Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

strangely she had behaved—and I could still feel her hand fumbling in my fly.

«You don't seem to be all there,» he said. «I thought writers were quick on the trigger, always there with the bright repartee. What's the matter— don't you want to be sociable? Maybe you don't like my mug? Listens—and he laid his heavy hand on my arm—«get this straight... I'm your friend, see! I want to have a talk with you. You're going to tell me things... all the things I don't know. You're going to wise me up. Maybe I won't get it all at once, but I'm going to listen. We're not going to leave here until we get this settled, see what I mean?» With this he gave me one of those strange Irish smiles, a melange of warmth, sincerity, perplexity and violence. It meant that he was going to get what he wanted out of me or lay me out flat. For some inexplicable reason he was convinced that I had something which he sorely needed, some clue to the riddle of life, which, even if he couldn't grasp it entirely, would serve him in good stead.

By this time I was almost in a panic. It was precisely the sort of situation that I am incapable of dealing with. I could have murdered the bastard in cold blood.

A mental uppercut, that's what he wanted of me. He was tired of beating the piss out of the other fellow—he wanted some one to go to work on him.

I decided to go at it directly, to deflate him with one piercing lunge and then trust to my wits.

«You want me to talk frankly, is that it?» I gave him an ingenuous smile.

«Sure, sure,» he retorted. «Fire away! I can take it.»

«Well, to begin with,» says I, still offering the bland, reassuring smile, «you're just a louse and you know it. You're afraid of something, what it is I don't know yet, but we'll get to it. With me you pretend that you're a low- brow, a nobody, but to yourself you pretend that you're smart, a big shot, a tough guy. You're not afraid of a thing, are you? That's all shit and you know it. You're full of fear. You say you can take it. Take what? A sock in the jaw? Of course you can, with a cement mug like yours. But can you stand the truth?»

He gave me a hard, glittery smile. His face, violently flushed, indicated that he was doing his-utmost to control himself. He wanted to say «Yes, go on!» but the words choked him. He just nodded and turned on the electric smile.

«You've beaten up many a rat with your bare hands, haven't you? Somebody held the guy down and you went at him until he screamed blue murder. You wrung a confession out of him and then you dusted yourself off and poured a few drinks down your throat. He was a rat and he deserved what he got. But you're a bigger rat, and that's what's eating you up. You like to hurt people. You probably pulled the wings off flies when you were a kid. Somebody hurt you once and you can't forget it.» (I could feel him wince at this.) «You go to church regularly and you confess, but you don't tell the truth. You tell half-truths. You never tell the Father what a lousy stinking son of a bitch you really are. You tell him about your little sins. You never tell him what pleasure you get beating up defenceless guys who never did you any harm. And of course you always put a generous donation in the box. Hush money! As if that could quiet your conscience! Everybody says what a swell guy you are—except the poor bastards whom you track down and beat the piss out of. You tell yourself that it's your job, you have to be that way or else... It's hard for you to figure out just what else you could do if you ever lost your job, isn't that so? What assets have you? What do you know? What are you good for? Sure,. you might make a street- cleaner or a garbage collector, though I doubt that you have the guts for it. But you don't know anything useful, do you? You don't read, you don't associate with any but your own kind. Your sole interest is politics. Very important, politics! Never know when you may need a friend. Might murder the wrong guy some day, and then what? Why, then you'd want somebody to lie for you, somebody who'd go to the bat for you—some low-down worm like yourself who hasn't a shred of manhood or a spark or decency in him. And in return you'd do him a good turn some day—I mean you'd bump some one off some time, if he asked you to.»

I paused for just a second.

«If you really want to know what I think, I'd say you've murdered a dozen innocent guys already. I'd say that you've got a wad in your pocket that would choke a horse. I'd say that you've got something on your conscience— and you came here to drown it. I'd say that you know why those girls got up suddenly and ran across the street. I'd say that if we knew all about you you might be eligible for the electric chair...»

Completely out of breath, I stopped and mechanically rubbed my jaw, as if surprised to find it still intact. Monahan, unable to hold himself in any longer, burst out with an alarming guffaw.

«You're crazy,» he said, «crazy as a bedbug, but I like you. Go on, talk some more. Say the worst you know —I want to hear it.» And with that he called the waiter over and ordered another round. «You're right about one thing,» he added, «I have got a wad in my pocket. Want to see it?» He fished out a roll of greenbacks, flipped them under my nose, like a cardsharper. «Go on now, give it to me...!»

The sight of the money derailed me. My one thought was how to separate him from some of his ill-gained boodle.

«It was a bit crazy, all that stuff I just handed you,» I began, adopting another tone. «I'm surprised you didn't haul off and crack me. My nerves are on edge, I guess...»

«Don't have to tell me,» said Monahan.

I adopted a still more conciliatory tone. «Let me tell you something about myself,» I continued in an even voice, and in a few brief strokes I outlined my position in the Cosmodemonic skating rink, my relationship with O'Rourke, the company detective, my ambition to be a writer, my visits to the psychopathic ward, and so on. Just enough to let him know that I was not a dreamer. The mention of O'Rourke's name impressed him. O'Rourke's brother (as I well knew) was Monahan's boss and he stood in awe of him.

«And you pal around with O'Rourke?»

«He's a great friend of mine,» said I. «A man I respect. He's almost a father to me. I learned something about human nature from him. O'Rourke's a big man doing a small job. He belongs somewhere else, where I don't know. However, he seems satisfied to be where he is, though he's working himself to death. What galls me is that he isn't appreciated.»

I went on in this vein, extolling O'Rourke's virtues, indicating none too subtly the comparison between O'Rourke's methods and those of the ordinary flat-foot.

My words were producing the effect intended. Monahan was visibly wilting, softening like a sponge.

«You've got me wrong,» he finally burst out. «I've got as big a heart as the next guy, only I don't show it. You can't go around exposing yourself—not on this job. We ain't all like O'Rourke, I'll grant you, but we're human, b'Jesus! You're an idealist, that's what's the matter with you. You want perfection...» He gave me a strange look, mumbled to himself. Then he continued in a clear, calm voice: «The more you talk the more I like you. You've got something I once had. I was ashamed of it then... you know, afraid of being a sissy or something. Life hasn't spoiled you—that's what I like about you. You know what it's like and yet it doesn't make you sour or mean. You said some pretty nasty things a while back, and to tell you the truth, I was going to take a swing at you. Why didn't I? Because you weren't talking to me: you were aiming at all the guys like me who got off the track somewhere. You sound personal, but you ain't. You're talking to the world all the time. You should have been a preacher, do you realize that? You and O'Rourke, you're a good team. I mean it. We guys have a job to do and we don't get any fun out of it; you guys work for the pleasure of it. And what's more... well, never mind... Look, give me your hand...» He reached for my free hand and grasped it in a vice. «You see», (I winced as he applied the pressure) «I could squeeze your hand to a pulp. I wouldn't have to make a pass at you. I could just sit like this, talking to you, looking straight at you, and crush your hand to a pulp. That's the strength I have.»

He relaxed his grip and I withdrew my hand quickly. It felt numb, paralyzed.

«There's nothing to that, you see,» he went on. «That's dumb brute strength; you've got another kind of strength which I lack. You could make mince meat of me with that tongue of yours. You've got a brain.» He looked away, as if absent-minded. «How is your hand?» he said, dreamy-like. «I didn't hurt you, did I?»

I felt it with my other hand. It was limp and useless.

«It's all right, I guess.»

He looked me through and through, then laughingly he burst out: «I'm hungry. Let's eat something.»

We went downstairs and inspected the kitchen first. He wanted me to see how clean everything was: went about picking up carving knives and cleavers, holding them up to the light for me to examine and admire.

«I had to chop a guy down with one of these once.» He brandished a cleaver. «Split him in two, clean as a whistle.»

Taking my arm affectionately he led me back upstairs. «Henry,» says he, «we're going to be pals. You're