the Bar Studs) Page 9

  She sat next to him on the sofa and smiled falsely. “Anything good playing?”

  “Not much.”

  “Could I ask you a favor?”

  “Go ahead.” He looked at the newspaper, not her.

  “I hate to bother you, because you’ve been so good to me already, but could you lend me a little more money until Wednesday when I get paid?”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Could you spare twenty dollars?”

  “There’s money on my dresser. Take what you need.”

  “I’ll pay you back on Wednesday for sure,” she said cheerily.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He watched the movement of her ass as she walked into the corridor that led to his bedroom, and he thought Harry would soon be holding that sweet rump in his hands. Naturally she couldn’t ask Harry for twenty dollars; she could suck his prick but asking him for money was improper. He gnashed his teeth and tried to read the movie ads.

  * * *

  Into the Reno Tavern Jake Griffin carried the white kitten under one arm, and a bag full of cat food, kitty litter, milk, and other feline necessities in his other hand.

  Jake’s brother Larry, who was working behind the bar, looked up in surprise. “What the fuck is that?” he asked, looking at the kitten. Larry was a taller version of Jake, five years younger, not as bald, and with his hair worn moderately long.

  “It’s a cat, whataya think?” Jake said grumpily. He expected some ridicule.

  “Whataya gonna do with him?”

  “He’s gonna live here and catch rats, mice, and roaches.”

  Larry’s face expressed doubt at the kitten’s ability to do these things. Four bums sitting at the bar looked equally incredulous.

  “That your pussy, Jake?” one of them asked with a drunken grin.

  “Watch how you talk to me, asshole, or I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”

  Jake walked behind the bar, set the kitten and bag on the ice cooler, and took off his coat and hat.

  “You serious about that cat?” Larry asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s awful small. If a rat ever gets hold of him it’ll be all over.”

  “He’ll grow.”

  “He’d better grow fast.”

  The kitten leapt up to the bar, looked around, sniffed, and then began to walk, his long white tail sticking straight up into the air. A drunk sitting hunched over the bar managed to open one eye and observe its approach. “Here, kitty, kitty,” the drunk rasped, reaching out a hand that looked like it came out of a coal mine.

  “Keep your hands off my cat, scumbag!” Jake hollered.

  The drunk jerked back his hand. “Whatsa matter?”

  “I don’t want you givin’ him any strange fuckin’ diseases.”

  “I ain’t got no strange diseases.”

  “C’mon, you look like a carload of leprosy, you bastard.”

  Meanwhile the white kitten walked straight toward the bum’s hand, and lowered its head into the dirty calloused fingers. The bum looked at Jake sheepishly, and then fondled the kitten’s ears. Jake was horrified.

  “He likes me,” the bum said, disbelief in his voice.

  “Fuckin’ traitor!” Jake yelled.

  “The cat’s good for business,” Larry said, untying his soiled white apron. Beneath it he wore gray pants, the crotch of which reached his knees. “Okay, it’s all yours,” he told Jake. “You got plenny of ice but you’ll haveta bring some beer up.” Larry put on his topcoat and imitation black fur Cossack hat, said good-bye to Jake and the bums at the bar, and left.

  With an angry glance at his kitten, Jake walked out from behind the bar, past the tables where bums were sprawled out cold or staring into space, and into the steamy, smelly kitchen, where Louie the cook was slicing gristle for stew. Jake grunted at Louie and marched to the rear wall, where cases of beer were stacked. Hoisting a case to his shoulder, he carried it behind the bar, and saw that another bum had sidled up to his kitten and was petting him. Both bums grinned crazily and murmured endearments to the kitten. Disgusted, Jake clopped past them, lowered the case of beer to the floor, ripped off its cardboard top, and stacked the bottles into the cooler. When he was finished, he carried three more cases of beer to the bar, and stacked in the bottles.

  Then Jake tied a clean apron around his belly and poured himself three fingers of Jim Beam, which he sipped while leaning against the cash register. He saw the white kitten step daintily away from the two bums and walk down the bar. At one point the kitten stopped and stretched, arching its back into a half moon. After returning to its normal posture, it leapt to the floor, and Jake stepped forward and bent over the bar to see where it would go.

  It padded straight for a bum sleeping at a table, and rubbed the full length of its body against the bum’s ragged pant leg. Then it snaked around and rubbed by again. The bum stirred, moved his lips, and opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw the kitten and came to life. “Hiya, champ,” the bum said through a throat thick with phlegm. He reached down and stroked the kitten’s head, and the kitten closed his eyes and raised his head high to meet the bum’s dirty hand.

  At the next table, an old gray-haired bum in a greasy, battered fedora pulled from his coat pocket a length of string, which he trailed back and forth on the floor. The movement of the string caught the kitten’s eye, and the kitten turned, stalked forward, and pounced on it. The cackling bum wrapped the string around the kitten, who rolled over the floor and clawed playfully at the string.

  Jake suddenly remembered himself as a young boy, playing stickball with his brother Larry in Hell’s Kitchen during the Depression.

  The bums stomped their feet and laughed at the cat. Jake bent over and underneath the bar set out tiny nuggets of dry cat food, milk, water, and a pan full of Kitty Litter.

  “Hey, Jake!”

  Jake stood up and saw a young bum with a five-day beard. “Whataya want?”

  “Sweet sherry wine.”

  Jake set down a glass and poured wine into it. The young bum watched closely, his hands ready to attack the glass the moment Jake stopped pouring. Jake pulled the bottle back and the bum snatched at the glass, pouring half its contents into his mouth. Then he put the glass down, licked his lips, and reached into his pocket for the money.

  “Here ya go, Jake,” he said, dropping two coins onto the bar.

  “Thanks, kid.” Jake took the money, rang it up, and took another gulp of Jim Beam.

  “Hey, Jake!” It was one of the bums who’d been petting the kitten at the bar.

  “Yeah?”

  “Izzat cat a boy or a girl?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I think it’s a boy.”

  “Too young to get a good look, I guess.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gimme anudder shot a brandy, willya?”

  “Sure.”

  Jake poured the brandy, took the money, and rang it up. Then he turned around and saw the kitten on one of the tables, sniffing a glass of cheap red wine, which sat before a big hulking bum who grinned like a monkey. No class at all, Jake thought, just like the rest of us in here.

  * * *

  John Houlihan, the bartender who worked in the Oak Room of the Plaza Hotel, lived in a ten-story, pre-war apartment building, made of yellow bricks now quite dirty, and located on Washington Avenue just off Fordham Road in the Bronx. He was wakened shortly after one o’clock on Sunday afternoon by the sound of his TV, and after lying in bed for several minutes in a semi-conscious state, stood up, put on his red, yellow, and black striped velour robe, and opened his bedroom door.

  He entered the living room, which, in contrast to the Spartan cleanliness and order of his bedroom, was a rectangular sea of bent beer cans, filled ashtrays, dirty silverware, and half-eaten TV dinners. His son Donald sat on a wheelchair, holding a can of beer in his hand and watching pre-football game ceremonies on the color TV.

  “Good morning, Donald.”

  “Mornin’
, Pop.”

  “Who’s playing?”

  “Colts and the Packers.”

  Donald had green eyes and a scowling freckled face. He wore blue jeans that hung eerily along the chair, because his legs from his knees down had been blown off during the Second Tet Offensive in Viet Nam. He also wore a white T-shirt on which was emblazoned an eagle’s head and the words:

  11th AIRBORNE DIVISION

  “THE SCREAMING EAGLES”

  “That ought to be a good game,” John said.

  “Yeah—I’m rootin’ for the Packers. They’re real tough bastards.” The individual strands of his dark blond hair stuck out like needles.

  “They’re both good ball clubs.”

  John walked down the short corridor to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He hung up his robe, took off his pale-blue pajamas and tossed them in the hamper, and sat on the toilet bowl. He was unhappy because it was early in the afternoon and Donald was half-drunk on beer already. Almost every day for four years Donald had sat around the apartment, drunk beer, and watched TV. He hardly ever kept his appointments at the Rehabilitation Clinic in the Veterans’ Administration Hospital. John shook his head sadly. Before Donald enlisted in the paratroopers and went to Viet Nam he had been a fine athlete, a regular churchgoer, and a good student. John was very troubled by what had happened to his son, but didn’t know what to do about it.

  After John finished on the toilet bowl, he showered and shaved, and then returned to his bedroom and put on a pair of roomy chino pants, a wool Pendleton shirt, and a pair of kangaroo slippers, all purchased at Abercrombie and Fitch, his favorite store. Before his dresser mirror he brushed back his long straight black hair until it hugged his skull tightly, and dabbed some after-shaving lotion on his face.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked Donald as he passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen.

  “Naw.” Donald shook his can of beer. “But you can bring me another one of these and a bag of potato chips.”

  “I’ll fry you some bacon and eggs, if you like.”

  “That’s okay, Pop. Hey—it’s the kickoff!”

  John looked at the tube and saw the brown football topple lazily across the blue sky. The football fell against the chest of a player who hugged it to him with both arms and began to run up the field.

  “Get that son of a bitch!” Donald screamed.

  The player with the ball swerved to the right, tucked the ball under his right arm, picked up some blockers, and with long strides charged along the sideline.

  “Cream that cocksucker!”

  The opposing team swarmed down the field and ripped into the blockers. Heavily padded men slammed into each other and fell to the ground, but the ball carrier continued his graceful swift gallop.

  “Gang-tackle the bastard!”

  John diverted his eyes to his son, who bent forward in his wheelchair with the knuckles of both hands white around the beer can.

  “Kill him!”

  On the screen the ball carrier was tackled at waist level, managed to squirm loose, ran a few yards more with his knees kicking high in the air, was tackled around the chest and stopped, and as he struggled to shake loose was hit by three more opposing players. This time he went down, and several more players piled on top of him.

  “At’s the way!” Donald clapped his hand against the beer can. “You see that, Pop?” He looked at John. “Break their fuckin’ asses, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Donald looked back at the TV set. “Don’t let ’em move—don’t give ’em a chance to breathe. That’s the way to play football.” He lifted the beer can to his lips and drained it. “Where’s that can of beer, Pop?”

  John walked to the white refrigerator in the kitchen, withdrew a can of beer, pulled the ring that opened it, and carried it to his son, who gave him the empty.

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  Returning to the kitchen, John made fresh coffee, fried some bacon and eggs and made toast. This was his usual Sunday morning breakfast, the same one Miriam used to make for him until six years ago when she passed away while Donald was in Viet Nam. She had been so proud of Donald; she’d hoped he’d become a CPA. John sighed as he scooped out the runny contents of an egg.

  “Get him back there!”

  John sat at the kitchen table, unfolded the Sunday Times he’d purchased at 59th Street on his way home last night, and sipped some orange juice.

  “Bust his fuckin’ balls!”

  On the front page a headline read: FRANCE FACES BANK CRISIS, and upon seeing it John thought of Mr. Dunwoodie, the young banker who had become engaged to marry last night. Mr. Dunwoodie was just about Donald’s age. John closed his eyes and let waves of sadness fall over him.

  Chapter Four

  Adrian, Julie Bauman, and Cindy Johnson were awakened at twenty minutes after three in the afternoon by vigorous pounding on the door. They all tried to hide from the sound by burrowing into pillows, but the pounding grew in intensity, and finally Adrian raised his head.

  “What in the fuck is that?” he asked sleepily.

  “I bet it’s Jeff,” Cindy groaned. She raised herself on one elbow, the waterbed began to rock, and she looked at Julie. “Tell him I’m not home, will you?”

  “Oh shit,” Julie replied. “Men can be such dopes.” She rolled out of bed, put on a dark blue terrycloth robe, and stumbled out of the room.

  “Open up the door!” shouted a man’s muffled voice.

  Adrian rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. When he remembered how Sandra had caught him and thrown him out, he immediately became demoralized.

  He felt Cindy’s fingers on his limp cock. “How’re you this morning, boss?”

  “Tired.”

  “That’s no lie.” She let his cock go.

  From the living room Julie called: “Who’s there?”

  The man replied: “Jeff! I gotta talk to Cindy!”

  “She’s not here!”

  “You’re a liar! Tell her I gotta speak to her!”

  “I said she’s not here!”

  “I know she’s there! You’d better open this door or I’ll break it down!”

  Cindy muttered something, got out of bed, put on jeans and a shirt, and shuffled to the front door. Julie shuffled back to the bedroom and flopped down beside Adrian, causing the waterbed to undulate sickeningly.

  “Whataya want?” Cindy called out.

  “I gotta talk to you!”

  “Talk!”

  “Open up the goddamn door!”

  “I won’t!”

  “If you don’t open this goddamn door I’ll break it down!”

  “Don’t be such an ass!”

  Jeff hammered his fists against the door, the old timbers of the building trembled, and Adrian wondered if the walls might collapse. In another apartment someone started yelping angrily in Puerto Rican Spanish.

  “Open up the fuckin’ door!” Jeff howled.

  Julie poked Adrian in the ribs. “Jesus Christ, can’t you do something?”

  Annoyed, Adrian rolled out of bed, put on his pants, and walked barefooted to the living room, where an alarmed Cindy Johnson pushed both her hands against the vibrating door.

  “Let me in!”

  Adrian motioned with his thumb for Cindy to get out of the way. She stepped back and stood beside Julie, who had come to the living room to watch. Adrian unlatched the two locks and pulled the door open fast.

  In the hallway stood a tall, slender young man with a scraggly blond beard. He wore a blue knit seaman’s cap, a green and black checked wool jacket, and brown bell-bottom pants too short. His mouth dropped open when he saw Adrian.

  Without a word, Adrian charged forward and threw a hard left jab. He connected with Jeff’s mouth, Jeff’s head snapped back, and he lurched backwards, blood trickling down his lips. Adrian lunged after him and landed a right-hand haymaker on his nose. Cartilage and bone crackled under Adrian’s knuckles, and Jeff dropped to the
floor. With his fists balled at his sides, Adrian stood beside Jeff and nudged him in the ribs with his foot.

  “Open your fuckin’ eyes,” Adrian growled.

  Jeff moved his head, peeled back his eyelids, touched his fingers to his destroyed nose, and looked terrified.

  “I’m living here now,” Adrian said to him, “and if I ever see you around I’ll kill you, understand?”

  Jeff stared but didn’t reply, so Adrian stomped his big foot down on Jeff’s stomach. “Are you fucking deaf?”

  Jeff curled up and hugged his stomach, and his face twisted in pain. His anguished reply squeezed out of his throat: “I…heard…you…man.”

  Adrian pulled his switchblade out of his pocket and clicked it open, holding the blade straight up in the air. “You’ve got five seconds to get out of here. One!”

  Jeff scrambled to his feet, still clutching his stomach.

  “Two!”

  Doubled over, Jeff limped down the hall, turned left, and descended the stairs. Adrian returned to the apartment and closed the door behind him, as Julie and Cindy stood nearby, their faces filled with admiration.

  “Boy,” said Julie, “I didn’t realize you were such a heavy number.”

  “Yeah, you’re somethin’ else.”

  Adrian felt like a conquering hero. “What’s for breakfast?” he said roughly.

  Cindy looked at Julie. “You do any shoppin’ lately?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  Cindy turned to Adrian. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll go out and get it.”

  “Are any butcher shops open today around here?”

  “The kosher ones are.”

  Adrian reached into his pocket, pulled out his roll of bills, and peeled off two twenties, which he handed to Cindy. “Get some good rib steaks, eggs, orange juice, Bustelo coffee if you can find any, a loaf of unsliced Jewish pumpernickel bread, and the Sunday Times. Have you got any aluminum foil in the house?”