He Who Hesitates (87th Precinct), page 4
“Excuse me, Detective Parker. Pardon me for living.”
“Yeah,” Parker said. “Thanks,” he said to the counterman as he put down the coffee and cruller. He took a huge bite of the cruller, almost demolishing it with the single bite, and then picked up his coffee cup and took a quick noisy gulp and put the cup down on the saucer again, sloshing coffee over the sides. He belched and then turned to look at Ralph briefly, and then said to Roger, “Is he a friend of yours?”
“We just met,” Ralph answered.
“Who asked you?” Parker said.
“We’re friends,” Roger said.
“What’s your name?” Parker said. He picked up the coffee and sipped at it without looking at Roger. When Roger did not answer, he turned toward him and said again, “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You’re consorting with a known criminal. I have a right to ask you questions.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“I’m a detective, and I work out of the 87th Squad, and here’s my identification,” Parker said. He threw his shield, pinned to a leather tab, onto the counter. “Now what’s your name?”
Roger looked at the shield. “Roger Broome,” he said.
“Where do you live, Roger?”
“Upstate. In Carey.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Huddleston.”
“Where the hell is Huddleston? I never heard of it.”
Roger shrugged. “About a hundred eighty miles from here.”
“You got an address in the city?”
“Yes, I’m staying in a place about four or five blocks from—”
“The address.”
“I don’t know the address offhand. A woman named—”
“What street is it on?”
“Twelfth.”
“And where?”
“Off Culver.”
“You staying in Mrs. Dougherty’s place?”
“That’s right,” Roger said. “Agnes Dougherty.”
“What are you doing here in the city?”
“I came in to sell the woodenware my brother and I make in our shop.”
“And did you sell it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“When are you leaving the city?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What are you doing with this junkie here?”
“Come on, Parker,” Ralph said. “I told you we just—”
“Detective Parker.”
“All right, Detective Parker, Detective Parker, all right? We just met. Why don’t you leave the guy alone?”
“What is it you think I’ve done?” Roger asked suddenly.
“Done?” Parker said. He picked up his shield and put it back into his coat pocket, turning on the stool and looking at Roger as though seeing him for the first time. “Who said you did anything?”
“I mean, all these questions.”
“Your friend here has been in jail, how many times, Ralphie? Three, four? For possession once, I remember that, and weren’t you in for burglary, and—”
“Twice is all,” Ralph said.
“Twice is enough,” Parker said. “That’s why I’m asking you questions, Roger.” Parker smiled. “Why? Did you do something?”
“No.”
“You’re sure now?”
“I’m sure.”
“You didn’t kill anybody with a hatchet, did you?” Parker said, and laughed. “We had a guy got killed with a hatchet only last month.”
“An ax,” the counterman said.
“What’s the difference?” Parker asked.
“There’s a difference,” the counterman said, and shrugged.
“To who? To the guy who got hit with it? What does he care? He’s already singing with the choir up there.” He laughed again, rose, walked to where he had hung his coat, and put it on. He turned to the counterman. “What do I owe you, Chip?” he asked.
“Forget it,” the counterman said. “Mark it on the ice.”
“Uh-uh,” Parker said, shaking his head. “You think I’m a coffee-and-cruller cop? You want to buy me, you got to come higher. What do I owe you?”
The counterman shrugged. “Twenty-five,” he said.
“How much higher?” Ralph said. “I know guys who bought you for a fin, Parker.”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Parker said. He put a quarter on the counter and then turned to face Ralph. “Why don’t you try to buy me sometime, pal? Sometime when I catch you red-handed with a pile of shit in your pockets, you try to buy your way out of it, okay?”
“You can’t fix narcotics, Parker, you know that.”
“Yeah, worse luck for you, pal.” He waved at the counterman. “So long, Chip,” he said. “I’ll see you.”
“Take it easy, Andy.”
At the door, Parker turned. He looked at Roger without a trace of a smile and said, “If I see you hanging around too long with our friend here, I may have to ask you some more questions, Roger.”
“All right,” Roger said.
“I just thought you might like to know.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Not at all,” Parker said, and smiled. “Part of the service, all part of the service.” He opened the door, went out into the street, and closed the door noisily behind him.
“The son of a bitch,” Ralph whispered.
It was just the idea of going in there that he didn’t like. He stood across the street from the police station, looking at the cold gray front of the building and thinking he wouldn’t mind telling them all about it if only it didn’t mean going in there. He supposed he could have told that detective in the luncheonette, but he hadn’t liked the fellow and he had the feeling that telling this could be easy or hard depending on whether he liked the fellow he was telling it to. It seemed to him that Ralph, who was a convicted burglar and a narcotics user (according to the detective, anyway), was a much nicer person than the detective had been. If he was sure he could find somebody like Ralph inside there, he’d have no qualms at all about just crossing the street and marching right in and saying he was Roger Broome, and then telling them about it.
He supposed he would have to begin it with the girl, and end it with the girl, that would be difficult, too. Telling them about how he had met the girl. He couldn’t see himself sitting opposite a stranger at a desk someplace inside there and telling them how he had met the girl, Molly was her name. Suppose they gave him a detective like that fellow Parker in that luncheonette, how could he possibly tell him about the girl, or about how they’d met or what they’d done. The more he thought about it the harder it all seemed. Walking across the street there and climbing those steps seemed very hard, and telling a detective about the girl seemed even harder, although the real thing, the important thing didn’t seem too hard at all, if only he could get past the other parts that were so very difficult.
He would have to tell them first, he supposed, that he hadn’t been looking for a girl at all last night, although he didn’t know why that would be important to them. Still, it seemed important and he thought he should explain that first. I wasn’t looking for a girl, he could say. I had just finished my supper, it was around 7:00 at night, and I had gone back to the room and was just sitting there watching the street and thinking how lucky I’d been to have sold the salad bowls so high and to have made a new contact here in the city, that store in the Quarter.
Yes, he supposed he could tell them. He supposed he could walk in there and tell them all about it.
Last night, he had thought he should call his mother back home in Carey and tell her the good news, but then it seemed to him the happiness he was feeling was a very private sort of thing that shouldn’t be shared with anybody, even if it was someone as close as his own mother, that was the trouble with Carey. That small house in Carey, and his mother’s bedroom right next door, and Buddy sleeping in the same room with him, all sort of cramped together, there was hardly any time to be alone, to feel something special of your own, something private. And the room in Mrs. Dougherty’s house, it was pretty much the same as being home, having to go down the hall for the toilet, and always meeting somebody or other in the hall, the room itself so small and full of noises from the street and noises from all the pipes. What Carey missed, and what the room here in the city missed, was a secret place where a person could be happy by himself, or cry by himself, or just be by himself.
He left the room feeling pretty good, this must have been about 7:30, maybe 8:00, but not looking for any company, instead really trying to get out of that small room and into the streets, into the larger city, so that the happiness he was feeling could have a little space to expand in, a little space to grow. He wasn’t looking for a girl. He just came out of the room and down the steps and into the street—it was very cold last night, colder than today—and he pulled up his coat collar and stuck his hands in his pockets and just started walking south, not knowing where he was going, but just breathing the air into his lungs, cold and sharp and even hurting a little bit, it was that cold.
He must have gone six or seven blocks, maybe it was more, when he really began to feel the cold. It hit his feet all at once, and he felt his toes were going to fall right off if he didn’t get inside someplace quick. He was not a drinking man, he didn’t usually drink more than a beer or two, and he didn’t much like bars, but he saw a bar up ahead and he knew if he didn’t get inside someplace real quick he was going to have frostbite, well, he didn’t know if he was really going to have frostbite, but it sure felt like it.
He couldn’t remember the name of the bar, he supposed they would want to know its name and exactly what street it was on.
He must have come six or seven blocks, was all, walking straight south on Twelfth Street, from the rooming house. But he didn’t know what avenue that would have been. He thought the bar had a green neon sign in the window. Anyway, he went in, and took a table near the radiator because his feet were so cold. That was how he happened to meet Molly. He wasn’t really…
No, he thought.
No, it doesn’t sound right, that’s the difficult part about telling it.
He could visualize it all in his head, just the way it had happened, but he knew that going into that police station and telling it to a detective it would come out all wrong, he just knew it. Sitting face to face with somebody he didn’t know and telling him about how the girl had come to the table after he’d been sitting there a couple of minutes, no, he knew it wouldn’t come out right, even though he could see it plain as day inside his head, just the way it had happened, her coming to the table and stopping there and looking down at him with a very peculiar annoyed look on her face, her hands on her hips.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, mister,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You see that pocketbook there in the corner, what do you think that pocketbook is doing there?”
“What pocket—oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see it when I sat down.”
“Yeah, well now you see it.”
“And there wasn’t a glass or anything on the table, so I—”
“That’s ’cause I didn’t order yet. I was in the powder room.”
“Oh,” Roger said.
She had red hair, and the red hair was the only attractive thing about her, and he suspected even that was fake. She was wearing fake eyelashes, and she had penciled fake eyebrows onto her forehead and had made her mouth more generous by running a fake line of lipstick up beyond its natural boundaries. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, but her breasts under the silk blouse were very high and pointed, with that same fake look the eyelashes and the lipstick and the eyebrows had. Her hair was a bright red, almost an orange, straight from a bottle, he supposed. She was altogether a pretty sad specimen. Even her legs weren’t too hot; he supposed there was nothing she could do to fake them up a little.
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll just take my beer and move to another booth.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I’d appreciate it.”
She kept standing by the booth with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to pick up his bottle of beer, and his half-full glass of beer, and move to another booth. The trouble was he had taken off his shoes in order to warm his feet against the radiator, which was on the wall under the table, and he had to put his shoes on now before he could move. He swung his stockinged feet out from under the table and then searched for his right shoe. He put that on while she watched him silently with her hands on her hips. Then he reached under the table for the second shoe and couldn’t find it, and got down on his hands and knees and went searching for it that way. She just kept watching with her hands on her hips all the while, not saying a word until finally she said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, never mind! I’ll move! Would you please hand me my bag?”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Don’t be so sorry, for Pete’s sake, just give me my bag!”
“I took off my shoes because—”
“What are you, a farmer or something? What do you think this is, your own living room? Taking off your shoes? In a public place like this? Boy, you’ve really got some nerve, mister, I’m telling you!”
“It’s just that my feet—”
“Never mind!”
“Here’s your bag.”
“Thank you. Thank you a whole hell of a lot,” she said, and swiveled off angrily to a booth across the room and at an angle to the one he occupied. He watched her backside as she crossed the room, and thought some women just didn’t have anything, some women were just the unlucky ones in this world, they didn’t have pretty faces, nor good legs nor breasts, and even their backsides looked like a truck driver’s.
It seemed to him he always got the ugly girls.
As far back as he could remember, even when he was in the second grade at Carey Elementary, when his father was still alive, all he ever got was the ugly girls. There was Eunice McGregor, who was possibly the ugliest kid ever born to anyone in the United States, well, her mother was no prize either, that was for sure. But she had a crush on him, and she told everybody she loved him, and she warned him she would break his nose—she was a very big girl—if he didn’t give her a kiss whenever she demanded one, God she was ugly. That was in the second grade. After his father died, it seemed he got the ugly girls more and more often. He couldn’t understand why they were all so attracted to him. His mother had been pretty as a picture when she was younger, and she still had a fine handsome look about her, it was the bones, you couldn’t rob a pretty woman of her facial bones, they were always there, fifty, sixty, even into the seventies. His mother was only forty-six, and she still had those fine bones; sometimes she would actually laugh at some of the girls who were attracted to him. She told him once that she thought he was purposely looking for all the ugly ducklings he could find. He sure as hell couldn’t understand what she’d meant by that. He hadn’t said anything to her, he didn’t like to contradict her when she said something, she’d only think he was being sassy. But he’d thought about it a lot. It made him wonder, what she’d said.
Looking across to where the redheaded girl was adjusting herself in the booth opposite, doing so with all the fuss and annoyance of somebody who is just about fit to bust, he felt the same happiness he had felt before leaving the room at Mrs. Dougherty’s. He watched the girl with an odd, rising feeling of tenderness toward her, pleased by the very fussy little annoyed female things she was doing in the booth opposite, pulling the skirt down over her knees, and smoothing the front of her blouse, and tucking back a stray wisp of hair, and then glancing around for the waiter and signaling to him in a prissy, annoyed, very dignified, feminine way, he almost burst out laughing. She made him feel real good. Now that his feet were warm again (his mother had told him never to take off his shoes when his feet were cold, just leave them on until the feet warmed up inside, and they wouldn’t never get cold again that whole day, but he never listened to her about his feet, they were his feet and he by God knew how to make them warm)—now that his feet were warm, and now that he had a good glass of beer inside him and was in a nice warm place with a jukebox going at the other end with a soft dreamy song, now he began thinking about how much money he had got for the stuff he’d brought to the city, and he began feeling very good about it again, and he thought somehow the redheaded girl, well, the fake redhead, had something to do with the way he was feeling.
He watched her as she ordered, and then he watched as she got up and walked to the jukebox and made a selection, and then went back to the booth. Nobody in the place was paying the smallest bit of attention to her. There were maybe a dozen or so men in the bar, and only four girls besides the redhead, but nobody was making a rush to her booth, in spite of the shortage. He sat and watched her. She knew he was watching her, but she very carefully made sure she didn’t look once in his direction, pretending she was still very angry because he had taken her booth.
He knew he would go to bed with her.
He wasn’t at all excited by the idea because she wasn’t pretty or even attractive. He just knew he would go to bed with her, that was all. He just knew that before the night ended, he would be in bed with her.
Sitting on the bench opposite the police station now, he wondered how he could explain to the police that he had known he would be going to bed with the redheaded girl. How could he explain to them that he had known he would go to bed with her but hadn’t been excited by the idea, how could he explain that?
How could he go in there and tell them all about this? What would his mother think when she—well, it didn’t matter, that part of it certainly didn’t matter. It was just sitting across from somebody and talking about taking a girl to bed that would be very difficult. There wasn’t anybody in the world he talked to about things like that, not even his mother, certainly not his mother, nor even his brother Buddy. How could he tell about Molly to a strange detective?
“Yeah,” Parker said. “Thanks,” he said to the counterman as he put down the coffee and cruller. He took a huge bite of the cruller, almost demolishing it with the single bite, and then picked up his coffee cup and took a quick noisy gulp and put the cup down on the saucer again, sloshing coffee over the sides. He belched and then turned to look at Ralph briefly, and then said to Roger, “Is he a friend of yours?”
“We just met,” Ralph answered.
“Who asked you?” Parker said.
“We’re friends,” Roger said.
“What’s your name?” Parker said. He picked up the coffee and sipped at it without looking at Roger. When Roger did not answer, he turned toward him and said again, “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You’re consorting with a known criminal. I have a right to ask you questions.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“I’m a detective, and I work out of the 87th Squad, and here’s my identification,” Parker said. He threw his shield, pinned to a leather tab, onto the counter. “Now what’s your name?”
Roger looked at the shield. “Roger Broome,” he said.
“Where do you live, Roger?”
“Upstate. In Carey.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Huddleston.”
“Where the hell is Huddleston? I never heard of it.”
Roger shrugged. “About a hundred eighty miles from here.”
“You got an address in the city?”
“Yes, I’m staying in a place about four or five blocks from—”
“The address.”
“I don’t know the address offhand. A woman named—”
“What street is it on?”
“Twelfth.”
“And where?”
“Off Culver.”
“You staying in Mrs. Dougherty’s place?”
“That’s right,” Roger said. “Agnes Dougherty.”
“What are you doing here in the city?”
“I came in to sell the woodenware my brother and I make in our shop.”
“And did you sell it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“When are you leaving the city?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What are you doing with this junkie here?”
“Come on, Parker,” Ralph said. “I told you we just—”
“Detective Parker.”
“All right, Detective Parker, Detective Parker, all right? We just met. Why don’t you leave the guy alone?”
“What is it you think I’ve done?” Roger asked suddenly.
“Done?” Parker said. He picked up his shield and put it back into his coat pocket, turning on the stool and looking at Roger as though seeing him for the first time. “Who said you did anything?”
“I mean, all these questions.”
“Your friend here has been in jail, how many times, Ralphie? Three, four? For possession once, I remember that, and weren’t you in for burglary, and—”
“Twice is all,” Ralph said.
“Twice is enough,” Parker said. “That’s why I’m asking you questions, Roger.” Parker smiled. “Why? Did you do something?”
“No.”
“You’re sure now?”
“I’m sure.”
“You didn’t kill anybody with a hatchet, did you?” Parker said, and laughed. “We had a guy got killed with a hatchet only last month.”
“An ax,” the counterman said.
“What’s the difference?” Parker asked.
“There’s a difference,” the counterman said, and shrugged.
“To who? To the guy who got hit with it? What does he care? He’s already singing with the choir up there.” He laughed again, rose, walked to where he had hung his coat, and put it on. He turned to the counterman. “What do I owe you, Chip?” he asked.
“Forget it,” the counterman said. “Mark it on the ice.”
“Uh-uh,” Parker said, shaking his head. “You think I’m a coffee-and-cruller cop? You want to buy me, you got to come higher. What do I owe you?”
The counterman shrugged. “Twenty-five,” he said.
“How much higher?” Ralph said. “I know guys who bought you for a fin, Parker.”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Parker said. He put a quarter on the counter and then turned to face Ralph. “Why don’t you try to buy me sometime, pal? Sometime when I catch you red-handed with a pile of shit in your pockets, you try to buy your way out of it, okay?”
“You can’t fix narcotics, Parker, you know that.”
“Yeah, worse luck for you, pal.” He waved at the counterman. “So long, Chip,” he said. “I’ll see you.”
“Take it easy, Andy.”
At the door, Parker turned. He looked at Roger without a trace of a smile and said, “If I see you hanging around too long with our friend here, I may have to ask you some more questions, Roger.”
“All right,” Roger said.
“I just thought you might like to know.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Not at all,” Parker said, and smiled. “Part of the service, all part of the service.” He opened the door, went out into the street, and closed the door noisily behind him.
“The son of a bitch,” Ralph whispered.
It was just the idea of going in there that he didn’t like. He stood across the street from the police station, looking at the cold gray front of the building and thinking he wouldn’t mind telling them all about it if only it didn’t mean going in there. He supposed he could have told that detective in the luncheonette, but he hadn’t liked the fellow and he had the feeling that telling this could be easy or hard depending on whether he liked the fellow he was telling it to. It seemed to him that Ralph, who was a convicted burglar and a narcotics user (according to the detective, anyway), was a much nicer person than the detective had been. If he was sure he could find somebody like Ralph inside there, he’d have no qualms at all about just crossing the street and marching right in and saying he was Roger Broome, and then telling them about it.
He supposed he would have to begin it with the girl, and end it with the girl, that would be difficult, too. Telling them about how he had met the girl. He couldn’t see himself sitting opposite a stranger at a desk someplace inside there and telling them how he had met the girl, Molly was her name. Suppose they gave him a detective like that fellow Parker in that luncheonette, how could he possibly tell him about the girl, or about how they’d met or what they’d done. The more he thought about it the harder it all seemed. Walking across the street there and climbing those steps seemed very hard, and telling a detective about the girl seemed even harder, although the real thing, the important thing didn’t seem too hard at all, if only he could get past the other parts that were so very difficult.
He would have to tell them first, he supposed, that he hadn’t been looking for a girl at all last night, although he didn’t know why that would be important to them. Still, it seemed important and he thought he should explain that first. I wasn’t looking for a girl, he could say. I had just finished my supper, it was around 7:00 at night, and I had gone back to the room and was just sitting there watching the street and thinking how lucky I’d been to have sold the salad bowls so high and to have made a new contact here in the city, that store in the Quarter.
Yes, he supposed he could tell them. He supposed he could walk in there and tell them all about it.
Last night, he had thought he should call his mother back home in Carey and tell her the good news, but then it seemed to him the happiness he was feeling was a very private sort of thing that shouldn’t be shared with anybody, even if it was someone as close as his own mother, that was the trouble with Carey. That small house in Carey, and his mother’s bedroom right next door, and Buddy sleeping in the same room with him, all sort of cramped together, there was hardly any time to be alone, to feel something special of your own, something private. And the room in Mrs. Dougherty’s house, it was pretty much the same as being home, having to go down the hall for the toilet, and always meeting somebody or other in the hall, the room itself so small and full of noises from the street and noises from all the pipes. What Carey missed, and what the room here in the city missed, was a secret place where a person could be happy by himself, or cry by himself, or just be by himself.
He left the room feeling pretty good, this must have been about 7:30, maybe 8:00, but not looking for any company, instead really trying to get out of that small room and into the streets, into the larger city, so that the happiness he was feeling could have a little space to expand in, a little space to grow. He wasn’t looking for a girl. He just came out of the room and down the steps and into the street—it was very cold last night, colder than today—and he pulled up his coat collar and stuck his hands in his pockets and just started walking south, not knowing where he was going, but just breathing the air into his lungs, cold and sharp and even hurting a little bit, it was that cold.
He must have gone six or seven blocks, maybe it was more, when he really began to feel the cold. It hit his feet all at once, and he felt his toes were going to fall right off if he didn’t get inside someplace quick. He was not a drinking man, he didn’t usually drink more than a beer or two, and he didn’t much like bars, but he saw a bar up ahead and he knew if he didn’t get inside someplace real quick he was going to have frostbite, well, he didn’t know if he was really going to have frostbite, but it sure felt like it.
He couldn’t remember the name of the bar, he supposed they would want to know its name and exactly what street it was on.
He must have come six or seven blocks, was all, walking straight south on Twelfth Street, from the rooming house. But he didn’t know what avenue that would have been. He thought the bar had a green neon sign in the window. Anyway, he went in, and took a table near the radiator because his feet were so cold. That was how he happened to meet Molly. He wasn’t really…
No, he thought.
No, it doesn’t sound right, that’s the difficult part about telling it.
He could visualize it all in his head, just the way it had happened, but he knew that going into that police station and telling it to a detective it would come out all wrong, he just knew it. Sitting face to face with somebody he didn’t know and telling him about how the girl had come to the table after he’d been sitting there a couple of minutes, no, he knew it wouldn’t come out right, even though he could see it plain as day inside his head, just the way it had happened, her coming to the table and stopping there and looking down at him with a very peculiar annoyed look on her face, her hands on her hips.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, mister,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You see that pocketbook there in the corner, what do you think that pocketbook is doing there?”
“What pocket—oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see it when I sat down.”
“Yeah, well now you see it.”
“And there wasn’t a glass or anything on the table, so I—”
“That’s ’cause I didn’t order yet. I was in the powder room.”
“Oh,” Roger said.
She had red hair, and the red hair was the only attractive thing about her, and he suspected even that was fake. She was wearing fake eyelashes, and she had penciled fake eyebrows onto her forehead and had made her mouth more generous by running a fake line of lipstick up beyond its natural boundaries. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, but her breasts under the silk blouse were very high and pointed, with that same fake look the eyelashes and the lipstick and the eyebrows had. Her hair was a bright red, almost an orange, straight from a bottle, he supposed. She was altogether a pretty sad specimen. Even her legs weren’t too hot; he supposed there was nothing she could do to fake them up a little.
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll just take my beer and move to another booth.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I’d appreciate it.”
She kept standing by the booth with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to pick up his bottle of beer, and his half-full glass of beer, and move to another booth. The trouble was he had taken off his shoes in order to warm his feet against the radiator, which was on the wall under the table, and he had to put his shoes on now before he could move. He swung his stockinged feet out from under the table and then searched for his right shoe. He put that on while she watched him silently with her hands on her hips. Then he reached under the table for the second shoe and couldn’t find it, and got down on his hands and knees and went searching for it that way. She just kept watching with her hands on her hips all the while, not saying a word until finally she said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, never mind! I’ll move! Would you please hand me my bag?”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Don’t be so sorry, for Pete’s sake, just give me my bag!”
“I took off my shoes because—”
“What are you, a farmer or something? What do you think this is, your own living room? Taking off your shoes? In a public place like this? Boy, you’ve really got some nerve, mister, I’m telling you!”
“It’s just that my feet—”
“Never mind!”
“Here’s your bag.”
“Thank you. Thank you a whole hell of a lot,” she said, and swiveled off angrily to a booth across the room and at an angle to the one he occupied. He watched her backside as she crossed the room, and thought some women just didn’t have anything, some women were just the unlucky ones in this world, they didn’t have pretty faces, nor good legs nor breasts, and even their backsides looked like a truck driver’s.
It seemed to him he always got the ugly girls.
As far back as he could remember, even when he was in the second grade at Carey Elementary, when his father was still alive, all he ever got was the ugly girls. There was Eunice McGregor, who was possibly the ugliest kid ever born to anyone in the United States, well, her mother was no prize either, that was for sure. But she had a crush on him, and she told everybody she loved him, and she warned him she would break his nose—she was a very big girl—if he didn’t give her a kiss whenever she demanded one, God she was ugly. That was in the second grade. After his father died, it seemed he got the ugly girls more and more often. He couldn’t understand why they were all so attracted to him. His mother had been pretty as a picture when she was younger, and she still had a fine handsome look about her, it was the bones, you couldn’t rob a pretty woman of her facial bones, they were always there, fifty, sixty, even into the seventies. His mother was only forty-six, and she still had those fine bones; sometimes she would actually laugh at some of the girls who were attracted to him. She told him once that she thought he was purposely looking for all the ugly ducklings he could find. He sure as hell couldn’t understand what she’d meant by that. He hadn’t said anything to her, he didn’t like to contradict her when she said something, she’d only think he was being sassy. But he’d thought about it a lot. It made him wonder, what she’d said.
Looking across to where the redheaded girl was adjusting herself in the booth opposite, doing so with all the fuss and annoyance of somebody who is just about fit to bust, he felt the same happiness he had felt before leaving the room at Mrs. Dougherty’s. He watched the girl with an odd, rising feeling of tenderness toward her, pleased by the very fussy little annoyed female things she was doing in the booth opposite, pulling the skirt down over her knees, and smoothing the front of her blouse, and tucking back a stray wisp of hair, and then glancing around for the waiter and signaling to him in a prissy, annoyed, very dignified, feminine way, he almost burst out laughing. She made him feel real good. Now that his feet were warm again (his mother had told him never to take off his shoes when his feet were cold, just leave them on until the feet warmed up inside, and they wouldn’t never get cold again that whole day, but he never listened to her about his feet, they were his feet and he by God knew how to make them warm)—now that his feet were warm, and now that he had a good glass of beer inside him and was in a nice warm place with a jukebox going at the other end with a soft dreamy song, now he began thinking about how much money he had got for the stuff he’d brought to the city, and he began feeling very good about it again, and he thought somehow the redheaded girl, well, the fake redhead, had something to do with the way he was feeling.
He watched her as she ordered, and then he watched as she got up and walked to the jukebox and made a selection, and then went back to the booth. Nobody in the place was paying the smallest bit of attention to her. There were maybe a dozen or so men in the bar, and only four girls besides the redhead, but nobody was making a rush to her booth, in spite of the shortage. He sat and watched her. She knew he was watching her, but she very carefully made sure she didn’t look once in his direction, pretending she was still very angry because he had taken her booth.
He knew he would go to bed with her.
He wasn’t at all excited by the idea because she wasn’t pretty or even attractive. He just knew he would go to bed with her, that was all. He just knew that before the night ended, he would be in bed with her.
Sitting on the bench opposite the police station now, he wondered how he could explain to the police that he had known he would be going to bed with the redheaded girl. How could he explain to them that he had known he would go to bed with her but hadn’t been excited by the idea, how could he explain that?
How could he go in there and tell them all about this? What would his mother think when she—well, it didn’t matter, that part of it certainly didn’t matter. It was just sitting across from somebody and talking about taking a girl to bed that would be very difficult. There wasn’t anybody in the world he talked to about things like that, not even his mother, certainly not his mother, nor even his brother Buddy. How could he tell about Molly to a strange detective?
