from God knows who, just to buy me a birthday present. Sooner or later I'll hafta pawn it so he can pay the guy he borrowed it from. Well, that ain't nothing new. That always happens when I get a present from Sharkey."
She shrugged again. "I don't know, maybe one of these days he'll find that angle he's looking for. He says it's around somewhere, all he's gotta do is find it. Lately he's been getting too anxious and sorta jumpy and I'm afraid he's headed for some genuine aggravation. He's hooked up with a couple of strong-arm specialists, a husband-and-wife team that make a business of putting people in the hospital Or maybe putting them away altogether. Anyway, it makes me nervous, because they're living in the house with us and in the morning when I'm in bed I hear them in the next room, the three of them, Sharkey and Chop and Bertha, having their daily conference. I can't ever hear what they're saying, but I think I know what it's leading up to. When it's a strong-arm routine, it's either extortion or protection racket or a collection agency for clients who want blood instead of money. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. It's got nothing to do with you and me."
"Look," he said. "If it concerns you, it concerns me."
She smiled down at the empty shot glass. "You hear that?" she murmured to the glass.
"Listen, Celia--"
"I know what you're going to say." She looked at him, looked deep into him. "I know everything you want to tell me."
"But listen--"
"No," she said. "It won't work. There's no way you can take me away from him. He just won't let you do it. If you try, he's gonna hurt you. He's gonna hurt you bad."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. But you would if you could use your brains. That's what I'm trying to do. That's why I'm drinking so much gin. To steady myself and think straight. At least one of us has to think straight."
"Want another drink?"
"Yeah," she said. "Better buy me a pint. Then maybe I can think real straight. Maybe I'll be able to walk out on you."
"No," he said. "You won't be able to do that."
"I'm gonna try." She pointed across the room, at the bartender. "Go on, tell the man to sell you a bottle. I'm gonna give this a real try."
He bought a pint of gin. And she tried. She tried very hard. At one point she said, "Well, here's where I get off," but somehow she couldn't leave the booth. Then later she managed to get up from the booth and gazed past him and said, "Nice to have met you, and so forth," and turned away and started toward the door. She made it halfway to the door and came back to the booth and said slowly and solemnly, "You bastard, you." She sat down and lifted the half-empty bottle to her mouth and took a long quivering gulp. She went on with the drinking, taking it fast and then much too fast and finally she passed out.
When she was able to sit up he phoned for a cab. She said she didn't want to leave, she wanted to drink some more. She said it would be nice if she could really knock herself out and stay that way for a week, so then she wouldn't be able to see him. Maybe that would do it, she said, with her eyes saying that nothing could do it, nothing could keep her away from him.
He put her in the cab and they arranged for the same time, same place tomorrow night.
So then it was tomorrow night. It was a succession of tomorrow nights in the booth in the taproom with ginger ale for him and gin for her. Sitting there facing each other and not touching each other, and it was three weeks of that, just that, just sitting there together until closing time, when he'd put her in a cab and watch the cab going away.
Then on Tuesday of the fourth week she said she couldn't take this much longer and if they didn't find themselves a room somewhere, she'd have convulsions or something.
He didn't say anything, but when the cab arrived to take her home, he climbed in with her. He said to the driver, "Take us somewhere."
The driver took them to a cheap hotel that paid certain cabbies a small
She shrugged again. "I don't know, maybe one of these days he'll find that angle he's looking for. He says it's around somewhere, all he's gotta do is find it. Lately he's been getting too anxious and sorta jumpy and I'm afraid he's headed for some genuine aggravation. He's hooked up with a couple of strong-arm specialists, a husband-and-wife team that make a business of putting people in the hospital Or maybe putting them away altogether. Anyway, it makes me nervous, because they're living in the house with us and in the morning when I'm in bed I hear them in the next room, the three of them, Sharkey and Chop and Bertha, having their daily conference. I can't ever hear what they're saying, but I think I know what it's leading up to. When it's a strong-arm routine, it's either extortion or protection racket or a collection agency for clients who want blood instead of money. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. It's got nothing to do with you and me."
"Look," he said. "If it concerns you, it concerns me."
She smiled down at the empty shot glass. "You hear that?" she murmured to the glass.
"Listen, Celia--"
"I know what you're going to say." She looked at him, looked deep into him. "I know everything you want to tell me."
"But listen--"
"No," she said. "It won't work. There's no way you can take me away from him. He just won't let you do it. If you try, he's gonna hurt you. He's gonna hurt you bad."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. But you would if you could use your brains. That's what I'm trying to do. That's why I'm drinking so much gin. To steady myself and think straight. At least one of us has to think straight."
"Want another drink?"
"Yeah," she said. "Better buy me a pint. Then maybe I can think real straight. Maybe I'll be able to walk out on you."
"No," he said. "You won't be able to do that."
"I'm gonna try." She pointed across the room, at the bartender. "Go on, tell the man to sell you a bottle. I'm gonna give this a real try."
He bought a pint of gin. And she tried. She tried very hard. At one point she said, "Well, here's where I get off," but somehow she couldn't leave the booth. Then later she managed to get up from the booth and gazed past him and said, "Nice to have met you, and so forth," and turned away and started toward the door. She made it halfway to the door and came back to the booth and said slowly and solemnly, "You bastard, you." She sat down and lifted the half-empty bottle to her mouth and took a long quivering gulp. She went on with the drinking, taking it fast and then much too fast and finally she passed out.
When she was able to sit up he phoned for a cab. She said she didn't want to leave, she wanted to drink some more. She said it would be nice if she could really knock herself out and stay that way for a week, so then she wouldn't be able to see him. Maybe that would do it, she said, with her eyes saying that nothing could do it, nothing could keep her away from him.
He put her in the cab and they arranged for the same time, same place tomorrow night.
So then it was tomorrow night. It was a succession of tomorrow nights in the booth in the taproom with ginger ale for him and gin for her. Sitting there facing each other and not touching each other, and it was three weeks of that, just that, just sitting there together until closing time, when he'd put her in a cab and watch the cab going away.
Then on Tuesday of the fourth week she said she couldn't take this much longer and if they didn't find themselves a room somewhere, she'd have convulsions or something.
He didn't say anything, but when the cab arrived to take her home, he climbed in with her. He said to the driver, "Take us somewhere."
The driver took them to a cheap hotel that paid certain cabbies a small
Similar Books
