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  At two o’clock in the afternoon, an elderly neighbor of Teddy’s named Louise Perkins, approached his door with the intent to borrow ten dollars until her Social Security check arrived. She was an emaciated old lady with sparse white hair and large haunted eyes, and her false teeth, which she received from Medicare, fit loosely in her mouth and often caused her embarrassment.

  When Louise knocked on Teddy’s door she was surprised to see it open up a few inches. “Teddy?” No answer. She wondered if he left and forgot to close his door, although that certainly wasn’t like him. She pushed the door wide open and peered inside his apartment. “Teddy Holmes?” Her eyes scanned the small room, and what was that on the rug? A chill passed over her. “Teddy?” She hobbled into the apartment and finally discerned that the form on the rug was none other than Teddy Holmes himself, covered with blood. When the full impact of this vision registered in her mind she shrieked at the top of her lungs and collapsed on the blue sofa.

  Doors opened in the hallway and feet ran on the floor. Louise’s head was full of dark clouds, and blood pounded in her ears. She thought she might be home in bed having a nightmare, because she had them often. Madeline Keene, a middle-aged lady who lived down the hall, charged through the open door, and she was followed by tall Mr. Levine, who wore a pale blue shirt and short black beard.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Madeline Keene, holding the palms of her hands against her cheeks when she saw Teddy on the floor.

  “Holy shit!” said Levine. He darted his ferret eyes at Louise. “You call the cops yet?”

  “I just got here myself,” Louise said weakly. No, this wasn’t a nightmare.

  Levine reached for Teddy’s yellow telephone and dialed the 911 emergency number. When it was answered he reported the discovery of Teddy Holmes’ body, and carefully pronounced the address and apartment number. Then he hung up.

  “They said not to touch anything,” he told the two women.

  Louise, her old eyes twitching in horror, pointed at Teddy’s ass. “What in the world is that?” she asked.

  “I believe it’s a spike of some kind,” Levine said.

  Louise closed her eyes and permitted herself to faint.

  In a few minutes the sound of sirens could be heard. Levine looked out the window and saw patrol cars and an ambulance speeding down Horatio Street, the lights atop the vehicles flashing red and white. They stopped downstairs in the middle of the narrow street and uniformed patrolmen exploded out of two cars, men in raincoats got out of another, and the ambulance disgorged medical people carrying a stretcher. Then there was the sound of a stampede on the stairs within the building.

  A husky detective with short rusty hair and a red button nose was the first in the room, and he was followed by a black-haired detective wearing a gray and brown tweed hat. They headed straight for the body, and behind them came the men in the white coats, and then the patrolmen.

  “Another one with a spike up his ass,” said the first detective. He turned to one of the medical people. “See if he’s alive.”

  The attendant, who had a thick brown moustache, felt Teddy’s pulse. “He’s alive, but we’d better get him to the hospital fast.”

  The four attendants carefully lifted Teddy and placed him face down on the stretcher. After covering him with a white sheet, which made a little tent over his ass, two of them lifted the stretcher and walked quickly out of the apartment. On the rug the outline of Teddy’s body was marked with blood.

  “My name’s Detective Jenkins,” said the rusty-haired cop, taking a notepad out of his raincoat pocket, “and this here’s Detective Agnelli. What happened?”

  Louise, Madeline, and Levine looked at each other, and Levine spoke first. “I live down the hall,” he said, “and I heard her scream.” He pointed at Louise. “I came running in here, I saw the body, and then I called the emergency number.”

  Jenkins looked at Louise, who was sprawled on the sofa and trying, with her tongue, to straighten her false teeth. “Ma’am?”

  “Well,” she wheezed, “I come to see Teddy about something and I saw his door open, so I walked in. You don’t think I did it, do you?”

  Jenkins’ face stayed serious. “He was alone when you found him?”

  “Yes, sir. All alone, thank Jesus.”

  “Were you very friendly with him?”

  “We had little chats from time to time.”

  “Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

  “Some of them. Teddy had lots and lots of friends—he was a bartender, you know.”

  “Where was he a bartender?”

  “A place on Christopher Street—I forget the name now. It had something to do with cowboys.”

  Jenkins cocked an eye. “Was it the Corral by any chance?”

  Louise’s face lit up. “As a matter of fact, that’s it. The Corral.”

  Jenkins, Agnelli, and the patrolmen exchanged glances.

  “You boys wait here for the lab people,” Jenkins told the patrolmen, and then he turned to Madeline, Louise, and Levine. “If any of you comes up with something that you think might be helpful in our investigation, please call me or Detective Agnelli at the Sixth Precinct.”

  The three neighbors nodded solemnly, and the two detectives departed.

  * * *

  After he undressed and slid between the sheets of his bed, Leo Anussewitz masturbated passionately for five minutes, and then ejaculated into the T-shirt he had worn that day. His tension thus diminished, he fell asleep easily and slept soundly, except for a few chaotic dreams about tending bar in Bartholomew’s Pumpkin. In these dreams, which comprised his most common nocturnal experiences, the lighting in the bar was too dim for him to see properly and caused him to make mistakes; he was forever trying to catch up with a backlog of innumerable complex drink orders while customers who looked like vampires shouted at him and complained.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon there was a light knock on his bedroom door.

  “Leo?”

  Deep in the caverns of his slumbering mind he heard the knock and the girl’s voice, was charmed by the girl’s voice, recognized it as Dorrie Caldwell’s, and realized she was living with him. This thought propelled him into consciousness, and he opened his eyes.

  “Dorrie?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  Sleepily he pushed down his covers a bit so his hairy chest would show. He hoped maybe that’d turn her on.

  His bedroom door opened and she breezed in, bringing with her the odor of flowers. She wore black slacks and a patterned shirt, predominantly blue, and she looked cheerful and lively. Leo had awakened with an erection just like always, and he wanted to bury it in that soft wet place between her magic legs.

  “Good morning Leo-my-favorite-bartender,” she said brightly, “even though it isn’t morning anymore.” She bent over and kissed his forehead, he watching her adorable breasts bobbling eight inches before his eyes.

  “Good morning, Dorrie. Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept very well, thank you.” She sat on the edge of his bed, her warm ass against his leg. “I felt safe and peaceful, and it was very quiet. I didn’t even hear you come in.” Her eyes were misty. “This is awfully nice of you—I mean, you don’t even hardly know me.”

  “That’s okay, kid.”

  She smiled gaily, abruptly switching moods. “I thought I’d make you breakfast. What would you like?”

  “On Sundays I usually go the deli for lox and bagels.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that Jewish food?”

  “Yes—smoked salmon. You eat it with cream cheese.”

  “I hoped I could cook something for you.”

  In an instant Leo decided to forego the Sunday breakfast he had enjoyed for as long as he could remember.

  “There are eggs in the refrigerator. You can scramble some, make some rye toast, and make coffee.”

  “You sure you don’t want Jewish food?”

  “I’m
sure. While you’re getting everything ready I’ll take a quick shower and shave.”

  She left the bedroom and Leo got out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and walked to the bathroom, which had a new odd smell, something like dead flowers. On the shelf above the toilet bowl was a box of regular-size Tampax, an aerosol container of Yves St. Laurent cologne, and a bottle of Woolite. Atop the shower curtain rod the two pair of underpants were gone and replaced by the pink shirt Dorrie had worn the night before, and a pair of brown pantyhose. As Leo sat for his morning crap he thought this was almost like being married.

  After his shower and shave, and the administration to his body of various lotions and antiperspirants, he combed what remained of his dark-brown hair, donned his striped robe again, and lumbered to his bedroom, smelling coffee as he passed through the corridor. He put on a pair of tan Levi’s that he wore around the house, and a brown shirt with a floral design. He left the three top buttons of the shirt open, and gazed at himself in the mirror. Looking back at him was a clean, fat, sporty-looking man, but not Jean-Paul Belmondo by any stretch of the imagination. He pulled Mexican huaraches over his blunt little feet and walked, toes pointed outward, toward the kitchen.

  Dorrie was sprinkling salt onto the scrambled eggs in the frying pan, which was over a low flame on the stove. “That you, Leo?”

  “It’s not Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

  She laughed, and her voice sounded like tenor bells. “Well, he didn’t offer me his apartment when I was an orphan last night.”

  “If he was there I’m sure he would have.” And he would have fucked the jelly out of your beans, Leo thought.

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “Sure, he would. He wouldn’t be able to resist you.”

  She smiled demurely. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  She spooned scrambled eggs onto two plates, placed slices of rye toast on the sides of the plates, and placed one of them before Leo. “Here you go, and thank you for flying Eastern.”

  Leo raised a forkful of eggs to his mouth as she poured coffee. He realized that the kitchen table was completely set for the first time since his mother died.

  She sat at the opposite end of the table and sipped black coffee. “I hope your girlfriend won’t be upset when she finds out I’m here. Just tell her I won’t be here long.”

  Leo was pleased that she thought him appealing enough to have a girlfriend. “But I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “No?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you get lonely all by yourself?”

  “I keep busy.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Read newspapers and watch television.” And jerk off, he added to himself.

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have your parents been gone for a long time?”

  “My mother died about five years ago, and my father died a year before her.”

  She buttered a piece of toast. “Is that them in the picture on the dresser in the room where I slept?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father was wearing one of those little black hats. Was he a rabbi?”

  “No, but he was an Orthodox Jew and he always kept his head covered.”

  “The Orthodox are the real strict ones?”

  “Very strict.”

  “I guess you and he had a lot of fights.”

  “We did.” His father used to point his finger at him and shout GOY! “When I started tending bar he stopped talking to me.”

  “Was your mother real strict, too?”

  “She was worse than him.” She used to tell Leo: Jews don’t work in barrooms selling drink to the goyim!

  “My father was president of the Chamber of Commerce in my home town one year,” Dorrie said. “I’m from a small town in Iowa called Ottumwa, ever hear of it?”

  “No.”

  Atop the refrigerator Leo saw his mother’s old brass menorah. Sometimes he felt as if he’d betrayed his parents and the whole Jewish race, but he couldn’t help it if he grew up to be an American.

  “Ottumwa was in the news when I was a little girl,” Dorrie continued. “Khrushchev stayed overnight when he visited America, remember when he came here? We also had a Miss America a few years ago.”

  “They grow corn in Iowa,” Leo said, recalling a grammar school geography lesson.

  “And hogs, but my father was never a farmer. He’s got a men’s clothing store in a big shopping center. I used to work for him before I went with the airlines.”

  “Small town girl makes good, huh?”

  “My father still hasn’t forgiven me for leaving,” she said. “He thinks all airline stewardesses are whores, and I have to admit he isn’t far off.”

  “Stewardesses are okay.” Leo munched rye toast.

  She looked vexed. “Sometimes I get disgusted with myself. I wonder what I’m doing with my life.”

  “You can’t be a stewardess forever.”

  She shook her head and grimaced. “It’s depressing to think about that. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Leo was finishing his scrambled eggs, which weren’t cooked hard enough for him. His mother used to make the most wonderful matzo brie for breakfast sometimes. She was a great cook, but, oh, what a pain in the ass. “What were you planning to do today, Dorrie?” he asked, looking at his watch. “Would you like to go to a movie?”

  “I’d love to!”

  “I brought the paper home with me last night. I’ll see what’s playing.” It would be exhilarating to walk into a theater lobby with Dorrie Caldwell on his arm. “Is there any more coffee left?”

  “Lots.” She picked up the pot, and just then the door buzzer went off. She looked questioningly at Leo.

  Leo shrugged. “I wonder who the hell that could be?” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and walked to the front door. When he looked through the peephole and saw Harry Ryker, his blood turned to acid. He opened the door.

  Harry wore his blue topcoat with silver buttons, and was grinning like a cocker spaniel. “Busy?” He had just left Morgan’s apartment, needed a woman to soothe his ego, and remembered Dorrie Caldwell was staying with Leo.

  At any other time Leo would have been happy to see Harry, but right now three was a crowd. “I’m not busy,” he lied.

  Harry pushed the door wide open and sauntered into Leo’s living room. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Come on. We’re having a late breakfast.”

  “We?” Harry asked, feigning innocence.

  “Dorrie Caldwell is staying here for a few days until she finds a place of her own. You know her, don’t you?”

  “Sure I know her!” Harry brought his gleaming, capped teeth near Leo’s prominent ear and whispered: “Did you score?”

  Leo made a face that indicated he wasn’t interested in fucking Dorrie.

  Dorrie smiled when Harry entered the kitchen. “Hello, Harry!” she said enthusiastically, and through Leo’s breast shot a fiery arrow of jealousy.

  “Hiya, Dorrie.”

  “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with us?”

  “Sure.” He turned to Leo who was leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind?” Leo hoped he sounded convincing. “Have a seat.”

  The three of them sat down, Leo and Dorrie at the ends of the table and Harry between them. Dorrie poured Harry a cup of coffee.

  “You get evicted?” Harry asked Dorrie.

  Dorrie shook her head, making her long blonde hair swish from side to side. “I was living with a guy and he threw me out.”

  “He give you the black eye?”

  She touched it and looked embarrassed. “Yes, but Leo here was kind enough to let me use his extra bedroom for a few days.”

  Harry looked at Leo. “That’s really nice of you.”

  Leo knew Harry was patronizing him, and Leo hated him for it. “That’s what
friends are for.”

  Harry looked around the kitchen. “This is a pretty nice place you got here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harry sipped his coffee and faced Dorrie, who looked at him with very interested eyes. Leo could see the silent communication between them, and the treachery. He wondered how they’d eliminate him from the picture so they could get together and fuck like pigs. He’d wait and see.

  Harry replaced his cup on its saucer. “What were you two planning to do this afternoon?”

  “We were going to the movies,” Leo said.

  “I heard of a party.” Harry put a hint of mystery in his modulated, drama-school voice.

  Dome’s blue eyes widened so much Leo thought they’d fall out of her head. “Where?”

  “On 35th Street. A friend of mine, a fashion photographer, has a loft there. He’s invited a lot of models and movie people. Why don’t you both come with me?”

  “I’m not in the mood for a party,” Leo said, not wanting to stand out as the frog among princes and princesses, and aware that Harry and Dorrie really didn’t want him to come along anyway. “But you can go if you want to, Dorrie.”

  Her eyes said she wanted to go. “Are you sure you won’t mind?”

  “Why should I mind?”

  “Well, I said I’d go to the movies with you.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t matter to you…”

  Leo spread a false smile. “Do whatever you want. You’re a big girl now.”

  “I’ll go then. I always wanted to be a model, and maybe one of those photographers might want to use me for something.”

  Yeah, for a gang-bang, Leo thought viciously. He finished his coffee and stood up. “I’m going to look at the paper and see what’s playing.” He excused himself and shuffled to the living room, his heart boiling with frustration and hatred.

  He sat on the green upholstered sofa, bought by his parents when they were first married, and picked up the entertainment section of the Times. Flipping through the pages, he could hear Dorrie and Harry chatting. He was so disturbed he couldn’t focus on the movie ads. After a while he heard the scrape of a chair against the floor, footsteps, and then he saw Dorrie leave the kitchen and walk toward him.