“Where is he?”
“Do I still get the five dollars?”
“No,” I said, “now you get my best wishes. You want to lose that?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Then don’t play me. Where is he, you toad?”
“He’s up in room fifty-two, on the fifth floor.”
“Spare key?”
He nodded at a rack of them. The keys were on nails and they all had little wooden pegs on the rings with the keys. Numbers were painted on the pegs. I found one that said 52, took it off the rack.
I said, “You better not be messing with me.”
“I ain’t. He’s up there. He don’t never come down. He’s been up there a week. He makes noise up there. I don’t like it. I run a respectable place.”
“Yeah, it’s really nice here. And you better not be jerking me.”
“I ain’t. I promise.”
“Good. And, let me give you a tip. Take a bath. And get that shit out of your hair. And those teeth you got ain’t looking too good. Pull them. And shoot that fucking cat, or at least get him some place better than the kitchen to piss. It stinks like a toilet in there.”
I walked out from behind the desk, out in the hall, and up the flight of stairs in a hurry.
I RUSHED ALONG THE HALLWAY ON THE FIFTH FLOOR. IT WAS COVERED IN white linoleum with a gold pattern in it; it creaked and cracked as I walked along. The end of the hall had a window, and there was a stairwell on that end too. Room 52 was right across from it.
I heard movement on the far end of the stairs. I had an idea what that was all about. About that time, two of the boys I’d seen on the street showed themselves at the top of the stairs, all decked out in their nice hats and such, grinning.
One of them was about the size of a Cadillac, with a gold tooth that shone bright when he smiled. The guy behind him was skinny with his hand in his pocket.
I said, “Well, if it isn’t the pimp squad.”
“You funny, nigger,” said the big man.
“Yeah, well, catch the act now. I’m going to be moving to a new locale.”
“You bet you are,” said the big man.
“Fat-ass behind the glass down there, he ain’t paying you enough to mess with me,” I said.
“Sometimes, cause we’re bored, we just like messin’.”
“Say you do?”
“Uh-huh,” said the skinny one.
It was then I seen the skinny guy pull a razor out of his pocket. I had one too, but razor work, it’s nasty. He kept it closed.
Big guy with the gold tooth flexed his fingers and made a fist. That made me figure he didn’t have a gun or a razor; or maybe he just liked hitting people. I know I did.
They come along toward me then, and the skinny one with the razor flicked it open. I pulled the .45 out from under my coat, said, “You ought to put that back in your pocket,” I said, “save it for shaving.”
“Oh, I’m fixing to do some shaving right now,” he said.
I pointed the .45 at him.
The big man said, “That’s one gun for two men.”
“It is,” I said, “but I’m real quick with it. And frankly, I know one of you is gonna end up dead. I just ain’t sure which one right yet.”
“All right then,” said the big man, smiling. “That’ll be enough.” He looked back at the skinny man with the razor. The skinny man put the razor back in his coat pocket and they turned and started down the stairs.
I went over and stood by the stairway and listened. I could hear them walking down, but then all of a sudden, they stopped on the stairs. That was the way I had it figured.
Then I could hear the morons rushing back up. They weren’t near as sneaky as they thought they was. The big one was first out of the chute, so to speak; come rushing out of the stairwell and onto the landing. I brought the butt of the .45 down on the back of his head, right where the skull slopes down. He did a kind of frog hop and bounced across the hall and hit his head on the wall, and went down and laid there like his intent all along had been a quick leap and a nap.
Then the other one was there, and he had the razor. He flicked it, and then he saw the .45 in my hand.
“Where did you think this gun was gonna go?” I said. “On vacation?”
I kicked him in the groin hard enough he dropped the razor and went to his knees. I put the .45 back where I got it. I said, “You want some, man?”
He got up and come at me. I hit him with a right and knocked him clean through the window behind him. Glass sprinkled all over the hallway.
I went over and looked out. He was lying on the fire escape, his head against the railing. He looked right at me.
“You crazy, cocksucker. What if there hadn’t been no fire escape?”
“You’d have your ass punched into the bricks. Still might.”
He got up quick and clamored down the fire escape like a squirrel. I watched him till he got to the ground and went limping away down the alley between some overturned trash cans and a slinking dog.
I picked up his razor and put it in my pocket with the one I already had, then walked over and kicked the big man in the head just because I could.
I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. NO ONE ANSWERED. I COULD HEAR SOUNDS FROM inside. It was similar to what I had heard on that record, but not quite, and it was faint, as if coming from a distance.
No one answered my knock, so I stuck the key in the door and opened it and went straight away inside.
I almost lost my breath when I did.
The air in the room was thick and it stunk of mildew and rot and things long dead. It made those boiled pigs’ feet and that pissing cat and that rottentooth bastard downstairs smell like perfume.
Tootie was lying on the bed, on his back. His eyes were closed. He was a guy usually dressed to the top, baby, but his shirt was wrinkled and dirty and sweaty at the neck and armpits. His pants were nasty too. He had on his shoes, but no socks. He looked like someone had set him on fire and then beat out the flames with a two-by- four. His face was like a skull, he had lost so much flesh, and he was as bony under his clothes as a skeleton.
Where his hands lay on the sheet, there were bloodstains. His guitar was next to the bed, and there were stacks and stacks of composition notebooks lying on the floor. A couple of them were open and filled with writing. Hell, I didn’t even know Tootie could write.
The wall on the far side was marked up in black and red paint; there were all manner of musical notes drawn on it, along with symbols I had never seen before; swiggles and circles and stick figure drawings. Blood was on the wall too, most likely from Tootie’s bleeding fingers. Two open paint cans, the red and the black, were on the floor with brushes stuck up in them. Paint was splattered on the floor and had dried in humped-up blisters. The guitar had bloodstains all over it.
A record player, plugged in, sitting on a nightstand by the bed, was playing that strange music. I went to it right away and picked up the needle and set it aside. And let me tell you, just making my way across the room to get hold of the player was like wading through mud with my ankles tied together. It seemed to me as I got closer to the record, the louder it got, and the more ill I felt. My head throbbed. My heart pounded.
When I had the needle up and the music off, I went over and touched Tootie. He didn’t move, but I could see his chest rising and falling. Except for his hands, he didn’t seem hurt. He was in a deep sleep. I picked up his right hand and turned it over and looked at it. The fingers were cut deep, like someone had taken a razor to the tips. Right off, I figured that was from playing his guitar. Struck me, that to get the sounds he got out of it, he really had to dig in with those fingers. And from the looks of this room, he had been at it nonstop, until recent.
I shook him. His eyes fluttered and finally opened. They were bloodshot and had dark circles around them.
