off for a few hours of surf fishing anytime I wanted. It was a great buy—for a healthy joker.
I stood outside the hotel for a while. It was a bit cooler.
I walked over to Broadway, stared at all the cheap gaudy lights, the hicks—from out of town and in town—walking up and down the Stem, enjoying all this phony sparkle, the tough kids in jeans and black leather windbreakers who needed a belt in the slats—or something to do. At one time Broadway used to give me a bang, now it looked like a freak show.
I stopped and had a couple of hot dogs, a coconut drink, then walked uptown. I kept looking around like a stranger, feeling terribly dramatic and sorry for myself—and knowing I was enjoying every second of it. It was like there were two of me—one guy saying, “Look around, get a full whiff of this.” And the other saying, “Cut it, there's nothing left but to go to the hotel room, take the sleeping pills and you've had it.”
I stared into each passing face, hoping I'd see somebody I knew. Maybe a jerk from the army, a... I suddenly remembered Art. At least I ought to call him. I reached him at his home and he started bawling me out, adding, “He'll soak you double now for missing your appointment. What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“I've been calling you at your hotel but...”
“Thanks for being interested. Art, but I'm not going to that specialist.”
“You're not? What do you mean by that?”
“I've become a Christian Scientist— I'm not going to let any doc monkey with my belly.”
“You must be crocked. Listen to me, Marty, this isn't anything to clown about. I advise you to...”
I tried to laugh. “Why not clown about it, Art? Told me yourself it was nothing to worry about. Tumor-shumor. Look, kid, don't worry about me. I'm taking care of it another way.”
“Have you been to another doctor?”
“No, you're my doctor. I'm trying an old-fashioned remedy. Thanks for everything, Art. And don't worry about me.”
“Marty, stop acting like a thick-headed ...”
I hung up, bought a paper and took a cab uptown. It gave me a queer feeling to realize I wouldn't need the sixty-odd bucks I had in my wallet, could throw them out the window if I wanted.
There wasn't much in the paper. They had already started the life story of Cocky Anderson, and some broad had come forward and said she was his wife and they had a baby boy. There was a picture of a plain-faced woman named Pollard who had backed her husband against a wall—with a Chewy. Somehow her face looked familiar and I read the whole piece. They'd had a spat and he'd run to her mother's—he was one guy who was on the best of terms with his mother-in-law. Mrs. Pollard was driving by when she saw him leaving and he tried to duck into the driveway, so she wouldn't see him. She swung the Chewy into the driveway and chased him down to the dead-end wall of the garage door. She said she didn't know “why I did it. But I feel relieved now.”
Her face still looked like somebody I knew, but I couldn't place it. I looked through the paper to see if they'd caught Mr. Mudd, the amateur stick-up artist, but he'd faded from the news.
There was a column about past baseball greats who hadn't made the Hall of Fame and an editorial about crime followed by another hash about New York City gangsters lolling around Miami. Bochio's alibi was perfect. Not only did he claim he'd been in his hotel room for two weeks, but the Miami police had a two-man guard on his room twenty-four hours a day during those weeks.
Several minor hoods had been picked up and questioned. There was the usual statement from Homicide about “waiting for a break in the case... any hour now...”
I turned back and looked at the snap of Mrs. Pollard. She had nice eyes. Had they looked so nice when she was bearing down on hubby with the Chewy?
We reached the hotel and I gave the cabbie a dime tip, wondered why I didn't hand him all my dough, or at least a buck.
Up in my room I undressed to my shorts, lit a cigarette, and decided there wasn't any point in horsing around. I dropped all the pills but two into a glass of water, hoped they wouldn't have a bad taste.
I never found out.
For an hour I sweated as I tried to lift that little glass to my mouth, but it was like a great weight—I couldn't get it off the table. It was exactly like with the gun, when I didn't have the strength to squeeze the trigger. I moved my arms, my hands, but not when they were holding the glass. I strained and I sweated and cried with shame, yet nothing helped—I didn't have the guts to take my life.
I couldn't understand it; I'd never lacked the old moxie before. Even in the ring, when I started going against some of the real pros, the dancing masters, who cut and hacked at me for ten rounds while I kept moving in, waiting for one shot—even then when I knew I was outclassed and being stupid-brave, still I had the guts to keep going.
I tried and tried lifting the glass, then I finally knocked it over trying to lift it with my teeth, and my muscles loosened up. I sat down, staring at the wet spot on the rug for a long time, thinking of nothing, of everything. I could practically see my arms bone thin as a doc hunted for a spot to stick the intravenous-feeding needle.
I stared at the rug so long I got a bit slappy; I suddenly saw Mrs. DeCosta screaming at me, heard the shrill “You thug with a badge!” I saw the blood streaming from her nose, a tiny pink trickle.
Closing my eyes made her go away, and then I had the runs and forgot about everything. I was sweating pretty badly and was very weak as I sat on the side of the bed and smoked a butt—for three puffs. As a kind of experiment I took a single pill and was able to swallow that. However when I started reaching for the second one, the last one, my arm wouldn't move. It was so damn uncanny I nearly started praying.
The one pill didn't do a thing but put me in a sort of daze—and I had a head start on that. I stretched out on the bed and wasn't asleep, at least I don't think I was. I stared up at the darkness and for no reason lazily ran through my life.
Right from Mom's funeral, and her looking so cold and different in the cheap casket, so different from the way she was gay and full of jokes in our room. Then moving in with Aunt May, and all the times I ran away from that silly old bitch with her big house and a million rules about “Don't do that!” She meant well, I guess, but an old-maid bitch is the worst kind. And the three years in the “home.” Some home! I was more muscular than the average ten-year-old and I learned two things in the home. Many times a day I found out I was a bastard—till I teed off on a big kid—and also learned I could punch.
On the TV screen that was my mind I saw the semi-pro sand-lot football games, how I lived all week on the ten or fifteen bucks I made as a tackle—if we won. The bootleg boxing bouts when a carload of us “amateurs” would tour in a battered heap from New York to Albany, Utica, Buffalo, Toronto, Montreal, Binghamton—fighting each night under a phony name, returning to New York with a hundred bucks or more in our pockets, sure we owned the world.
Suddenly the girls passed on the screen of my brain—the first one I went with, up in Syracuse, and I was older than I should have been. Then all the other babes—blurred faces and figures. If I had left the gals alone I might have got someplace in the ring. I was a lot like Tony Galento in build and style. But that's slop, I was always an alley fighter—ring rules bothered my style, slowed me to a walk.
The crazy thing was, the next thing I knew I was sitting up in bed, as if an alarm clock had gone off. I felt rested and full of pep. The room gave me the spooks. I showered and cleaned out my mouth. It was only 4:30 a.m. when I tossed my key at the sleepy desk clerk he asked, “Leaving so early?” as he dived for the registration card.
“Don't worry, I'm paid—for two days. I'm done with the room. Use it for a crap game if you like.”
I walked down to Ninety-sixth Street and took the subway. The hot, stale air of the train took away my good mood. There was a creepy-looking case sitting opposite me—looked like a junkie. I sat down and pretended I was sleeping. I'd read where these punks often knifed a drunk as they rolled him.
I sat there waiting, watching, wondering if I'd try to stop the knife, like I did the pills and the gun. Then I was full of this cold fear that I wouldn't be able to die soon enough, would end up a lingering corpse in a hospital.
We were alone most of the time, but my creep didn't move. At my station I got off, feeling kind of childish, and walked over to the Grover. It was a little after five.
When Dewey saw me he asked in a whisper, “Where the hell you been?” He didn't sound like he'd been sleeping much, looked more red-eyed than usual.
“On the town, having a gay old time.”
“Jeez, whole damn town's been looking for you. That Doc Dupre has been calling all night. Then the cops been calling you, a Lieutenant Ash. And she's been waiting for you most of the evening.”
I followed his skinny, shaking finger, saw Dot curled up in one of the leather chairs. She wasn't asleep; her eyes were big and tired. She looked about the same, small and plump. And her clothes were still the kind of rags she had to wear because it was against the law to go nude. Style and sharp dressing were things Dot never bothered with.
As I walked toward her I saw the eyes were puffed from crying. Curled up, she looked smaller than ever. I pulled a chair over, sat down. “What's wrong, Dot?”
“Lawrence was beaten up, badly. He may die.”
“What? the kid...? When?”'
“Late this—yesterday afternoon.” Her voice was almost lifeless, and she seemed in a state of shock. “He'd volunteered for duty and he was beaten up on his way to the station house.”
“Where is he now?”
“Emergency ward, St. Vincent's. Marty, you must help us.”
“All right. What does the kid need, blood?” Would they take mine when I told them about the cancer?
“They're taking care of him. That isn't it.
