Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye (30 page)

The doorman opened the door and I got in, handing him a quarter. The hell with Holiday and Cherokee, I was thinking …

‘Where to, sir?’ the cab driver asked.

‘The Persian Cat,’ I told him.

He turned in his seat and looked at me closely. I thought he had not understood. ‘You know where The Persian Cat is?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

The Persian Cat was situated in the wholesale district (only a few blocks from Mason’s Garage, I was to learn later), hemmed in by warehouses and big red-brick buildings that were now filled with darkness. The street was filled with darkness too, and empty; and when the faraway traffic noises finally reached here, through the lowered window of the cab, they sounded tired and forlorn and weak, as if they had come across vast spaces.

The cab driver swung open the door and I got out in front and paid him and then the only noises I heard were party noises from inside The Persian Cat; and I went directly across the pavement into a small box-like foyer hung with purple draperies and two life-size colored photographs of naked women, one upright, one reclining. Now I knew why the driver had looked at me so closely; The Persian Cat was a pansy joint. I went across the foyer to the entrance, where a chain that showed through purple velvet covering was hooked across the opening.

It was virtually dark inside and it stank with the fetidness of crawling things. A three- or four-piece combination was making music somewhere in the gloom, and the room was packed and jammed. I stood there for a moment, trying to decide whether to go in, I wanted very badly to see Mason; and finally telling myself that unless I saw him and got this thing settled I’d worry all night and I reached for the velvet rope, intending to unhook it myself, when a man in a harem costume, with excessively mascaraed eyes, reached for the chain, saying through his veil: ‘One?’

I recognized his voice. This was the doorman I had talked to on the phone a little earlier, but on the phone he hadn’t sounded like a faggot.

‘One?’ he said again.

He didn’t sound like a faggot now, either. ‘One,’ I said.

He lifted the chain and I stepped in. ‘Let me see now’ he said, putting all the fingers of his right hand on his chin, trying to determine where to put me, but I knew he was sizing me up, friend or foe, visiting fireman or local talent, crank or explorer…

‘I think I talked to you on the phone a little while ago,’ I said. ‘I called about Vic Mason. Has he shown up yet?’

‘Oh, so you’re the one,’ he said. ‘Are you a friend of Vic’s?’  

‘Sort of a business associate,’ I said. ‘Is he here.’

‘Yes, he’s here,’ he said, smiling at me, rehooking the velvet chain. ‘Just follow me…’

I followed him. I never saw such a crowd of dikes and faggots. This was their joint, by God, and they were all over it hanging over the tables, standing by the tables, sitting on the tables, blocking the aisle, filling the tiny dance space; all of them wearing a different kind of perfume that collected into a ball of debauched saccharinity and bounced off the walls and the ceiling and the floor. This was their joint, and here, by God, they could afford to be unrestrained. Here there were none of the daytime world’s hostile faces to haunt them, none of the daytime world’s cruel contemptuous eyes, none of the daytime world’s merciless incompassion … This was their joint, by God, and around it and inside it they developed the innate defences which nature evolves in its weak: remoteness and repellence. Pushing my way through this laughing, shouting crowd, in which I now was the only inhibited one, over which the poor damned small combination was still trying to make its music heard, following the guy in the harem costume, I made a sudden and extraordinary discovery. The noxiousness and disgust I had felt a few moments earlier were gone, my own strength and virility, of which I was so proud when I entered, with which I could prove our difference, now served only to emphasize our sameness. We all had a touch of twilight in our souls; in every man there are homosexual tendencies, this is immutable, there is no variant, the only variant is the depth of the latency, but in me these tendencies were not being stirred, even faintly, they were there, but this was not stirring them. No. The sameness was of the species, of the psyche, of the … They were rebels too, rebels introverted; I was a rebel extroverted – theirs was the force that did not kill, mine was the force that did kill…

‘Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,’ I heard Mason’s voice saying. ‘Look who’s here …’

He was wedged into a corner booth with five others, but the space was only for four. A lighted candle was sticking in the neck of a rattan-ed wine bottle and there were glasses of drink on the bare table top.

‘Can I see you a minute, Vic?’ I asked.

‘
Mais
,
oui
,
mais
,
oui
,’ he said, laughing, and he lifted his head and yelled: ‘Hey, Lorraine!’ at the guy in the harem costume, the doorman who had led interference for me to his table. ‘Sit down and have a drink,’ he said, wiggling his hips in the seat, trying to push them over and make room for me.

‘It’s pretty important, Vic. …’ I said.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, sit down!’ he said, affecting a slight lisp.

‘Sows,’ he said to the others, ‘this is Paul Murphy.’

‘Hello,’ I said, and they smiled and nodded, a little reserved. The three young boys sitting together on one side of the booth were flamers, with big Windsor knots in their gaudy ties and shirt collars four sizes too big, and their faces were cast in that pretty, pointed, aesthetic mould that indulgent doting mothers are so Cellini-like at shaping. With Mason on his side of the table was a woman of about thirty with hard masculine features and, in the corner, a man. This man was Ray Pratt, the plainclothes man, one of the cops who had been at Mason’s Garage on the stake-out for Jinx.

‘What do you want?’ Lorraine said to Mason.

‘We want a drink for my friend,’ Mason said.

‘For crying out loud …’ Lorraine said. ‘I’m the bouncer, not the waiter. If you want a drink, call the waiter.’

‘Send me a waiter, will you?’ Mason said.

Lorraine swished away.

‘Thanks just the same, Vic,’ I said. ‘I hate to bust in on you like this, but it’s very important. Could I please see you a minute?’

‘Well. …’ he said, pushing himself up from the table.

‘So long…’ I said to the people at the table.

I struggled my way back out to the foyer, pausing beside one of the photographs of the naked girls, the one reclining.

Mason stopped beside me.

‘Vic,’ I said quietly, ‘we got something on fire. Something big.’

‘We?’

‘You know who,’ I said. ‘Here’s what I want to find out. You think you could rent a truckaway for a day or two?’

‘A truckaway?’ he said. ‘What do you want with a truckaway?’

‘I got to have a truckaway,’ I said. ‘You know some place where you could rent one?’

‘Maybe…’

‘Without a driver. Just the truckaway. We don’t want a driver. We’ll drive it ourselves.’

‘Are you gonna start draying automobiles?’

‘One. One automobile,’ I said. ‘I’ll see that you get something for your trouble. You think you can arrange it?’

‘I think so …’

‘What are the chances?’

‘I think I can get one for you. I won’t know till in the morning.’

‘When in the morning? How soon can you find one out?’

‘You’re really hopped up about this, ain’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’ll sleep better if you think you can arrange to get a truckaway.’

‘I think maybe I can. But I can’t call ’em until eight-thirty in the morning.’

‘You’re pretty sure you can get it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks, Vic. Thanks very much,’ I said, patting him on the back. ‘I feel better now.’

‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said.’

‘I got to get some sleep, Vic. I haven’t slept in so long, I haven’t relaxed in so goddamn long – maybe tonight I can. I’ll see you in the morning.’

I patted him on the back again and went out into the black street, walking towards the light reflections in the sky that marked the city, with the tentacles of the party noises in The Persian Cat clutching at me …

In the hotel where the Halstead orchestra was still playing, the St. Cholet, I registered for a room and paid for it in advance and was shown up by a youthful bellboy.

He unlocked the door and switched on the light, went to the bathroom and switched on the light, came out and adjusted the window and the shade and then turned down the bed. He patted the bed and stood at attention.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, holding out half a dollar.

‘He came to me and took the half a dollar. ‘You’re
sure
that’ll be all, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’m sure that’ll be all,’ I said.

He winked at me broadly.

‘Not tonight, sonny,’ I said.

He went out. He didn’t know that this was the first time in years I had had the complete freedom and privacy of a sleeping room; that this was one night I didn’t want a dame.

I went into the bathroom and started the water in the tub and came back and picked up the phone. ‘Will you please call me at seven-thirty?’ I said.

‘Seven-thirty. Yes, sir,’ the operator said.

I hung up and started undressing. I did not think about Holiday or Cherokee. The hell with them. I was thinking about tomorrow…

I
WAS AT
M
ASON’S
Garage a little before eight o’clock. ‘Did you find out about the truckaway?’ I asked. ‘I got hold of ’em,’ he said. ‘Only they won’t rent one for one day. You can keep it for one day, but you have to pay three days’ rent.’

‘What about the driver? Do we have to take a driver?’

‘Without the driver,’ he said.

‘That’s wonderful!’ I said. ‘Jesus Christ, that’s wonderful!’ He looked at me solemnly. ‘Is this some kind of snatch?’

‘What do you think I am – a chump? When can we get this truckaway?’

‘I didn’t ask them when. I asked them could.’

‘Jesus, Vic,’ I said. ‘I told you this was important.’

‘You didn’t say nothing to me about when. You said could …’

‘Well, can you call the place now? I’ll take it today. Right away.’

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Lemme talk to Rafferty.’ He waited half a minute and said: ‘Rafferty, this is Vic Mason again. About that truckaway. When can I have it?’ He listened for a moment and said: This morning? That’ll be fine. Deliver it here…’ He listened again and said: ‘Yeah, I understand about the rates. Seventy-five for three days, three-day minimum.’ He said good-bye and hung up.

‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.

‘Will you please tell me what this is all about?’

‘There’re a few details to smooth out. I’ll tell you then,’ I said.

‘I got the stuff to rent too, you know.’

‘I know. I want to rent the Zephyr. Is it here?’

‘Where’d you think it was – springing some guy off a prison farm?’

I smiled at him. ‘Get it ready for me,’ I said.

He went out.

I looked in the book for Mandon’s home number, BA 1-9055, and dialled it. It rang a few times and then his harsh voice said: ‘Hello!’ ‘Cherokee?’ I said. ‘Who is this?’ he said. ‘This is Paul,’ I said. ‘Paul – Paul…’ he said vaguely. ‘The guy you walked out on last night,’ I said. The guy who paid the check…’ ‘Oh, the connoisseur,’ he said. ‘Where’d you go?’ ‘It’s a long and bewitching story,’ I said. ‘Now, lissen, Cherokee. We’re in. This thing’s wrapped up, but we got to move fast. I want you to meet me in Webber’s office at nine-thirty.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what kind of office hours Webber keeps. He may not be there at nine-thirty…’ ‘You make it your business to see that he is,’ I said. ‘Well, all right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

I looked up the number of the Marakeesh Apartment, WE 4-6247, and dialled it and asked for one, one, four. Jinx answered the phone. ‘How are you, son?’ I asked. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he said. ‘Downtown. Holiday there?’ ‘She’s still sleeping,’ he said. ‘Let her sleep,’ I said. ‘Meet me in front of the apartment in fifteen minutes.’ ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘I’ll tell you then,’ I said. ‘Look your best. And try to get out without waking Holiday,’ I said, and hung up.

I went into the garage. Mason was standing behind the Zephyr.

‘She’s all right,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘You made quite a hit last night. Couple of the boys thought you were pretty nice.’

‘They’re a little young for me,’ I said.

‘Get ’em young and train ’em, that’s my motto,’ he said.

Don’t get mad at him now, I told myself. Remember that he’s a rebel too. You are of the same species, the same psyche. You understand all that now… ‘I’ll see you around,’ I said.

I turned to go around the Zephyr to get in and a man came up to Mason from the next car, saying: ‘That’s all it was, Vic. Feed line stopped up.’

It was one of Ezra Dobson’s policemen, one of the cops who had caught me in that bedroom. He stared at me. I trembled just a little inside. Mason saw us staring at each other.

‘Paul,’ he said, ‘shake hands with my brother-in-law, Theo Zumbro. This is Paul Murphy, Theo…’

‘Hello,’ Zumbro said.

‘Hello. …’ I said, shaking hands

‘You ought to say thank you too,’ Mason said. ‘Wasn’t for him you wouldn’t be standing here…’

Now I got it. Brother-in-law. Zumbro had furnished the machine-gun for Holiday, the one she had used at the prison farm.

‘Ralph Cotter,’ Mason said to him.

‘Oh!’ Zumbro said in surprise.

Why the hell am I trembling inside, I asked myself? He’s just another crooked cop. Zumbro was trying to connect the prison farm and that bedroom and Margaret Dobson and me together, but he couldn’t.

‘Well…’ Zumbro said. ‘You get around, don’t you?’

‘No telling where I’m liable to turn up,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you,’ I said.

I got into the Zephyr and started it and backed out. As I shifted gears, easing the sedan towards the front door, I waved at them.

They waved back. Zumbro was watching me.