What Is All This? (24 page)

“Go somewhere else,” David whispered. This place is hot.”

“And maybe you could rustle us up a side order of French fries,” Georgie said. “Crisp. Make sure to tell the cook we like them crisp.”

“Please. Things are finally going well for me. I've a girlfriend. We're going to get married. She's going to have a baby—my first child—
mine
, you hear? In six months, I'm going to be both father and husband, so leave me alone.”

They listened patiently. Then Georgie said “You ain't got no girl. We know all about you. Where you live with the cows and what poor decent people your folks are in Idaho and what a fine university you settled on near Boston, and even that your buddy Harold's back and you haven't been able to cheat the government anymore.”

“You look terrible,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “An apron on a man is such an unmasculine-looking thing. What're you making here—three-fifty an hour plus tips?”

That's right,” David said, “and it's more than sufficient.”

“What about your expenses East? Motels, gas, food, car upkeep and just living there before your college money comes in. Throw that apron away and come home with us.

Next job we got for you we pay seven hundred—just think of it. That's probably three weeks' earnings here for just one day's work, and we don't take off for taxes and Social Security.”

“Definitely no,” and with a hand he tried his best to make tremble, he served them tea with lemon and a stale doughnut each. “I'm sick. My mind: it forgets. Even this job's too much. Got into a car accident last week. Because of my dizzy spells since, my doctor thinks I've a concussion or worse. I'm going crazy, is the truth, and a crazy man can shoot off his mouth without knowing it and ruin all your good plans.”

Then you're better off not working here,” Sylvia said. “And don't worry about your mind. For this job we need muscle, not brains, and looking and acting like a lunatic will even be an asset. You see, we've gone into the loan business with most of the theater money you got for us, and our very best customer won't pay up.”

“And this guy's about the same height as the last one,” Georgie said, “but much older—more than seventy—besides being an out-and-out coward. He's a horseplayer, a real loser, and all you've got to do is talk tough, flash him your cold sparkling teeth and maybe give him a slight rabbit punch below the ears to show we haven't just hired a blowhard for the job. That should be all we need to get back our money with interest, and then we leave the loan business and move upstate to invest in and help run my brother's dairy.”

“As you can see, David,” Sylvia said, “we want to get out of the rackets as much as you. We're getting on in years and just want to lead a simple country life again and not always be rattled by thoughts of policemen at our door. But we can't go unless Abe Goff pays us back what he owes. So come on: Do we have to be spiteful and tell your boss you spit in our teas and later tip off the police about your last theft? You know, that movie-house manager said in the papers he'd recognize your face even in his afterlife.”

David knew damn well what the manager had told the papers. At least ten times he'd read the article about the night the man got held up, had the movie receipts stolen and his wallet, ring, five-hundred dollar watch and three-hundred dollar cufflinks taken from him after he'd been beaten unconscious. He wasn't sure how eager the manager would be to recognize him, since he must have collected a bundle of money from his insurance company for his own personal loss, but David still couldn't take the chance. He wasn't, though, about to give in to the Peartrees so easily as he felt he had always done, so he begged them in a sickly voice: “Listen. You've got to find another patsy. I'm hopeless. As I said: in the worst physical and mental shape of my life.”

“College life has ruined you,” Sylvia said. “Made you soft, parasitic, vulnerable and a little stupid, which for us is a perfect setup. Besides, you're obliged to us up to your neck. So now, do I start by phoning your boss,” whose home phone number she waved in front of him, “or do you leave this place for good tonight and do what we say?”

The following night, David went into Abe Goff's cleaning store, shortly before closing time. Abe, another little guy, had photographs of victorious racehorses and mud-caked grinning jockeys hanging around the room, and on top of the cash register a shiny bronze of Man o' War. He seemed annoyed that a customer had come so late, but quickly gave David his most accommodating professional smile and said “So, what can I do for you, young man? Suit, coat, shirts, two pairs of pants with the cuffs removed? Let me guess. Old Abe's the best guesser you ever seen. Your girlfriend's yellow mohair G-string that she had French-cleaned? You come for that? Well, no tickly, no stringy, friend, so let's have it,” and he stuck out his hand for David's cleaning ticket.

David didn't say anything more than he'd been instructed to. This is from the Altruistic Loan Company,” he said, with a face—without any effort at all—empty of emotion and hard. Then he grabbed Abe by the neck with one hand, punched him twice in his surprised but still accommodating face with the other hand and, when Abe was on the floor, moaning, coughing, pointing feebly to what he muttered was a bum ticker, kicked him in the chin and heard a bone crack, though he'd aimed for his shoulder. Then he fled to the street, past a screaming woman carrying clothes to be cleaned, and around the corner to where his car was parked. His instructions were to drive to his cabin and wait there till they contacted him. But he drove to their home and continued to bang on the door till Sylvia let him in with a remark that alluded to his unique idiocy. He brushed past her and searched through a few cabinets till he came up with an unopened bottle of Scotch. He had downed three quick drinks from the bottle by the time Georgie, in his pajamas and yawning, dragged himself downstairs.

“We've created a Frankenstein,” Sylvia said, pointing at David, who was now filling up a tumbler of Scotch.

“I nearly killed a man tonight,” David said, drinking up. “I've had it with you both, which is what I came here to tell you.”

“So who's asking you for more favors?” Sylvia said. “Go home, sleep it off. Even take that cheap bottle of Scotch, if you want.”

“I can't go home. They'll find me. I've been recognized, I've got to stay here—just until you get your money from Goff and I my money from you—and then I'll be heading East and out of your way for good.”

“You're heading nowhere but home, and you're never going East. You're into us plenty. Even Abe the cleaner will testify on our behalf. He knows the rules of this game, which is just another thing you're too damn smart to be aware of. Now, enough. Your college security is gone, so realize that. It was an illusion, anyway, for you haven't the heart and mind for the good academic life, as you do for our kind of work. Be satisfied you've the makings of a fairly competent criminal with a financially secure future, and you'll feel much better with your lot,” and she headed upstairs. “Lock up after you get him to leave, Georgie, love.”

Georgie didn't like the prospect of that. Stepping back and smiling amiably, he said “Come on, son, go home peaceably. We don't aim for no rough stuff.”

“Why not?” David said, stumbling forward drunkenly. “Get rough. Throw me out, you skinny wreck. I'm as crafty as the two of you now and surely as mean.” He slapped him—not a hard slap, as he felt a little sorry for the sickly guy—but Georgie's reaction to it was as if he'd received a powerful blow to the face. “See what you created?” David said. “A monster of Frankenstein's, rather than the doctor himself.” He slapped him again, this time so hard that Georgie fell back for real and nearly toppled over. “See what you made me do, Georgie boy? I was just a mild-mannered relatively honest thief when you first met me—but small-time, barely out of my diapers. Now I'm some tough goon full of rage and violence, perhaps even a possible killer.” It was obvious Georgie sensed something bad was coming. He stepped back but was too slow and David's foot caught him in the groin. He fell to the floor, clutching himself, and David pounced on him, howling like a wild man and tearing at Georgie's thin hair. Then he turned him over on his back and began slapping his face with both hands so fast that they became one whirring motion in the air.

Sylvia, running and screaming hysterically all the way from her bedroom upstairs, leaped on David's back and tried to pry him off Georgie. “Let go of him, you big boob. Let go or you'll kill him,” and she scratched and punched David from behind till he rolled over in a semifaint and lay face up on the floor, peering at their crystal chandelier, when she slammed a heavy ashtray on his head.

He remained on the floor, pretending to be unconscious. Through a slight parting of his eyelids, he saw Georgie sit up and take a Scotch on rocks from her as he whispered if she was going to call the police as she had said.

“Not the police, but the unemployment office you can bet on it. You want him to get away with what he did to us?”

Georgie shook his head and drank.

“And if he is so dumb as to blab on us,” she said, wiping his face with a towel and running her hand through his hair, “we'll say ‘Sure, we know that horrible young man. Met him at the state office building myself and tried to mend his ways and lead him back to the Lord's path. Then we saw the Devil was hopelessly inside him, laughing at us, besides Mr. Knopps' being one incorrigible pathological liar himself.'”

“But who we going to have work for us?” Georgie said. “Even if Abe coughs up, we won't have enough money for long, and I'm in no condition now to find a job.”

“A woman. Women are more dependable and gullible, carry out orders better and take more guff. And there's a lot less chance they're potential maniacs and killers, as so many of these overpressured students seem to be.”

“Make her a blonde,” Georgie said. They're always prettier and get away with more, and they're weaker in spirit, I read someplace.”

“And this one I'll find at the city art museum. We want a cultured one. I'll put on my old lady's costume, Grandma Moses mask and go up to some starry-eyed single girl and make small talk about beautiful paintings and such. Then I'll bring up somehow all the antique jewelry I have, that being the rage among girl intellectuals and artistes these days, and say how I don't need it, my being old and not so attractive anymore, and it would be a sin to sell it, since it was actually given to me and I don't like profiting from anything I got for free. And once she comes to the house, I'll give her the jewelry, you'll take a nice photo of us, just to prove she was here, and then I'll contact her and say that unless she does us a small favor, I'm calling the police to report she stole the jewelry from me. I'm sure a beautiful young woman will be able to do a job for us that five Davids couldn't carry out.”

“Ten Davids,” Georgie said. “Twenty Davids, even. Now you're using your brains, sweet. Now we're really going to hustle us up a pile of cash.” He told her to pour herself a Scotch and then raised his glass for a toast. “To beautiful young women,” he said.

“To beautiful young women,” she answered, “and no more brilliant young men,” and they clinked glasses, gulped down their drinks and, laughing and giggling excitedly, poured themselves another.

David stood up, feeling the bump on his head, where she'd hit him with the ashtray, and with his handkerchief, wiped the back of his neck, which she'd opened up with her two-inch fingernails. The Peartrees kept on drinking and laughing, giving no indication they knew he was still in the room. He grabbed the bottle of Scotch away from Sylvia, guzzled straight from it, and yelled “Bastards, hypocrites, swindlers, animals. You'll never get away with your new scheme—not in a dozen years,” but Sylvia only cupped her free hand to her ear, asked Georgie if he recognized the kind of bird that was cooing from the tree outside the loggia window, and pulled out an unopened bottle from the case of Scotch underneath the couch and poured them each another.

David left the house with the Scotch under his arm and drove away. He didn't know where he was going, except to first pick up some documents and papers and a few books and clothes at home. He was free of them, though—that he could tell and that was the important thing. The loss of his job and their seven hundred dollars, his possible imprisonment and dreamlike academic future, didn't mean much to him anymore. His security was an illusion as Sylvia had said. Though maybe some university in Paris or London would take him in with a criminal record or even if he was still wanted by the police in his own country. They do weird things in Europe, like give their top literary prizes to known murderers and bank robbers, so he didn't know. So, good, that was where he was going, if he could somehow find the means to get there and stay alive till he does.

Night. Blooming night. Bleeding night. Here it is. On him again. Dusk to dark. He has to do something quick. Pulls down the shades. Even with his lights. In his room. In every room and every place in his rooms. Under the covers. Inside the closed closets. Behind his book. Can't escape it. It's still out there. Where? Turn around. Who? He. What? Night. Don't you see? Everywhere night. Damn you, night. Another damn night. Dark. Stars. Moon. Moons. Galaxy and clouds. Meteorites. All that. Can't stand that. Enough.

He goes upstairs. Climbs flight after flight. First he left his apartment. He reaches the roof. Door locked. Damn door to the roof locked. Padlocked. Hates that kind of lock. That lock's not legal by city law. Read that some place. Could turn this walkup into a firetrap. Landlord, you've done something illegal. Lots. But this? Why this lock at this time and place? He walks down flight after flight of stairs.

He goes outside. First he passed his apartment. It's a city street. So a city block. Row of attached brownstones on both sides of the block. Avenue up the block and avenue down. He's lived on this sidestreet for years. A typical city sidestreet. Typical for this city, he means. Twenty-five to thirty five-story buildings to a side. A ten-to twenty-story apartment house at all four ends. Parked cars. No parking spaces. Manholes and streetlamps. One to two people walking on the sidewalk on each side. He goes into the next building's vestibule. Door to the building's interior is locked. He rings all the tenants' bells on the mailbox. One person says “Ruth?”

“Yes,” he says.

That's not Ruth. Go away.”

Click. She's gone.

Another answers back on the intercom “Who's there?”

“Delivery.”

“Delivery, hell. I'm not expecting anything.”

“I mean special delivery. Mail.”

“My eye. I'm calling the police.”

“Do.”

“I will.” Click.

He goes into the next building's vestibule. That door to the interior's also locked. He rings several tenants' bells. One person ticks back without asking who's there.

He walks up flight after flight of stairs. Five to be exact. Five's a lot. He reaches the roof. No padlock. Good landlord. Just a hook. He unhooks. Landlord who obeys city laws. He bets the tenants here even get hot water and heat on wintry days. And a fuse box that can be found and windows that don't fall out as one of his did this year. For three days he waited for the windowman to come. The landlord said he'd called for one. When the windowman didn't come, he put in the window himself. Windy three days. Learned something though. How to put in a window. He asked the hardware store man how. The man didn't know but gave him the phone number of a windowman. The windowman said measure your window frame, get glass cut quarter-inch shorter than what you measured on all four sides, get glazier points and a cold or brick chisel, and you got it made. A paint scraper will do to push in the points, the windowman said. The windowman was right. It worked. A window. That didn't rattle or fall out. But now he's on the roof. Night. No stars or moon. City. Lights of this city. Other apartments. People cleaning, cooking, talking, watching television, playing, making love. Night not so dark because of the city. But what did he come up here for? Answer that. Who? He. Had a purpose. What? To destroy night. To forget night. No. He doesn't know. Yes he does. He came up. Why? To look at night. No. Came up. He came up. To what? To somehow efface night. Erase night. Which? Both. But how? He had a theory. Not a theory. A solution. He had something. Now nothing. Night again. That's it. He had a theory of a solution he would try out up here tonight. He'd yell. That's what he was going to do. Yell. Just yell. Yell away night. So he yells.

“Night. Damn stinking night. Smelly night. Here again, night. For what? That's what I'm asking. Why? Why you damn night? Damn starless night. Damn darkness. Damn whatever you are and look like. For what? I'm asking. Me. My name. My history. My present. Everything. Why? Why night? Why day? No. Just night. Day I can take. But night. Why do you come and always come and never stop coming and stay for as long as you stay? Answer me that. I want an answer. Why do you come and come and so often? Every day around here, which is often. Too often. Damn often. Night. Damn you, night. I detest you, night. Can't stand you, night. You depress me. I'm depressed by you. Night's depressing. You are. I get. And sick by you. Your darkness, Your length and stars and starlessness. Your moons and no moons and meteorites. This nothing to do almost but but sleep and read at night. Night. Why night? I used to love you so, night. If not love than tolerate you, night. But now? Not now, night. You miserable night. Why these miserable nights? Why this night? These nights. Nights. Night? Damn you, do something, night. I can't stand another night of you always being around me, night. Of your always sure to be there night after night. Of another sultry night. Any kind of night. So do something, go somewhere, I'm ordering you to, night, night, night.”

But no use. It's still there. Moon even comes up. He goes downstairs. First he puts the door hook back in its eye. Then he goes downstairs. Flight after flight.