Shoot the Piano Player (11 page)

"I said not this time. This time we talk it over. We find out what it's all about."

"There is nothing--"

"Stop that," he cut in. He moved closer to her. "I've had enough of that. The least you can do is tell me--"

"Why you shout? You never shout at me. Why you shout now?"

"I'm sorry." He spoke in a heavy whisper. "I didn't mean to--"

"Is all right." She smiled at him. "You have right to shout. You have much right."

"Don't say that." He was turning away, his head lowered.

He heard her saying, "I make you unhappy, no? Is bad for me to do that. Is something I try not to do, but when it is dark you cannot stop the darkness--"

"What's that?" He turned stiffly, staring at her. "What did you mean by that?"

"I mean--I mean." But then she was shaking her head, again looking at the wall. "All the time is darkness. Gets darker. No way to see where to go, what to do."

She's trying to tell me something, he thought. She's frying so hard, but she can't tell me. Why can't she tell me? She said, "I think there is one thing to do. Only one thing."

He felt coldness in the room.

"I say good-by. I go away--"

"Teresa, please--"

She stood up and moved toward the wall. Then she turned and faced him. She was calm. It was an awful calmness. Her voice was a hollow, toneless semi-whisper as she said, "All right, I tell you--"

"Wait." He was afraid now.

"Is proper that you should know," she said. "Is always proper to give the explanation. To make confession."

"Confession?"

"I did bad thing--"

He winced.

"Was very bad. Was terrible mistake." And then a certain brightness came into her eyes. "But now you are famous pianist, and for that I am glad."

This isn't happening, he told himself. It can't be happening.

"Yes, for that I am glad I did it," she said. "To get you the chance you wanted. Was only one way to get you that chance, to put you in Carnegie Hall."

There was a hissing sound. It was his own breathing.

"Woodling," she said.

He shut his eyes very tightly.

"Was the same week when he signed you to his contract," she went on. "Was a few days later. He comes to the coffee shop. But not for coffee. Not for lunch."

There was another hissing sound. It was louder.

"For business proposition." she said.

I've got to get out of here, he told himself. I can't listen to this.

"At first, when he tells me, is like a puzzle, too much for me. I ask him what he is talking about, and he looks at me as if to say, You don't know? You think about it and you will know. So I think about it. That night I get no sleep. Next day he is there again. You know how a spider works? A spider, he is slow and careful--"

He couldn't look at her.

"--like pulling me away from myself. Like the spirit is one thing and the body is another. Was not Teresa who went with him. Was only Teresa's body. As if I was not there, really. I was with you, I was taking you to Carnegie Hall."

And now it was just a record playing, the narrator's voice giving supplementary details. "--in the afternoons. During my time off. He rented a room near the coffee shop. For weeks, in the afternoons, in that room. And then one night you tell me the news, you have signed the paper to play in Carnegie Hall. When he comes next time to the coffee shop he is just another customer. I hand him the menu and he gives the order. And I think to myself, Is ended, I am me again. Yes, now I can be me.

"But you know, it is a curious thing--what you do yesterday is always part of what you are today. From others you try to hide it. For yourself it is no use trying, it is a kind of mirror, always there. So I look, and what do I see? Do I see Teresa? Your Teresa?

"Is no Teresa in the mirror. Is no Teresa anywhere now. Is just a used-up rag, something dirty. And that is why I have not let you touch me. Or even come close. I could not let you come close to this dirt."

He tried to look at her. He said to himself, Yes, look at her. And go to her. And bow, or kneel. It calls for that, it surely does. But--

His eyes aimed at the door, and beyond the door, and there was fire in his brain. He clenched his teeth, and his hands became stone hammerheads. Every fibre in his body was coiled, braced for the lunge that would take him out of here and down the winding stairway to the fourth-floor suite.

And then, for just a moment, he groped for a segment of control, of discretion. He said to himself, Think now, try to think. If you go out that door she'll see you gong away, she'll be here alone. You mustn't leave her here alone.

It didn't hold him. Nothing could hold him. He moved slowly toward the door.

"Edward--"

But he didn't hear. All he heard was a low growl from his own mouth as he opened the door and went out of the bedroom.

Then he was headed across the livng room, his arm extended, his fingers clawing at the door leading to the outer hall. In the instant that his fingers touched the door handle, he heard the noise from the bedroom.

It was a mechanical noise. It was the ratting of the chainpulleys at the sides of the window.

He pivoted and ran across the living room and into the bedroom. She was climbing out. He leaped, and made a grab, but there was nothing to grab. There was just the cold empty air coming in through the wide-open window.

9

On Front Street, as he stood on the pavement near the red-and-gold entrance to the five-and-dime, the Saturday shoppers swept past him. Some of them bumped him with their shoulders. Others pushed him aside. He was insensible. He wasn't there, really. He was very far away from there.

He was at the funeral seven years ago, and then he was wandering around New York City. It was a time of no direction, no response to traffic signals or changes in the weather. He never knew or cared what hour of the day it was, what day of the week it was. For the sum of everything was a circle, and the circle was labeled Zero.

He had pulled all his savings from the bank. It amounted to about nine thousand dollars. He managed to lose it. He wanted to lose it. The night he lost it, when it was taken from him, he got himself beaten. He wanted that, too. When it happened, when he went down with the blood spilling from his nose and mouth and the gash in his skull, he was glad. He actually enjoyed it.

It happened very late at night, in Hell's Kitchen. Three of them jumped him. One of them had a length of lead pipe. The other two had brass knuckles. The lead pipe came first. It hit him on the side of his head and he walked sideways, then slowly sat down on the curb. Then the others went to work with the brass knuckles. Then something happened. They weren't sure what it was, but it seemed like propeller blades churning the air and coming at them. The one with the lead pipe had made a rapid departure, and they wondered why he wasn't there to help them. They really needed help. One of them went down with four teeth flying out of his mouth. The other was sobbing, "gimme a break, aw, please---gimme a break," and the wild man grinned and whispered, "Fight back--fight back--don't spoil the fun' The thug knew then he had no choice, and did what he could with the brass knuckles and his weight. He had considerable weight. Also, he was quite skilled in the dirtier tactics. He used a knee, he used his thumbs, and he even tried using his teeth. But he just wasn't fast enough. He ended up with both eyes swollen shut, a fractured nose, and a brain concussion. As he lay there on the pavement, flat on his back and unconscious, the wild man whispered, "Thanks for the party."

A few nights later, there was another party. It took place in Central Park when two policemen found the wild man sleeping under a bush. They woke him up, and he told them to go away and leave him alone. They pulled him to his feet, asked him if he had a home. He didn't answer. They started to shoot questions at him. Again he told them to leave him alone. One of them snarled at him and shoved him. The other policeman grabbed his arm. He said, "Let go, please let go." Then they both had hold of him, and they were pulling him along. They were big men and he had to look up at them as he said, "Why don't you leave me alone?" They told him to shut up. He tried to pull loose and one of them hit him on the leg with a night stick. "You hit me," he said. The policeman barked at him, "Sure I hit you. If! want to, I'll hit you again." He shook his head slowly and said, "No, you won't." A few minutes later the two policemen were alone there. One of them was leaning against a tree, breathing hard. The other was sitting on the grass, groaning.

And then, less than a week later, it was in the Bowery and a well known strong-arm specialist remarked through puffed and bleeding lips, "Like stickin' me face in a concrete mixer."

From someone in the crowd, "You gonna fight him again?"

"Sure I'll fight him again. Just one thing I needs'

"What?"

"An automatic rifle," the plug-ugly said, sitting there on the curb and spitting blood. "Buy me one of them rifles and keep him a distance'

He was always on the move, roaming from the Bowery to the Lower East Side and up through Yorkvile to Spanish Harlem and down and over to Brooklyn, to the brawling grounds of Greenpoint and Brownsville--to any area where a man who looked for trouble was certain to find it.

Now, looking back on it, he saw the wild man of seven years ago, and thought, What it amounted to, you were crazy, I mean really crazy. Call it horror-crazy. With your fingers, that couldn't touch the keyboard or get anywhere near a keyboard, a set of claws, itching to find the throat of the very dear friend and counselor, that so kind and generous man who took you into Carnegie Hall.

But, of course, you knew you mustn't find him. You had to keep away from him, for to catch even a glimpse of him would mean a killing. But the wildness was there, and it needed an outlet. So let's give a vote of thanks to the hooligans, all the thugs and sluggers and roughnecks who were only too happy to accommodate you, to offer you a target.

What about money? It stands to reason you needed money. You had to put food in your belly. Let's see now, I remember there were certain jobs, like dishwashing and polishing cars and distributing handbills. At times you were out of a job, so the only thing to do was hold out your hand and wait for coins to drop in. Just enough nickels and dimes to get you a bowl of soup and a mattress in a flophouse. Or sometimes a roll of gauze to bandage the bleeding cuts. There were nights when you dripped a lot of blood, especially the nights when you came out second best.

Yes, my good friend, you were in great shape in those days. What! think is, you were a candidate for membership in some high-off-the-ground clubhouse. But it couldn't go on like that. It had to stop somewhere. What stopped it?

Sure, it was that trip you took. The stroll that sent you across the bridge into Jersey, a pleasant little stroll of some hundred-and-forty miles. If! remember correctly, it took you the better part of a week to get there, to the house hidden in the woods of South Jersey.

It was getting on toward Thanksgiving. You were coming home to spend the holiday with the folks. They were all there. Clifton and Turley were home for the holiday too. At least, they said that was the reason they'd come home. But after a few drinks they kind of got around to the real reason. They said there'd been some complications, and the authorities were looking for them, and this place deep in the woods was far away from all the guideposts.

The way it was, Turley had quit his job on the Philly waterfront and had teamed up with Clifton on a deal involving stolen cars, driving the cars across state lines. They'd been spotted and chased. Not that it worried them. You remember Clifton saying, "Yeah, it's a tight spot, all right. But we'll get out of it. We always get out of it." And then he laughed, and Turley laughed, and they went on drinking and started to tell dirty jokes. .

That was quite a holiday. I mean, the way it ended it was really something. I remember Clifton said something about your situation, your status as a widower. You asked him not to talk about it. He went on talking about it. He winked at Turley and he said to you, "What's it like with a Puerto Rican?"

You smiled at Clifton, you winked at Turley, and you said to your father and mother, "It's gonna be crowded in here. You better go into the next room--"

So then it was you and Clifton, and the table got knocked over, and a couple chairs got broken. It was Clifton on the floor, spitting blood and saying, "What goes on here?" Then he shook his head. He just couldn't believe it. He said to Turley, "Is that really him?"

Turley couldn't answer. He just stood stating.

Clifton got up and went down and got up again. He was all right, he could really take it. You went on knocking him down and he got up and finally he said, "I'm gettin' tired of this' He looked at Turley and muttered, "Take him off me--"

I remember Turley moving in and reaching out and then it was Turley sitting on the floor next to Clifton. It was Clifton laughing and saying, "You here too?" and Turley nodded solemnly and then he got up. He said, "Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you fifty to one you can't do that again'

Then he moved in. He came in nice and easy, weaving. You threw one and missed and then he threw one and his money was safe. You were out for some twenty minutes. And later we were gathered at the table again, and Clifton was grinning and saying, "It figures now, you're slated for the games'

You didn't quite get that. You said, "Game? What game?"

"Our game' He pointed to himself and Turley. "I'm gonna deal you in."

"No," Turley said. "He ain't for the racket:'

"He's perfect for the racket," Clifton said quietly and thoughtfully. "He's fast as a snake. He's hard as iron--"

"That ain't the point," Turley cut in. "The point is--"

"He's ready for it, that's the point. He's geared for action:'

"He is?" Turley's voice was tight now. "Let him say it, then. Let him say what he wants:'

Then it was quiet at the table. They were looking at you, waiting. You looked back at them, your brothers--the heist artists, the gunslingers, the all-out trouble-eaters.

And you thought, Is this the answer? Is this what you're slated for? Well, maybe so. Maybe Clifton has you tagged, with your hands that can't make music any more making cash the easy way. With a gun. You know they use guns. You braced for that? You hard enough for that?

Well, you were hard enough in Burma. In Burma you did plenty with a gun.

But this isn't Burma. This is a choice. Between what? The dirty and the clean? The bad and the good?

Let's put it another way. What's the payoff for the clean ones? The good ones? I mean the ones who play it straight. What do they get at the cashier's window?

Well, friends, speaking from experience, I'd say the payoff is anything from a kick in the teeth to the longbladed scissors slicing in deep and cutting up that pump in your chest. And that's too much, that does it. With all feeling going out and the venom coming in. So then you're saying to the world, All right, you wanna play it dirty, we'll play it dirty.

But no, you were thinking. You don't want that. You join this Clifton-Turley combine, it's strictly on the vicious side and you've had enough of that.

"Well?" Clifton was asking. "What'll it be?"

You were shaking your head. You just didn't know. And then you happened to look up. You saw the other two faces, the older faces. Your mother was shrugging. Your father was wearing the soft-easy smile.

And that was it. That was the answer.

"Well?" from Clifton.

You shrugged. You smiled.

"Come on," Clifton said. "Let's have it."

"He's telling you," from Turley. "Look at his face:'

Clifton looked. He took a long look. He said, "It's like-- like he's skipped clear outa the picture. As if he just don't care."

"That just about says it," Turley grinned.

Just about. For then and there it was all connections split, it was all issues erased. No venom now, no frenzy, no trace of the wild man in your eyes. The wild man was gone, annihilated by two old hulks who didn't know they were still in there pitching, the dull-eyed, shrugging mother and the easy-smiling, booze-guzzling father.

Without sound you said to them, Much obliged, folks.

And later, when you went away, when you walked down the path that bordered the watermelon patch, you kept thinking it, Much obliged, much obliged.

The path was bumpy, but you didn't feel the bumps. In the woods the narrow, twisting road was deeply rutted, but you sort of floated past the ridges and the chug holes. You remember it was wet-cold in the woods, and there was a blasting wind, but all you felt was a gentle breeze.

You made it through the woods, and onto another road, and still another road, and finally the wide concrete highway that took you into the tiny town and the bus depot. In the depot there was a lush talking loud. He was trying to start something. When he tried with you, it was just no use, he got nowhere. You gave him the shrug, you gave him the smile. It was easy, the way you handled him. Well, sure, it was easy, it was just that nothing look--with your tongue in your cheek.

You took the first bus out. It was headed for Philadelphia. I think it was a few nights later you were in a mid-city ginmill, one of them fifteen-cents-a-shot establishments. It had a kitchen, and you got a job washing dishes and cleaning the floor and so forth. There was an old wreck of a piano, and you'd look at it, and look away, and look at it again. One night you said to the bartender, "Okay if I play it?"

"You?"

"I think I can play it."

"All right, give it a try. But it better be music:'

You sat down at the piano. You looked at the keyboard. And then you looked at your hands.

"Come on," the bartender said. "Watcha waitin' for?"

You lifted your hands. You lowered your hands and your fingers hit the keys.

The sound came out and it was music.