Midnight Cowboy (14 page)

Suddenly Joe knew exactly where he would get the advice he needed.

He thrust his hand forward, saying, “Joe Buck from Houston Texas. Gonna buy you a drink, what d’you say to that?”

They shook hands. The dirty, curly-haired little blond runt introduced himself as Rico Rizzo of the Bronx. He had an air about him that suggested a knowledge of everything worth knowing. And he knew how to listen: His big brown eyes were tough and wise and sympathetic, and he had big ears that stuck straight out as if invisible hands were cupped behind them for maximum hearing power.

As they talked, Joe kept Rizzo supplied with drinks and smokes. Feeling himself to be the host in this situation, he was eager to honor his guest in every possible way and insisted upon doing the pouring of all beer and the lighting of all cigarettes.

Joe believed he was making a remarkable discovery about the nature of liquor. It had given him not only this social ease but some new power over his tongue as well: He laid open to Rizzo even the most subtle aspects of his dilemma in a fashion that held his listener rapt. And when Rizzo indicated an interest in Joe’s present financial condition, the details were summoned up with the exactitude of an accountant, even to the fact that he had exactly ninety-one dollars left. In cash. In his hip pocket. The left one.

Rizzo thought they ought to count it. Just to be sure.

At this point in the conversation Joe’s new friend was distracted by the entrance of two young men into the place. They came in and established themselves on stools at the front end of the bar. Rizzo showed some interest in avoiding contact with these persons. He suggested to Joe that they move to a booth.

Following Rizzo to the back of the barroom, Joe noticed two things about him. First, that he was a cripple. His left leg was small and misshapen, probably the result of some childhood disease. His entire body dipped to the side with each step so that his walk had a kind of rolling motion to it like the progress of a lopsided wheel. The second thing Joe noticed was that the big ears sticking out of Rizzo’s head did not seem at all to be the property of a man. Suddenly the runt was a twelve-year-old, and Joe had to restrain an impulse to reach out and tweak an ear or tug on a handful of that filthy hair.

As they sat down—at a booth next to the blaring juke box—Joe watched Rizzo take his left leg in both hands and lift it into place under the table. His teeth were clenched and his face went pale with the effort.

For Joe this was a precarious moment: the awareness that his new friend was in pain, probably lived in a constant state of pain, threatened to wreck entirely this brilliant hour they’d been having. Liquor had given Joe special seeing powers, and he saw now a truth about life heretofore hidden from him: that always, in even the finest hour, there lurked this potential sudden ugliness. You could be going along just great with somebody and a new piece of information would turn everything blue and sad. This, and the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to right the bad leg, induced in Joe an anger that was fierce. So fierce he was unable to maintain for long his focus upon the object of it. And there he was with all this fury and no one to throw it at, when suddenly his eye happened to catch hold of the juke box. He began to shout obscene names at the noises it made and he saw in his mind’s eye a quick movie of a tall cowboy kicking hell out of all those colored lights. He rose, on his way to bringing this image into reality, when something in Rizzo’s face stopped him: surprise and a flicker of fear.

Joe smiled a kind of puzzled apology and went to the men’s room. On the way, he realized the liquor was having some undesirable side effects: nausea, dizziness. He had to hurry to the toilet in order not to be sick on the floor.

Later, at the sink, he rinsed his mouth out and gave himself a talking-to out loud in the mirror, surprised to hear, coming from himself, the voice of Juanita Barefoot, much deeper than his own:
“Let’s cool them drinks, cowboy: They’s work to do.”

“Shut up, old witch, I know what I’m doin’,” he said, trying hard to sound like himself.

Returning to the table, he said, “I believe I’ve about had enough of that liquor. Yeah.”

Rizzo, filled with some other thought, was nodding and looking at Joe through narrowed eyes.

“I got this thing figured out now,” he said, pulling each word past the bed of gravel in his throat. “You’re in luck, Joe. Gimme cigarette.”

Joe quickly handed him a Camel and lighted it for him. Feeling that he was about to experience an important moment, he took one for himself, sucked deep on it and leaned forward.

Rizzo let out a cloud of smoke. Then he did some more nodding, looking always at Joe Buck. He said, “Mmhmm,” said it three or four times, each time seeing Joe’s face in some new way.

“What you need,” he said at last, “is Mr. O’Daniel.”

At this point the juke box set forth on some new rampage and Joe missed entirely the name of the thing he needed.

Rizzo was busy removing a piece of tobacco from his tongue and studying it, caught between his thumb and forefinger.

Joe grabbed him by the wrist. “I need what, I need what?” he shouted.

“Mr. O’Daniel,” Rizzo repeated.

“Mr. O
‘Who?”

“Mr. O’Daniel.”

“Talk louder!”

“Management,” Rizzo shouted. “You need management, you know what management is?”

“I’m listenin’.”

“Okay now, look.” Rizzo leaned forward and somehow miraculously Joe was able to hear every word he said. “With these chicks, the ones that want to buy it, most of ‘em are older, rich and very dignified, social-register types. Follow me? So they can’t, uh, can’t be seen trotting down to Times Square picking out the merchandise. Don’t that make sense? They got to have a middleman, an agent, a representative. You with me, Joe?”

“Yeah.
Yeah!”
Joe nodded vigorously, putting his head in position again, the ear near Rizzo’s mouth.

“So all right already,” Rizzo concluded. “Mr. O’Daniel is the guy!” He threw his hands into the air, palms up. “That’s
it.”

Joe felt all his muscles relax. He rested against the back of the booth. The seat was hard, but it felt like down. He shook his head, smiled and said, “Shee-it.” Then he laughed happily.

“Matter of fact,” Rizzo said, “I placed a fella with him about two weeks ago. He’s doin’
fabulous
today. Lots of new clothes. Drives a car. Goes to the bank every goddam day of his life—to make deposits, naturally. And far as I know he’s not that much of a stud, either. Just a very ordinary guy.”

Joe sat forward again. “I wish to hell I’d bumped into you this afternoon.”

“Yeah, it is a shame, a guy like you passin’ out twenty-dollar bills to fat ladies, it’s
crazy
. Not that I blame
you
. Christ, I’m just as bad as you.
Worse I
A woman cries around me, I give her anything she wants. One tear, I start carvin’ the heart right out of my chest for her.”

“I’d call
that,”
said a new voice, “a very minor operation.”

The two young men they’d seen entering the place earlier were standing next to the booth. The taller of the two was the speaker: a shiny-faced, blue-eyed boy who looked as if he might be a farmer, but his eyebrows had been plucked into a careful, narrow line, confusing that initial impression.

“Cutting that little thing out of you,” he said, “would be no more serious than lancing a boil.”

Rizzo said, “Let’s get out of here, Joe.”

But he made no move to go because the young men were blocking his way.

“In fact,” the tall boy continued, “just sit comfy there and I’ll do it right here with my fingernail file. You won’t even need to use your Blue Cross. What’d’ya think of that plan, Ratso?”

“The name is Rizzo.”

“That’s what I said, Ratso.”

At this point, Joe Buck got to his feet. His movements had in them a slow mixture of menace and benevolence he’d learned from Western movies.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at the tall young man in a way that said:
I’m not a real killer, but then again if I’m pressed
…

Both boys looked at him with considerable respect. And Joe Buck simply shook his head back and forth slowly, magnificently, suggesting an immediate cessation of all hostilities.

Rizzo said, “That’s okay, Joe, I’m used to these types’t pick on cripples. The sewers are full of ‘em.”

“Excuse me,” said the farmer-looking boy, addressing himself with great politeness to the cowboy. “May I ask one thing?”

Joe lowered his eyelids in a slow, strong assent.

“It’s just this: If you sit over here, and he”—pointing at Rizzo—”sits way over there, how’s he going to get his hand into your pocket? Oh, well,” he shrugged, dismissing the subject, “I’m sure he’s got that all figured out.” He turned to Rizzo. “G’night, sweets.”

The two young men left the place.

Rizzo looked at Joe with his eyes wide open, a sober expression on his face. “Well,” he said, “now I suppose you think I’m
dishonest!”

Before Joe could answer, Rizzo continued: “Well, I am! So if you wanta cut out on me, it’s a free country.”

“Hell,” Joe said immediately, “I ain’t going nowhere. I don’t walk out on a buddy just ‘cause I find out he’s got some little bitty teensy something wrong.” Now Joe saw in his mind once more a brief picture of Juanita Barefoot: She was looking at the sky and yawning. “Besides,” Joe went on, paying no attention to the hag in his mind, “You know the ropes. And what I got to do, I got to get hold of them ropes, get out of this pickle I’m in.”

Rizzo relaxed a little. He licked his lips quickly and said, “I suppose that’s a sensible way to look at it.”

Joe leaned across the table. “Will you take me to this bird right now, this Mr. O’Hoozit?”

“Now?”
Rizzo showed surprise. “This time of night?” He frowned, seeming to turn the question over in his mind. “Well, I suppose I could, but—” He looked at Joe directly, challenging him: “Look, you tell me why [should. ‘Cause you’re a nice guy? ‘Cause you bought me drinks? Well, that’s great, but you know how long it’s apt to take me to find this bum? First, I’ll have to walk a lot, and with this gimp, it takes time and it’s no picnic. Meanwhile, I’m not doin’ my
self
any good: I’m tired, my pocket’s not gettin’ any fuller. You with me there? And tomorrow, while you’re layin’ up in some Fifth Avenue townhouse gettin your back scratched by some rich broad, who knows where Rizzo’ll be! The Automat prob’ly!”

“Hey now!” Joe was indignant. “You hold it, you just hold it
right there
. You think I’m the kind of sombitch is gonna take everything I make and
keep
it? You think I’m not gonna let you have a piece of it? Why, shee-it, you talk like a man with a tin ass.” Joe waved his hand in the air between them as if to dispel all this nonsense at once.

“Thanks, Joe,” said Rizzo. “I said you’re a nice guy and you just proved it. But, uh …” He shook his head. “I don’t do nothing on spec. It’s a matter of principle. ‘Yunderstand?”

“I didn’t say nothing about no speck,” Joe declared flatly. “I said I was gonna give you a
piece
. So you just name what cut you want.”

“No no no, Joe, what I mean is, I don’t trust nobody to give me nothin’
later
. No offense, you look like an honest guy, you got an honest face. But so have I. Right? Have I got an honest face?”

“Hell yeah you got an honest face!”

“There!” Rizzo snapped his finger and pointed at Joe’s nose. “You proved my point: I got an honest face—but I’m crooked as hell. So why should I trust you? Can you answer me that?”

Joe thought for a moment, frowning with the effort. He put out his cigarette and reached into his hip pocket. “I’ll give you something now, right this goddam minute!”

“Oh,
wait
a minute, Joe,” Rizzo said. “Use your head.” He put on a sad, pained look, as if what he was about to say caused him great agony. Shaking his head, he spoke in a high, small voice: “You shouldn’t be trusting me. Don’t you see?” With this, he made himself very small and looked up into Joe’s face with his eyes so wide open the lids looked like they might tear at the edges. “It would be so easy to clip you,” he said.

“Oh, hell, you think I’m worried about that?” Joe waved the thought away. Then he spread his money out on the table. “What d’you suppose’d be a fair amount?”

Rizzo leaned in, ready to do business. “I leave it up to you, Joe.”

“Well, let’s be hardass about this thing and figure it out right. What am I apt to clear from a night with one of these rich ladies?”

“A
night?
Did you say a
night?
Baby,” Rizzo said, “Mr. O’Daniel don’t bother booking no one-night stands. What he’s gonna find you, he’s gonna find you a
position
for chrissake. Now the first dame may or may not work out permanent. Who knows, maybe the second one won’t, or even the third. For a permanent setup you got to hit it off just right. But the audition alone is gonna net you fifty, a hundred, maybe more. That’s just for the goddam audition.”