Legs

you brush your teeth by yourself anymore. A long time ago, all that; and Fogarty finally got well. And met Jack. And did he then make up for those months in bed doing nothing? Ahhhhhh.

* * *

'So you think The Goose is back?' Jack said.

'Who else'?'

'Maybe you're right. But maybe it was just a one-eyed tourist. Tourists always asking about me. '

'You want to take that chance?'

'Not with The Goose. He'll find a way if he's up here. I should stay away from the window.'

'You been going out?'

'No, just sticking close here. But we'll go out now.'

'Take me with you,' Kiki said. She was alone on the couch, knees visible, no stockings, slippers on. But sweeeet lover, did she look good to the Speeder.

'No,' said Jack. 'You stay home.'

'I don't want to be here alone.'

'I'll call the neighbor.'

'That old cow, I don't want her here.'

'She'll be company. We won't be long.'

'Where you going?'

'Down the road, make some calls, then we'll be back.'

'You'll be out all night.'

'Marion, you're a pain in the ass.'

'I'm going back to Chicago.'

'That show closed.'

'You think that show is the only offer I got out there?'

'You can't come with us. I'll bring home spaghetti.'

'I want to do something.'

'We'll do something when I get back. We'll eat spaghetti.'

'I want to hear some music.'

'Turn on the radio. Put on a record.'

'Oh, shit, Jack. Shit, shit, shit.'

'That's better. Have a sherry.'

Fogarty finished his double rye and Jack swigged the last of his coffee royal, and they went out the back door. Jack stopped, said, 'We'll take your car. Nobody'd look for me in that jalop.'

'Nobody looking for me at all?'

'Not yet, but that don't mean they won't be out with a posse tomorrow. They'll get to you, all right, but tonight you're a free citizen. Take it from me, and Marcus. He's down at the Saulpaugh while this stuff is going on. We talked before you got here. Joe, I'm glad you came down.'

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. The old jalop was wheezing along. Fogarty smiled, remembered his plan to break with Jack. What a crazy idea.

Jack had taken a rifle from the hall closet, loaded it with dum-dums, and thrown it on the back seat. He wouldn't carry a pistol with all the heat on. He'd also put on his gray topcoat, fedora, and maroon tie with a black pearl tie tack. Fogarty, you bum, you wore a linty black sweater and those baggy slacks you slept in all week.

'It's like a dog race,' Jack said.

'What is?' Fogarty asked, thinking immediately of himself as a dog.

'This thing. I'm the rabbit. And who'll get it first?'

'Nobody gets those rabbits. The dogs always come up empty.'

'The feds are coming into it. The state, all the goddamn cops in the East, Biondo and his guinea friends, Charlie Lucky's pals, and now maybe Murray out there, driving around, trying to make a plan. The good thing about Murray is he can never figure out how to get near anybody. Once he gets near you, so long. But unless you figured it out for him, he could think all month without getting the idea to maybe ring the doorbell.'

'Maybe you ought to get away from here.'

'They're all keeping track of me. Let's see what news we come up with. Hey, you're heating up.'

The temperature gauge was near two twenty when they pulled into the parking lot at Jimmy Wynne's Aratoga Inn on the Acra-Catskill Road. Fogarty unscrewed the radiator cap and let it breathe and blow, and then they went inside, Fogarty with his two pistols Jack didn't even know he had. Fogarty was ready for Murray, who was absent from the gathering of twelve at the bar. It was quiet, the musicians on a break. Fogarty asked Dick Fegan, the bartender, bald at twenty-five, if he'd seen Murray. Fegan said he hadn't seen Murray in months, and Jack went for the telephone.

Fogarty dumped four quarts of water into the car radiator and went back in to find Jack off the phone with a Vichy water in front of him, talking about heavyweights to the clarinet player.

Heavyweights. 'I lost seven grand on Loughran,' Jack was saying. 'I thought he was the best, gave seven to five, and he didn't last three rounds. Sharkey murdered him. He says, 'Let me sit down, I don't know where I am,' and then he tried to walk through the ropes. Last time I ever bet on anybody from Philadelphia.' Jack will talk to anybody about anything, anytime. Why shouldn't people like him?

'Seven grand,' said the clarinet player.

'Yeah, I was crazy.'

It seemed like a slip, Jack mentioning money. He never got specific about that, so why now? Must be nervous. Jack went back to the phone and made another call.

'He said he lost seven grand on one tight,' the clarinetist said to Fogarty.

'Probably did. He always spent.'

'But no more, eh?'

It sounded to Fogarty like a line at a wake. That man in the coffin is dead. Fogarty didn't like the feeling he got from shifting from that thought to a thought about Murray walking in the door. But Murray would have to come through the inn's glassed-in porch. Plenty of time to see him. What made Fogarty think he'd pick the one spot in the mountains where Jack happened to be at this odd moment? Did he think maybe he followed the car? Or that he'd been waiting near here for Jack to show up?

'He's probably still got a few dollars in his pocket,' Fogarty said to the clarinetist.

'I wouldn't doubt that.'

'You sounded like you did. '

'No, not at all.'

'You sounded like you were saying he's a has-been.'

'You got me wrong. I didn't mean that at all. Listen, that's not what I meant. Dick, give us a drink here. I was just asking a question. Hell, Jesus, it was just a goddamn silly question.'

'I get you now,' Fogarty said.

Wasn't it funny how fast Fogarty could turn somebody's head around? Power in the word. In any word from Fogarty. In the way people looked at him. But it was changing. Maybe you wouldn't think so, sitting here at the Aratoga, and Jack being respected and Fogarty being respected, with maybe that hint of new tension in the air. But it definitely was changing. Little signs: Jack's living room being different, messy, papers on the floor, the chairs not where they used to be. Authority slipping away from Fogarty, authority that he knew Jack well, could talk all about him, talk for him. Dirty dishes on the dining room table. Picture of Eddie on the coffee table never there before, which meant something Fogarty didn't understand. The parties at Jack's; they were over too, at least for now. Even priests used to come. Neighbors, sometimes a cop or a judge from the city, actors and musicians and so many beautiful women. Women liked Jack and the feeling rubbed off to the benefit of Jack's friends. Jack the pivot man at every party. Funny son of a bitch when he gets a few drinks in. Fogarty couldn't remember one funny joke Jack ever told, but all his stories were funny. Just the way he used his voice. Yes. The story about Murray shooting the wrong man. Split your gut listening to Jack tell it. A good singing voice, too. Second tenor. Loves barbershop. 'My Mother's Rosary.' A great swipe in the middle of that. One of Jack's favorites.