Big Man Read online

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Up Weasel’s pad,” he said.

  “Doing what?”

  “A poker session. You got some loot to spill?”

  “A little. Is it a high-stakes game?”

  “The usual. You going up there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll see you later then. I’m heading there after I knock off this slob.”

  “Gone,” I said.

  I drifted out, not really feeling like poker, but wanting to think a little about May and about all the things she’d said. I don’t go for this crap, you know, like is in all the women’s magazines. I mean where the snotnosed kid next door who’s all the time wearing pigtails and making horrible faces and who’s got freckles all over her suddenly unloosens the pigtails and stops making faces, and all the freckles disappear except one very attractive one just above her cheekbone and all at once she’s a dazzling dish and the hero falls in love with her. This is great for the ladies in Garden City, Long Island, who got nothing to do but shop Lord & Taylor’s and then sit around munching French chocolates and thinking how nice it is that pigtailed, freckle-faced snotnoses can wind up with the heroes of the world. From my own experience, it seems to me like the ugly snotnoses of America wind up to be the ugly grownups of America, and the heroes go off marrying movie stars and then divorcing them a little while later.

  All I’m trying to say is that May never was an ugly kid. Not that I can really remember what she actually looked like when she was wearing diapers. I never went over to her carriage and peeked in and said, “Why, what a lovely little baby, you-are-for-me, doll!” But she never was ugly, that’s for sure, and I was sort of surprised that suddenly I could begin thinking in love terms about her, after knowing her all these years. I know that’s perfectly understandable to the ladies in Garden City, but to me it was confusing. I guess I always expected love to come up and hit me on the head with a ball bat. Who expects love to be wearing sneakers?

  Well, I walked down to 116th Street and then up to Third Avenue and then I went into the tenement where Weasel lived. I climbed upstairs and knocked on his door twice. The door pulled back a little and Max’s face showed and then split in a grin.

  “Hey, Frankie,” he said. “Hello, boy.”

  He opened the door for me, and I went in. He’s a short little guy, Max, who looks like the guy in all the garment-center jokes you hear. He never shaved very often, although he sure could have used it. I guess maybe he didn’t like to shave, who does? He had a pot belly, and he wore his pants real low, so that you always thought his belly was gonna pop right out and spill over the floor. He had very tiny brown eyes. Actually, I never envied him because I tried to figure what it was like to be a kid named Max, and I don’t believe it. There are actually no children in the world named Max. Max is only a name for grown men.

  “You looking good, kid,” Max said. “How’s life treating you?”

  “Fine. Where’s the game?”

  “In back.” He gestured with his head. “You feeling lucky?”

  “A little.”

  “You loaded?”

  “I got loot,” I lied.

  “Can you spare a fiver?”

  “What for, Max?”

  “I was thinking a little mootah would hit the spot right about now.”

  “You better lay off that stuff,” I told him.

  “What for? Boy, there ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “The big stuff, sure. C and M and H, they’re murder. But marijuana? Why, man, that never hurt a fly.”

  “I can’t spare a fiver, anyway,” I said. I paused. “How come you need a fin for a little mootah? Who you snowing, Max?”

  “Me? I ain’t snowing nobody, Frankie.”

  “You on hoss already? That it?”

  “Hell, no,” Max said. “You take me for an idiot?”

  “Then what you need a fiver for? A fiver’ll get you a cap of hoss. You don’t need a fiver for a joint. You can get a joint for half a buck. Who you snowing, Max?”

  “Okay, I was figuring on a couple of joints,” Max said. “A stick don’t get me high no more, Frankie. I need two, three.”

  “That comes to a buck fifty in my country,” I told him. “How come you need a fin?”

  “All right, all right, I ain’t playing with marijuana no more, all right? Man, when you busted enough joints, they don’t give you that lift no more, you dig?”

  “That’s just what I been telling you. Man, you sound like you’re hooked already.”

  “Who, me? Hell, no. Just because I ain’t hip to muggles no more? That don’t mean nothing.”

  “What are you on then?”

  “You ever try opium, man?”

  “I never tried nothing, and I ain’t gonna start now.”

  “Who’s inviting you?” Max said, smiling. “Come on, dad, loosen the five spot.”

  “No,” I said.

  “A deuce then. How about it?”

  “For opium?”

  “It’s my poison, ain’t it, man? I ain’t asking advice. All I want is a deuce. Besides, opium’s legal in China, didn’t you know that?”

  “That’s why the Chinks are all frigged up,” I said. “And this don’t happen to be China. You better wise up, Max. You want to get anywhere in this outfit, you’ll lay off the junk. Mr. Carfon don’t go for junkies. Hell, you seen what happened to Turk. He’s back in Chicago because he was hooked. A few years, and you can forget he was ever a big man. He’ll be laying in some alley with belly cramps. That’s a real promotion, ain’t it? Lay off it, Max. I’m telling you like a father.”

  “You gonna lend me the deuce or nay?”

  “No.”

  “You broke? Is that it?”

  “I’m loaded,” I said.

  “Then slip me a deuce. Come on, Frankie, I ain’t been straight since noon. I don’t get a fix soon, I’ll blow the top of my skull.”

  “And you ain’t hooked, huh?” I said sourly.

  “Hooked, shmooked, the monkey don’t know from words. You got a deuce or not? You’re wasting my time.”

  I fished into my wallet and laid a deuce on him. “It’s your funeral,” I said.

  “What a friggin’ way to die,” Max answered. “Thanks, man. I’ll pay you Saturday. I got to find me an engine, and then see a man about cooking up a pill.”

  I left him to look for his opium pipe and the guy who’d sell him the gummy ball of crap to put in it. The game in the back room was a real quiet one. Weasel and Jobbo and Benny and a new guy I didn’t know were sitting around the table in their shirt sleeves. None of the guys was heeled except Weasel. He had a .38 sticking out of a shoulder holster. He looked like as if he thought he was the star of Detective Story.

  “Hi, boys,” I said, and all the boys gave me the nod but Weasel. Weasel looked like he was real busy with his cards. He held them in a tight fan, and he studied them like he’d just opened an Egyptian tomb.

  “Draw?” I asked, and Weasel said, “What the hell does it look like?”

  “I was only asking,” I said.

  “Well, that was a real bright question,” Weasel said. “Everybody’s holding five cards, and you ask if it’s draw.”

  “It could be Old Maid,” I said, grinning.

  “Weasel’s losing,” Jobbo explained.

  “Gee, that’s awful sad,” I said. “Can I get in the game?”

  “And share my dough another way? No, sir,” Weasel said.

  “I’ll be bringing fresh money into the game.”

  “We got too many players already.”

  “You only got four. We can still play draw with five players.”

  “I don’t want no debate,” Weasel said. “The game’s closed.”

  “You mind if I watch?”

  “So long as you shut up,” Weasel said.

  “Yeah, but is it all right to breathe?”

  Jobbo laughed, and then Benny b
egan laughing, and even the new guy, a snotnose with a black pompadour, began laughing.

  “Very funny,” Weasel said. “We playing cards, or is this a sewing circle?”

  I went over behind Jobbo’s chair and took a look at his hand. He was holding a pair of queens, a lone ace, and two low-spot cards. Benny picked up the deck and said, “Cards.”

  The new kid said, “One,” so I knew he was pulling for either a straight or a flush unless he was sitting with two pairs and openly advertising them by trying to triple one of them. Weasel had opened, and he called for three cards, so all he had was a pair, jacks or better. I saw Jobbo getting ready to discard three cards, including the lone ace, so I stuck my hand out and tapped the ace, and he looked up, and when I shook my head he kept the ace and discarded only the low-spots.

  “Two,” he said.

  Benny gave him the two cards, and then drew three for himself. I watched Jobbo as he squeezed out the cards he’d drawn. A five, and another ace. That gave him two pairs, queens and aces. He smiled and nodded. Weasel, the opener, said, “Bet three.”

  “Raise you two,” Jobbo said, throwing a fin into the center of the table.

  “I’m out,” Benny said, folding his cards.

  “Too steep for me,” the new kid said, so I knew he hadn’t filled his hand.

  Weasel looked at Jobbo, and then he looked at me, and then he put another deuce into the pot and said, “I guess I have to call.”

  “Two pair,” Jobbo said. “Aces up.”

  “It’s your pot,” Weasel said sourly. “Sonovabitching cards ain’t been running right all night.”

  Benny shoved the deck to the new kid and said, “Your deal, Georgie.”

  The kid took the deck, shuffling them like an expert, and then he dealt quickly. Weasel examined his cards and said, “Pass.”

  “Pass,” Jobbo said.

  “I can open,” Benny said. He slipped a deuce to the center of the table, and everybody matched it.

  “Cards,” George said.

  “Two,” Weasel said, so I figured him for a low pair and an ace kicker. If he’d had a high pair or three of a kind, he’d probably have opened.

  Jobbo was holding four hearts, and his fifth card was a five of clubs which paired up with the five of hearts. He was getting ready to discard the three hearts, saving the pair of fives. If he did that and didn’t draw to the pair, Benny would certainly beat him with his jacks-or-better openers. And even Weasel could beat him if he caught another pair or the mate to that ace kicker he was holding. I shook my head, and Jobbo looked up at me. I tapped the five of clubs, telling him silently that he should discard that and take his chances on filling the heart flush.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Weasel said.

  I looked up. “Huh?”

  “You. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Kibitzing,” I said.

  “We don’t need no kibitzers in this game,” Weasel said. “How many friggin’ guys am I playing against, anyway?”

  “I was just—”

  “You frigged up the last pot, and I didn’t say nothing. Now I’m telling you to keep your goddamn mouth shut. Discard what you was gonna discard, Jobbo.”

  “What for?” Jobbo said. “This way is better.”

  “Discard what you was gonna discard,” Weasel said tightly.

  “What the hell!” Jobbo said. “That don’t make any sense.”

  “You discard the right way, Jobbo,” I said to him. I turned to the kid dealing. “One card.”

  Weasel got up from the table, and then he put his palms down flat on the wooden top, leaning over so I couldn’t miss seeing the butt of the .38 sticking out of the shoulder holster.

  “You looking for trouble?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Okay, so don’t—”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with kibitzing. Everybody kibitzes.”

  “You’re lousing up the game,” Weasel said. “Let Jobbo play the way he wants to.”

  “He don’t have to follow my suggestions,” I said. “Seems to me you’re the one who’s forcing him to play your way.”

  “You’d better get the hell out of here,” Weasel said. “You’re stinking up the place.”

  “The place stunk before I got here,” I said, and I balanced myself for what I knew was coming.

  I saw Weasel’s eyes narrow, and then one hand left the table and shot up for the .38 hanging in the shoulder holster. His hand tightened on the gun butt, but before he could pull the gun free I shoved out at his chest. He slammed back against the wall and then brought his hand up again, still trying for the gun, but I was already across the room.

  As the gun came out, I clamped both hands on his wrist, and he yelled, “You son of a bitch!” but I smashed the gun hand against the wall, just like I was swinging a bag, and I heard the crack when his knuckles hit the plaster, and then his fingers popped open, and the gun clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees, trying to pick up the gun, and I stepped on his hand, bringing the heel of my shoe down hard, angry enough to break every goddamn bone in his body now. He pulled back his hand with a scream, and at the same time I brought back my foot and then let it go again, catching him right on the point of his jaw.

  He flew over backwards, like a guy doing a fancy dive from a high board. I reached down and pulled him into my fist, and then I kept ramming my fist into his mouth, aiming for his teeth, wanting to knock every tooth out of his mouth. I held him up against the wall, just pounding at his mouth, feeling the teeth give, hitting him to make sure he knew I didn’t take crap from nobody. Then I let him go, and he just fell back against the wall and then slid down to the floor.

  I took out my handkerchief and wiped the blood off my knuckles.

  “You better shovel him out of here,” I said. “Manure decays fast.”

  Some of the boys laughed—but not one of them made a move to pick up Weasel. I looked at him, and then I spit on the floor at his feet. Then I left the room and the friendly little poker game.

  It was maybe because of the fight with Weasel that Mr. Carfon decided to send me out of town again. He was very nice about the whole thing, but he said he didn’t like “internal” arguments, and he thought we both needed a little time to cool off. He said he had some business up Utica way, anyway, and he thought I’d be the best man to put things in order.

  In any case, his decision accounted for a couple of things that maybe wouldn’t have happened if I stuck around in New York. The first of these was the bust-up with Celia and this maybe accounted for a lot of things that were going to happen later on, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

  I got to explain what it was like with Celia. I mean, it was great. She was like an animal. I dig that with chicks. I like to see them smooth and polished, sleek as a piece of chrome, untouchable, with a class that says, “Don’t come near me; I can’t be had.” And then you come near, and you touch, and the polish all drops away, the sleekness disappears, there’s only a girl with mussed hair and bruised lips who’s aching for you, a dame who all at once is an animal and who doesn’t give a damn about anything but you. That sends me.

  And that’s the way it was with Celia. Like as if she was trying to find something with me. Like as if each time she screamed she was screaming out a prayer. Like that. With that blond hair wild, and those green eyes staring up into my face, smoky, searching, and her lips parted on the edge of a scream or a moan, her eyes never leaving my face, hungering there, feeding there. That’s what it was like.

  So it was great. And at the same time, it was nothing. I mean, she knew things would make the Eiffel Tower melt. She knew tricks Houdini would have locked himself in trunks for. She used that crazy body of hers as if it was a machine answering any command she gave it, breast, tongue, mouth, eyes, everything, everything—and yet it was nothing. She knew it, and I knew it, only neither of us expected the other to say it.

  And then, just before I left for Utica, Celia did say it.
r />   I guess she’d had a drink or two before I got to the apartment. She opened the door, and she stood there in green pajamas and she cocked one eyebrow and said, “Well, lover,” and from just the way she said those two words, I knew it was done between us almost before it had started, I knew this was the last time I’d see Celia. As it turned out, I was wrong. I was going to see Celia once more before the thing was really done, but that was under different circumstances.

  “Come in,” she said, and she did a clumsy little curtsy and I went into the crumby flat and walked straight to the sofa and sat down.

  “Remember the first time I was here?” I said. “Boy, my leg—”

  “Yes, I remember. You want a drink?”

  “No.”

  “I do,” she said. She poured from a bottle of whiskey on the end table. “Big-shot Andy Orelli,” she said, almost to herself. “His wife likes Canadian Club. Do we drink Canadian Club? Look at what we drink.” She held out the bottle so I could see the label.

  “There’s worse,” I said.

  “There’s better,” she answered. She tilted the half-full water glass. “Here’s to crime,” she said. She giggled. “It don’t pay.”

  “It pays,” I told her.

  “Sure. Sure it does.” She nodded reflectively for a minute and then, out of a clear blue sky, she said, “Go home, Frankie. There’s nothing for you here any more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing here. No pussy piece.” She giggled again. “Nothing. You know something? There never was anything.”

  I walked over to her. I put my hand on her shoulder and then ran it down her arm, and I let it rest on her hip where the swell of her flesh pushed out at the green silk. “There’s plenty here,” I said.

  “Nothing. Go home, Frankie.” She giggled. “Yankee, go home. You are fondling a slut.” My hand dropped a little. She didn’t move. She stood just where she was as my fingers closed on her. The she shook her head. “It won’t work. No good, Frankie. Don’t waste your time.”

  I backed away and looked at her. “What’s the matter, all of a sudden?”

  “All of a sudden? No. Not all of a sudden. A long time coming.” She shook her head again. “It’s no good, Frankie. I thought it might be. I thought maybe this would be it, you know? The shining white love everybody talks about, everybody writes about, but where is it I’d like to know? Where is it except in the movies?”