the Bar Studs) Page 18

  “Hey, bartender!” It was Melinda.

  He walked over. “Yeah?”

  “Gimme another one.”

  He took her empty glass, filled it, and placed it before her again. “Should I take the money like before?”

  “Sure.”

  He took two quarters, rang up the cash register, and returned with the fifteen cents change. He dropped the coins onto the bar and stared at her as she guzzled the wine.

  When she placed the glass on the bar it was half empty. “What the hell’s with you?” she asked.

  “I was just wonderin’ about somethin’.”

  “Well, go wonder someplace else.”

  “I was wonderin’ why you do it.” He pointed with his chin to her glass.

  “Don’t be a bigger ass than you already are.”

  “Why do you do it? You got smarts—you ain’t like the rest of the animals. I can’t understand why you do it.”

  “I hope it doesn’t keep you up at night.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Sure I know why. Because I like to be a lush.”

  “But you coulda been somebody.”

  “I’d rather be a lush. It’s easier.”

  “You’re nuts. Bums got it worse than anybody.”

  “It’s all misery no matter how you look at it, so what’s the difference?” She raised her head and looked down at him. “I know what’s in your little pea brain, jerk—don’t think I don’t. You’re feeling like a social worker and you want to rehabilitate me, right? You’re getting sentimental and you think you’d like to live with me in a little house with some little kids. Well, forget about it. I’ve had all that and I don’t want it again. You got any more questions?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you kill yourself and get it over with?”

  She laughed nastily. “Because I don’t have the guts. Hey—you really wanna do something for me? Why don’t you kill me? You’re the killer type if I ever saw it. Why don’t you take the gun you got in there and blow my brains out?”

  He turned away from her and walked to his Daily News and cold stew at the end of the bar. He felt hurt by the way she talked to him and he couldn’t understand why she hated him. He’d never done anything to her. He remembered how she looked that morning in his apartment, so clean and milky pure. He’d better forget about her. She was just a bum.

  * * *

  The doorman blew his whistle and waved his arm, and after several minutes an old Checker cab stopped in front of the apartment building where John Houlihan and Mr. Wilson were waiting in the doorway.

  “Let’s go,” said Mr. Wilson to a dubious John.

  John helped Mr. Wilson to the cab and into the back seat, and then got in himself. Mr. Wilson gave the doorman a coin, the doorman slammed shut the door, and the cabbie pulled slowly from the curb.

  “Take us down to Lexington Avenue where all the ladies of the night are,” Mr. Wilson told the cabbie.

  The cabbie was a skinny man with a long black beard, furtive eyes, and a gray peaked cap worn low over his eyes. “You mean where the hookers are?”

  “Exactly. By the way, what’s your name?”

  The cabbie pointed to his license on the dashboard. “Shumsky,” he replied.

  “A man in your profession must know the city very well, Mr. Shumsky,” Mr. Wilson said. “Do you by any chance know any of these ladies personally?”

  “No, sir. They’re all a little out of my price bracket.”

  “How much do they charge, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “About fifty bucks, I heard.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes to get off.”

  “How much do you think one of them might charge for three or four hours of work?”

  “I don’t know—you’ll have to ask them, but it’s going to cost you a lot of dough.”

  John sat in his corner of the back seat and watched East Side brownstones and apartment buildings pass the window. He saw dignified ladies watching their expensive dogs defecate in the street, lovers strolling arm in arm, and solitary gentlemen taking brisk walks. He would like to live here on the East Side.

  “Is venereal disease a problem with these girls?” Mr. Wilson asked Shumsky.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought cab drivers knew all about things like this.”

  “The ones who go with hookers do.”

  “You’re married, Mr. Shumsky?”

  “Not legally.”

  “A lady lives with you?”

  “I live with her.”

  Shumsky turned right on Lexington Avenue, ran a red light on the next corner, and roared downtown at a speed John thought alarming. Restaurants, art galleries, boutiques, and delicatessens passed in a blur. John held the strap beside him tightly, and Mr. Wilson rocked and bent as if his spine was liquid.

  “I have a special favor I have to ask of you, Mr. Shumsky,” Mr. Wilson said as he bobbed about. “I’d like you to wait for us while we’re hiring our lady of the night, because afterwards we’re all going someplace together.”

  “I’ll have to leave the meter running.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to work for nothing.”

  Shumsky locked in with the synchronized traffic light system and they rolled downtown through the Eighties, Seventies, and Sixties, then entering the Lexington Avenue shopping district that began with Bloomingdale’s. Next came Alexander’s, a jumble of boutiques, some florist shops, and several blocks later not far from Grand Central Station they saw their first prostitute, a black girl in a pink wig leaning against the wall of a Chase Manhattan Bank.

  “Slow down please, Mr. Shumsky,” Mr. Wilson ordered, peering through his wire-rimmed spectacles at the girl. “She looks a little on the fat side to me. What do you think, John?”

  “Donald doesn’t like black people very much.”

  “I see—well—keep going, Mr. Shumsky, but take it slow.”

  They glided downtown and saw increasing numbers of white and black girls in short dresses and gaudy wigs. All were under thirty and gathered in groups or dispersed singly on street corners, in doorways, or against buildings. When men passed they smiled, wiggled, and murmured something enticing. Bright street lamps shone down on them and gave the area a greenish glow.

  “Stop anywhere around here,” Mr. Wilson said. Shumsky braked and as the cab slowed down Mr. Wilson took his silver flask from his pocket. “Care for a little Jack Daniels before we hit the beach?” he asked John.

  “Please,” John replied, reaching for the flask. He took a swig that blazed through his innards, and passed the flask back to Mr. Wilson.

  “How about you, Mr. Shumsky?” Mr. Wilson asked.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You don’t drink?” Mr. Wilson blinked his eyes. “What do you do?”

  “I smoke dope.”

  “I see. Well, each to his own.” Mr. Wilson raised the flask to his lips and John saw his Adam’s apple bobble. Lowering the flask, Mr. Wilson screwed the top on and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Ready, John?”

  “I think so.” John was still a bit dubious about this enterprise.

  “Then all ashore that’s going ashore.”

  John opened the door and tumbled out onto the street. An onslaught of dizziness made him lean against the cab, and he felt nauseated and tired. A chill passed over him when he thought that possibly one of his steady customers from the Plaza might see him here propositioning prostitutes, but then he remembered that his steadiest customer had brought him here.

  Mr. Wilson grunted out of the cab, stretched, and looked around. “I see two likely-looking prospects right over there.” He pointed his long white finger to a young blonde and brunette standing beside the door of a closed restaurant halfway up the block.

  The alert girls saw them, stood on their tiptoes, and waved. John and Mr. Wilson sidestepped between two parked cars and made it to the sidewalk.

  “We’ll be right back, Mr. Shumsky!�
�� Mr. Wilson called behind him.

  To reach the two girls the men had to pass a congregation of black prostitutes in short dresses and ghastly wigs.

  “Hiya, fellers,” one of them said, snapping gum between her teeth. “Wanna have some fun?”

  “No thank you,” Mr. Wilson said.

  “Whatsa matter, can’t get it up?” The girl winked and put one hand on her hip.

  “I said no thank you,” Mr. Wilson repeated, shuffling along with his hands in the pockets of his chesterfield.

  “I’ll get it up for you real good,” the prostitute said. “I’ll make it whistle the star-spangled banana!”

  “Perhaps some other time,” Mr. Wilson said drily as he and John continued past them.

  Lights from bars illuminated the sidewalk and cars zoomed down Lexington Avenue. John looked up at the sky and saw between the skyscrapers a thin strip of gray infinity. The two white prostitutes smiled and swished about. The brunette wore a black cloth coat over her short dress and the blonde wore a coat of imitation white fur. Both had tight boots that reached their knees.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Mr. Wilson said, touching his fingers to the brim of his homburg.

  “Hiya,” said the blonde, licking her lips. “You boys wanna have some fun?”

  “Not exactly,” Mr. Wilson said. “Actually, we’re here to do somebody a favor.”

  The two girls looked at each other and made faces. “What kinda favor?” asked the blonde.

  “Well,” explained Mr. Wilson, “this gentleman’s son needs to have sexual intercourse and we’d like to bring one of you home to him.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” asked the brunette.

  “I’m completely serious.”

  John felt so embarrassed and self-conscious he wanted to run and hide under a parked car.

  “Why doesn’t the kid come down here himself?” the blonde asked John.

  “Because he lost both of his legs in the Viet Nam War.”

  The blonde grimaced. “Both of them?”

  “We’ll pay very well,” Mister Wilson said.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the Bronx near Fordham Road,” John replied.

  “Whataya think?” the blonde asked the brunette.

  “I ain’t goin’ up to the Bronx for nobody.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” Mr. Wilson said.

  “I ain’t goin’ to the Bronx.”

  “How about you?” Mr. Wilson asked the blonde.

  “It’ll cost you two hundred dollars,” she said, “because it’s probably gonna take most of the night. Take it or leave it.” She crossed her arms and looked over Mr. Wilson’s shoulder.

  “It’s a deal,” said Mr. Wilson.

  She looked surprised. “It is?”

  The brunette sucked a tooth. “I think you’re nuts. These two birds look a little funny to me.”

  The blonde shrugged. “I can’t say no to two hundred bucks.” She looked at Mr. Wilson. “How we gettin’ there?”

  “I have a cab waiting.” He made a fist and aimed his thumb behind him.

  “That Checker?”

  “Yes.”

  She narrowed one eye. “Is this kid’s face screwed up some way? I mean, has he got two eyes, a nose, and a mouth?”

  “Only his legs are gone,” John said.

  “Two hundred bucks?” she asked Mr. Wilson. “Cash?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I can’t say no to that.” She looked at the brunette. “Well, see ya later, Mae.”

  “If they try anything funny, holler for the cops.”

  “I’ll be okay.” The blonde stepped between Mr. Wilson and John and hooked her arms in theirs. “Let’s go take care of business, boys.”

  The three of them promenaded down Lexington Avenue to the cab.

  “What’s your name, my dear?” Mr. Wilson asked.

  “Gina.”

  “I’m Mr. Wilson, and this is Mr. Houlihan.”

  “Hiya.”

  “Hello.”

  “Aren’t you rather young for this sort of thing?” Mr. Wilson asked.

  “I’m twenty-two and that’s old enough to do anything. Aren’t you a little old for this kinda thing?”

  “One should never be too old to help someone in need.”

  She snorted. “Do you help people who need to eat?”

  “That’s what the Welfare Department is for.”

  They approached the crowd of black whores, and a fat one in a pink wig guffawed loudly. “Waal, looka here,” she screeched. “Looks like the two old gents’re gonna git greased.”

  The three walked silently past the black whores and stepped off the curb opposite Shumsky’s cab. In the front seat Shumsky was hunched over his wheel, reading a book by streetlight.

  Mr. Wilson opened the back door. “Why don’t you get in first, John, so that the young lady can sit between us.”

  John crawled onto the seat, and Gina followed him. Her skirt was short and as she entered he saw her red underpants. Instead of arousing him, the sight made him feel sad. Mr. Wilson folded himself into the cab, closed the door, and knocked on the Plexiglas shield that separated the rear passengers from Shumsky.

  “Are you there, Shumsky?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Chekhov.”

  “Good man.” Mr. Wilson leaned toward John. “Would you give Mr. Shumsky your address?”

  “Do you know where Washington Avenue is in the Bronx?” John asked Shumsky.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know where Fordham Road intersects with the Grand Concourse?”

  “Yep.”

  “Go there, and then I’ll direct you the rest of the way.”

  Traffic was moderate on Lexington Avenue. Shumsky pulled into it, gathered speed, and took the first left turn.

  Mr. Wilson smiled. “I always feel good whenever I do something for somebody. Helping people is really a very selfish activity. Don’t you think so, Gina?”

  “I never thought about it.” She opened her big leather purse, took out a small round mirror, and looked at herself.

  John watched her apply lipstick to her full pouting lips and wondered how many men those lips had kissed. Donald was next; she’d kiss him mechanically and then go on to someone else, and someone else. John shook his head and looked down at his knees. Donald should have a wife and children, not this.

  On First Avenue at 50th Street Shumsky got on the East Side Drive and began to speed north. John looked sideways at Gina, who now leaned her head back against the seat and had her eyes closed. In the corner Mr. Wilson was sipping bourbon from his flask. When he lowered the flask he saw John looking at him.

  “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  The East River whizzed past the window on the right, and on the left giant apartment towers fell behind. Shumsky drove over a bridge and then took the Major Deegan Expressway deep into the Bronx. John closed his eyes and tried not to think of his deceased wife. She’d roll over in her grave if she knew he was bringing a prostitute home for Donald.

  When Shumsky reached Fordham Road he asked directions, and John told him the way to their destination. After several more minutes the cab stopped before John’s building and Shumsky punched his meter to stop the clock.

  “We’re here?” asked Mr. Wilson, who’d been drowsing. He looked out the side window at the old gray building and the garbage strewn in front.

  “This is where I live,” John said.

  “Good. How much do I owe you, Mr. Shumsky?”

  “Six-forty.”

  Mister Wilson took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Will this be enough?” He pushed it through the slot in the Plexiglas shield.

  Shumsky took the bill and held it under the light near his hack license. “Yeah—thanks a lot,” he said.

  “Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Shumsky,” Mister Wilson nudged Gina. “We’re here, youn
g lady.”

  She opened her eyes, yawned, and looked around.

  They got out of the cab and entered the lobby as Shumsky drove off. In silence they waited for the elevator and John was embarrassed by the dirty green walls in need of fresh paint and the odor of urine in the lobby. When the elevator came they rode it to the eighth floor and then walked down the dimly lit corridor to John’s door.

  As John took out his keys, Mr. Wilson murmured to Gina: “Should I pay you now, my dear?”

  Her eyes were droopy and she looked like a little girl who’d fallen asleep with her mother’s makeup on. “That ain’t a bad idea.” She reached into her pocketbook for a bottle of little red pills and rolled two out. “Gimme a shot of that whiskey, will you?”

  Mr. Wilson handed her the flask, and as she washed the pills down he took out his billfold and counted the money. When finished he handed her a stack of bills and accepted his flask back. She counted the money, dropped it into her pocketbook, and snapped it shut.

  “Let’s get it on,” she said.

  John knew his apartment was a mess but the moment he unlocked the door he was beyond caring. The night had been crazy and now he was finally knocked loose from his moorings. Mr. Wilson and Gina followed him into his living room and the smell of stale beer.

  Donald slept in his wheelchair and faced the television set, which was turned on to a cowboy movie out of focus and rolling up into the top of the cabinet. His head hung to one side and his mouth lolled open. Beer cans and potato chips were scattered on the floor around him.

  Mr. Wilson teetered from side to side, one corner of his mouth turned down as he looked at Donald. John put his hands in his pockets; he had hoped Donald would have put himself to bed. Gina opened her pocketbook, took out a stick of gum, unwrapped it, and began chewing.

  Mr. Wilson placed his hand on Gina’s back and gently pushed her toward Donald. “It’s time for you to go to work,” he said.

  She moved her head back, shook out her hair, and smoothed her clothes. In firm confident steps she walked toward Donald and stood before him for a few seconds, looking down. She glanced over her shoulder at the two men standing behind her in the shadows and then gazed again at the crippled young man slumped in the wheelchair.