain’t no dividends in that. The thing to do, or hope to do, is get back to your room and lock the door and get in bed with the gun.

So if you can just make it to your room, using these alleys—

He was lurching through an alley, holding onto fence posts for support. His hands slipped off the fence posts and he fell down. He got up very slowly, took a few steps and went down again. Come on, get up, don’t pass out. And then, just in the moment before he passed out, he heard the footsteps coming.