CLAIRE

My mother’s sister, Claire, was married at nineteen to Earl Hub-bard, who left her eleven months later. My mother’s husband, my father, left her when I was five and returned to England. My mother got over it, going on to other marriages, but Claire did not. She retracted into a tight knot of spinsterhood.

She worked herself up to executive secretary, worked hard and made good money, money she spent on the protracted illnesses of both of her parents, my grandparents; both had strokes and lingered for years. She also helped support, off and on, my mother, a beautiful tender lost alcoholic with a magnetic drive toward men who would mistreat her on a grand scale, until her death from cirrhosis of the liver seven years ago. Claire also helped put me through two years of college until the deadly acting virus struck, a terminal virus, that.

Claire tended to her obligations, she came through as self-appointed head of the family. One heard about her sacrifices but then they were certifiable, she made them.

For seventeen years Claire was executive secretary to Henry Graebner, real estate developer, stockbroker, and general financier, a man I never liked, one whose basic reactionary meanness stuck out like so many warts. But he was shrewd, he did well. In 1965 he and his equally nasty wife divorced; it was a messy suit. Claire stuck by him, admired him, was his strong right arm.

Claire. If you can imagine Gloria Swanson playing an executive secretary, that might give you a clue, the tightness around the mouth, the smile, dazzling, but again, tight and quick to snap shut once it had done its duty. The eyes narrowing, not sensually but in appraisal and often in disapproval.

I appreciated Claire more than I loved her. I was won over by her liking of me, by her feeling of family toward me. I was also saddened by her basic loneliness. But most of all, I appreciated what she’d done for her parents, my mother, and me. And for what we’d been through together.

Henry Graebner died of a massive coronary in 1968. To spite his ex-wife and his three children, whom he disliked and had provided for with modest trust funds, he left Claire eight hundred thousand after taxes and his house in Riverdale. The will was contested and Claire was dragged into court. There were unpleasant accusations, but the will was upheld. I know Claire was not his mistress. She could not stand to be touched, let alone entered.

There’s no denying I was delighted to have a wealthy relative, the only one on the horizon, wealthy or not. There was a three- or four-month period of celebration. When Claire had only her salary and a few small investments, she had always been generous, but when she stopped working and moved to the house in Riverdale, it appeared she had inherited not only Graebner’s money but also many of his attitudes. Always slightly cool to the world, she became downright chilly, suspicious, and began using her money as a tool to get people to do what she supposed was best. Claire had never been a liberal, but now she was headed in her thinking back to the Dark Ages. Money made her not a nicer person, not at all.

She was now acting the part of a rich woman. If you could imagine Gloria Swanson playing an executive secretary, now imagine an executive secretary trying to play Gloria Swanson. Worse, much worse.

Now, however, comes the dirty part. It comes out in a scene with Kate on the way home from Riverdale Christmas Eve, a Christmas Eve made totally unpleasant by Kate’s open hostility toward Claire. Although their loathing was mutual, Claire, being more devious, masked hers somewhat.

Kate and I had exchanged our presents earlier at my place. That part of the evening was fine. But once we arrived at Riverdale for dinner with Claire and a few of her charity cases, the evening turned to disaster.

Kate slugged them down until she was quite drunk. When I opened an envelope containing a check for five hundred dollars, my Christmas present from Claire, Kate muttered, “What’s the penalty for blackmail in New York State?” When Claire said she hoped the play would be a hit, then added it didn’t really matter because “Jimmy knows he’s got me and when I die...” Kate sang the first few bars of “Promises, Promises.” It was that kind of outrageous behavior. Open warfare.

We finally made a bumpy departure and drove down the parkway in Kate’s car in a frozen Christmas Eve silence until we got to the toll just before the West Side Highway. I could tell Kate was close to exploding; finally it bubbled up out of her.

“Oh, God, Jim, I can’t stand it! And New Year’s, you promised to go to her party New Year’s. Well, I refuse to see her again, you can goddamn well go without me!”

“I said I’d just stop by for a while, she’s going away the next day.”

“Thank Christ. Can’t you see what she’s doing to—”

“Kate, let’s leave it. You were rude, you messed up the entire evening, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I do want to talk about it!” This, spoken like Napoleon.

“Kate, whatever you say, she’s my aunt and—”

“She’s a cunt!” Kate shouted. “An old dried-up—”

“Jesus, Kate, I can’t stand it when you use that word, I really can’t!”

“And I can’t stand seeing you blackmailed!”

“Blackmailed!” A snort from me.

“Yes, blackmailed in the nastiest possible way. You would never put up with her, with the things she says, with what she stands for, if it weren’t for the promise of inheriting her money! I feel absolutely dirty after spending an hour with the two of you.” She looked out the window to her right. “I feel like jumping in the Hudson for a good clean bath, and we all know how dirty it is!”

“Shall I stop the car?”

She slapped me. I jammed on the brakes, swerving over to the side. When I’d taken my hands off the wheel I reached over and slapped her. She was expecting it, she’d shielded herself, so it was not a satisfying slap. Still she screamed and got out of the car. “Exactly, and you feel dirty, too, which is precisely why you slapped me!”

I got out, ran around, and grabbed her. “What did you expect me to do, keep on driving into town with you belting me in the face?” I was shaking with anger and not because she’d slapped me. She was right. I did feel dirty. But I would not then own up to it, barely to myself and certainly not to her.

A car slowed down at the sight of us, obviously in positions of distress at the side of the highway. “Get in!” When she hesitated, I grabbed her again. “Get in, goddamnit!” I shoved her toward the car.

“Oh, big man! Not such a big man with her, listening to all that tight-assed bigotry, swallowing what pride you have. It’s sickening.” When we were under way again, she continued her filibuster. “And don’t tell me about all her good deeds, she wears them around her neck like rocks. Your mother was her sister, that’s why she took care of her. So she helped you through two years of college. Take a bank loan and pay her back!” Now she mimicked Claire. “ ’Jimmy doesn’t have to worry because when I die ...’ Jesus, the Aunt Claire Doll, wind it up and it promises to die! She’s just the type to keep you on the hook until she’s ninety-eight and then leave it all to a hospital for unwed canaries! If she really wanted to help, why doesn’t she do it now, while she’s alive, give you ten thousand and say, here, relax, but no, she’s—”

I slammed on the brakes, pulling the car over to the side again. “Jesus H. Christ I am sick of you and your endless talk!” Her eyes were wide, she looked momentarily frightened—I noted with something approaching joy. “Just for Christmas, could you suspend, a cease fire, a cease yammering, could we just have a little silent goddamn fucking nightl Could we! Could we!” I was shouting, I’d surprised her into silence.

I started up and we drove on without talking. The freeze was on. When we approached the Fifty-seventh Street exit, Kate said, “Get off here, I’ll stay at my place.”

“Thank Christ!”

Kate was going to Pennsylvania to spend Christmas day and the next with her father and stepmother. It was agreed I would stay in town and read over the play, work on my part. We were planning to spend the next few days and New Year’s Eve together before the start of rehearsals. I stopped the car at Seventh Avenue. “I’ll get out here. It’s been a fun Christmas.”

“Thanks to that bitch! We couldn’t spend it together, you had to drag me up there, didn’t you? Goddamn me for going!”

“Yes, goddamn you!”

“Look, Jim, this is ridiculous. We’re all out of—You promised to stop by Claire’s, don’t deny yourself! Spend the whole New Year’s with her. Count me out. I refuse to see her again, there’s no point. We’ll check each other after the holidays and see if it’s worth picking up the pieces.”

“If that’s the way you feel.”

“That’s the way I feel.”

The next morning, Christmas day, I phoned Kate but she’d already gone, or else chose not to answer. In the afternoon I went to have Christmas dinner with Pete’s widow, Didi, Pete Jr., and Didi’s mother. We put up brave fronts but no matter what we did, it was a bust. If we talked about Pete, the very air we breathed between words seemed to choke us. If we avoided talking about him, it was all too obvious what we were avoiding. Pete Jr. was a carbon copy in miniature of his father. At the table, when he sighed and slapped his hand to his forehead in a mugging take, Didi said, “God, so much of Petey in there. Sometimes I feel it’s the Incredible Shrinking Man.”

The truth was, we missed him so very much that just being together constituted a memorial service. Not good.

When I left around five in the afternoon, Didi kissed me goodbye. “Jimmy...” She glanced down, then back up at me. I knew what she was going to say. “Let’s take a breather for a while. Don’t you think?”

“Yes. I love you.”

“I—too do you ...” she sputtered, then quickly closed the door.

Bobby Seale did not eat his supper that night. On nights that Kate and I were not together, he slept with me. I liked the feel of his lumpy warmth next to me. This night when I put him on the bed, thereby letting him know it was all right, he thumped down, slunk into the bathroom, and flopped on the tile floor. I was lonesome, feeling miserable. I retrieved him, put him back on the bed. Once more he jumped off and sought the bathroom floor. “No-good black bastard! You really pick your time, don’t you?”

He was still on the bathroom floor in the morning. The whir of the electric can opener always sent him trotting to bump my leg. Nothing. I opened his favorite, tuna with egg, even brought it to him. A perfunctory sniff, that was all. I felt his nose, it was hot. I felt my nose, it was hot, too. I wondered if all that was nonsense.

I read through the script, missed Kate, missed the warmth of her in bed more than I missed sitting across from her in a restaurant or being with her at a party, but miss her I did. I began to get nervous tremors about the approaching first day of rehearsal.

That day, December 26, I did not go out, except briefly to the store. I was hoping Kate might call from Pennsylvania. Bobby Seale refused dinner. Nose still hot, listless.

No call from Kate.

First thing next morning I took Bobby Seale to the vet’s. He looked so helpless lying there on a miniature operating table with a thermometer stuck up him. So sick he did not even resist this indignity. He was running a high temperature; tests would be made and the vet told me to call back in the evening.

When I got back to the apartment I broke down and phoned Kate at her office. Her voice was crisp as she told me she was leaving early afternoon on a rush assignment for two days’ shooting in San Juan.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Silence. Go ahead, say it. “I missed you. I was hoping we could—”

“Jim, I’m in an awful rush.”

“I have nothing to do, could I drive you out to the airport?”

“Too complicated, I have three models on my hands, plus my assistant and the account man. We’re going in a limo.”

“Oh...”

“We’ll talk when I get back.” Then, to someone else, “No, not those, the ones in the large manila envelope. Yes. No, under those!”

Couldn’t she even finish a brief conversation with me? Still, I made an offering. “I’m sorry about Christmas Eve.”

“Me too.”

Silence again. Oh? That sorry? She was speaking in shorthand.

“About New Year’s—”

Her snap again. “I told you, forget about me, I want no part of her, wasn’t I clear enough?”

I’d been about to say I’d stop by Claire’s early for a brief visit, then meet Kate and we’d spend it together. Her attitude was such that I merely said: “Yes, I was just going to wish you a Happy New Year.”

“Same to you. We’ll talk.”

“I can’t wait! Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I was shaking when I hung up. It occurred to me she was actually about to end it—and didn’t much care. How childish we are. I was. Immediately I thought: No, if it’s to be ended, let me.

That afternoon the vet informed me Bobby Seale had a serious kidney infection. He assured me he was being given the best possible care and would pull through, but he was one sick cat. Poor Bobby Seale. I realized even more, without his purring blackness, without all the leg bumpings and games of hide-and-seek and surprise attacks, what good company he was. I had never liked cats, but I loved this mongrel.

When I’d first taken over the apartment I’d made his acquaintance up on the roof. He was a real young torn, a renegade, and wary of humans. If the roof door was left open, he would sometimes come down to investigate the hallway in his search for food. I began leaving milk and tidbits up on the roof for him. Our friendship soon blossomed. One night I heard distant plaintive crying. I went up to the roof and found him, bloody and beaten, an ear torn, whole patches of fur missing, a leg badly injured. He just lay there, thoroughly whipped. “Poor bastard!” I picked him up, brought him down to my apartment, and nursed him back to health. He never left.

The next day, December 28, I spent cleaning the apartment, taking out laundry and dry cleaning, doing all the chores I wouldn’t be able to do once rehearsals started. Claire called and in one of her sly ploys, to make sure I’d show up New Year’s, asked me to pick up some paper hats, noisemakers, and the like. I shopped for those and bought several bottles of champagne, too. Just in case Kate...

I switched to thoughts of the play. It was by far the healthiest item to concentrate upon. Rehearsals were only days away; there is something wildly exciting about a company assembling for the first time on stage. There is also something strangely sexy about it. I can’t pin it down, there just is.

The morning of December 29 I worked on the script, paid a few bills, changed a light bulb in the hall. Getting ready for the big push.

In the afternoon I went uptown, deposited Claire’s Christmas check, and bought a new pair of slacks and a double-knit dark-blue blazer for rehearsals. The purchase made me feel good. I thought of going to a movie but just on chance I phoned my message service. Kate might have gotten back and ...

“Please call your agent.”

Her office was only a few blocks away so I decided to stop by. I walked briskly over to Sixth Avenue; I’d pumped myself into a good mood. I was relieved this messy holiday season was almost over. Soon I’d be in rehearsal, back to life as I liked it best—working.

The look on Phyllis’s face froze my blood. She was a pretty woman in her fifties, unusually feminine for an agent, with something of the mellowness of Simone Signoret about her. Today her face was granite as she rose to kiss me on the cheek and asked me to sit down.

“Something’s wrong,” I said.

“I don’t want to beat around the bush, Jimmy. You’re out of the play.”

My heart dropped twenty-eight floors to the lobby and shattered. Phyllis handed me an envelope. I opened it with difficulty. The numbness with which her words struck me had already extended to my fingers. A check made out to me for nine hundred dollars.

“Two weeks’ salary. They didn’t have to, they felt so bad, the producers and the director—not as bad as you feel, I know. Oh, Jimmy—how I dreaded this!”

There was nothing to say. I had no voice or appetite to speak even if there had been.

“Want to know why?” I nodded. Now she smiled, for one unbelievable moment I thought she might break into laughter. “It’s a heartwarming Broadway story. Bebe Peach is engaged to a young Hollywood actor, Kenneth Walt—done a few things lately. He signed for a film to be directed in Spain by Peter Holmes, now Sir Peter Holmes. On the third day of shooting Sir Peter and Kenneth Walt had an argument about a piece of business. On the set in front of the entire cast and crew, Kenneth Walt called Sir Peter, excuse the language, ’a dizzy cunt.’ Sir Peter said, ’I beg your pardon!’ and Kenneth did him the favor of repeating the phrase. Kenneth Walt was sent packing.

“Bebe Peach contacted the producers, insisted he play your part. Impossible, they said, the part was cast, contract signed, impossible. She threatened to pull out unless they took him. They’ve been with lawyers since the day before Christmas. Seems she’d had a bad back for years and can get a doctor’s certificate. There’s nothing they could do, their hands were tied. So, Jimmy, my dear, there you have it. Dizzy C in Spain and you’re out here.”

Now I spoke: “I don’t believe it.”

There will be no description of that evening’s binge, the majority of which I don’t recall anyhow, except to say it was a Rip-Roaring, All-Stops-Out, Holy Pisser worthy of Brendan Behan and Dylan Thomas combined. It ended up in disgust and vomit and I consider myself lucky that I made it home. I don’t remember how I got back but I remember waking up there, vomiting more, and spending the entire day in bed in the company of a hangover that was in such possession of me, bound my head so tightly, clutched my stomach so strongly and trembled my hands with such force that it was tangible. I could speak to it and did: “Jesus, let go, give up, I’ll pay you, I’ll sell my soul, let go, please, dear God!”

I took aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, Pepto-Bismol. By evening my hollow stomach craved food, demanded it. I threw on old clothes and shook my way to the delicatessen. When I got home I ate a large can of tunafish saturated with mayonnaise, egg rolls, a small barbecued chicken, a container of cole slaw, a shrimp cocktail and a quart of chocolate-chip-mint ice cream.

Bloated and pokey, I went back to bed and fell asleep. The phone rang. I glanced at the clock: eleven fifteen. But as I had stopped speaking to the world I did not answer. I drifted back to not such a sound sleep. A while later footsteps and the creaking of the stairs awakened me. Without thinking I switched on the lights. The footsteps quickly descended the stairs.

This is where you came in.

The effrontery of the burglar, a burglar, any burglar, coming back now, at such a time, so enraged me that the entire next day I sat in the apartment, waiting. Waiting and waiting.

I was in full siege. Now the cumulative events of the fall, ending up with—what?—dizzy cunt—what a dirty gratuitous joke! Even more perverse because it is an unfavorite word of mine. Then again, Kate’s use of it, Somehow it all tied together in a macabre scheme.

Though I could not, in my present maddened condition, put it all together, it was all there, no doubt of that.

If only, if only I had my book I could creep off to Siberia or North Dakota, resign from life, and write it! But even that—

I don’t believe it!

Another phrase of Pete’s came back to me. When disasters multiplied, he would say, half jokingly: “don’t taunt the wretched!”

But really don’t taunt them!

Hair of the dog and to keep me company I made a drink. It was in the late afternoon that I got up to go to the bathroom and caught sight of my face in the mirror. I was surprised at the pair of crazy red-rimmed eyes that burned back at me. I laughed, I was so surprised. I hadn’t shaved in two days and I was looking hung over, scraped out, and ratty. I looked very unlike my real self, looked like someone who’d put in time in a foxhole. Right, I was in siege. I wanted confrontation with the enemy. I shouted in the mirror:

“Come and get me, come on, come and get me!”

I laughed again and muttered: “Jesus, what am I shouting at myself for?”

The phone rang, perhaps the fifth or sixth time it had rung that day. “Shhh ...” I said. I walked quietly back to the darkened living room. The phone rang twelve times. It occurred to me, only then, to disengage the Fox police bar so the burglar would only have to slip the lock on the door. Surely he could do that.

I sat back down holding the metal bar across my lap. That would be a good weapon to bash his head in with. The phone rang twice again. The sky outside the windows was a leaden dark gray. Soon it began to snow, heavy thick flakes falling straight down. I watched, allowing myself to be hypnotized by them. As I sat there trying to hear the sound of their falling, I heard another sound, faint at first, but unmistakable. Footsteps. In the downstairs hall.

Quickly I got up and crept to the door. I noticed only then that I had no shoes on, only socks. My heartbeat tripled, at least, and I was grinning, could feel the grin stretch my mouth. I would stand there in silence and darkness and wait until he’d used his ingenuity to break in—then he would meet my ingenuity.

How slowly the footsteps came up to the third floor, how cautious he was! I felt such a thrill. I trembled out of excitement, not out of fear.

The phone rang. My immediate response was to “Shhh” it, but no, perfect, let it ring, let him hear it not being answered. It only rang six times before stopping. By that time his footsteps had reached the door, I could tell. I could sense him right there, inches away.

Silence, then a knock, a pause, then three knocks. And my name. “Zoole?” I didn’t answer. “Telegram for Zoole.” The voice was unmistakably that of an old man.

I turned the lock and yanked the door open. The man, old, overcoated, and knit-capped, jumped back and put a mittened hand to his chest. “Oh, oh,” he gasped. “I didn’t hear you. You—you— took me by surprise.” He smiled a tiny frightened smile. “Mr. Zoole?”

“Yes.”

“Telegram, sign here.” He fumbled for a small yellow slip and a small yellow pencil. When I’d signed and he’d handed me the telegram, he said, “Happy New Year.”

“New Year?”

“Yes, have a Happy New Year. Careful if you go out, It’s getting slippery.”

I’d forgotten it was New Year’s Eve. I gave him a dollar bill, he thanked me warmly and left.

The telegram was from Claire. “Trying to phone you for days. Expecting you to help out at party tonight. Know you won’t let me down. Love, Claire.”

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Oh? Do you feel tricked that it wasn’t the burglar? How do you think I felt? Standing there with only a telegram in my hand. A telegram from Claire.

Even so, my obsessive belief that he would appear was not shaken. Not a bit.

So it was New Year’s Eve. To my one track-mind, this spelled lucky. A burglar could make a walloping night of it New Year’s. No one was paying attention New Year’s. I would be paying attention.

The stores would be closed soon and I had to lay in supplies. Also, I wondered whether I shouldn’t buy a gun. If the burglar had one, or even a knife, I would be no match for him with my steel bar. I put on shoes and an overcoat, placed the Fox bar on, and double-locked the door. I wanted to take no chances while I was out for half an hour at most.

The snow was indeed slippery, but there was no wind and it was not particularly cold. I decided to concentrate first on the purchase of a gun and hurried over to Waverly Place. Christ, where did one get a gun? So much talk about anyone being able to buy a gun anywhere and I could not for the life of me think where to get one, except at a sporting goods store and that would be uptown. At Sixth Avenue, standing there in the snow, looking up and down and all around, slightly dazed, I heard my name.

“Jimmy! Jimmy Zoole!”

It was Carmine Rivera, a stage manager I’d worked with Off-Broadway. He was the only certified, self-publicized sex maniac I knew; his nickname was C. C. for Crazy Carmine. He’d often tried to get me involved in his fun and games. I was no exception; he tried to make everyone. “Hey, Jimmy!” He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “How’s the boy? Hey, you look even fuckier than usual. Goddamn you!” On closer inspection he added: “Yeah, you do, but—hey, man, you look—are you all right?”

“Sure. Carmine, I bet you’d know. Where can I buy a gun?”

“A gun? Say, Jimmy, are you all right? I never saw you looking so—well, I don’t know"—he ducked his head back away from me— “just kind of wild and woolly.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What about a gun?”

“A gun?”

“Oh, It’s just—like for a joke, to surprise someone. Just a joke.”

“Oh. I don’t know, I guess a hock shop, pawnshop. Hey, Ginny Steeples is having a party, costume party, you remember where she lives over on West Tenth?” I nodded, Ginny Steeples had been in the same show I’d worked with Carmine in. “I know she’d like to have you come by. Come over, any time after ten thirty, will you?”

“If I can.”

“Okay, try man, we’ll put it together, have some fun. A lot of the old gang’ll be there.” He looked at me again and gave me another squeeze. “Hey, you look great, don’t shave.” He laughed and thumped me on the back. “Happy New Year! Come by Ginny’s.”

I said I’d try and went in search of pawnshops. In a half hour I’d found three; all were closed. I’d worked up a sweat and my head was covered with snow. The hell with a gun; I didn’t need a gun. I headed west, stopped off at a grocery and delicatessen, and plodded my way in the snow back to Cork Street.

Up the first flight, then, as I climbed the second, I noticed light streaking out into the darkened hallway. I could hear music. I could also hear movement.

I don’t believe it.

Quickly I put the groceries down, slipped off my shoes, and crept up to the third floor. The door was partly open. I peeked in.

Kate moved into sight, carrying something, her back to me, across the room near the bed. I opened the door wider and stood there quietly. She’d turned the clock radio on and didn’t hear me. A second more and she must have sensed something, because she suddenly wheeled around. “Jim ...!”

I’d forgotten how much her pure physical presence affected me. She looked gorgeous; she’d managed to get a slight tan, no more than a light beige glow. There was a split second when I almost splattered from joy and relief, when I wanted to grab her and hold on for three weeks.

What was all this craziness I’d been toying with, this drunken binge, this sitting in the dark waiting for burglars?

I began to walk toward her, to say, “Oh, God, It’s so good to—”

She clutched the small zipper bag that held her cosmetics. It was not this that caused me to break off in mid-sentence, halt in mid-step, as much as the expression on her face. One of surprise and frustration and, unusual for Kate, embarrassment, all in all a look that made her features come unglued. The glow was smeared.

Her face was telling me too much. I glanced away; it was then I saw her “second” fur coat on the bed along with her ski clothes and her blue suitcase half opened, half packed with clothes she usually left at my apartment. A long and sickening silence filled the room.

Finally Kate spoke. “I called several times, no answer. I thought you’d already gone up to Claire’s—”

“I take it you’re going someplace, too.” Kate glanced down at her hands. “Well, aren’t you?” No reply. “Aren’t you?”

A “Yes” from her, so quiet it panicked me.

“Yes,” I echoed.

Then: “Jim, you look—you look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t mean, I mean—you look all—you don’t have shoes on.”

“Oh, yes ...” I turned to go back down and get them and saw, on the long refectory table near the door, the portable television set Kate had given me as a Christmas present to replace the one taken in the second robbery. It had been moved from its place in the bookcase, the cord was wrapped around the handle. “Are we returning our Christmas gifts?”

“What?” she asked.

“I see you’re taking the television.”

“I’m taking the—what a stupid thing to say. I gave it to you as a present.”

“What?” I asked. “It has a date for New Year’s?” I turned to face the television set. “You stepping out again? I thought I told you—”

“don’t be ridiculous, I was not taking it!”

There was such an air of embarrassment about her that I included the television set in it.

On the same table, nearer the door, I saw a white envelope propped next to a vase. I picked it up. “Jim” was printed on it in Kate’s hand. I tore it open.

“No, Jim, don’t—!”

“Christ, It’s addressed to me, isn’t it?” I was shouting and it felt good.

“Jim, please, don’t—”

“Please, don’t! You—for God’s sake, this is obviously, what do they call them, a Dear John? And you don’t want me to open it? Who knows, I might even have a reply. You didn’t want me to open it, you should have left instructions: don’t open until April Fuck Day!” I ripped it open and read. “ ’Dear Jim!’ Well, so far so good, It’s not a laugh riot, but It’s got a nice homey touch. It’s sincere, to the point. Tell me, did you do this all by yourself?”

Suddenly she was laughing, really laughing, tilting her head back. “I always did get a kick out of you when you got mad. I actually think that’s why I used to provoke fights, to get a peek at your nasty little sense of humor. Because in spite of your annoying— squareness, no, your insistence upon staying square—you do have a sense of humor.”

“Whoopee!” I quickly tore the note into tiny pieces. “Right, you’re right. I shouldn’t read it. Why deprive you from telling me in person. Come on, let me hear it from your very own lips, in person.”

Kate sighed. “Jim, let’s not be mean.”

“Let’s not be mean! Who’s walking out on who New Year’s Eve?”

“I picked tonight because I knew you’d be going to your precious Claire’s and, frankly, because I knew you’d be so preoccupied with the play the next couple of months, it probably wouldn’t make all that much difference.”

“Oh, Kate!”

“Oh, Jim! Come on, It’s not as if it were news. We both knew it was coming. I thought this was the easiest way.” Now a bit of the old nastiness slipped into her voice. “No problem accommodating Claire, no chance of disappointing her. I saw her telegram.” When she caught the look on my face she added: “It was sitting right there!”

“Jesus, do we have to get into her again?”

“Why not? Everything you do is colored by her. Just think, two consenting adults, one thirty-eight—sorry, thirty-two"—she always did that, took delight in it—“the other thirty-three, keeping two separate apartments in this day and age. Because you knew Claire would shit little green apples if—”

“Charming.”

“Sorry—true! Oh, I know what you said, because of the book). Did you think I’d stand around banging on pots and pans to keep you from working on it? Claire again. And that part in the movie, what about that?”

“The first movie I make I don’t want to be standing on a cliff in Technicolor and Panavision with my three-piece set blowing in the wind.”

A surprise grin from her; that’s what I loved about her, the little surprises she could dish out. “It’s a nifty three-piece set, take it from me.”

I shook my head. “The way you talk sometimes, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had one tucked away. You’d make a great agent, you’re tough enough. You’d have me playing all fruits or nude scenes.”

“Ah!” She thrust a finger at me; she had a way of thrusting a finger out, threatening impalement, that made me want to snap it off. “You were excited about that movie, it was about a guy about to commit suicide, not about a man standing on a cliff exposing himself. And Boys in the Band, you turned that down because Claire would have gone into cardiac arrest to see her nephew—So you stick to the safe things, that tired soap you did, your occasional summer tour in Mary, Mary, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not that much in demand, I don’t get offered every choice role that comes along, you know!”

“Then you must be doing something wrong! You’re attractive, you’re at a good age, you’re—”

“And you’re a supreme pain in the ass, Kate!”

Kate sighed. “You may have something, let’s leave it. I’ve dropped my bomb, and like any sensible bomber—I’ll leave.”

I went to make myself a drink. I could not tell her about the play falling through, could not put myself in the position of accepting sympathy from her. A final consoling pat on the shoulder as she walked out the door. I fixed her a drink, too, and took it to her as she finished packing. “No, thanks.”

I shouted at her. “Oh, Jesus, take it, one for the bustup!”

She echoed my loudness. “All right, all right!”

She sipped, looked at me, and smiled. “I’m very happy about the play, Jim. I hope it does good things for you.” I nodded; we drank. She cocked her head, then smiled again. “I never saw you look so— well, messed up, but—still...”

“What?”

“Scrummy, sort of like a rumpled bed. You should go around messed up a little, it looks good on you.” The results were coming in, first Carmine, now Kate. She sipped her drink, then set her glass down with the resolve of a general. “I’m going to tell you something!”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Yes, well, Oh, Jesus, I am! Somebody once said, ’That Jimmy Zoole, he’s such an attractive guy. Say, are his front teeth capped?’ The other person replied, ’Jimmy Zoole’s whole life is capped.’ “

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should look more like you do right now, you ought to shake yourself up a little, mix it up. Everything’s so by the rule with you, so—now we lift our weights, now we have our singing lesson, now we learn our lines, now we—you try so hard. It hurts to watch you try so hard. Sometimes I’d just like to see you say the hell with it and—”

“What—smoke pot, I suppose?”

“No, I’m not talking about that! Although, yes, that’s part of it, too.”

“It doesn’t work with me, you know that.”

“Because you wouldn’t let it work, you wouldn’t let chloroform work!”

Oh, I was so weary of hearing from her! “Kate, tell me, do you have any unuttered thoughts at all? Do you, about me or Claire or acting or anything?. Huh—do you?” She laughed. “My God,” I said, “with all my faults, whatever made it work? Or were you faking all along?”

This took the steam out of her. “No,” she sighed, “it worked, it sure did.” She took a sip of her drink. “I was attracted to you because you were—good and clean and gracious and funny, and sad, too. And screwed up in your own tight little hidden way. And, funny, for anyone as filled to the brim with the Puritan ethic, you really do make the wildest Hugglebunnyburgers.”

We smiled and made persimmon faces. “Ah,” I groaned, “that is a brutal one, isn’t it?”

“So disgusting, It’s elevated to greatness,” Kate said.

We spoke together. “Hugglebunnyburgers—feh!”

“Were they really that good?” I asked.

“Umm, that’s what hooked me on you at first. We’d be out and you’d be so, oh, opening doors, overtipping, never giving a waitress or salesman back any of the lip they give out. Then we’d get home and into bed—it was like some dusty Italian workman had just been let loose from the marble quarry. I couldn’t get over the difference, I used to get a terrific kick out of it.”

She could pay a compliment where it counted. I decided to jump right in. “So, all right, move your things back to your place, but let’s spend New Year’s together. I’ll call Claire and tell her I’m sick and—”

“See, that’s what—you’re a thirty-eight-year-old man, why wouldn’t you just tell her you want to spend New Year’s with your girl!

“Why go out of my way to hurt her feelings?”

“She doesn’t have any, the only feelings she’s—”

“All right, I’ll just tell her I can’t make it!”

“No, I can’t, Jim. Honestly, I can’t.”

I was amazed. “Then why go on so about it—about her, for God’s sake?”

“It was agreed we’d spend New Year’s apart so I—” Kate cleared her throat. “So—well, I made other plans.”

There, that made a dent. “Oh, you made plans. Well, that’s different.” I could feel the anger rising from my locked knee-caps. “Plans, huh? What’s his name—Johnnie Plans? Or Joe Plans?”

“I’m—we’re just going to a dance tonight, then up to the Cat-skills tomorrow, skiing.” She quickly added: “Just for the day.”

“You and Mr. Plans? You mean you made a date with some guy, then you suggested we skip New Year’s and—”

“No, it didn’t happen like that, Jim. Please, give me that much—”

“Please, my ass!” I started pacing. “No wonder Claire was catching such hell. You had to dump it on someone. You’re right, I’m square. Square? I’m retarded. You’re probably in the middle of your next affair. Why the hell didn’t you just tell me instead of letting me—Jesus, letting me crawl around on my knees!”

“Stop it, it wasn’t like that. It’s just someone I met through work and he asked me and I—”

“And you just—oh, shit—get out! What a dirty—”

“Jim, stop it!” she shouted.

I topped her by far. “GET OUT!”

As she hurried to assemble her things for a fast exit, I scrambled over to the bedside table, opened the bottom drawer, and took out her diaphragm, which she kept in a small plastic bag. I tossed it across the bed toward her. “Here, better take your equipment.” I opened the top drawer, took out a tube of KY jelly, and flung that at her. “There, a strobe light and you’re all set.”

She knocked the diaphragm off onto the floor. “Keep it. I bought a new one.”

“Charming. Just like you to say that.”

She scooped up her things. As she walked toward the door, she muttered: “I’m sorry we had to have this—”

“If you’d have been honest, we wouldn’t have. Aunt Claire, my ass! Cheap little horny—”

“Charming,” she said, reaching for the door. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye and good luck!” I stood there and watched her leave, watched the door slam shut after her. I was dizzy with anger. I rushed to the door and snatched it open. “Skiing, eh?” I shouted at her disappearing figure down the stairs. “As they say in the theater—break a leg! Break both legs! That way you’ll have an excuse for staying on your back)” Although I could no longer see her, I kept on shouting. “You’ve been a great pal on New Year’s! I’ll always remember you for your compassion and your goddamn boring-ass lectures!” I hurled my glass down the stairs after her. The crash at the bottom of the landing was pleasing to my ears. “Mazel tov! Lehaim! May all your orgasms turn to stone!”

I slammed the door, a wall-shaking slam. I walked, trembling, to the center of the room. I stood there shaking, shaking not only at her, but shaking now at the sight of the loser I beheld staring back at me—wild-eyed, yes—in the mirror over the mantel.

“You poor sad-assed excuse for an actor. Correction—for a human being.”

Sanity advised me to avert my eyes and to stop talking to myself. I caught a glimpse of a framed color photograph of Kate and me taken on the beach at East Hampton. I quickly stepped to the mantel and smashed it on the floor. This small violence spurred me on. Rushing to the window, I thrust it open and jammed my head and shoulders out. There she was, scuttling across the street through the snow toward her car.

“Happy New Year!” I shouted. She stopped, turned and glanced up at me. “Wait! I’ve got something for you!”

“What... ?” she called up.

“Wait!” I shouted again. From the large bowl of fruit I kept on a table between the two windows, I snatched an apple and ducked out the window just as she called out “What?” again.

“Here!” I side-armed the apple at her. A miss, it struck the street a yard or so from her feet, but it elicited, to my ears, a pleasurable little cry of surprise as Kate turned and made for her car. I snatched up an orange and threw it hard. “Hey, here you go! Ah-hah!” It glanced off the side of the suitcase she carried. Now a sharper cry escaped her. She steadied herself, turned, and squinted up through the snow at me.

“Jimmy... ?” she called out. Translation: Are you all right?

“Go with Christ!” I yelled. I grabbed a banana and held it out the window. “You know what you can do with this!” I hurled it end-over-end. Kate turned away to avoid flying objects, slipped or tripped, and in regaining her balance dropped the fur coat she’d been carrying slung over her shoulder. It lay crumpled in the snow.

“Ahh!” she cried, setting down the suitcase and picking up her coat. “Bastard!” she yelled, without looking up at me.

This earned a chortle. “Dropped her goddamn fur coat!” Next I hurled a fistful of three lemons at random. One of them connected with its target, striking her in the lower back. “Jim! Stop it—what’s the—stop it!”

She quickly shook off her coat, picked up her suitcase, and hurried toward the car. “That’s right, hustle it up!” I called. I hit the side of the car with a tangerine, just as she opened the door. She cried out in annoyance, quickly tossing her things in the car and scrambling in herself.

“Farewell, my little hummingbird! don’t take any wooden Hugglebunnyburgers!”

No fun, now that she was inside the car. I withdrew from the window, closed it, and walked back to the center of the room. I was still shaking, but shaking now from a certain exuberance achieved by throwing assorted fruit down at my ex-love. I caught sight of my flushed face in the mirror. “Jesus, Aunt Jemima, move over!” Then: “Am I flipping?” I stepped up close to the mirror, as if I might receive an answer. I kept staring at myself, until I noticed my trembling again. The sight was not reassuring. I turned away.

I needed distraction from myself. I knew if I should get lured back to the mirror I was in trouble. I went to the torn bits of Kate’s letter and picked them up, putting the pieces in a clean ashtray on the table near the door. Now that I was unemployed this might be a good project for some long winter evening, a sort of Dear John Jigsaw Puzzle.

On the far side of the television set on this same table, there was a large china bowl; in it I had thrown all my Christmas cards. As I went to pick the television up to move it back to the bookcase, something black caught my eye, something lying in with the mass of cards. At first I thought it was a piece of pipe sticking up.

I stepped closer to the bowl and looked down at the coal black object lying partly obscured by several Christmas cards. I picked it up—by what turned out to be the barrel. A gun, it was a pistol of some sort.

No, wait a minute—I’d been looking for a gun and now I find one in the bowl with my Christmas cards?. I had to shake my head to clear it. What was this?

I had never owned a gun, nor to my knowledge had Kate. I knew little about them. I changed my hold on it, now grasping it by the handle. It was no toy gun, it was heavy and lethal-looking.

The phone rang; I must have jumped a foot or so. It was Claire, speaking in a brittle annoyed voice that wanted, once it got over giving me hell for being unreachable, to lapse into a neglected whine. The last thing I needed was a long one-way conversation with her, not now, standing there with a gun in my hand at the end of a most peculiar day. I blurted it out: “Claire, I was just about to call you. I’m sorry but I can’t come. I—”

“Can’t come? But you promised, I’m leaving tomorrow. We won’t get a chance to see each other.”

“Claire, listen to me, just for a minute. I got—”

“It’s Kate, isn’t it? Of course, it is. Well, you can be with her all the time, but—”

I tried to speak but she went on. She had a way by not listening of blasting her way through rock and achieving her end. Suddenly the light years of her voice ganged up on me. I was struck allergic to the sound of her, just as someone suddenly bloats up from a shot of penicillin. “Claire, listen to me now. Listen!”

“I will, dear. But I know It’s Kate. Just as well as I know, having promised, you won’t—”

“Jesus, Jesus!” I slammed the phone down. “Deaf goddamn pussy! Deaf! Jesus, her deafness!” I stood my ground, gun still in hand. I knew the phone would ring back and it did. I picked it up. “I won’t apologize for that, I hope I made my point, please listen to me now! I got fired from the play! On top of that Kate and—”

“Fired from the play, but rehearsals haven’t even started. That’s ridiculous!”

“Not quite my reaction and I’m not finished yet by a long—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“—Because you won’t listen! If you’d—”

“Jimmy, you just come right up here and tell me all—”

“Oh, dear Jesus God in Christ!” I slammed the phone down. I couldn’t go it with her, simply could not make it through the nattering.

The phone rang again. I walked away from it, once again looking at the gun in my hand. Ring, ring, ring, ring! The ringing suddenly drove me wild—a swarm of buzzing ringing Claires trying to get at me.

I spun around, aimed, and fired at the phone. A shot blasted from the gun, jerking my arm back and stunning me. The bullet struck the desk, ricocheted over to the wall—a drift of white powder sprang from the red of the brick—and went on about its way, I couldn’t track it.

Then I heard, from somewhere terribly near, a man’s voice: “Okay, okay, take it easy. Take it easy!”

I wheeled around—I’d been standing near the sofa and the voice had come from behind me—as it said, “Okay, guy, take it easy!” And there, two legs scuttled out from under the bed and next there came a waist in view and a chest and the voice kept on: “Okay, okay, don’t do nothin’! I give up!”

The phone kept ringing. My head was ringing. I could only think: Yes, I’ve finally been struck crazy. Hallucinating. The day should have been dead, dead as a duck, ended. No, wait a minute, I was waiting to surprise the burglar!

But now—who was this coming out from under the bed?

I stood there holding the gun while a neck and then his face appeared. Talking all the while in a hoarse tough voice, lessened in its toughness by the jagged edge of fright. “Take it easy, take it easy! Okay, It’s a draw, I didn’t take nothin’—okay?”

He was asking me. Young, under thirty, rugged. But scared, he was scared. And I had the gun.

The phone stopped ringing. The pieces jogged together in my head. The television set by the door, the gun—My God and Jesus H. Unbelievable Christ, I was being robbed again. But—

Now he’d slid himself out from under the bed. He lay on the floor, hands with their backs to his chest, palms up in place for doing pushups into the air—the classic holdup position only horizontal—ready to ward off any action I might take against him.

“Take it easy, It’s a draw, no harm done, I didn’t take nothin’. Right after I—down through there"—he bobbed his head in the direction of the skylight—“she come, surprised me, I left the gun by the TV. Ducked under the bed. Then you come. I didn’t take nothin’. My mother’s grave.” He crossed himself.

When I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t, he went on: “Just let me outta here, okay?” He started to get up, swiveled over, got on one knee. “Okay?”

I aimed the gun at him. “Let you outta here?”

I thought the gun would stop him; it did for a second, but then he was up on his feet, circling me slowly in a crouch, keeping his distance, moving over by the bookcases, his eye on the door. “Okay, you had it rough, I heard all that shit, I had it rough. It’s a draw, just let me outta here.” He kept moving.

“Stop! Stop!” I kept the gun on him.

“Forget the gun,” he said. “There was only one bullet!” With that he made for the door.

Again I shouted for him to stop. When he paid no attention I aimed down at his legs and pulled the trigger. There was a loud click.

He glanced back, saw what I’d done, said, “Crazy bastard!” and reached out for the door handle. I threw the gun at him with all my might. It crashed against the door to the right of his head, only inches away, and fell to the floor. He lurched sideways; I’d made him miss the knob.

“You—you fucking robber!” And I was after him.

I know exactly what temporary insanity means, feels like, is. What it is, is not knowing and, above all, not caring. It is simply— doing.

I grabbed him by his three-quarter-length jacket and tore him down, wrenched him to the floor, then hit him. To kill him, pulverize him, was my intent, rip him to pieces.

In terror, he flipped me off him and tried to scramble away. I grabbed him with both hands, wrenched him over and threw my full weight on top of him. He was shorter, more wiry, harder, and younger than me but he was no match. His panic weakened him, just as my fury strengthened me.

He screamed even louder now, screamed for help, screamed for mercy, and now that we were face-to-face close, his screaming hurt my ears. I wanted to quiet him, so I went for his throat and I connected. I dug my fingers into his neck—oh, the feeling, like kneading tough dough, pure tactile joy—and I started closing on the tenseness, on the straining veins and muscles of this very frightened being underneath me.

Terror glazed his eyes as he began to choke. His eyes bulged out dangerously, looked as if they might actually pop. I believe I would have cut off his breath entirely if I hadn’t been stopped by the startling greenness of his eyes, the same sea-green as Kate’s.

How can one be struck by such a detail at a time like that? I don’t know, I can only report that I was. They were Kate’s eyes, large, grainy blue-green and cat-shaped even though they bulged. I must have eased off my pressure, because now I could understand his choked words.

“Quit-it, quit, ogg-god, quit!”

I shouted down into his face. “Quit it, quit it—why should I quit it!”

He could barely speak. I let up a little more. He coughed, gagged some, coughed again. “Why should I quit it—you no-good fucking little bastard!”

“Because—” he gasped. He sucked in breath, then exhaled: “For the main reason—it hurts.”

Even then, with me in my condition and especially with him in his, the sentence grabbed my attention. The wording, the phrase struck me wildly funny. I repeated it: “For the main reason—it hurts?”

My laughter confused him. Strangely enough, this confusion made him look almost bearably human. I didn’t like it. I applied pressure again. He saw I meant business and this brief respite had allowed for some strength to seep back into him. He put every ounce of it to use and managed to twist me off, throwing me sideways and thumping into the wall. Before he could gain solid footing I reached out and caught him by the leg with one hand. He scrambled away a few yards, dragging me with him until I finally caught hold of him with my other hand and jerked him back down again.

Now neither of us yelled or screamed. No time for words. We were down to the serious business of finishing this competition off. No way would he escape me. If he were to somehow get out of the apartment, I knew I would chase him on foot to California if need be.

I tried once more to lurch forward, to get on top of him, as we wrestled across the floor. By now he was infected with terror. We knocked over an end table next to an easy chair, sending it and a lamp crashing to the floor.

I ducked to avoid the falling lamp and this diversion allowed him to get to his feet again. He made for the bathroom door directly ahead of him. I lunged after him, got him around the waist in a flying tackle, and the two of us crashed up against the built-in bookcase abutting the wall next to the bathroom door.

Because he was in front of me, he bore the brunt of the crash. It dazed him and he fell to his knees. I grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around and slamming him down. He was now in a sitting position by the corner of the bookcase. He shook his head, put his hand up to his forehead, shook it again, and blinked his eyes. I dropped to my knees in front of him. My barbell weight was directly behind his head, standing on end, resting up against the corner of the bookcase and the wall.

He opened his eyes wide, focused, looked directly at me, then spit in my face. The final indignity. I grabbed him by the shoulders, swung him forward toward me to gain momentum, then slammed his head back against the long iron pole of the barbell.

A terrible dull bonking-thud sounded. His head dropped to the side, hit his shoulder, seemed to bounce off it, then hung down to the side of his chest.

Jesus, I got him, I had him, I’d won! There was fright in it and wonder and excitement. Excitement! To me, a non-fighter, it was thrilling. Not only to fight but to win!

There was too much excitement to stay still. I stood up, just to have movement, and stepped back away from him, this human being I’d turned into a body.

Soon the excitement, the thrill of beating him, was on the wane, replaced by fear that I might have killed him. Of course I wanted to murder him—but not really kill him, dead, for all times!

This person, I didn’t even know him ...

I caught myself wondering right at that moment if he had a family, a wife and children. And the phrase “Head of Household” hit me. Have I killed Head of Household?

The hang of his head looked precariously uncomfortable, as if, if he weren’t dead, his neck might break from the weight of it. I knelt down, quickly took him by the shoulders, and eased him out flat on the floor.

The phone rang. From reflex I got up, turned, and stepped toward it. No—oh, no, none of that. It only rang six or seven times.

When it stopped I stood there, still breathing heavily, feeling a need to connect with reality. I glanced around the room, at the television set, at the large ashtray that held the bits and pieces of Kate’s letter, at Bobby Seale’s water and food bowls; my eyes touched on a sort of cloudy reality, too: the gouge in the wood where the gun had struck the door, the gun itself, on the floor over by the corner of the bookcase, the broken end table, and the smashed lamp.

Anger returned, anger that not only was I being robbed again, but he had been under the bed eavesdropping into my personal life. Jesus!

I looked back at him. He fit in perfectly with the mess, he was garbage. I walked back and stood staring down at his limp form. I do not boast of my actions now. I suddenly kicked him in the side. Not a gentle kick either. “Bastard!” I swung my foot back again but stopped. There was still the possibility that he might be dead. No use kicking a dead man.

I knelt by him and lifted his head to see if it might possibly be cracked open. Tilting him, I inspected for damage. His hair was dark brown, thick, long but not hippyish, and, by this time, completely disheveled. I could feel the large lump even before I parted the hairs with my fingers. It was a nasty bruised ridge, already discoloring and only faintly smudged with blood from the pores, but it was not split open, not openly bleeding.

After letting his head rest back on the rug, I bent down close to him. His mouth was slightly open. I could barely tell if he was breathing. I opened his jacket and placed a hand on his chest. There was movement, slight but it was there, faintly in and out. No dead bodies, praise be for that.

I stood up. Manic, once again, and thinking now of Pete, if he were alive. How great to call up and say: “Hey, Pete, get your ass over here, see what I got!”

Yes, see what I got. But what to do with the miserable robbing bastard? God’s truth, I never once thought of calling the police. I could simply drag him downstairs and throw him out into the street with the garbage. No, careful. I’d be an easy target for reprisals once he came to.

I thought of the basement, that was an idea. I had a key to the heavy latch-type lock and the door itself was metal, inside at the far end of the ground-floor hallway, now completely unoccupied. Only one small barrel slit of a window looked up at the back alley shared with a dilapidated, defunct warehouse. No one would hear him. I caught a picture of him down there, shouting, eventually pleading, clawing at the door like some trapped animal.

I laughed. Kate often referred to me as her “square lover.” I was not feeling square now. My imagination was most certainly not pointed at square. I’d played by the rules long enough and been called out more often than not. I’d play by my own rules now. I might even make up a few new ones.

Still, the question of what to do with him. The basement intrigued me. It was a scary place, damp and dark. I’d never been comfortable when I’d made brief trips down there to find out why there was no hot water or to change a blown fuse.

Then, in opposition to my imagination, my square-headed pedestrian logical boring mind interrupted: What if I did make him prisoner down there? Would he, out of desperation, play havoc with the furnace, the hot-water heater, or the fuse box? Surely he would. Though bereft of outside help or his burglar’s tools, he would not be stripped of the same ingenuity that enabled him to rob apartments.

Annoyed with myself for letting logic interfere, I was even more annoyed with him, lying there so patiently on the floor. I thought of kicking him again. But why kick him if he couldn’t feel it?

What if he was the same burglar who’d robbed me twice before? What if he, lying right down at my feet, had taken my pages? In a way it made sense—once you’d latched onto a good deal, why not milk it dry? Top floor, no doorman, no one else in the entire building to disturb a burglar in the middle of his work. The idea made the blood rush to my face.

I nixed the basement. I would be forfeiting all active participation if I should lock him up down there. Oh, Jesus Christ and all the disciples, if he should be the one! Even if he shouldn’t, he had every right to stand in as proxy. I wanted my full licks. I definitely should be in attendance at any punishment I might devise for him.

I looked outside the window. The snow fell so thickly now; the air between was barely visible, it was all snow. A great rush of coziness enveloped me at being inside my apartment with—what?— well, my consolation prize, my prisoner, stretched out so completely at my disposal. Again I thought of Pete. There was a strong impulse to call someone, let someone know. It was an unusual event and unusual events should be shared. “Hello, New York Times. Listen—” Not practical, though.

Still, it was cause for celebration. I quickly fixed myself a drink of scotch. I walked to the mirror and toasted myself. “That’ll teach ’em to fuck around with you!” All right, what to do with him? No point drinking and stalling around until he comes to. I glanced around the room and then it hit me. Yes, I knew what to do, how I would celebrate the New Year. We would celebrate it together, albeit in different circumstances.

I giggled. I remember hearing my giggle, realizing he couldn’t hear it, that no one could. And I thought: This is not like me! Not at all.

This did not, however, cause me undue worry.

When I’d first moved into the loft there’d been only the most makeshift kitchen stuck off in a corner: small stove and refrigerator, small built-in counter and porcelain-topped kitchen table. There was no running water, the dishes had to be washed in the bathroom sink.

When Claire came to see the place, right after I’d moved in, she offered to donate a proper kitchen unit. Because of the unorthodoxy of construction and plumbing in the building, I was able to have a large free-standing butcher-block, combined stainless-steel sink unit installed to connect with the downstairs plumbing. It stood some six feet out from the nearest wall, into which I’d had fitted a fine gas stove and wall oven, a proper refrigerator, and kitchen cabinets I’d built myself. It was now a splendid kitchen section, taking up about one sixth of the total loft.

The butcher-block unit struck me as the perfect place to strap him down to. I could place him belly down on it. Sturdy as it was, no amount of wriggling or twisting would matter.

I wondered how long a knocked-out person remains unconscious. Minutes or would it be an hour? No use taking chances.

It became a game. I tore around the apartment collecting odd pieces of rope that had been used to secure the two skylights before I’d had chains attached. Kate had dipped into macrame and she’d done two long “pulls” when she first started. These were usable, too, as were a few old ties and an old belt of mine.

First I removed his shoes and bound his ankles tightly, in case he should come to while I was still securing him to the butcher block. With effort I managed to turn him over and get his jacket off, ridding him of some bulk. Before I attempted to move him, I studied him closely for any signs of consciousness. He was still soundly elsewhere. I picked him up—he was heavier than he looked to be or perhaps it was the deadness of his weight—and carried him to the kitchen.

It was eerie, holding someone in my arms that I didn’t know.

Holding someone in my arms—a phrase of closeness, affection even. None of this, of course, but there was a certain intimacy that was, well, eerie.

I was glad to be rid of him when I rolled him out of my arms onto his stomach, so that his thighs and legs were on one section of the butcher block, his middle straddled the sink, and his chest, arms, and head rested on the second section of the butcher block. Before trussing him up, I emptied his pants pockets: twenty-seven dollars, some change, three keys, a handkerchief, and a small pocket comb. He would be the type to carry a pocket comb. I could imagine him combing his hair in public, walking down the street and glancing in store windows to see his reflection.

Then I quickly tied his hands behind him, binding his wrists securely. Even if he came to before I had him strapped down, he would be helpless.

It was exciting, this operation, so much so that I went to the stereo to put on some records. Something big was called for; I chose Aida, the Leontyne Price recording. Music to Tie People Up By.

A sip of my drink, then back to the task. I strapped him securely to the butcher block by taking one of the kitchen drawers out and passing the rope through the opening it afforded and around back of his knees. I passed another rope around the small of his back and brought it up and around the indentation under the sink itself. Now he was completely trussed up and strapped down. No amount of maneuvering could possibly help.

I stepped back, filled with pride at the excellent job of packaging. I was also filled with anticipation. I freshened my drink and pulled up a chair to sit directly in front of my home-made version of Gulliver.

His head rested cheek down on the butcher block. In order to have a better look at him I got a cushion from the sofa and put it under his chin, turning his head to the front, facing me. His eyes were closed, but I’d already taken them in, the large catlike greenblueness that reminded me so of Kate.

I brushed his hair back with my hand. His forehead was wide, the nose good-sized, not big, but the bridge was somewhat thicker than it should have been for the rest of it. It looked as if it might have been broken and mended thick. The cheekbones were high, prominent, the cheeks hollowing down where the mouth began. His lips were full and well formed; the bottom one seemed to have a small pout pocket right in the center. His chin squared off at the bottom, somewhat narrow, but not weak. All in all, a good-looking face, the main features being the eyes and his cheekbones.

Still, there was something scroungy about him. His complexion was medium, not dark, more fair, not peachy by any means, with a few faint freckles, and one small angled scar under his left eye, no more than half an inch long. Perhaps it was the scar that gave him a tomcattish look. Also, right now, one of his eyeteeth stuck out over his lower lip. He did remind me of a tomcat, a stringy one—he was lean for his size, which I guessed to be about five ten—a cat who’d been through his share of scrapes.

Despite the cold, he wore only a brown and black small-checked shirt underneath the three-quarter-length outer jacket. His pants were dark brown and expensive, I could tell, slightly belled at the bottom. His brown shoes, I’d noticed when I’d taken them off, were also expensive. This was one cat who cared about his appearance.

I sipped my drink, waiting for him to show signs of consciousness and wondering whether people who were knocked out dreamed. And whether he would remember clearly what happened or even where he was when he first awakened. Most of all, I wondered what his reactions would be.

The phone rang, I decided to answer, surely it would be Claire. It was. Her voice was chilly as she asked if I was all right. I told her I was simply not feeling well, inside, and, of course, apologized for hanging up on her.

“It certainly wasn’t like you, Jimmy. I hope you’re feeling better now. You shouldn’t be alone if you’re feeling blue, that’s the only reason I wanted you to come up. Then, of course, you have Kate.”

I told her Kate and I had broken up. This news brought a bit of warmth back into her voice. She doubted it was for good, but I assured her it most likely was. Then she thought she’d just let me in on “all the things I’ve held back from saying about that girl” but I cut her off and told her about the play falling through. There was sympathy but I could tell she was not destroyed by it. It gave her a chance to say once more, “When things like that happen, that’s when It’s good to have family. We have each other, It’s good to know that.”

As she talked on I glanced over at the body lying all tied up over the sink. There was a certain perverse titillation in talking to Claire on the phone with him lying there like that. Oh, Claire, if you only knew. She asked me again to come up to her party but I told her I was going to bed early. It must have been the news about Kate that permitted Claire to let me off the hook as easily as she did. We said our good nights and I hung up.

It was only then that I remembered my shoes were still down on the second floor along with the groceries. I brought them up, un-packed the food, and sat down once more in front of—I wondered what his name was.

I sat there for a long time.

When he first started to stir, a blink or two of the eye, a twitch, then a slight pucker and a lick of his lips, I glanced at the clock. It was nine fifteen.

Sitting on a kitchen chair, backward, my chin resting on the back of it, I was perhaps three feet directly in front of him.

He licked his lips again; his eyetooth, the one that had been protruding, disappeared. “Mnn..."—a small sleep sound. He coughed, then turned his head slowly to the side, so that his cheek rested on the pillow. This small movement must have been a strain of sorts, he must have noticed the pull from his hands being tied behind him. He opened his eyes, looked at his shoulder, saw his arm stretching behind him, then suddenly, in his peripheral vision, caught sight of something in front of him.

He turned his head front. “Ahh!” The nearness of a strange person startled him. As much as he could, he ducked his head back. “Oh...” He blinked his eyes again, then focused on me. “Uh?” Then the circumstances came back to him. “Oh, Jesus!” He tried to get up but, of course, he could barely move. He made several wrenching movements, but it was no use. “What?” He turned his head, looked to the right, facing the kitchen cabinets and the spice racks, then swiveled his head back around the other way toward the living-room area.

He looked back at me. I returned his gaze, as impassively as I could. I made a good show of it, although inside I was far from impassive.

Once again he glanced at his right shoulder, made an effort to see up and over it, to discover just how his hands were tied. When he looked back at me, he finally spoke. “Jesus, what is this—the end of the world!” I didn’t reply. “Huh?” he asked.

I kept staring at him. He turned his head to the left, once again looking toward the living room. This caused him to groan. “Oww, Christ, my head!” Back to me. “Jesus, you doused my fiickin’ lights.”

I noticed another small scar, this one over his right eyebrow, noticed it when he wrinkled his forehead and asked a direct question in a straightforward manner that indicated he expected a logical answer. “Hey, what’d you tie me down for—huh?”

The answer was so obvious that I smiled. “That’s funny?” he asked. “Hey, answer me, what’d you go and tie me down for?” Suddenly he gasped. “Jesus, you didn’t call the cops, did you? Did you? Listen, I got—I got twenty-seven bucks in my pocket—” Then, as if it had just occurred to him: “Hey, you took my coat off. Okay, you can have the money and I got two ounces of pot, cleaned, really good stuff, in my jacket pocket. You can have that, too—just let me outta here.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Come on, guy, I didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

His speech was incredible, a take-off on the fierce New Yorkese seldom heard for real. His d’s turned to t’s. “I didn’t do nothin’” sounded “I dit-unt do nut-in’.”

“Jesus,” he said, “if you called the cops! What a shitty thing to do on New Year’s! Hey, guy, did youse call ’em?” (I smiled: no one says “youse” any more.) “Come on, give a guy a break! It’s New Year’s Eve.” I sat there, still with my chin resting on the back of the chair. I could tell my silence was getting to him. “Hey, answer me!” he shouted. The shouting caused him to groan again. “Ooow, my head! Hey, you there—ah, yeah, Jimmy—that’s it—hey, Jimmy?” (He gave it two syllables—Jim-may.)

His use of my first name struck me oddly. First, his even knowing it threw me off for a split second until I realized he’d been under the bed all the while Kate and I were having at it. More than that, he spoke my name with complete familiarity, as if he were a friend.

He cocked his head. “What? You’re not talkin’ to me, huh? Is that it? Big deal. You womp the shit outta me, knock me the fuck out, tie me up—and you’re not talkin’ to me?. BFD—Big Fuckin’ Deal.” A beat, then: “I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you!” He waited for a reply; he got none. “Is that the big scoop? You’re not talkin’ to me?”

The phone, across the room from the kitchen area, rang. As I walked to it, he, this character, said, “If that’s my old lady, don’t tell her I’m here. She don’t like you!”

The cat had a sense of humor.

Kate’s voice on the phone, tentative: “Jim ... ?”

“Oh, hi, ah—Kate, isn’t it? I remember you, big eyes, big mouth.”

“don’t be smart,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Never better, why?”

“Why? Throwing things out the window, all that yelling, I got worried, that’s why.”

A shout from the prisoner. “Hey! He-ee-ey!”

I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. “Shut up!” Then, to Kate. “So, what’s up with you?”

Now a barrage of shouting from the kitchen. “Help! HELP! This crazy nut has me tied up! H-E-L-P! Goddamnit—help!”

From Kate: “What’s all the—what’s that?”

“That—oh, that? Just some ratty little crum-bum burglar I caught.”

“Stop kidding,” she said, impatiently.

“Help! HELP!” he shouted again.

“I’m not kidding.”

“You’ve got to be—A burglar!” she snorted.

“I’m not kidding,” I repeated.

He bellowed: “He’s not kidding, goddamnit!”

A pause, then Kate asked: “Jim, what’s going on there?”

“I told you, I caught a burglar.”

“Oh, Jim—”

“Well, you asked me and I’m telling you.”

A sigh. “All right, you caught a burglar and—what are you doing with him?”

“I’ve got him tied up.”

“He’s got me tied up!” he shouted. Then: “Oh, shit!”

“Did you hear that?” I asked her.

“I hear yelling.” She cleared her throat and when she spoke again her voice was extremely patronizing. “All right, you caught a burglar and you tied him up and now what?”

I spoke more for his benefit than for hers although I realized I was having it off both ways. Along about this time, I was feeling extremely heady, I admit. “What am I going to do with him? Hmn, I’m not sure yet. Torture him maybe, or—maybe just a good clean kill and dispose of the body. Or, perhaps, a little experimenting. After all, I did study to be a doctor.” (This was a lie but I thought it would be interesting for his ears.) “I still have my scalpels and everything. Might be good to keep in practice.”

“Jimmy,” Kate sighed, “stop the kidding, now I know you’re kidding. What’s the—”

“I’m not kidding! After all, who would know he was here? Burglars don’t leave word when they’re going to knock off a place. The way I figure, I’m home free.”

“Then you’re drunk,” she said.

“I’m not drunk and I’m not kidding,” I assured her.

He returned to the act, shouting again. “He’s not kidding, goddamnit! Help me! Get some goddamn help!”

“So, who do you think that is—Claire?” I asked.

“don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. Still confused, she added: “I don’t know, it could be the television for all I know.”

I held the receiver out toward the kitchen. “She thinks you’re the television,” I said.

“Fuckin’ nut!” he shouted.

I spoke to Kate. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” she said, now more confused.

“Well, they don’t say ’fuckin’ on TV. In the movies, on the stage, in the street, in the home, but not quite yet on TV. I expect It’s coming soon, though.”

“All right,” she sighed. “You’ve got someone there, you’re pulling some sort of an act. Who is it? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, wait a minute.” I turned to him. “We have a request. What’s your name?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he said, in all nastiness.

“Hold on.” I put the phone down, walked to the kitchen, picked up a large glass, filled it with water and sloshed it over his head. He cried out, swearing in anger. I cut him off with a warning. “The next batch will be hot\ So careful the way you talk to me. Remember, you’re not in the best of positions, you’re not sitting in the catbird seat.”

“Huh?” he muttered, his face dripping water.

“Forget it,” I returned to the phone.

“There’s really somebody there,” Kate said.

“That didn’t take too long to sink in, did it?”

“All right,” she snapped, “but what are you doing?”

“Talking to you, right now. As to what I’m going to do— undecided. Who knows? I may cut him up in little pieces, wrap him in newspaper and deposit him in various garbage cans around the city. Remember when that sort of thing was popular?”

“Oh, well, you’re just—”

“And so are you,” I told her. Wanting to leave her in a complete muddle, I abruptly wound up the conversation: “Call me when you get back from skiing and I’ll let you know the final results. Oh, and watch that last jump, It’s a bitch!”

One last bellow of “HELP!” from the prisoner as I hung up.

The phone rang back immediately. I picked it up.

“Jim, are you all right? I don’t get what—”

I cut her off. “Kate, I’m really very busy right now.” I used her line. “We’ll talk.” And hung up again.

I turned around and smiled at him. “Enough of that, eh? Now back to you.”

Oh, the joy in confusing Kate! She, who knew it all. I was a huge one-up on her now. This put me in a wildly happy mood. Celebration was called for; I took a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator and began working the cork out. His eyes were on me, watching every move. When the cork popped, he uttered a deadpan “Whoopee.”

I poured a glass and while I sipped it, I caught sight of his outer jacket there on the floor where I’d left it. I’d neglected to look in those pockets. When he saw what I was doing he muttered, “Help yourself.”

The pockets yielded another comb, a good-sized cellophane packet containing pot and cigarette papers, a regular pack of cigarettes, a great tangle of keys on a ring, and a postcard from Rome of Michelangelo’s David. The message read: “Dear Vito, I hope this card gets your postman hot! Hah-hah!” Signed “Cha-cha.” It was addressed to Vito Antenucci, c/o Frazier, to a number way east on Seventh Street.

“So—Vito Antenucci.”

“Yeah,” he said, flatly. “Big fuckin’ detective.” (Pronounced deteck-a-tive.)

There was one other item, a small white card, the size of a file card with such minuscule handwriting in ink that I had to get my reading glasses to make it out. On the top of the side I happened to look at was written Jokes. Underneath:

Why gypsies noisy lovers?—crystal balls

75 year old Navajo virgin

3 roosters—Little Red Hen

Drunk lady—bar—canary

Drunk fag—graveyard—kicked all your dirt off, silly

English TV quiz—niggercock

Black & White & Gray? Sister Mary Elephant

Bee-keeper, 250,000 bees—cigar box—fuck ’em

What has 3 cherries & dances? 20,000 chorus girls

2 goldfish in bowl—if no God, who changes water?

Why rub shit on altar Italian wedding? Keep flies off bride

How many Poles pull off kidnaping? 47. 2 to snatch kid, 45 to write note

Why so few Puerto Rican suicides? Not easy jump out basement window Irish, Protestant, Jew—go to heaven

Jewish Santa Claus down chimney—Ho-ho-ho, anybody wanna buy any toys?

Maybe I had Bob Hope tied up to my kitchen sink. “You must be a regular card,” I told him.

“Yeah, hah-hah!” he said. “Hey, who was that on the phone, the ballbreaker?”

Although I spoke facetiously, I didn’t expect him to catch it. “don’t talk about my girl like that!” I quickly walked to him and flicked the remains of my drink in his face.

He sputtered, coughed, shook his head, then, after a string of cursing, said, “My luck to get mixed up with a nut\ Jesus, eighty-six the booze for the Big Actor.” A derisive sneer crept into his voice. “Your girl, your girl gave youse the old heave-ho.” He spoke more to himself next. “Jesus, my luck. Vito-baby, you done it again. Wouldn’t I pick a nut! My ever-grabbin’ luck!”

There was a whine to his voice, the whine of one who plays at his underdogmanship.

“Your luck! Who asked you to drop in, Vito-baby? Okay, so pay the consequences, you crum.”

This got a quick reaction. “don’t call me crum!”

The sentence carried an implied threat. “Or what?” I asked.

“Or what?”

“Yes—or what’ll you do? You couldn’t tie your shoelace now.”

“Look who’s talkin’, the big outta-work actor. I heard you, you lost your fuckin’ job!”

Oh, he was meddling in dangerous territory. “Crummy crum, as if you could do anything about anything. You couldn’t even pick your nose, which is something you’re undoubtedly extremely good at.”

He spoke in real distaste. “Uhh! That’s disgusting.”

“Ahh! His Italian Lordship is offended.” I laughed.

His cat eyes focused on me, as if studying me for the first time. “You know something—you got a mean streak!” The seriousness with which he delivered this conclusion struck me funny. My laughter annoyed him.

“You oughta see a shrink. You fucked-up excuse for a flop actor!”

The gall of his words, in his position, infuriated me. “You punk. You little no-good petty goddamn punk robber. You come sneaking in with a gun and—I’ll bet you’re the same dirty little bastard that robbed me twice before, aren’t you?” I grabbed his tied-up wrists. “Aren’t you?”

“No, honest-to-God, no!” I twisted his arms. “Jesus, no, let up!”

I applied more pressure. “Aren’t you?”

“No, cut it out! Jesus, I was never here before. My mother’s word of honor!”

I let go of his arms and faced him. There was something humiliating in his having overheard personal information regarding my life and times. I wanted to humiliate him in return, break him down completely. “Your mother, your mother’s probably a cheap hooker!”

He made a bold attempt to spit in my face. Because his position denied him leverage, it hit my chest. I slapped him hard on the side of the head. The yowl, pure animal hurt, thrilled me. The shock I experienced from acknowledging the thrill doubled it, made it shimmer. I could feel the hairs rise on my arms. (I don’t brag about my behavior, only report it.)

“Crum!” I screamed down at him.

“I’ll kill you!” he shouted back.

“Kill me? Try a cockroach!” I grabbed his hands and twisted his arms again. “Jesus, I’ll bet you’re a junkie, too.”

“Leave me alone.” The whine again. “I ain’t no junkie.”

“You ain’t no English teacher either!” I flung his arms down. “Rotten little punk burglar. And you call me fucked up, I ought to see a shrink! You ought to be put away, you little—what is it you like to be called? Crum? You crummy little bastard with a hooker for a mother! Where’s your mother tonight? Out hooking for New Year’s?”

“My mother’s dead.” He said it quietly, solemnly; I could tell by his tone he expected to stop me.

Not a chance. “Screwed herself to death, did she?”

“Oh, boy,” he said. “I may be dumb and a few other things, but you—you know what you are? You’re perverse!”

I laughed. “Perverse, am I? Ah-hah, we’ve been sneaking into the dictionary, haven’t we?”

“You prick! I’m not gonna talk to you no more.”

“Oh, Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding.” I walked away from him, spun around, hand to my chest. “Break my heart, would you? And on New Year’s? He’s not going to talk to me.” I held an imaginary gun to my forehead. “There’s no reason to go on living. So long, Mom. Farewell, world!” I pulled the trigger—click!

He was watching. There was a grin behind his eyes; his face masked it, but it was there behind his eyes. “You’re some card. Yeah, the ace of spades, the death"—pronounced dett—“card.”

I reminded him of his vow. “Thought you weren’t going to talk.”

“I’m not. For the main reason—you’re nuts. No use talkin’ to a crazy person.”

“Remember, if you decide to break your pledge—you have to say ’May I?’”

“Nut,” he muttered.

He was silent, so was I. I realized we were acting childishly, perhaps only I was, but it made no difference. There was an elation in having him captive that encouraged irrational behavior. However, this foray in total indulgence was tiring and the drinks I’d downed had weakened me. Hungry, that’s what I was, suddenly very hungry. I looked out the window; the snow still fell, large flakes and thick. White, everything covered in white.

The quiet, after all our bellowing was peaceful. To make sure the absolute silence would not tempt us to break it, I put on the Mozart String Quintets.

Coffee was a good idea. After it began to perk, I set about preparing a meal of sorts, a plate of cold chicken, sliced tomatoes, potato salad, and other odds and ends.

Why allow him free time, even while I was eating? I got out a card table and placed it directly in front of his head. He watched me as I set it up. On this very special New Year’s Eve, a whimsical touch was not beyond me. I put a candle in one of the heavy brass candlesticks, got a small vase, and stripped off one carnation from a bunch in a larger vase.

By the time I sat down, barely two feet in front of him, with my food before me, there was a smirk on his face in acknowledgment of my intent.

I lit the candle, picked up my glass of champagne, and dipped it in a silent toast to him. In return he crossed his eyes at me; he crossed them perfectly. Cross-eyes always make me smile. I couldn’t help laughing. After I’d sipped from the glass, he quickly puffed up his cheeks and blew the candle out. Then he turned his head to the side, facing away from me.

This cat was spunky.

I stood, picked up the table and moved it into his line of vision. He didn’t budge until I’d moved the chair around and sat down. Then, as I took my first bite, he turned his head the other way, facing the living room. I moved the card table and chair, once more sitting down in front of him. When I began to eat he swiveled his head around again.

“Ah-ah,” I said, standing and going after the coffee percolator. “Back this way.”

“Jesus!” He glanced at the coffeepot and immediately turned his head, facing the card table. He thought I was threatening to pour hot coffee on him. This hadn’t occurred to me. Instead I placed the percolator on the butcher block, only an inch or so away from the back of his head. If he attempted to turn or move at all, he would risk a burn.

“Hot stuff!” I wagged a warning finger at him.

He had no alternative but to watch me now. After several bites, I once again lifted my glass in a silent toast before sipping. Again he crossed his eyes at me.

“You know what I wish?” he asked. “You know what I really wish? I wish I could puke right now.”

“Be my guest.”

“I really do. I’d give my left nut if I could snap my cookies right in front of you.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I told him.

“I wish I could.”

“Maybe you should take a course. They have courses in almost everything nowadays. You could enroll in Puking One, then if you do well—go on to Puking Two. You might even take your master’s.”

“Whack-o,” he muttered.

“Of course, by then I’d have finished eating, so that would defeat your purpose. But then, looking at it another way, you’d have learned a trade.” I paused, chewed on a piece of chicken, then wiped off my mouth. “Something your mother and I had despaired of.” I laughed; suddenly we were sitting in Ozzie and Harriet’s kitchen, having that mandatory breakfast scene that opens most situation comedy shows.

My last sentence had confused him. All I got by way of response was “Huh?”

“Forget it, dumb-ass!”

“I’d really like a shot at you. Jesus, would I!”

“You had your chance but you muffed it.”

“Once more. One time. I’d fuckin’ total you!”

“Make up your mind. Do you want to puke or do you want to total me? That’s the trouble with you young people today—can’t make up your minds. And remember, the decision you make today might affect your entire life.” I laughed again; Christ, I was getting silly. “Such as it is,” I added.

“I think you’re flippin’.”

“And aren’t you lucky to have a ringside seat?”

“Yeah, my luck. Three lemons—pong, pong, pong!” He continued to watch me while I ate. After a while, he sighed. “Mean. Jesus—mean! I never saw nothin’ like you for mean. I hadda aunt once used to say, ’Mean as cat’s meat.’ Well, that fits you, you’re fuckin’ mean as cat’s meat. Eatin’ in front of a person. I didn’t eat since last night. I’m fuckin’ hungry.” When I didn’t reply, he added: “And speakin’ of cat’s meat—I’m glad your fuckin’ cat’s dead). Serves you right.”

I looked up from my food. “My—what?”

I saw it strike him. “Ahh! Oh, oh Jesus, yeah—!” He broke off laughing. “That’s right, you didn’t know—your fuckin’ cat’s bought the farm! Hee ...” He howled with delight.

I stood up, all I could do was look at him.

His laughed turned to a cough. When he was coughed out, he said, with pure glee in his voice: “That’s right, youse didn’t know!”

I stepped toward him. “What do you mean, my cat’s dead?”

He flinched. “Wait, I’ll tell you! Right after I got here, the ball-breaker flew in. My gun fell outta my pocket when I dropped from the skylight. My mistake was puttin’ it down when I was collecting the goodies together. I was standing right next to the bed when I heard the key in the lock so I quick ducked underneath. She was only here a couple of minutes when the phone rang. The cat hospital and—”

“The cat hospital?”

He shrugged. “Cat hospital, animal hospital. Whatever. Oh, man, she was upset when she heard. She right away called some guy— Fred, she called him—-said the cat had died and maybe they should change their plans on accounta how much you liked the cat, plus the combination her goin’ off for New Year’s. But she listens to a lot of blah-blah-blah on the other end and says yeah, he’s right, she’ll meet him in a half hour.”

I said nothing. What could I say? I could hardly believe it, yet I knew from the way he’d told it he hadn’t made it up.

My cat was dead. Bobby Seale was dead. Jesus, the results were still coming in.

“Yeah,” Vito sighed, “I kept waitin’ for her to drop it on you. Hmn ... if you treated your cat the way you treat people, It’s probably a good thing. See, what I mean is—I’m hungry!”

I turned and walked away from him. For a moment I thought of phoning the vet’s but I knew it was true.

“I’m goddamn hungry!” he shouted. I wanted him to be quiet, I was suddenly tired of him, weary of hearing his voice. I also could not absorb this latest.

DON’T TAUNT THE WRETCHED!

He laughed again, to my ears a moronic sort of laugh. He had a habit of diverting his laughter to a high keening “Hee ...” sound. By doing this he was able to keep the laughter from lodging in his throat and bringing on a fit of coughing.

“Hee ...!” once more and I knew he was laughing about the cat. I let him laugh himself out. When he finished he was quiet for a

short spell, until he shouted once more: “Goddamnit, I’m hungry, even in jail they feed you!”

His persistence got to me, that together with his total joy in delivering the news about Bobby Seale. “Let’s see if we can’t find something for you!”

He cocked his head as I walked to the refrigerator. “You mean it?”

“Sure, I mean it.” I took out a bowl of lime jello with bananas that had overstayed its time. I walked back to him. “Here...” I upended the bowl, thumping the top and dumping the congealed mass on top of his head.

“Jesus! Oh, Jesus!”

I scooped the rest that clung to the bowl out with my hand and pressed it onto his forehead. “There, take it all!”

“You fuckin’ crazy-ass bastard! You bastard!”

At first I laughed as he shook his head to rid himself of the globs of green dotted with bananas. He swore all the while. I stepped over to the bureau and picked up Kate’s hand mirror; I thought I’d let him have a look at himself. When I walked back to him, the sight wasn’t as funny as I’d thought it would be, the green mass dotted with yellow-brown spots sliding from his forehead, down the side of his nose, on down his cheeks and then dropping to the pillow I’d put under his chin. He shook his head, most of it slid off easy enough, but some lodged in his hair. It was supposed to look funny, but it didn’t and I was annoyed. And already a bit ashamed.

No use pursuing it. As I turned to walk away and put the mirror back, he spit the words out: “I’m glad I ripped you off before. Jesus, am I ever! I’m fuckin’ glad I did!” I spun around and faced him. “You heard me, you prick!”

“So you did, didn’t you? It was you!”

“Goddamn right it was. Twice, scraped you clean twice. And I’d do it again. You miserable—”

“Cretin!” I shouted, throwing the mirror to the floor. The crash of glass brought a cry of fright from him. “There, there goes your luck, you crummy little bastard!”

I went to him, grabbing him hard by the collar of his shirt and jerking his head up. “You took my book! What did you do with those pages, all those pages in that box? Oh—you bastard!”

He enjoyed my anguish, so much so that he managed, even with his disadvantage, to feign an air of casualness. “Threw ’em out. I thought there’d be some goodies in there. When I broke it open nothin’ but a lot of yellow pages with—oh, yeah, and some dirty pictures!” He laughed his semimoronic laugh. “Those I kept.”

To shut him up, I slapped him hard on the side of the head. The elation I felt with that solid connection! A cry and a whimper— delight to hear. I raised my hand again. He cringed, as much as he could in his position. “Worked on that for almost a year and you throw it out. I’ll tell you one thing, you won’t rob anyone again. Not by the time I get through with you!” I noticed jello on my hand, from slapping him. “Uck!” I wiped it off on his neck.

I was breathing hard from pure rage. I sat down at the card table, looked at my plate, then at him. “You slob! Look at you. You don’t have to puke to take my appetite away. Just the sight of you is enough.”

“Tough shit! Come on, wipe my head off.”

“Wipe your ass!”

“Gladly—on your face!” he said.

I upturned the card table, sending everything flying, dishes, vase, food, candlestick. I screamed at him face-to-face, point blank. “Watch your tongue, you little bastard! Bastard! I’ve had enough of you. No lip, no swearing, none of your smartass cracks. Do you hear me?” At last I saw in his eyes the fear I’d wanted to put there. “Do you?” I repeated.

“Yes.” He said it quietly.

No quiet for me. I shouted even louder; the words raked my throat. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah—yes. Come on—take it easy.” He ducked his head back away from me.

“And no advice, no take it easy. You’re going to learn how to behave. Have you got that straight?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir! Let’s hear it—yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir,” he said in a small voice.

The picture of him simply dumping out the pages of my book— where, in an alley, in an ashcan?—kept flashing through my head. “Loud and clear. Yes, sir. Let it echo—Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir!” The attempt at projection caused his voice to break. Then he said, his voice shaky now, very shaky, “Jesus ...”

I slapped him again. “No swearing! The fucking lowlife scroungy petty little half-assed burglars don’t swear! Have you got that straight?”

“Yes.”

“Yes—what?”

“Yes, sir!”

Blind anger coursed through me. I was short of breath but I could not stop. Like a runner at the end of a big mile, I had to keep moving. I paced back and forth. The thoughts I entertained were murderous. I could tell by the silence he was watching me; I knew I had him frightened. My one solace.

After a long while he spoke, his voice was the essence of tentative. “Listen—I’ll, I’ll make you a deal.”

“Sir!”

“Sir. Listen, I’ll—if you let me go, I’ll—make it up to you for what I took. I’ll—

“How?”

“I’ll pay you back—you tell me what—you know, the worth of everything—and I’ll get the money and pay you back.” I only looked at him. “I swear it.”

“How?”

“How? I just told you.”

“No, how will you get the money? Where will you get the money from?”

“I’ll get it, I will, I swear to—”

“The book! Jesus, how could you—the book you can’t replace!”

“You don’t got a copy?”

“No, I don’t got a copy!” I was shouting again, shouting so loud his eyes blinked in reaction. “Okay, so—so I just tell you the value of everything else. I give you the figure and let you go. I sit here in the lotus position and you’ll come trotting back wagging your tail like a good dog—with the money?”

“I swear it, on my mother’s grave!”

His attempt to con me doubled my anger. “You take me for a goddamn moron! Do you? You rob me twice and now you have the nerve to make me out a fucking idiot?”

“No, what do you mean?”

“I mean this: Just between you and me, I’d say I’d be tripping over a long white beard if I let you hotfoot it out of here.”

“My mother’s grave! I’ll get the money and pay you back.”

“Where would you get it, you keep telling me, but you leave out the how?”

“Some I got, I got some.”

“Bully. Where do you keep it hidden, under a rock in the backyard? Or sewn up in the lining of your overcoat? Nothing as common as a bank, I take it?”

He slipped into bravado. “Sure, in a bank. Where else?”

“Where else indeed? Especially with all the burglaries nowadays, eh? After all, that’s what banks are for. Savings or checking?”

“Huh?”

“Savings or checking account? Do you keep it in a savings or checking account?” When he hesitated, I said, “Or both?”

He took my lead too easily. “Yeah, both. Some in each.”

I could see the game coming and I relished it. “Ah, big Diamond Vito Antenucci. Two bank accounts—what bank?”

“My bank.”

“Your own private bank? The Vito Antenucci Federal Loan and Trust Company?”

“No, come on, the bank I go to.”

“But what’s the name of this bank?”

“The—ah, the—”

I snapped my fingers. “Quick, the name. Surely you know the name of this great bank where you have your goodies stashed away?”

Bravado again. “Sure I do. What do you think?”

“Well, spit it out, man.” I clapped my hands together; he blinked. “The name, the name!”

He cried out now in a husky voice: “You make me nervous— yelling and—”

“Two accounts at a bank and you can’t think of the name of it!” I reached up and turned on the hanging kitchen light above his head; it shone down upon him. I would play out the game fully, if that’s the way he wanted it. He squinted under the glare of the light. “Okay, maybe we can narrow it down. Where is this bank of yours?”

“It’s—hey, do we gotta have that light? I still gotta headache.”

“Yeah, we gotta. Where is it, the bank?”

“It’s—that one up at Radio City.”

“Oh, that bank, the big one on the corner?”

“Yeah, that one on the corner.”

I picked up the pace. “What corner—Fifth or Sixth?” As he opened his mouth, I went on. “Or both?”

“Both?” he asked in confusion. “No, just on one corner.”

I sighed. “Thank God! But which one?” He looked dazed. “Hey, Vito-baby, maybe this whole thing would go better if you spoke Italian. Is it a language problem?”

A snort from him. “You nuts?”

Despite the coolness of his statement, I could distinguish the perspiration on his forehead from the remains of the jello. “It’s your bank, Vito-baby. Christ, man, It’s your bank! How do you get your goddamn money in and out if you don’t know where it is?”

“I do—but you yell—and I—Honest, you gotta believe me. I got—”

“You don’t got nothing! You lying little cheating goddamn robbing bastard you! On top of everything else, you lied to me, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t lie.”

I grabbed hold of his shirt; buttons popped. “Yes, you did. Admit it, you rotten little crum!”

“don’t hit me, don’t hit me.” He whined, bit his lip and tried to pull away from me. “Yes ... okay, lay off—I lied.”

“Why? Why?”

He shouted back at me; he was close to tears! “Because—to get outta here—because—for the main reason—”

“For the main reason—what?”

“You got me spooked.”

“Spooked? How spooked?” I asked.

“Forget it, I—forget it.”

I grabbed him tighter. “No, we won’t forget it. Spooked, how come spooked?”

“I don’t know, but—looks like you got some, like some big hassles and maybe you’re not in such a good mood.”

I laughed. “You sure have a way with words. But why do I spook you?”

“For the main reason—I don’t know what you got in your head.”

“And that scares you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I let go of him. His fright exhilarated me. “Good! Jesus, how great! The way I feel tonight, I spook myself. I never scared anyone in my life. Maybe my luck’s changing. I’ll tell you one thing. I’m glad I scare you. And before I’m through with you, you lying little miserable punk bastard—I’ll scare the holy shit out of you.”

Although he tried to brave it through with a smile, he spoke on the edge of a whimper. “I can’t tell whether you’re—”

“What—kidding? You think I’m kidding? Kidding, I am not!”

An involuntary little twitch tugged his mouth down and over to the side. “Jesus, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Oh, but I’ll come up with something, don’t you worry.” I was pacing again. “One thing for sure, Vito-baby—and I give you my word for this, my mother’s grave—I’ll try like hell not to make it boring!”

I continued pacing, could not wind down. Something inside me revved at top speed. His presence, the unadulterated mindlessness of him, kept the desire for revenge burning. More than a desire, a demand payment.

At any rate, I, who have always subscribed to the theory that we homo sapiens are responsible for our actions, unless way the far side of crazy, that is to say certified mad, nothing less than full papers—I could no more have stopped this rush into uncharted behavior than I could have stopped breathing. So I paced, concentrating only upon a suitable and, the devil and my imagination willing, colorful means of retaliation.

“Hey, guy—” I paid him no attention. “Hey, guy, I hate to bring this up, but I gotta take a leak.”

“Leak away,” I said, without looking at him.

The phone rang. It was Ginny Steeples, the actress Carmine Rivera had mentioned was giving a party. It was to be a costume party, and I was invited.

“Help!” Vito screamed. “HELP!”

“Excuse me,” I said to Ginny. I put the phone down and had only to step toward him to silence him. Back on the phone I declined but thanked her. I could hardly wait to hang up.

Crazy Carmine, there was an idea! He was dedicated to sex in all its unusual forms, to hear him and those who knew him tell it. He had tried to snag me for months; failing that, he’d attempted to get me involved in group happenings, the component parts of which he thought might be to my liking. He was so ferociously dedicated to le sport that I was put off, made wary and shy.

To all outward appearances completely masculine, he cut a handsome figure: tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, Spanish, black eyes, extremely fair skin—the shocking contrast—and curly black hair. Aristocratic gypsy, if there be one.

Despite his striking appearance, there was, a fraction of an inch beneath the surface, especially behind the endless black of his eyes, the hint of something extremely freakish. He openly advertised his taste for the bizarre; I’d heard that he was on the S end of S and M. Whatever he did, whatever his inclinations, I had a very strong hunch his tastes were not only bizarre but—dirty. Really dirty. I’d often seen him with hustlers, hookers, outcasts, and other assorted grotesqueries.

The idea of offering my prisoner to him on the sacrificial altar that was my sink, on this special New Year’s Eve, was not a bad notion at all. Carmine would find Vito interesting, I was sure of that. Crazy Carmine would provide a lively show at worst; and, at best, perhaps come up with something truly unusual.

Mainly, this rugged little Italian burglar would be soundly humiliated.

(Another thought: Had my curiosity been aroused by Carmine? Was this a chance to investigate his world without becoming personally soiled? No time to dwell on that!)

“Hey!” Vito shouted. “Did youse hear me—I gotta take a leak!”

Ignoring him, I looked up Carmine’s number. He lived in the Village, not far away on Eleventh Street. His weaselish roommate, Sammy, who appeared to be more of a servant of Carmine’s, answered.

“Hi, Sammy—Jimmy Zoole. Is Crazy Carmine there?”

“Jimmy Zoole—hi! No, he won’t be home for an hour or so, then he’s got a slew of parties.”

“Ask him to phone me when he comes in, tell him I have something for him.”

“—Have something?” I could hear the leer in Sammy’s voice. But then Sammy would leer at a deodorant commercial.

“Yes, a person.” I looked at Vito, who was paying close attention. “A creature, tell him this creature’s ready and waiting. He’ll do anything Crazy Carmine wants.”

Snicker. “Anything—that’s a big order with C. C.” Sammy giggled. “You know what C. C.’s—ah, specialty is?”

“Yes, I know all about his specialty. He’ll fit right in, don’t worry.” (I had no idea, this was for Vito’s sake.)

“This doesn’t sound like Jimmy Zoole—I mean the voice does, but—”

“Well, it is. Have Carmine give me a ring. I think he’ll be amused.” I gave him my number, wished him Happy New Year, and hung up.

Vito mimicked me: “I think he’ll be amused!”

“Yes. I think he will.”

A snort from Vito. “Crazy Carmine! That makes two of youse— Crazy Carmine and Crazy Jimmy.” Pause. “Crazy Carmine, huh?”

“If you think I’m crazy, wait’ll you get a load of Carmine. You’ll get a kick out of him.”

Vito affected a casual wise-guy tone: “Yeah? Hmn... this specialty, what’s his specialty?”

Now that I’d set a course of action in motion, I felt frisky again. I knew Carmine would return my call. “Oh, let it be a surprise.”

“Who knows, maybe I dig it.” Then his laugh, more of a bronchial bark. “Wouldn’t that be a bitch! You planning this big scene— and I dig it! That would really break your balls.” Another bark; when he recovered, he slipped back to his casual voice: “Come on, give me a clue?”

I winged it: “Oh, just a little thing he does with figs and mice.”

He crossed his eyes. “Figs and mice?”

“Yeah, what’s the matter, you don’t like mice?”

“No, It’s the figs that bug me, they give me the shits.” A snicker. “Figs and mice! Hey, would you mind takin’ this pillow away, It’s all cruddy with jello. Might turn your buddy Carmine off.”

I got another pillow and replaced the messy one. “Thanks.” Then I got a bath towel and wiped the excess jello off his head. He laughed. “Christ, all this treatment, I feel like I been moved into the death house.” He looked up at me as I finished cleaning him off. “So ... what are you gonna do—watch?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Too bad I hocked your Polaroid.” I let the remark pass. He cleared his throat, then said “Ah...” in a most insinuating way, with the intonation of Bugs Bunny before an especially fresh What’s up, Doc? “Ah... what’s the matter, you gotta call someone else in to do a man’s job?”

I shot him a look. His expression was pure camp, his lips were pursed, even his eyes appeared to be pursed, completely contradicting his former manner. When I only looked at him, because of my surprise, he quickly switched, dropping all camp and speaking in a tough voice, almost a shout: “You heard me, what’s the matter, you can’t do your own work?”

“I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

“So—get a twelve-foot pole.” Another laugh-turned-cough. “Hey, you know how to break a Pole’s finger? Hit him in the nose!”

“Very funny, you ought to have your own pizza stand.”

“Yeah, but first I gotta pee. Honest, I’m tellin’ you! Come on,

guy!”

“No, I don’t have to! You start without me.” “What?”

“Go ahead, you’re right over the sink.”

“Not in my clothes—Jesus!”

I crossed the room and stood in front of him. “You don’t think I’m going to let you up, do you? You don’t think I’m that stupid?”

“Just while I pee.”

“Then what? I suppose you’ll come back, lie down, and let me tie you up again?” This was too much even for him to promise; he remained silent. “Well, you win points for not trying to con me into that.”

“Come on, guy, I gotta pee!” A pause, then the trace of a whine: “Hey, guy, listen, why do you gotta tie me up anyways?”

I walked away from him. “Let’s not get into theory.”

“I mean it. We’ll turn on, smoke some pot. Oh, I heard when you and the ballbreaker was talkin’, but this stuff is guaranteed to turn you on. It’s the wildest—Senegalese Thunderfuck, It’s called.”

“I can turn on without letting you up, you know.”

“Yeah—but I gotta get up to pee! Honest to God, my teeth"— pronounced teet—“are startin’ to float. Jesus, you’re stubborn, stubborn and mean.”

“We’re none of us perfect. Like I said, you’re right over the sink.”

His voice broke in disbelief. “In the sink). That’s dirty!”

I laughed. “It’s my sink, what do you care?”

“Yeah, and they’re my clothes, not in my clothes.” As I walked to pour myself more champagne, he added: “Okay, at least give me a hand"—a pause for dramatic effect—“take it out for me.”

This stopped me. “Take it out for you?”

“Yeah, take it out for me.” When I didn’t reply, he added: “What’s the matter, is it a language problem?” His voice was coated in sly. “Or—you afraid you might like it?”

I raised a hand and came at him. “You little creep!”

He laughed and cringed at the same time. “Oh-ho, what’d I— hit a nerve? I bet I could show you a good time, too! Go ahead, just take it out for me? Hey, you ever hear this one?

“Take it in your hand, Mrs. Murphy, It only weighs a quarter of a pound, It has feathers ’round its neck like a turkey, You can take it standing up or lyin’ down!”

He laughed until he began to cough again.

I could not believe my ears. “Wait a minute—don’t tell me you’re queer, too!”

This suggestion did not rattle him in the least. “What are you— takin’ a census?” A beat. “Or—are you interested?”

On top of everything, his presumption, his insinuation, infuriated me. “Hey, remember me! No lip, no back talk, no smartass! You’re not the boss here, remember that? You’re just a little piece of immobile shit! I asked you a question—are you queer?”

I expected retrenchment from him. Not at all. “Tell you what, why don’t you unzip me and take it out. If it starts to grow, you got your answer! Then if yours starts to—”

I swung a quick slap to his jaw. “Punk!”

“Jesus, what do you—only like to clout people you got tied up? You really get a kick hittin’ on people can’t defend themselves?” I walked away from him. “Anybody that upright’s got a problem. And tell me you don’t swing both ways! All actors swing, I never met an actor yet didn’t swing. Shit, the whole world swings now—if you catch ’em at the right moment. Go ahead, tell me!”

My silence only spurred him on.

“Go ahead, big man, no problem, take it out—it won’t bite you!” Another of his moronic laughs. “What—you think It’s got teeth?” Then a switch of tone, the voice strong and angrily insistent. “Come on, goddamnit, let me up! I gotta piss and I’m too old to start wettin’ my goddamn pants!”

I did get a kick out of his change of pace, also his chutzpah. Ten minutes earlier he’d been cringing, close to tears. Now that he was creeping into what seemed to be familiar sexual territory, he was cocky and sure of himself.

I glanced out of the window. How thick the snow was falling. It was unreal. As if it were somehow a cover-up for this unreal scene inside my apartment. As long as it fell, I was safe, the charade could continue. I realized this made no sense. But then, nothing was making much sense.

“Come on, I don’t want to wet myself!”

“I guess you’re right. That would be messy, wouldn’t it? Well, let’s see—” I went to my rolltop desk and rummaged through the cubbyholes. “We can probably come up with an alternative.”

“How do you mean?”

“For the main reason—I can’t really let you up. Not yet. We’ve got the whole New Year’s Eve ahead of us.” I found a pair of large scissors. “Here we go.”

Why, I wondered, was I feeling so suddenly buoyant, as if some manner of happy-time spansule had gone off. Was I, in some abstruse way, slipping? Slipping into flipping?

“Whatcha gonna do?” Vito asked, not being able to see the desk from his vantage point.

I walked behind him to where his feet stuck out over the edge of the butcher block. “Let it be a surprise!”

“Surprises again. You musta got bit by a surprise when you was a kid.” He craned his neck around as I took the cuff of his pants in one hand and prepared to cut with the other. “Jesus, no! Hey! No—my good pants! I don’t have to go! Honest, I don’t. Truth! I made it up. I just said that to—”

But I was already cutting up through one cuff.