Dog Soldiers (26 page)

Eddie nodded and looked away again.

“
I could tell you stories about that bitch,
”
he said. He gestured toward the spastic
’
s wife.
“
Things are getting so fucked up I don
’
t believe it. Wild?
”
He raised his eyes.
“
You wouldn
’
t believe half the shit that goes down in this town. It
’
s a new world, man. I wish I was ten years younger.
”

“
Tell me something, Eddie,
”
Hicks said.
“
Am I making a mistake talking to you? Am I doing the wrong thing?
”

Eddie shrugged.

“
Am I God, Ray? How would I know?
”

They sat in silence.
“
2001
”
came on the jukebox.

“
These fuckin
’
people make me sick,
”
Eddie said.
“
The Spock generation. Everything
’
s a tit. I wannit, I wannit.
”
He smiled at Marge and turned toward the people in the bar.
“
I sit still for every creep in town. Everybody
’
s daddy — do me this, Eddie — do me that, Eddie. I could puke sometimes.
”
He suddenly thrust a finger in Hicks
’
chest. Hicks looked down at it.
“
Even you, man. I
’
m sit ting on all this shit, Eddie — please lay it off for me.
”

“
If you want a piece, indicate by saying yes. If not, say no.
”

Eddie paid no attention.

“
The people out here, man — they
’
re so rotten they got this shit growing on them.
”
It seemed to Marge that it was she whom he spoke to.
“
Fungus. You go into a room full of these people and you look around and some of them have it all over them. Every inch of skin, covered with this green fungus. Other people — maybe half their face has it. Other people — maybe one hand. Or they have spots of it growing on them.
”

He put his hand on her arm. She drew it away quickly.

“
Grows on everybody in this place.
”

“
How about you?
”
Marge asked.

Eddie
’
s eyes were bright. Marge felt something in them which she recognized.

“
Present company excepted.
”

Hicks looked at his watch.

“
O.K., O.K.
”
Eddie scratched his eyelids.
“
I can probably help y
o
u.
”

“
Is that right?
”

“
I been associated with a guy. He
’
s English, he used to be a masseur. He
’
s got a bunch of goofs he works — swingers, whip freaks, far-out shit like that. He
’
s got a lot of bread and he knows what everybody likes. He might be the guy to move it.
”

“
Whatever you say, Eddie.
”

“
The only trouble is,
”
Eddie said, smiling,
“
I can
’
t stand the guy.
”
Hicks shook his head.
“
I don
’
t need no trouble.
”

“
What do you mean, you don
’
t need no trouble?
”

“
I mean 1 don
’
t want to play double-cross or fuck around.

I don
’
t want any part of burns or rip-offs or revenge. If you can connect me with a discreet civilized person, fine. No intrigues.
”

“
Paranoia,
”
Eddie told Marge.

“
Why not?
”
Marge said.

“
I don
’
t have an enemy in the world,
”
Eddie Peace said.
“
If you want, I
’
ll put you in touch.
”

“
How about tomorrow?
”

“
Tomorrow? You must be desperate.
”

“
I don
’
t see why we s
hould procrastinate. Why not to
morrow?
”

Eddie Peace stood up.

“
Call my answering service — tell them you
’
re Gerson Walter, that
’
ll impress them. I
’
ll have word for you.
”

He enjoined them to keep the faith and went back to the bar. When they were out
in the parking lot, Hicks disap
peared into the shadows to piss while Marge waited by the car. It was a street of small secretive houses with tiled roofs. No sound at all came from Quasi
’
s; the music and the uneasy laughter were contained inside.

Hicks came back walking wearily and they got in.
“
He
’
s a snitch, I know he is. He
’
ll burn me or turn me for sure. It
’
s a circus.
”

“
Actually,
”
Marge said,
“
I think it
’
s very clever of you to have come up with him.
”

“
If I were really clever,
”
Hicks said, as they pulled out,
“
I wouldn
’
t even know Eddie Peace.
”

They rolled uphill to the Strip, past the Whiskey
à
Go-Go, the Chateau Marmont, the revolving moose. At a stop light, Marge found herself exchanging stares with a man in a Luftwaffe officer
’
s hat.

“
Why do you think he made me for a schoolteacher?
”
Marge asked when the light had changed.

“
Because that
’
s what you look like,
”
Hicks said.

C
onverse woke in the morning about seven
.
S
un
-light lit the Venetian blinds and glittered on plastic desk tops; for a moment he thought that he had awakened in the offices of MACV.

He took off his shirt and soaped himself in Elmer
’
s washroom. He needed a shave. His Saigon khaki pants were clean. He had a long-sleeved blue shirt into which he had changed when arriving from the airport — and in which he had just slept — and a gray windbreaker. Relative invisibility, should it be required.

The machines in the factory floors were already turned on as he went downstairs and he passed hard-eyed black girls on their way to the stitching tables. Outside, the Bay wind, the California taste of the air, startled him again. Al though the day was clear, it seemed very cold to him. He stopped when he reached the first corner and looked over his shoulder but he saw no tan car and no one on Mission Street seemed at all concerned with him. He walked in the direction of the Civic Center and stopped at the Foster
’
s on the corner of Geary and Van Ness for Danish and coffee. The food, the briskness of the
day, the availability of a law
yer led him toward optimism. It was possible that they had not connected him with anything directly. It was possible that all might yet be well. He strolled the Tenderloin streets for a while, almost enjoying the city and his return. When he was tired of walking, he went into a Catholic church on Taylor street and sat before the plaster image of St. Anthony of Padua. He even considered lighting a candle.

It was the church and the proximity of St. Anthony that put Converse in mind of his mother. One of St. Anthony
’
s spiritual attributes was his wil
lingness to assist in the recov
ery of lost articles, and in the declining years of her life, Mrs. Converse had conceived a particular devotion to him. More and more things were missing.

She had lived for seven years in a deteriorating hotel on Turk Street and Converse visited her about twice a year. At least once — usually around the time of her birthday — they dined out together
. Converse had always taken par
ticular pleasure in announcing that he was having dinner with her. It seemed to him to conjure up an image of deliriously respectable sophistication which, as Converse well knew, was quite different from the actuality of the event.

Sitting before St. Anthony, waiting to see his lawyer, Con verse thought of her and it occurred to him that other young men on the wrong side of the law — perhaps other importers of heroin waiting to see their lawyers — might at the same moment be sitting at the feet of St. Anthony and thinking of their mothers. Since there was so much time to lose and he was in the neighborhood, Converse decided to take her to lunch. It would be kind and it would keep him busy until three o
’
clock.

His mother
’
s hotel was called the Montalvo. The desk clerk was a black man with a Masonic tie clasp; when Con verse asked for his mother the clerk pointed to a corner of the lobby where the television set was.

“
That lady,
”
the man said in stiff British colonial tones,
“
will be a problem to us all shortly.
”

The lobby smel
l
ed, very faintly, of garbage. They had taken most of the furniture out
.
Such of it as remained was arranged before a television set in a corner alcove where it decayed, splinter by thread, under the ol
d parties who in
fested it.

Halfway across the stained floor, Converse caught sight of his mother, and stopped for a moment to watch her. She was absorbed in the entertainment on the box — something that sounded like a celebrity game show. Her false teeth were encompassed in a loose smile and her glasses were low on the bridge of her nose. There in the Montalvo lobby, Converse felt himself slide into some moment nearly thirty years vanished — he was beside her in a darkened movie theater, turning to look up at her as she watched the film on the screen. She was smiling over her glasses at the bitter wit of Dan Duryea or the suavity of Zachary Scott, unaware of the child beside her who was looking up at her in — in love, as Converse recalled. It seemed very strange to him as he watched her before the Montalvo
’
s television set.

Suddenly her contented expression vanished. An old man had occupied the lipstick-red lounge chair beside her. He was quite well turned out, the sort of old boy, who, like Douglas Dalton, owned a couple of suits and a whisk broom. Converse
’
s mother
stared at him in hatred and ter
ror. She began mouthing words in venomous silence; she clenched her fists in rage. The old man paid absolutely no attention to her.

Converse came around the set and stood above her trying to smile. It was several moments before she looked up at him and the smile she gave him was as joyless as his own.

“
Is it you?
”
she asked. It was not a rhetorical question.

“
Sure,
”
Converse said.
“
Of course it
’
s me.
”

He bent to kiss her on the cheek. The flesh his lips touched was swollen and br
uised nearly black from her con
stant picking at it. She smelled of death.

“
It isn
’
t you,
”
she told him with curious conviction. For a moment, he thought she was being coy in some infantile fashion but he shortly reali
zed that she was probably hallu
cinating.

“
Yes, it is,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s me. John.
”