Gay Place (27 page)

There was none.

Roy considered Rinemiller’s place, but then thought better of it. Couldn’t desecrate holy ground. And besides, Alfred might be there; lying in state on the striped bedspread.

The floor supervisor came into the room to say they must be quiet or leave. So they decided to leave, promising to come back with more to drink if Earle needed any. All he had to do was give the word. Send up a signal. They’d call in on the hour. Roy stood near the picture window and examined the room. They’d decorated it for Earle. There were fewer flowers, but now there were mobiles suspended from the light fixture on the ceiling; there were books and magazines and a Picasso print and half a roll of pink toilet paper strung like bunting round the end of his bed. There was a new martini pitcher, stacks of greeting cards, a bedpan with Earle’s name stroked in gold along the side, a feather fan, an embroidered cushion. Someone had even brought a pair of hamsters, they explained, but they hadn’t been successful in smuggling them into the hospital.

Ellen Streeter came over to say goodbye to Roy. Her cheek was still discolored, but she’d done an amazing job with her make-up. She looked very pretty, suntanned and somehow rested. She asked if he would join them later, and Roy said it was just barely possible.

“We’ll be at all the obvious places,” she said. “At one time or another … We’ll leave a little trail for you to follow.”

“Maybe we’ll cross paths,” he said.

“I know all about that,” she said. “Like ships in the night. Quit squandering your lousy radiance and focus on someone who needs it.”

“Needs what?”

“Help.”

He did not reply but only looked closely at her mauve-painted eyes. She repeated: “I need help. From the no-good man that ruined me. You could come by my house later. I’ve got a new record — Jelly Roll Morton. He introduces some of his own work. ‘Creepy Feeling.’ And some others.
This tune,
he says,
was wrote ’bout nineteen-two.
The album’s all hermetically sealed. Like a virgin girl. Can you come listen?”

Before he could answer, Harris and Frank Huggins moved past and took her by either arm, guiding her toward the door. He got one last look at her spoiled face before they disappeared down the corridor. For a moment he thought of going after her, but he knew it wasn’t just a question of giving help — it was no doctor-patient relationship; rather one of fever victims struggling to breathe a healing into each other’s mouths. He hadn’t the strength; he doubted, moreover, if he had any help to give to anyone. But he had to see. Did his splendid emotion amount to anything more than good intentions? He turned to face Earle, who was preoccupied for the moment with all his gifts. The tinseled mobile spun above their heads, moving in the blast of an air duct. Earle opened his bottle of brandy and poured a little into two sterilized glasses.

“Let’s have some of this stuff, Roy,” he said. “Sure glad you came by.”

“Where’s Ouida?” Roy said.

“Home with little Earle. Baby-sittin’ problem on Sundays.”

“I got everything from your hotel room,” Roy said. “I checked you out and paid the bill.”

“Damn good. That’s great,” Earle said. He raised his glass to Roy and took a swallow. “You seen Alfred today? I thought he’d sure come around, but he hasn’t yet.”

“I saw him this morning,” Roy said. “We had coffee together. He didn’t tell me his plans, though.”

“You hear about that crazy story? That one about Alfred. He told me about it yesterday. Hell of a goddam note.”

Roy nodded and said: “That’s what we talked about this morning. Alfred was in a sweat about Willie’s story.”

“Hell of a goddam note,” Earle repeated. “What’s Willie tryin’ to do? Everybody knows Alfred couldn’t be bribed.”

“You seen Willie’s story?” Roy said.

“No.”

“You heard about the tape recording?”

“No. What recording is that?”

“The one the lobbyist made when he offered the bribe to Alfred. When Alfred accepted. It goes into a lot of detail …”

Earle was silent, watching the mobile twirl.

“You didn’t know about the recording?” Roy said.

“Alfred might have mentioned it,” Earle said. “He was pretty excited when we talked.”

“When did he first mention this to you? Yesterday?”

“Yesterday,” Earle nodded, “and earlier in the week. Right after the lobbyist made the offer.”

“When was that?”

Earle waved his hand with assurance. “I don’t remember exactly. I still got a little fuzziness about last week.”

“Thursday night?”

“That’s it — Thursday night.”

“Couldn’t have been Thursday night,” Roy said. “I know where Alfred was Thursday night, and he wasn’t with you.”

“What the hell!” Earle said. “Some other night, then. He told me. I know that much.”

“You sure Saturday wasn’t the first time he told you? You’d have to do better than that on a witness stand.”

A nurse came in with a little tray of pills. She looked at the decorations and smiled at Earle. Earle tossed off the brandy and then swallowed the pills with a glass of water. He made a face; his stomach rumbled.

“Thursday goddam night,” he said. “Thursday night was when we talked.” The nurse looked mystified. She turned and went out the door.

“Believe me,” Roy said, “it wasn’t Thursday night. Or any other night last week.”

“It was one of those nights …”

“
Come on, Earle!
Don’t take any oaths for Rinemiller unless you’re damn sure.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure …”

“Listen — if you’d heard that recording you’d understand. It was the real business, Earle. No kidding around about it. Alfred accepted fifteen hundred dollars from that guy. It was counted out right there, one-two-three, on the tape. And Alfred’s still carrying it around with him, I suppose. You know what happened Thursday? Thursday’s the day the same lobbyist offered Giffen a bribe. And old George turned it down …”

“Old George …?”

“George turned it down. Didn’t hesitate. Then he told Rinemiller about it — that was George’s mistake — he asked Alfred what he ought to do about it. And Alfred didn’t say anything to George about trapping a lobbyist. All he did was tell George to forget it, stay out of trouble, and then he called into town — from
your own ranch,
Earle, and tried to shake down the lobbyist for
more
money to keep Giffen quiet. He was playing every angle. And doing fine until Willie told him what he was going to print. So then he runs over here to remind you what he
says
he told you earlier in the week. To get an alibi established. From his best friend …”

“Best friend,” Earle said dully. “Jesus, I can’t let my best friend down …”

“He wasn’t anybody’s friend last week,” Roy said. “He was just real hungry. Real ambitious.”

The nurse returned with a tray of food. She set the tray down on Earle’s lap and fled immediately. Earle looked down and lifted the cover on one of the hot plates. A puff of steam rose up in his face. He poked at the meat and the baked potato.

“I’ve got to go,” Roy said.

“Where’s Alfred?” Earle said, still staring at his food.

“Probably sitting around wondering what he ought to do. I scared hell out of him this morning, but all I really succeeded in doing was to leave him immobilized. He’d better get off his bum and start building a better defense than he’s got.”

He turned and started to leave. Earle called out to him: “Roy … Wait … second.”

“Yes?” He came back to the bedside.

Earle chewed dismally on the roast beef. He put his fork down and said: “You wanna … tell me anything about … you and Ouida?”

Roy sat down. “Well,” he said. “I guess your memory’s not so bad after all. I’m sorry about the other night.”

“I don’t know anything about the other night. What happened the other night?”

Roy started to explain, but Earle was grinning and seemed nearly about to laugh. Roy said: “Well … I’m sorry about the other night. It really wasn’t as bad as it might have seemed. Hope you believe that … What do you want to know about Ouida and me?”

“I’ve heard some talk,” Earle said. “First hour I hit town last week I heard about you being censured. Alfred told me that. And then I’d heard some other things while I was out of town. And then there was the other night, of course …” He smiled again and went on: “What I mean is, it doesn’t look so good for either of you. It’s grim — it’s depressing. It’s no way to court a woman.”

“Well I’ll put a stop to it, then,” Roy said. “I promise you it won’t —”

“I didn’t mean that,” Earle said. “I didn’t mean that at all … Unless you’re lookin’ for an excuse to shake loose?”

“Ouida’s something special …”

“She’s an exciting woman,” Earle said. “She’s got some qualities that …”

Roy sat nodding his head in agreement. He got to his feet suddenly and said: “I’ve got to go. I really do. I’ll talk to you later …”

He was talking and moving sideways toward the door and he finally waved and turned out into the corridor. He rode the elevator down three floors and walked through the hospital, past waiting rooms and the receptionist’s desk and the coffee bar. He headed out a side entrance and went to his car. He sat there a few minutes until he began to perspire again and then removed his coat. He switched on the radio, searching for a station, listening for a time, very attentively, to a commercial announcement. The voice, deep and tremulous, discussed body odor. Some music came on; Roy sang it aloud:
“Ah-wah, ooh-ah, oom-ah.”
He paused and repeated to himself: “These are my
active
years — years when I
perspire,
like millions of tiny
fountains
.”

He attempted to recite a little lesson he had learned. Thin puffs of wind rattled the trees and the hedgerows. The cool air was like a gift … A man, he said to himself, a man whose thoughts dwell only on sense objects soon learns attachments. From attachment is born love; from love springs wrath, and from wrath is confusion born. From confusion comes wandering of memory and wreck of understanding, and with wreck of understanding man was lost …

This dissatisfied him. He tried another: An Agent of Goodness who is free from attachments, speaks not of himself, his constancy or vigor, and is unmoved by success or failure … Relinquish … renounce … sweet sounds and sense objects, casting aside passion and hatred, turning everlastingly to passionlessness, away from force, pride, desire, wrath, possession …

Well, it wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t. If that sort of thing really caught on, they’d all capsize. Who the hell qualified as an Agent of Goodness? Who was it passed the judgment? How’d anyone ever accomplish good while casting off attachments, passion? Gimme a sweet sound any old day — a sweet sound and a snifter of Zen. At room temperature.

He got the car started and steered it down the drive and out into the street. He felt unaccountably pleased with himself and a little sick in the stomach. Back among the living. And (what was the phrase?) the low farce of left-wing politics. He made a short speech to himself: “This is a holy war, my friends, against spies, murderers, pimps, burglars, Chinese bandits, foreign isms, alien-minded mongrels, Utopian praters, saboteurs, subversives — a battle between God-fearing principles and pagan ideals … Is there an honest man here who’ll —
I say, is there an honest man here?
Nobody here. Well, my friends, we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got, what we had last time I looked, which is pimps, thieves, spies, rapscallions and robber barons, fops, charlatans, mountebanks …”

He resisted a queasy sensation. The late afternoon was warm and the damp air clung to his face, soaking his shirt collar. He fashioned a new
koan
for himself. It would bring enlightenment, make his course clear. Nice cream
koan:

We know, my friends, the sound of a meal going down. But what is the sound of a meal coming up?

He sped along the pastel streets.

R
OY SAT OUT UNDER
the rain-softened trees, smiling at his buff-bronze pitcher of beer, dark and light, trying to get cockeyed. He owed it to himself — he hadn’t been
really
drunk in weeks. It was the least he could do. He sat there smiling, tapping his foot. Popular songs pounded his eardrums. The beer pitcher perspired on the bare table. He refilled his glass and signaled to the waitress. What was it that fellow had said? Man ain’t got no fuckin’ chance. Noble sentiment, but he was an uninspired thief to the very end, lifting his phrases from good-bad books. Man ain’t got no …

“You want another?” the waitress said.

“Yes, Georgia love,” Roy said.

Her sweet, gap-toothed face hovered a mile above him. He looked up and smiled, blinking his eyes in the moist air.

“Where’s your friend?” she said.

“You mean Ike or Mike?”

“No … The one just here.”

“Gone,” Roy said. “Left this vale of tears.”

The girl swooped low in front of him, resting soft-freckled arms on the table. “How come you’re so nice to me tonight? It’s not like you.”

“I found peace, honey.” He tried to keep his worshipful eyes in focus.

“Stop pullin’ my leg,” the girl said. She went to get his beer. He sat unthinking, dull in the head, until she returned. She refilled his glass and set the pitcher down. Roy fumbled with damp dollar bills.

“A man’s cupidity, Georgia, is …”

“Man’s
what
…?”

“Avarice … inordinate desire … It’s a good-bad thing …
thang.
Ambivalent. You got to have it — it’s necessary — but it’s subject to abuse. Get you into trouble. Like sex. You know like sex? You got to discipline yourself, focus all that radiance on noble objectives. Propagate the species … Build a city.”

The girl looked back toward the bar, pulled out a chair and sat down.

“You’re
drunk,
you know that?” she said. “I’ve never seen you drunk. That why you’re so friendly tonight?” She looked at him in wonder.

“This theory I have, Georgia, is brand, spankin’ new. Never been explicated before, not more than a million times. You may quote me. Go now and tell the others.”