Shoot the Piano Player (5 page)

"What's the rush?" he murmured. She didn't reply. The noise of her knife and fork went on and then stopped suddenly and he looked up again. He saw she was looking out and away from the table, focusing again on the far end of the counter.

She frowned and resumed eating. He waited a few moments, and then murmured, "I thought you said it ain't your problem."

She let it slide past. She went on frowning. "They're still sitting there. I wish they'd get up and go out."

"I guess they wanna stay here and get warm. It's nice and warm in here."

"It's getting too warm," she said.

"It is?" He sipped more coffee. "I don't feel it."

"Not much you don't." She gave him another sideways look. "Don't give me that cucumber routine. You're sitting on a hot spot and you know it."

"Got a cigarette?"

"I'm talking to you--"

"I heard what you said." He gestured toward her handbag. "Look, I'm all outa smokes. See if you got a Spare."

She opened the handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes. She gave him one, took one for herself, and struck a match. As he leaned forward to get the light, she said, "Who are they?"

"You got me."

"Ever see them before?"

"Nope."

"All right," she said. "We'll drop it."

She finished eating, drank some water, took a final puff at her cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. They got up from the booth and walked out of the eatery. Now the wind came harder and colder and it had started to snow. As the flakes hit the pavement they stayed there white instead of melting. She pulled up her coat collar, and put her hands into her pockets. She looked up and around at the snow coming down, and said she liked the snow, she hoped it would keep on snowing. He said it would probably snow all night and then some tomorrow. She asked him if he liked the snow. He said it didn't really matter to him.

They were walking along on the cobblestoned street and he wanted to look behind him but he didn't. The wind was coming at them and they had to keep their heads down and push themselves along. She was saying he could walk her home if he wanted to. He said all right, not thinking to ask where she lived. She told him she lived in a rooming house on Kenworth Street. She was telling him the block number but he didn't hear. He was listening to the sound of his footsteps and her footsteps and wondering if that was the only sound. Then he heard the other sound, but it was only some alley cats crying. It was a small sound, and he decided they were kittens wailing for their mother. He wished there was something he could do for them, the motherless kittens. They were somewhere in that alley across the street. He heard the waitress saying, "Where you going?"

He had moved away from her, toward the curb. He was looking at the entrance to the alley across the street. She came up to him and said, "What is it?"

"The kittens," he said.

"Kittens?"

"Listen to them," he said. "Poor little kittens. They're having a sad time."

"You got it twisted." she said. "They ain't no kittens, they're grown-up cats. From what I hear, they're having a damn good time."

He listened again, This time he heard it correctly. He grinned and said, "Guess it needs a new aerial."

"No," she said. "The aerial's all right. You just got your stations mixed, that's all."

He didn't quite get that. He looked at her inquiringly.

She said, "I guess it's a habit you got. Like in the Hut. I've noticed it. You never seem to know or care what's really happening. Always tuned in on some weird kinda wave length that only you can hear. As if you ain't concerned in the least with current events."

He laughed softly.

"Quit that," she cut in. "Quit making it a joke. This ain't no joke, what's happening now. You take a look around, you'll see what I mean."

She was facing him, staring past him. He said, "We got company?"

She nodded slowly.

"I don't hear anything." he said, "Only them cats--"

"Forget the cats. You got your hands full now. You can't afford no side shows."

She's got a point there, he thought. He turned and looked down the street. Far down there the yellow-green glow from a street lamp came dripping off the tops of the parked cars. It formed a faintly lit, yellow-green pooi on the cobblestones, a shimmering screen for all moving shadows. He saw two shadows moving on the screen, two creepers crouched down there behind one of the parked cars.

"They're waiting," he said. "They're waiting for us to move."

"If we're gonna move, we'd better do it fast." She spoke technically. "Come on, we'll hafta run--"

"No," he said. "There's no rush. We'll just keep walking."

Again she gave him the searching look. "You been through this sorta thing before?"

He didn't answer. He was concentrating on the distance between here and the street corner ahead. They were walking slowly toward the corner. He estimated the distance was some twenty yards. As they went on walking slowly he looked at her and smiled and said, "Don't be nervous. There's nothing to be nervous about."

Not much there ain't, he thought.

4

They came to the street corner and turned onto a narrow street that had only one lamp. His eyes probed the darkness and found a splintered wooden door, the entrance to an alleyway. He tried the door and it gave, and he went through and she followed him, closing the door behind her. As they stood there, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps, he heard a rustling noise, as though she was searching for something under her coat.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting my hatpin," she said. "They come in here, they'll have a five-inch hatpin all ready for them."

"You think it'll bother them?"

"It won't make them happy, that's for sure."

"I guess you're right. That thing goes in deep, it hurts."

"Let them try something." She spoke in a tight whisper, "Just let them try something, and see what happens."

They waited there in the pitch-black darkness behind the alley door. Moments passed, and then they heard the footsteps coming. The footsteps arrived, hesitated, went on and then stopped. Then the footsteps came back toward the alley door. He could feel the rigid stillness of the waitress, close beside him. Then he could hear the voices on the other side of the door.

"Where'd they go?" one of the voices said.

"Maybe into one of these houses."

"We shoulda moved faster."

"We played it right. It's just that they were close to home. They went into one of these houses."

"Well, whaddya want to do?"

"We can't start ringing doorbells."

"You wanta keep walking? Maybe they're somewhere up the street."

"Let's go back to the car. I'm getting cold."

"You wanna call it a night?"

"A loused-up night."

"In spades. God damn it."

The footsteps went away. He said to her, "Let's wait a few minutes," and she said, "I guess I can put the hatpin away."

He grinned and murmured, "Be careful where you put it, I don't wanna get jabbed." They were standing there in the cramped space of the very narrow alley and as her arm moved, her elbow came lightly against his ribs. It wasn't more than a touch, but for some reason he quivered, as though the hatpin had jabbed him. He knew it wasn't the hatpin. And then, moving again, shifting her position in the cramped space, she touched him again and there was more quivering. He breathed in fast through his teeth, feeling something happening. It was happening suddenly and much too fast and he tried to stop it. He said to himself, You gotta stop it. But the thing of it is, it came on you too quick, you just weren't ready for it, you had no idea it was on its way. Well, one thing you know, you can't get rid of it standing here with her so close, too close, too damn close. You think she knows? Sure she knows, she's trying not to touch you again. And now she's moving back so you'll have more room. But it's still too crowded in here. I guess we can go out now. Come on, open the door. What are you waiting for?

He opened the alley door and stepped out onto the pavement. She followed him. They walked up the street, not talking, not looking at each other. He started to walk faster, moving out in front of her. She made no attempt to catch up with him. It went on like that and he was moving far out in front of her, not thinking about it, just wanting to walk fast and get home and go to sleep.

Then presently it occurred to him that he was walking alone. He'd come to a street crossing and he turned and waited. He looked for her and didn't see her. Where'd she go? he asked himself. The answer came from very far down the street, the sound of her clicking heels, going off in the other direction.

For a moment he played with the thought of going after her. So you won't get Z for etiquette, he thought, and took a few steps. Then he stopped, and shook his head, and said to himself, You better leave it the way it is. Stay away from her.

But why? he asked himself, suddenly aware that something was happening again. It just don't figure, it can't be like that, like just the thought of her touching you is a little too much for you to handle and it gets started again. For months she's been working at the Hut, you've seen her there every night and she was nothing more than part of the scenery. And now out of nowhere comes this problem.

You calling it a problem? Come off that, you know it ain't no problem, you just ain't geared for any problems, for any issues at all. With you it's everything for kicks, the cooleasy kicks that ask for no effort at all, the soft-easy style that has you smiling all the time with your tongue in your cheek. It's been that way for a long time now and it's worked for you, it's worked out just fine. You take my advice, you'll keep it that way.

But she said she lived on Kenworth Street. Maybe you better do some scouting, just to make sure she got home all right. Yes, them two operators mighta changed their minds about calling it a night. They coulda decided to have another look around the neighborhood. Maybe they spotted her walking alone and--

Now look, you gotta stop it. You gotta think about something else. Think about what? All right, let's think about Oscar Levant. Is he really talented? Yes, he's really talented. Is Art Tatum talented? Art Tatum is very talented. And what about Walter Geiseking? Well, you never heard him play in person, so you can't say, you just don't know. Another thing you don't know is the house number on Kenworth. You don't even know the block number. Did she tell you the block number? I can't remember.

Oh for Christ's sake go home and go to sleep.

He lived in a rooming house a few blocks away from the Hut. It was a two-story house and his room was on the second floor. The room was small, the rent was five-fifty a week, and it amounted to a bargain because the landlady had a cleanliness phobia; she was always scrubbing or dusting. It was a very old house but all the rooms were spotless.

His room had a bed, a table and a chair. On the floor near the chair there was a pile of magazines. They were all musical publications, most of them dealing with classical music. The magazine on top of the pile was open and as he came into the room he picked it up and leafed through it. Then he started to read an article having to do with some new developments in contrapuntal theory.

The article was very interesting. It was written by a wellknown name in the field, someone who really knew what it was all about. He lit a cigarette and stood there under the ceiling light, still wearing his snow-speckled overcoat, focusing on the magazine article. Somewhere in the middle of the third paragraph he lifted his eyes and looked at the window.

The window faced the street; the shade was halfway up. He walked to the window and looked out. Then he opened the window Sand leaned out to get a wider look. The street was empty. He stayed there and watched the snow coming down. He felt the wind-whipped flakes taking cold bites at his face. The cold air sliced and chopped at him, and he thought, It's gonna feel good to get into that bed.

He undressed quickly. Then he was naked and climbing in under the sheet and the thick quilt, pulling the cord of the lamp near the bed, pulling the other cord that was a long string attached from the ceiling light to the bedpost. He sat there propped against the pillow, and lit another cigarette and continued with the magazine article.

For a few minutes he went on reading, then he just looked at the printed words without taking them in. It went that way for a while, and finally he let the magazine fall to the floor. He sat there smoking and looking at the wall across the room.

The cigarette burned low and he leaned over to smother it in the ashtray on the table near the bed. As he pressed the stub in the tray, he heard the knock on the door.

The wind whistled in through the open window and mixed with the sound that came from the door. He felt very cold, looking at the door, wondering who it was out there.

Then he smiled at himself, knowing who it was, knowing what he'd hear next because he'd heard it so many times in the three years he'd lived here.

From the other side of the door a female voice whispered, "You in there, Eddie? It's me, Clarice."

He climbed out of bed. He opened the door and the woman came in. He said, "Hello, Clarice," and she looked at him standing there naked and said, "Hey, get under that quilt. You'll catch cold."

Then she closed the door, doing it carefully and quietly. He was in the bed again, sitting there with the quilt up around his middle. He smiled at her and said, "Sit down."

She pulled the chair toward the bed and sat down. She said, "Jesus Christ, it's freezing in here," and got up and lowered the window. Then, seated again, she said, "You cold-air fiends amaze me. It's a wonder you don't get the flu. Or ammonia."

"Fresh air is good for you."

"Not this time of year," she said. "This time of year it's for the birds, and even they don't want it. Them birds got more brains than we got. They go to Florida."

"They can do it. They got wings."

"I wish to hell I had wings," the woman said. "Or at least the cash it needs for bus fare. I'd pack up and head south and get me some of that sunshine."

"You ever been south?"

"Sure, loads of times. On the carnival circuit. One time in Jacksonville I busted an ankle, trying out a new caper. They left me stranded there in the hospital, didn't even leave me my pay. Them carnival people--some of them are dogs, just dogs."

She helped herself to one of his cigarettes. She lit it with a loose, graceful motion of arm and wrist. Then she waved out the flaming match, tossing it from one hand to the other, the flame dying in mid-air, and caught the dead match precisely between her thumb and small finger.

"How's that for timing?" she asked him, as though he'd never seen the trick before.

He'd seen it countless times. She was always performing these little stunts. And sometimes at the Hut she'd clear the tables to give herself room, and do the flips and somersaults that showed she still had some of it left, the timing and the coordination and the extra-fast reflexes. In her late teens and early twenties she'd been a better-than-average acrobatic dancer.

Now, at thirty-two, she was still a professional, but in a different line of endeavor. It was all horizontal acrobatics on a mattress, her body for rent at three dollars a performance. In her room down the hail on the second floor she gave them more than their money's worth. Her contortions on the mattress were strictly circus-stunt variety. Among the barflies at the Hut, the consensus was "--really something, that Clarice. You come outa that room, you're dizzy."

Her abilities in this field, especially the fact that she never slackened the pace, were due mainly to her bent for keeping in condition. As a stunt dancer, she'd adhered faithfully to the strict training rules, the rigid diet and the daily exercises. In this present profession, she was equally devoted to certain laws and regulations of physical culture, maintaining that "it's very important, y'unnerstand. Sure, I drink gin. It's good for me. Keeps me from eating too much. I never overload my belly."

Her body showed it. She still had the acrobat's coiledspring flexibility, and was double-jointed in so many places that it was as if she had no bones at all. She stood five-five and weighed one-five, but she didn't look skinny, just tightly packed around the frame. There wasn't much of breast or hip or thigh, just about enough to label it female. The female aspect showed mainly in her face, her fragile nose and chin, her wide-set, pale-gray eyes. She wore her hair rather short, and was always having it dyed. Right now it was somewhere between yellow and orange.

She sat there wearing a terry cloth bathrobe, one sleeve ripped halfway up to the elbow. With the cigarette still between the thumb and little finger, she lifted it to her mouth, took a small sip of smoke, let it out and said to him, "How's about it?"

"Not tonight."

"You broke?"

He nodded.

Clarice sipped more smoke. She said, "You want it on credit?"

He shook his head.

"You've had it on credit before." she said. "Your credit's always good with me."

"It ain't that." he said. "It's just that I'm tired. I'm awfully tired."

"You wanna go to sleep?" She started to get up.

"No," he said. "Sit there. Stick around a while. We'll talk."

"Okay." She settled back in the chair. "I need some company, anyway. I get so dragged in that room sometimes. They never wanna sit and talk. As if they're afraid I'll charge them extra."

"How'd you do tonight?"

She shrugged. "So-so." She put her hand in the bathrobe pocket and there was the rustling of paper, the tinkling of coins. "For Friday night it wasn't bad, I guess. Most Friday nights there ain't much trade. They either spend their last nickel at Harriet's or they're so plastered they gotta be carried home. Or else they're too noisy and I can't chance it. The lady warned me again last week. She said one more time and out I go."

"She's been saying that for years."