Hot Water Music (17 page)

Angel’s View Hotel
. Marty paid the clerk, took the key and was walking up the stairway. It was less than a pleasant night. Room 222. What did that mean? He walked inside and flipped on the light. A dozen roaches crawled away into the wallpaper and chewed and moved and chewed. There was a telephone, a pay phone. He put the dime in and dialed the number. She answered. “Toni?” he asked.

“Yeh, this is Toni…” she said.

“Toni, I’m going crazy.”

“I told you I’d come see you. Where you at?”

“The Angel View, Sixth and Coronado, Room 222.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Can’t you come now?”

“Listen, I’ve got to take the kids over to Carl’s, then I want to stop off and see Jeff and Helen, I haven’t seen them in years…”

“Toni, I love you for Christ’s sake, I want to see you now!”

“Maybe if you got rid of your wife, Marty…”

“These things take time.”

“See you in a couple of hours, Marty.”

“Listen, Toni…”

She hung up. Marty walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. This would be his last involvement. It took too much out of him. Women were stronger than men. They knew all the moves. He didn’t know any of the moves.

There was a knock on the door. He walked over and opened it. It was a blonde in her mid-thirties in a torn blue smock. The mascara was very purple and the lipstick was on heavy. There was
a slight smell of gin.

“Listen, you don’t mind if I play my tv, do you?”

“It’s all right, go ahead.”

“Last guy had your room was some kind of nut. I’d turn on my tv and he’d start banging on the walls.”

“It’s all right. You can play your tv.” Marty closed the door. He dug the next to last cigarette out of his pack and lit it. That Toni was in his blood, he had to get her out of his blood. There was another knock on the door. It was the blonde again. The mascara was purple and her eyes almost matched; of course it was impossible, but it looked as if she had added another layer of lipstick.

“Yes?” asked Marty.

“Listen,” she said, “do you know what the female praying mantis does while they are doing the thing?”

“What thing?”

“Fucking.”

“What does she do?”

“She eats his head off. While they are doing the thing she eats his head off. Well, I guess there are worse ways to die, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Marty, “like cancer.”

The blonde walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She walked over and sat in the only chair. Marty sat on the bed. “Did it get you excited when I said ‘fucking’?” she asked.

“Yeah, a little.”

The blonde got up from the chair and walked over to the bed and put her head real close to Marty’s, she looked into his eyes and put her lips very close to his. Then she said, “
Fucking, fucking, fucking
!” She got a little closer, then said it once more: “FUCKING!” Then she walked over and sat back down in the chair.

“What’s your name?” asked Marty.

“Lilly. Lilly LaVell. I used to strip at the Burbank.”

“I’m Marty Evans. Glad to know you, Lilly.”

“
Fucking
,” said Lilly very slowly, spreading her lips and showing her tongue.

“You can play your tv anytime,” said Marty.

“You heard about the black widow spider?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. After they do the thing—
fucking
—she eats him alive.”

“Oh,” said Marty.

“But there are worse ways of dying, don’t you think?”

“Sure, like leprosy, maybe.”

The blonde got up and walked up and down, up and down. “I got drunk the other night, I was out on the freeway, I was listening to a horn concerto, Mozart, that horn ran right
through
me, I’m doing 85 miles an hour and I’m driving with my elbows listening to this horn concerto, can you believe that?”

“Sure, I believe it.”

Lilly stopped walking and looked at Marty. “Do you believe I can get you in my mouth and do things to you that have never been done to a man?”

“Well, I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well, I can, I can…”

“You’re nice, Lilly, but I’ve got to meet my girlfriend here in about an hour.”

“Well, I’ll get you ready for her.”

Lilly walked over beside him, unzipped him and pulled his penis out of his jockey shorts.

“Oh, he’s cute!”

Lilly wet her middle finger, right hand, and began to rub the head and just below and back of the head.

“But he’s so purple!”

“Just like your mascara…”

“Oh, he’s getting so BIG!”

Marty laughed. A roach crawled out on the wallpaper to catch the action. Then another came out. They wiggled their feelers. Suddenly Lilly’s mouth was on his penis. She gripped him right below the head and sucked. Her tongue was almost like sandpaper; it seemed to know all the right places. Marty looked down at the top of her head and became very excited. He began to pet her hair and sounds dropped out of his mouth. Then suddenly she bit into his cock, hard. She almost bit him in half. Then still biting she yanked her head up. A piece of the head came off. Marty screamed and rolled over and over on the bed. The blonde stood up and spit. Pieces of flesh and blood spattered on the rug. Then she walked over, opened the door, closed it and was gone.

Marty took the pillowcase off and held it against his penis. He was afraid to look. He felt his heartbeat throbbing throughout his
whole body, especially down there. The blood began to spread through the pillowcase. Then the phone rang. He managed to get up, walk over and answer it. “Yeh?” “Marty?” “Yeh?” “This is Toni.” “Yeh, Toni…” “You sound funny…” “Yeh, Toni…” “Is that all you can say? I’m over at Jeff and Helen’s. I’ll see you in about an, hour.” “Sure.” “Listen, what’s wrong with you? I thought you loved me?” “I don’t know any more, Toni…” “All right, then,” she said angrily and hung up.

Marty managed to find a dime and get it in the phone. “Operator, I want a private ambulance service. Get me anybody but do it fast. I may be dying…”

“Have you checked with your doctor, sir?”

“Operator, please get me a private ambulance service!”

Next door to the left, the blonde sat in front of her tv set. She reached over and switched it on. She was just in time for the Dick Cavett Show.

Frank pulled onto the freeway into the traffic.

He was a shipping clerk for the American Clock Company. Six years now. Never held a job for six years before and now the son of a bitch was really killing him. But at the age of 42 with a high school education and ten percent unemployment he didn’t have much choice. It was his 15th or 16th job and all the jobs had been terrible.

Frank was tired and he wanted to get home and have a beer. He maneuvered his Volks into the fast lane. When he got out there he was no longer so sure that he was in a hurry to get home. Fran would be waiting. Four years now.

He knew what was coming. Fran couldn’t wait for the first verbal shot. He always waited for her first shot. Jesus, she couldn’t wait to put the knock on him. Then, knock, knock, knock…

Frank knew he was a loser. He didn’t need Fran to remind him of the fact, to illuminate it. You’d think that two people living together would help each other. But no, they fell into the habit of criticism. He criticized her, she criticized him. They were both losers. Now all they had left was to see who could be the most sarcastic about it all.

And that son of a bitch, Meyers. Meyers had walked back to the shipping department ten minutes before quitting time and stood there.

“Frank.”

“Yes?”

“Are you putting FRAGILE labels on all the shipments?”

“Yes.”

“Are you packing carefully?”

“Yes.”

“We’re getting more and more complaints from our customers about receiving broken merchandise.”

“I suppose that accidents occur in transit.”

“Are you sure you’re packing the shipments properly?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we had better try some different trucking lines?”

“They’re all the same.”

“Well, I want to see an improvement. I want less breakage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Meyers had once controlled the American Clock Company but drinking and a bad marriage had ruined him. He had had to sell most of his stock and was now only an assistant manager. He had gone on the wagon and as a result was always irritable. Meyers was continually trying to draw Frank out and make him angry. Then he would have an excuse to fire him.

There was nothing worse than a reformed drunk and a Born Again Christian and Meyers was both…

Frank drew up behind an old car in the fast lane. It was a battered gas-eater, a sedan, and it gave off a dirty trail of smoke from the exhaust. The fenders were smashed and vibrated as the sedan drove along. The paint job had almost vanished from the car, it was almost colorless, a smog grey.

All that didn’t bother Frank. What bothered him was that the car was going too slow, going the same speed as the car opposite it in the next lane. He checked his speedometer. They were all doing 52. Why?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Fran was waiting. It was Fran at one end and Meyers at the other. The only time he had alone, the only time somebody wasn’t ripping at him was when he was driving back and forth to work. Or when he was asleep.

But still he didn’t like being boxed in on the freeway. It was senseless. He looked at the two guys in the front seat of the sedan. They were both talking at once and laughing. They were two young punks about 23 or 24. Frank was glad he didn’t have to listen to the conversation. Those punks were beginning to irritate him.

Then Frank saw his chance. The car on the right of the old sedan was going just a little bit faster, it was pulling ahead. Frank swung around behind the other car.

He began to taste the freedom of busting out of there. It would be a small victory after a horrible day with a horrible evening to come. He was going to make it.

Then just as he was getting ready to cut out in front of the old sedan the punk at the wheel stepped on the gas, pulled up, cut him off and drove alongside the other car again.

Frank swung back behind the punks’ car. They were still talking and laughing. He saw their bumper sticker. JESUS LOVES YOU.

Then he noticed a decal on the rear window. THE WHO.

Well, they had Jesus and they had The Who. Why in the hell couldn’t they let him by?

Frank pulled up behind them, rode their rear bumper. They went on talking and laughing. They kept driving at exactly the same speed as the car to their right. 50 mph.

Frank checked his rear view mirror. There was an unbroken stream of traffic as far back as he could see.

Frank worked his Volks from the fast lane into the next lane, then worked over into the slow lane. Traffic was moving faster there. He slipped around a car by darting left and then broke loose into the open. As he did he saw the old sedan speed up. The punks pulled up alongside of him. Frank checked his speedometer. 62 mph. Frank ran it up to 65. The punks were still there. He pushed it to 70. The punks stayed with him.

Now
they were in a hurry. Why?

Frank pushed the accelerator all the way down. The Volks would only do 75. He was going to burn up the engine or throw a rod. The punks were keeping up with him even though they were grinding their car to death too.

He looked over at them. Two young blond guys with wisps of goatees. Their faces looked at him. Bland faces like turkey butts with little holes for mouths.

The punk next to the driver gave him the finger.

Frank pointed first at the finger guy, then at the driver. Then he pointed to the freeway exit. They both nodded.

Frank led them to the freeway exit. He stopped at a signal. They waited behind him. Then Frank took a right and drove along with the punks behind him. He drove until he saw a supermarket. He
drove into the parking lot. He noted the loading dock. It was dark back there. The market was closed. The dock was deserted, the steel doors pulled down. There was nothing back there but space and stacks of empty wooden crates. Frank pulled up to the loading dock. He got out of his car, locked it and walked up the ramp and along the dock. The punks pulled in their old sedan alongside his car and got out.

They walked up the ramp toward him. Neither one of them weighed over 130 pounds. Together they only outweighed him 30 pounds.

Then the guy who had given the finger said, “O.K., you old shit!” He rushed at Frank, making a high, squealing sound, his hands held flat in some kind of karate gesture. The punk whirled, tried a backward kick, missed, then came around and cracked Frank on the ear with the side of his hand. It was no more than a slap. Frank put all of his 230 pounds behind a hard right to the punk’s belly and the kid slumped to the pavement holding his gut.

The other punk pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open.

“I’ll cut your fuckin’ balls off!” he said to Frank.

Frank waited as the punk moved in, nervously changing the knife from hand to hand. Frank backed up toward the crates. The punk moved in making hissing sounds. Frank waited, his back against the boxes. Then as the punk moved in Frank reached up, grabbed a crate and threw it at him. It slammed into the punk’s face and as it did Frank moved in and grabbed his knife arm. The blade fell to the ground and Frank twisted the arm behind the punk’s back. He pushed the arm up as far as he could.

“
Please don’t break my arm
!” the punk squealed.

Frank let the punk go and as he did he kicked him in the ass, hard. The kid fell forward, grabbing at his butt. Frank picked up the knife, flicked in the blade, pocketed it and walked slowly back to his car. As he got in and started the Volks he could see the two punks standing close to each other by the old sedan watching him. They were no longer talking and laughing.

Suddenly he gunned his car and ran it at them. They scattered and at the last moment he veered off. He slowed down and drove out of the parking lot.

He noticed that his hands were trembling. It had been one hell of a day. He drove along the boulevard. The Volks ran badly,
sputtering, as if to object to its mistreatment on the freeway.

Then Frank saw the bar. The Lucky Knight. There was parking in front. He stopped, got out and went in.

Frank sat down and ordered a Bud. “Where’s your phone?”

The barkeep told him. It was back near the crapper. He put the coin in and dialed the number.

“Yes?” Fran answered.

“Listen, Fran, I’m going to be a little late. I got held up. See you soon.”

“Held up? You mean you got robbed?”

“No, I got in a fight.”

“A
fight
? Don’t tell me that! You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag!”

“Fran, I wish you wouldn’t use those old, stale expressions.”

“Well, it’s true! You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag!”

Frank hung up and walked back to the bar stool. He picked up his bottle of Bud and took a hit.

“I like a man who drinks right out of the bottle!”

There was somebody sitting next to him. A woman. She was about 38, dirt under her fingernails, her dyed blonde hair piled loosely on top of her head. Two silver loops dangled from her ears and her mouth was heavy with lipstick. She licked her lips, slowly, then she stuck a Virginia Slim into that mouth and lit it.

“I’m Diana.”

“Frank. What do you drink?”

“He knows…” She nodded to the barkeep and the barkeep picked up a bottle of her favorite brand of whiskey and moved toward them. Frank pulled out a ten and placed it on the bar.

“You got a fascinating face,” said Diana. “What do you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Just the kind of man I like.”

She lifted her drink and pressed her leg against his as she drank. Frank took his fingernail and slowly peeled the wet beer label off his bottle. Diana finished her drink. Frank motioned to the barkeep.

“Two more.”

“Yeah, what’ll you have?”

“I’ll take hers.”

“You’ll take hers?” asked the barkeep. “
Wow
!”

They all laughed. Frank lit a smoke and the barkeep brought the bottle down. Suddenly it looked like a pretty good night after all.