ou sonny? You get excited when little
girls without any hair on their pussies scream your name? You like the dear
old red, white and blue? Ya like vanilla ice cream? You still beat your tiny
little pud, asshole?"
"Listen here, Mason . . ."
"Shut up! Three hundred a week! Three hundred a week I been giving you!
When I found you in that bar you didn't have enough for your next drink . .
. you had the d.t.'s and were livin' on hogshead soup and cabbage! You
couldn't lace on a skate! I made you, asshole, from nothing, and I can make
you right back into nothing! As far as you're concerned, I'm God. And I'm a
God who doesn't forgive your mother-floppin' sins either!"
Mason closed both eyes and leaned back in the swivel. He inhaled his
cigarette; a bit of hot ash dropped on his lower lip but he was too mad to
give a damn. He just let the ash burn him. When the ash stopped burning he
kept his eyes closed and listened to the rain. Ordinarily he liked to listen
to the rain. Especially when he was inside somewhere and the rent was paid
and some woman wasn't driving him crazy. But today the rain didn't help. He
not only smelled Chonjacki but he felt him there. Chonjacki was worse than
diarrhea. Chonjacki was worse than the crabs. Mason opened his eyes, sat up
and looked at him. Christ, what a man had to go through just to stay alive.
"Baby," he said softly, "you broke two of Sonny Welborn's ribs last
night. You hear me?"
"Listen . . ." Chonjacki started to say.
"Not one rib. No, not just one rib. Two. Two ribs. Hear me?"
"But . . ."
"Listen, asshole! Two ribs! You hear me? Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
Mason put out his cigarette, got up from the swivel and walked around
to Chonjacki's chair. You might say Chonjacki looked nice. You might say he
was a handsome kid. You'd never say that about Mason. Mason was old. Forty-
nine. Almost bald. Round shouldered. Divorced. Four boys. Two of them in
jail. It was still raining. It would rain for almost two days and three
nights. The Los Angeles River would get excited and pretend to be a river.
"Stand up!" said Mason.
Chonjacki stood up. When he did. Mason sunk his left into his gut and
when Chonjacki's head came down he put it right back up there with a right
chop. Then he felt a little better. It was like a cup of Ovaltine on a
coldass morning in January. He walked around and sat down again. This time
he didn't light a cigarette. He lit his 15 cent cigar. He lit his after-
lunch cigar before lunch. That's how much better he felt. Tension. You
couldn't let that shit build. His former brother-in-law had died of a
bleeding ulcer. Just because he hadn't known how to let it out.
Chonjacki sat back down. Mason looked at him.
"This, baby, is a business, not a sport. We don't believe in
hurting people, do I get my point across?"
Chonjacki just sat there listening to the rain. He wondered if his car
would start. He always had trouble getting his car started when it rained.
Otherwise it was a good car.
"I asked you, baby, did I get my point across?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah . . ."
"Two busted ribs. Two of Sonny Welborn's ribs busted. He's our best
player."
"Wait! He plays for the Vultures. Welborn plays for the Vultures. How
can he be your best player?"
"Asshole! We own the Vultures!"
"You own the Vultures?"
"Yeah, asshole. And the Angels and the Coyotes and the Cannibals and
every other damn team in the league, they're all our property, all those
boys . . ."
"Jesus . . ."
"No, not Jesus. Jesus doesn't have anything to do with it! But, wait,
you give me an idea, asshole."
Mason swiveled toward Underwood who was still leaning against the rain.
"It's something to think about," he said.
"Uh," said Underwood.
"Take your head off your pud, Cliff. Think about it."
"About what?"
"Christ on rollerskates. Countless possibilities."
"Yeah. Yeah. We could work in the devil."
"That's good. Yes, the devil."
"We might even work in the cross."
"The cross? No, that's too corny."
Mason swiveled back toward Chonjacki. Chonjacki was still there. He
wasn't surprised. If a monkey had been sitting there he wouldn't have been
surprised either. Mason had been around too long. But it wasn't a monkey, it
was Chonjacki. He had to talk to Chonjacki. Duty, duty ... all for the rent,
an occasional piece of ass and a burial in the country. Dogs had fleas, men
had troubles.
"Chonjacki," he said, "please let me explain something to you. Are you
listening? Are you capable of listening?"
"I'm listening."
"We're a business. We work five night a week. We're on television. We
support families. We pay taxes. We vote. We get tickets from the fucking
cops like anybody else. We get toothaches, insomnia, v.d. We've got to live
through Christmas and New Year's just like anybody else, you understand?"
"Yes."
"We even, some of us, get depressed sometimes. We're human. I even get
depressed. I sometimes feel like crying at night. I sure as hell felt like
crying last night when you broke two of Welborn's ribs . . ."
"He was ganging me, Mr. Mason!"
"Chonjacki, Welborn wouldn't pull a hair from your grandmother's left
armpit. He reads Socrates, Robert Duncan, and W. H. Auden. He's been in the
league five years and he hasn't done enough physical damage to bruise a
church-going moth . . ."
"He was coming at me, he was swinging, he was screaming . . ."
"Oh, Christ," said Mason softly. He put his cigar in the ashtray. "Son,
I told you. We're a family, a big family. We don't hurt each other. We've
got ourselves the finest subnormal audience in sports. We've drawn the
biggest breed of idiots alive and they put that money right into our
pockets, get it? We've drawn the top-brand idiot right away from
professional wrestling, / Love Lucy, and George Putnam. We're in, and
we don't believe in either malice or violence. Right, Cliff?"
"Right," said Underwood.
"Let's do him a spot," said Mason.
"O.k.," said Underwood.
Mason got up from his desk and moved toward Underwood. "You son of a
bitch," he said. "I'll kill you. Your mother swallows her own farts and has
a syphilitic urinary tract."
"Your mother eats marinated catshit," said Underwood.
He moved away from the window and toward Mason. Mason swung first.
Underwood rocked back against the desk.
Mason got a stranglehold around his neck with his left arm and beat
Underwood over the head with his right fist and forearm.
"Your sister's tits hang from the bottom of her butt and dangle in the
water when she shits," Mason told Underwood. Underwood reached back with one
arm and nipped Mason over his head. Mason rolled up against the wall with a
crash. Then he got up, walked over to his desk, sat down in the swivel,
picked up his cigar and inhaled. It continued to rain. Underwood went back
and leaned against the window.
"When a man works five nights a week he can't afford to get injured,
understand, Chonjacki?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now look, kid, we got a general rule here -- which is ... Are you
listening?"
"Yes."
". . . which is -- when anybody in the league injures another player,
he's out of a job, he's out of the league, in fact, the word goes out --
he's blacklisted at every roller derby in America. Maybe Russia and China
and Poland, too. You got that in your head?"
"Yes."
"Now we're letting you get by with this one because we've spent a lot
of time and money giving you this buildup. You're the Mark Spitz of our
league, but we can bust you just like they can bust him, if you don't do
exactly what we tell you."
"Yes, sir."
"But that doesn't mean lay back. You gotta act violent without being
violent, get it? The mirror trick, the rabbit out of the hat, the full ton
of bologna. They love to be fooled. They don't know the truth, hell they
don't even want the truth, it makes them unhappy. We make them happy. We
drive new cars and send our kids to college, right?"
"Right."
"O.k., get the hell out of here."
Chonjacki rose to leave.
"And kid . . ."
"Yes?"
"Take a bath once in awhile."
"What?"
"Well, maybe that isn't it. Do you use enough toilet paper when you
wipe your ass?"
"I don't know. How much is enough?"
"Didn't your mother tell you?"
"What?"
"You keep wiping until you can't see it anymore."
Chonjacki just stood there looking at him.
"All right, you can go now. And please remember everything I've told
you."
Chonjacki left. Underwood walked over and sat down in the vacant chair.
He took out his after-lunch 15 cent cigar and lit it. The two men sat there
for five minutes without saying anything. Then the phone rang. Mason picked
it up. He listened, then said, "Oh, Boy Scout Troop 763? How many? Sure,
sure, we'll let 'em in for half price. Sunday night. We'll rope off a
section. Sure, sure. Oh, it's all right . . ." He hung up.
"Assholes," he said.
Underwood didn't answer. They sat listening to the rain. The smoke from
their cigars made interesting designs in the air. They sat and smoked and
listened to the rain and watched the designs in the air. The phone rang
again and Mason made a face. Underwood got up from his chair, walked over
and answered it. It was his turn.
A SHIPPING CLERK WITH A RED NOSE
When I first met Randall Harris he was 42 and lived with a grey haired
woman, one Margie Thompson. Margie was 45 and not too handsome. I was
editing the little magazine Mad Fly at the time and I had come over
in an attempt to get some material from Randall.
Randall was known as an isolationist, a drunk, a crude and bitter man
but his poems were raw, raw and honest, simple and savage. He was writing
unlike anybody else at the time. He worked as a shipping clerk in an auto
parts warehouse.
I sat across from both Randall and Margie. It was 7:15 p.m. and Harris
was already drunk on beer. He set a bottle in front of me. I'd heard of
Margie Thompson. She was an old-time communist, a world-saver, a do-gooder.
One wondered what she was doing with Randall who cared for nothing and
admitted it. "I like to photograph shit," he told me, "that's my art."
Randall had begun writing at the age of 38. At 42, after three small
chapbooks (Death Is a Dirtier Dog Than My Country, My Mother Fucked an
Angel, and The Piss-Wild Horses of Madness), he was getting what
might be called critical acclaim. But he made nothing on his writing and he
said, "I'm nothing but a shipping clerk with the deep blue blues." He lived
in an old front court in Hollywood with Margie, and he was weird, truly. "I
just don't like people," he said. "You know, Will Rogers once said, 'I never
met a man I didn't like.' Me, I never met a man I liked."
But Randall had humor, an ability to laugh at pain and at himself. You
liked him. He was an ugly man with a large head and a smashed-up face --
only the nose seemed to have escaped the general smashup. "I don't have
enough bone in my nose, it's like rub- her," he explained. His nose was long
and very red.
I had heard stories about Randall. He was given to smashing windows and
breaking bottles against the wall. He was one nasty drunk. He also had
periods where he wouldn't answer the door or the telephone. He didn't own a
T.V., only a small radio and he only listened to symphony music -- strange
for a guy as crude as he was.
Randall also had periods when he took the bottom off the telephone and
stuffed toilet paper around the bell so it wouldn't ring. It stayed that way
for months. One wondered why he had a phone. His education was sparse but
he'd evidently read most of the best writers.
"Well, fucker," he said to me, "I guess you wonder what I'm doing with
her?" he pointed to Margie. I didn't answer.
"She's a good lay," he said, "and she gives me some of the best sex
west of St. Louis."
This was the same guy who had written four or five great love poems to
a woman called Annie. You wondered how it worked.
Margie just sat there and grinned. She wrote poetry too but it wasn't
very good. She attended two workshops a week which hardly helped.
"So you want some poems?" he asked me. "Yes, I'd like to look some
over."
Harris walked over to the closet, opened the door and picked some torn
and crushed papers off the floor. He handed them to me. "I wrote these last
night." Then he walked into the kitchen and came out with two more beers.
Margie didn't drink.
I began to read the poems. They were all powerful. He typed with a very
heavy hand and the words seemed chiseled in the paper. The force of his
writing always astounded me. He seemed to be saying all the things we should
have said but had never thought of saying.
"I'll take these poems," I said. "O.k.," he said. "Drink up."
When you came to see Harris, drinking was a must. He smoked one
cigarette after another. He dressed in loose brown chino pants two sizes too
large and old shirts that were always ripped. He was around six feet and 220
pounds, much of it beerfat. He was round-shouldered, and peered out at you
from behind slitted eyelids. We drank a good two hours and a half, the room
heavy with smoke.
Suddenly Harris stood up and said, "Get the hell out of here, fucker,
you disgust me!"
"Easy now, Harris . . ."
"I said NOW!, fucker!"
I got up and left with the poems.
I returned to that front court two months later to deliver a couple of
copies of Mad. Fly to Harris. I had run all ten of his poems. Margie
let me in. Randall wasn't there.
"He's in New Orleans," said Margie, "I think he's getting a break. Jack
Teller wants to publish his next book but he wants to meet Randall first.
Teller says he can't print anybody he doesn't like. He's paid the air fare
both ways."
"Randall isn't exactly endearing," I said.
"We'll see," said Margie. "Teller's a drunk and an ex-con. They might
make a lovely pair."
Teller put out the magazine Rifraff and had his own press. He
did very fine work. The last issue of Rifraff had had Harris' ugly
face on the cover sucking at a beer-bottle and had featured a number of his
poems.
Rifraff was generally recognized as the number one lit mag of
the time. Harris was beginning to get more and more notice. This would be a
good chance for him if he didn't botch it with his mean tongue and his
drunken manners. Before I left Margie told me she was pregnant -- by Harris.
As I said, she was 45.
"What'd he say when you told him?"
"He seemed indifferent."
I left.
The book did come out in an edition of 2,000, finely printed. The cover
was made of cork imported from Ireland. The pages were vari-colored, of
extremely good paper, set in rare type and interspersed with some of Harris'
India ink sketches. The book received acclaim, both for itself and its
contents. But Teller couldn't pay royalties. He and his wife lived on a very
narrow margin. In ten years the book would go for $75 on the rare book
market. Meanwhile Harris went back to his shipping clerk job at the auto
parts warehouse.
When I called again four or five months later Margie was gone. "She's
been gone a long time," said Harris. "Have a beer."
"What happened?"
"Well, after I got back from New Orleans, I wrote a few short stories.
While I was at work she got to poking around in my drawers. She read a
couple of my stories and took exception to them."
"What were they about?"
"Oh, she read something about my climbing in and out of bed with some
women in New Orleans."
"Were the stories true?" I asked.
"How's Mad Fly doing?" he asked.
The baby was born, a girl, Naomi Louise Harris. She and her mother
lived in Santa Monica and Harris drove out once a week to see them. He paid
child support and continued to drink his beer. Next I knew he had a weekly
column in the underground newspaper L.A. Lifeline. He called his
colums Sketches of a First Class Maniac. His prose was like his
poetry -- undisciplined, antisocial, and lazy.
Harris grew a goatee and grew his hair longer. The next time I saw him
he was living with a 35-year-old girl, a pretty redhead called Susan. Susan
worked in an art supply store, painted, and played fair guitar. She also
drank an occasional beer with Randall which was more than Margie had done.
The court seemed cleaner. When Harris finished a bottle he threw it into a
paper bag instead of throwing it on the floor. He was still a nasty drunk,
though.
"I'm writing a novel," he told me, "and I'm getting a poetry reading
now and then at nearby universities. I also have one coming up in Michigan
and one in New Mexico. The offers are pretty good. I don't like to read, but
I'm a good reader. I give them a show and I give them some good poetry."
Harris was also beginning to paint. He didn't paint very well. He
painted like a five-year-old drunk on vodka but he managed to sell one or
two for $40 or $50. He told me that he was considering quitting his job.
Three weeks later he did quit in order to make the Michigan reading. He'd
already used his vacation for the New Orleans trip.
I remember once he had vowed to me, "I'll never read in front of those
bloodsuckers, Chinaski. I'll go to my grave without ever giving a poetry
reading. It's vanity, it's a sell-out." I didn't remind him of his
statement.
His novel Death in the Life of All the Eyes On Earth was brought
out by a small but prestige press which paid standard royalties. The reviews
were good, including one in The New York Review of Books. But he was
still a nasty drunk and had many fights with Susan over his drinking.
Finally, after one horrible drunk, when he had raved and cursed and
screamed all night, Susan left him. I saw Randall several days after her
departure. Harris was strangely quiet, hardly nasty at all.
"I loved her, Chinaski," he told me. "I'm not going to make it,
baby."
"You'll make it, Randall. You'll see. You'll make it. The human being
is much more durable than you think."
"Shit," he said. "I hope you're right. I've got this damned hole in my
gut. Women have put many a good man under the bridge. They don't feel it
like we do."
"They feel it. She just couldn't handle your drinking."
"Fuck, man, I write most of my stuff when I'm drunk."
"Is that the secret?"
"Shit, yes. Sober, I'm just a shipping clerk and not a very good one at
that . . ."
I left him there hanging over his beer.
I made the rounds again three months later. Harris was still in his
front court. He introduced me to Sandra, a nice-looking blonde of 27. Her
father was a superior court judge and she was a graduate of U.S.C. Besides
being well-shaped she had a cool sophistication that had been lacking in
Randall's other women. They were drinking a bottle of good Italian wine.
Randall's goatee had turned into a beard and his hair was much longer.
His clothes were new and in the latest style. He had on $40 shoes, a new
wristwatch and his face seemed thinner, his fingernails clean . . . but his
nose still reddened as he drank the wine.
"Randall and I are moving to West L.A. this weekend," she told me.
"This place is filthy."
"I've done a lot of good writing here," he said.
"Randall, dear," she said, "it isn't the place that does the
writing, it's you. I think we might get Randall a job teaching three
days a week."
"I can't teach."
"Darling, you can teach them everything."
"Shit," he said.
"They're thinking of doing a movie of Randall's book. We've seen the
script. It's a very fine script."
"A movie?" I asked.
"There's not much chance," said Harris.
"Darling, it's in the works. Have a little faith."
I had another glass of wine with them, then left. Sandra was a
beautiful girl.
I wasn't given Randall's West L.A. address and didn't make any attempt
to find him. It was over a year later when I read the review of the movie
Flower Up the Tail of Hell. It had been taken from his novel. It was
a fine review and Harris even had an acting bit in the film.
I went to see it. They'd done a good job on the book. Harris looked a
little more austere than when I had last seen him. I decided to find him.
After a bit of detective work I knocked on the door of his cabin in Malibu
one night about 9:00 p.m. Randall answered the door.
"Chinaski, you old dog," he said. "Come on in."
A beautiful girl sat on the couch. She appeared to be about 19, she
simply radiated natural beauty. "This is Karilla," he said. They were
drinking a bottle of expensive French wine. I sat down with them and had a
glass. I had several glasses. Another bottle came out and we talked quietly.
Harris didn't get drunk and nasty and didn't appear to smoke as much.
"I'm working on a play for Broadway," he told me. "They say the theatre
is dying but I have something for them. One of the leading producers is
interested. I'm getting the last act in shape now. It's a good medium. I was
always splendid on conversation, you know."
"Yes," I said.
I left about 11:30 that night. The conversation had been pleasant ...
Harris had begun to show a distinguished grey about the temples and he
didn't say "shit" more than four or five times.
The play Shoot Your Father, Shoot Your God, Shoot Away the
Disentanglement was a success. It had one of the longest runs in
Broadway history. It had everything: something for the revolutionaries,
something for the reactionaries, something for lovers of comedy, something
for lovers of drama, even something for the in- tellectuals, and it still
made sense. Randall Harris moved from Malibu to a large place high in the
Hollywood Hills. You read about him now in the syndicated gossip columns.
I went to work and found the location of his Hollywood Hills place, a
three-story mansion which overlooked the lights of Los Angeles and
Hollywood.
I parked, got out of the car, and walked up the path to the front door.
It was around 8:30 p.m., cool, almost cold; there was a full moon and the
air was fresh and clear.
I rang the bell. It seemed a very long wait. Finally the door opened.
It was the butler. "Yes, sir?" he asked me.
"Henry Chinaski to see Randall Harris," I said.
"Just a moment, sir." He closed the door quietly and I waited. Again a
long time. Then the butler was back. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Harris can't
be disturbed at this time."
"Oh, all right."
"Would you care to leave a message, sir?"
"A message?"
"Yes, a message."
"Yes, tell him 'congratulations.' "
" 'Congratulations?' Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all."
"Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight."
I went back to my car, got in. It started and I began the long drive
down out of the hills. I had that early copy of Mad Fly with me that
I had wanted him to sign. It was the copy with ten of Randall Harris' poems
in it. He probably was busy. Maybe, I thought, if I mail the magazine to him
with a stamped return envelope, he'll sign.
It was only about 9:00 p.m. There was time for me to go somewhere else.
THE DEVIL WAS HOT
Well, it was after an argument with Flo and I didn't feel like getting
drunk or going to a massage parlor. So I got in my car and drove west toward
the beach. It was along toward evening and I drove slowly. I got to the
pier, parked, and walked on up the pier. I stopped in the penny arcade,
played a few games, but the place stank of piss so I walked out. I was too
old to ride the merry-go-round so I passed that. The usual types walked the
pier -- a sleepy indifferent crowd.
It was then I noticed a roaring sound coming from a nearby building. A
tape or record, no doubt. There was a barker out front: "Yes, ladies and
gentlemen, Inside, Inside here . . . we actually have captured the devil! He
is on display to see with your own eyes! Think, just for a quarter, twenty-
five cents, you can actually see the devil . . . the biggest loser of all
time! The loser of the only revolution ever attempted in Heaven!"
Well, I was ready for a little comedy to offset what Flo was putting me
through. I paid my quarter and stepped inside with six or seven other
assorted suckers. They had this guy in a cage. They'd sprayed him red and he
had something in his mouth that made him puff out little rolls of smoke and
spurts of flame. He wasn't putting on a very good show. He was just walking
around in circles, saying over and over again, "God damn it, I've got to get
out of here! How'd I ever get in this friggin' fix?" Well, I'll tell you he
did look dangerous. Suddenly he did six rapid back flips. On his last flip
he landed on his feet, looked around and said, "Oh shit, I feel awful!"
Then he saw me. He walked right over to where I was standing next to
the wire. He was warm like a heater. I don't know how they worked that.
"My son," he said, "you've come at last! I've been waiting. Thirty-two
days I've been in this fucking cage!"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"My son," he said, "don't joke with me. Come back late tonight with the
wire-cutters and free me."
"Don't lay any shit on me, man," I said
"Thirty-two days I've been in here, my son! At last I have my freedom!"
"You mean you claim you're really the devil?"
"I'll screw a cat's ass if I'm not," he answered.
"If you're the devil then you can use your supernatural powers to get
out of here."
"My powers have temporarily vanished. This guy, the barker, he was in
the drunk tank with me. I told him I was the devil and he bailed me out. I'd
lost my powers in that jail or I wouldn't have needed him. He got me drunk
again and when I woke up I was in this cage. The cheap bastard, he feeds me
dogfood and peanut butter sandwiches. My son, help me, I beg you!"
"You're crazy," I said, "you're some kind of nut."
"Just come back tonight, my son, with the wire-clippers."
The barker walked in an announced that the session with the devil was
over and if we wanted to see him anymore it'd be another twenty-five cents.
I'd seen enough. I walked out with the six or seven other assorted suckers.
"Hey, he talked to you," said a little old guy walking next to me,
"I've seen him every night and you're the first person he has ever talked
to."
"Balls," I said.
The barker stopped me. "What'd he tell you? I saw him talking to you.
What'd he tell you?"
"He told me everything," I said.
"Well, hands off, buddy, he's mine! I ain't made so much money since I
had the bearded three-legged lady."
"What happened to her?"
"She ran away with the octopus man. They're running a farm in Kansas."
"I think you people are all crazy."
"I'm just telling you, I found this guy. Keep off!"
I walked to my car, got in and drove back to Flo. When I got there she
was sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. She sat there and told me a few
hundred times what a useless hunk of man I was. I drank with her a while not
saying much myself. Then I got up, went to the garage, got the wire-cutters,
put them in my pocket, got in the car and drove back to the pier.
I broke in the back way, the latch was rusty and snapped right off. He
was asleep on the floor of the cage. I began trying to cut the wire but I
couldn't cut through it. The wire was very thick. Then he woke up.
"My son," he said, "you came back! I knew you would!"
"Look, man, I can't cut the wire with these clippers. The wire's too
thick."
He stood up. "Hand 'em here."
"God," I said, "your hands are hot! You must have some kind of fever."
"Don't call me God," he said.
He snipped the wire with the clippers like it was thread and stepped
out. "And now, my son, to your place. I've got to get my strength back. A
few porterhouse steaks and I'll be straight. I've eaten so much dogfood I'm
afraid I'm going to bark any minute."
We walked back to my car and I drove him to my place. When we walked in
Flo was still sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. I fried him a bacon
and egg sandwich for starters and we sat down with Flo.
"Your friend is a handsome looking devil," she told me.
"He claims to be the devil," I said.
"Been a long time," he said, "since I had me a hunk of good woman."
He leaned over and gave Flo a long kiss. When he let go she seemed to
be in a state of shock. "That was the hottest kiss I ever had," she said,
"and I've had plenty."
"Really?" he asked.
"If you make love anything like the way you kiss it, it would simply be
too much, just simply too much!"
"Where's your bedroom?" he asked me.
"Just follow the lady," I said.
He followed Flo to the bedroom and I poured a deep whiskey.
I never heard such screams and moans and it went on for a good fourty-
five minutes. Then he walked out alone and sat down and poured himself a
drink.
"My son," he said, "you got yourself a good woman there."
He walked to the couch in the front room, stretched out and fell
asleep. I walked into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed in with Flo.
"My god," she said, "my god, I don't believe it. He put me through
heaven and hell."
"I just hope he doesn't set the couch on fire," I said.
"You mean he smokes cigarettes and falls asleep?"
"Forget it," I said.
Well, he began taking over. I had to sleep on the couch. I had to
listen to Flo screaming and moaning in there every night. One day while Flo
was at the market and we were having a beer in the breakfast nook I had a
talk with him. "Listen," I said, "I don't mind helping somebody out, but now
I've lost my bed and my wife. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I believe I'll stay a while, my son, your old lady is one of the best
pieces I've ever had."
"Listen, man," I said, "I might have to take extreme means to remove
you."
"Tough boy, eh? Well look tough boy, I got a little news for you. My
supernatural powers have returned. If you try to fuck with me you might get
burned. Watch!"
We've got a dog. Old Bones; he's not worth much but he barks at night,
he's a fair watchdog. Well, he pointed his finger at Old Bones, the finger
kind of made a sneezing sound, then it sizzled and a thin line of flame ran
up and touched Old Bones. Old Bones frizzled-up and vanished. He just wasn't
there anymore. No bone, no fur, not even any stink. Just space.
"O.k., man," I told him. "You can stay a couple of days but after that
you gotta leave."
"Fry me up a porterhouse," he said, "I'm hungry, and I'm afraid my
sperm-count is dropping off."
I got up and threw a steak in the pan.
"Cook me up some french fries to go with that," he said, "and some
sliced tomato. I don't need any coffee. Been having insomnia. I'll just have
a couple more beers."
By the time I got the food in front of him, Flo was back.
"Hello, my love," she said, "how you doing?"
"Just fine," he said, "don't you have any catsup?"
I walked out, got in my car and drove to the beach.
Well, the barker had another devil in there. I paid my quarter and went
in. This devil really wasn't much. The red paint sprayed on him was killing
him and he was drinking to keep from going crazy. He was a big guy but he
didn't have any qualities at all. I was one of the few customers in there.
There were more flies in there than there were people.
The barker walked up to me. "I'm starving to death since you stole the
real thing from me. I suppose you got a show of your own going?"
"Listen," I said, "I'd give anything to give him back to you. I was
just trying to be a good guy."
"You know what happens to good guys in this world, don't you?"
"Yeah, they end up standing down at 7th and Broadway selling copies of
the Watchtower."
"My name's Ernie Jamestown," he said, "tell me all about it. We got a
room in the back."
I walked to the room in the back with Ernie. His wife was sitting at
the table drinking whiskey. She looked up.
"Listen, Ernie, if this bastard is gonna be our new devil, forget it.
We might just as well stage a triple suicide."
"Take it easy," said Ernie, "and pass the bottle."
I told Ernie everything that had happened. He listened carefully and
then said, "I can take him off your hands. He has two weaknesses -- drink
and women. And there's one other thing. I don't know why it happens but when
he's confined, like he was in the drunk tank or in that cage out there, he
loses his supernatural powers. All right, we take it from there."
Ernie went to the closet and dragged out a mass of chains and padlocks.
Then he went to the phone and asked for an Edna Hemlock. Edna Hemlock was to
meet us in twenty minutes at the corner outside Woody's Bar. Ernie and I got
in my car, stopped for two fifths at the liquor store, met Edna, picked her
up, and drove to me place.
They were still in the kitchen. They were necking like mad. But as soon
as he saw Edna the devil forgot all about my old lady. He dropped her like a
pair of stained panties. Edna had it all. They'd made no mistakes when they
put her together.
"Why don't you two drink up and get acquainted?" said Ernie. Ernie put
a large glass of whiskey in front of each of them.
The devil looked at Ernie. "Hey, mother, you're the guy who put me in
that cage, ain't ya?"
"Forget it," said Ernie, "let's let bygones be bygones."
"Like hell!" He pointed a finger and the line of flame ran up to Ernie
and he was no longer there.
Edna smiled and lifted her whiskey. The devil grinned, lifted his and
gulped it down.
"Fine stuff!" he said. "Who bought it?"
"That man who just left the room a moment ago," I said.
"Oh."
He and Edna had another drink and began eyeballing each other. Then my
old lady spoke to him:
"Take your eyes off that tramp!"
"What tramp?"
"Her!"
"Just drink your drink and shut up!"
He pointed his finger at my old lady, there was a small crackling sound
and she was gone. Then he looked at me:
"And what have you got to say?"
"Oh, I'm the guy who brought the wire-cutters, remember? I'm here to
run little errands, bring in towels, so forth . . ."
"It sure feels good to have my supernatural powers again."
"They do come in handy," I said, "we got an overpopulation problem
anyhow."
He was eyeballing Edna. Their eyes were so locked that I was able to
lift one of the fifths of whiskey. I took the fifth and got in my car with
it and drove back to the beach again.
Ernie's wife was still sitting in the back room. She was glad to see
the new fifth and I poured two drinks.
"Who's the kid you got locked in the cage?" I asked.
"Oh, he's a third-string quarterback from one of the local colleges.
He's trying to pick up a little spare change."
"You sure have nice breasts," I said.
"You think so? Ernie never says anything about my breasts."
"Drink up. This is good stuff."
I slid over next to her. She had nice fat thighs. When I kissed her,
she didn't resist.
"I get so tired of this life," she said, "Ernie's always been a cheap
hustler. You got a good job?"
"Oh yeah. I'm head shipping clerk at Drombo-Western."
"Kiss me again," she said.
I rolled off and wiped myself with the sheet.
"If Ernie finds out he'll kill us both," she said.
"Ernie isn't going to find out. Don't worry about it."
"You make great love," she said, "but why me?"
"I don't understand."
"I mean, really, what made you do it?"
"Oh, I said, "the devil made me do it."
Then I lit a cigarette, laid back, inhaled, and blew a perfect smoke
ring. She got up and went to the bathroom. In a minute I heard the toilet
flush.
Break-In
It was one of the outer rooms of the first floor. I stumbled on
something - I think it was a footstool - and I almost went down. I banged
into a table to hold myself up.
"That's right," said Harry, "wake up the whole fucking household."
"Look," I said, "what are we going to get here?"
"Keep your fucking voice down!"
"Harry, do you have to keep saying fucking?"
"What are you, a fucking linguist? We're here for cash and jewels."
I didn't like it. It seemed like total insanity. Harry was crazy; he'd
been in and out of madhouses. Between that and doing time he'd spent three-
quarters of his adult life in lockup. He'd talked me into the thing. I
didn't have much resistance.
"This damn country," he said. "there are too many rich pricks having
it too easy." Then Harry banged into something. "Shit!" he said.
"Hello? What is it?" We heard a man's voice coming from upstairs.
"We're in trouble," I said. I could feel the sweat dripping down from
my armpits.
"No," said Harry, "he's in trouble."
"Hello," said the man upstairs.
"Who's down there?"
"Come on," Harry told me.
He began walking up the stairway. I followed him. There was a hallway,
and there was a light coming from one of the rooms. Harry moved quickly and
silently. Then he ran into the room. I was behind him. It was a bedroom. A
man and a woman were in separate beds.
Harry pointed his .38 Magnum at the man. "All right, buddy, if you
don't want your balls blown off, you'll keep it quiet. I don't play."
The man was about 45, with a strong and imperial face. You could see
he had had it his own way for a long time. His wife was about 25, blond,
long hair, truly beautiful. She looked like an ad for something or other.
"Get the hell out of my house!" the man said.
"Hey," Harry said to me, "you know who this is?"
"No."
"It's Tom Maxson, the famous news broadcaster, Channel 7. Hello Tom."
"Get out of here! NOW!" Maxson barked.
He reached out and picked up the phone. "Operator-"
Harry ran up and slammed him across the temple with the butt of his
.38. Maxson fell across the bed. Harry put the phone back on the hook.
"You bastards, you hurt him!" cried the blond. "You cheap, cowardly
bastards!"
She was dressed in a light-green negligee. Harry walked around and
broke one of the shoulder straps. He grabbed one of the woman's breasts and
pulled it out. "Nice, ain't it?" he said to me. Then he slapped her across
the face, hard.
"You address me with respect, whore!" Harry said. Then he walked
around and sat Tom Maxson back up. "And you: I told you I don't play."
Maxson revived. "You've got the gun; that's all you've got."
"You fool. That's all I need. Now I'm gonna get some cooperation from
you and your whore or it's going to get worse."
"You cheap punk!" Maxson said.
"Just keep it up, keep it up. You'll see," said Harry.
"You think I'm afraid of it couple of cheap hoods?"
"If you're not, you ought to be."
"Who's your friend? What does he do?"
"He does what I tell him."
"Like what?"
"Like, Eddie, go kiss that blond!"
"Listen, you leave my wife out of this!"
"And if she screams, I put a bullet in your gut. I don't play. Go on,
Eddie, kiss the blond-"
The blond was trying to hold up the broken shoulder strap with one
hand.
"No," she said, "please-"
"I'm sorry, lady, I gotta do what Harry tells me."
I grabbed her by the hair and got my lips on hers. She pushed against
me, but she wasn't very strong. I'd never kissed a woman that beautiful
before.
"All right, Eddie, that's enough."
I pulled away. I walked around and stood next to Harry. "Why, Eddie,"
he sai