Pulp (8 page)

Balls away. I was Nick Belane, super dick.

Then the phone rang. I picked it up just like a normal person would pick up a telephone. Well, not quite. Sometimes a phone made me think of an elephant turd. You know, all the shit you hear.

A phone is a phone but what comes through it is another matter.

“You’re a lousy philosopher,” said Lady Death.

“For me,” I told her, “I’m perfect.”

“People live on their delusions,” she said.

“Why not?” I suggested. “What else is there?”

“The end of them,” she said.

“Well, hell,” I said.

“Hell yourself,” said Lady Death. “What’s happening with the Celine caper?”

“Baby, I’ve got it all worked out.”

“Clue me, fat boy.”

“I want you to meet me at Musso’s tomorrow afternoon at 2:30.”

“All right. But you better have something. Do you?”

“Babe, I can’t tip my hat.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Sorry. I mean, I can’t tip my
hand
.”

“You better have something…”

“I’ll bet my life on it,” I told her.

“You just did,” said Lady Death, hanging up.

I put the phone down, stared at it a while. I picked an old cigar out of the ashtray, lit it, gagged.

Then I picked up the phone and punched out Celine’s number.

It rang four times. Then I heard his voice.

Yeah?”

“Sir, you’ve won a 2 pound box of chocolate covered cherries and a free trip to Rome.”

“Whoever you are, don’t fuck with me.”

“This is Nick Belane…”

“I’ll take the chocolates…”

“I want you to meet me at Musso’s tomorrow afternoon at 2:30.”

“Why?”

“Just show up, Frenchy, and your troubles will be over.”

“You buying?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there…”

He hung up.

Nobody ever said goodbye anymore. Not in our world.

I stared at the
sake
.

Then went for it.

It was 2:15 p.m. I was holding down a table at Musso’s. I had a vodka-7 in front of me. Celine and Lady Death were about to meet.

Two of my clients. Business was good, it was just without direction.

Guy in the booth across the way kept staring at me. Some people stared, you know, like cows. They didn’t know that they were doing it. I took a hit of my vodka, put it down, looked up. Guy was still staring. I’ll give him two minutes, I thought, then if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to bust his sack.

I got up to a minute and 45 seconds and then the guy stood up and started walking toward my table. I checked my holster. It was there. Snug. The best hard-on a man could have. Guy looked like a parking lot attendant. Or maybe a dentist. He had an ugly mustache and a false smile. Or maybe it was a false mustache and an ugly smile. He got close to my table, stopped, loomed there.

“Look, buddy,” I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any loose change.”

“I’m not hittin’ you for coin, baby,” he said.

He made me nervous. He had eyes like a dead fish.

“What’s your ache, then?” I asked him. “They throw you out of your motel room?”

“Naw,” he said, “I live with my mother.”

“How old are you?”

“46,” he told me.

“That’s sick.”

“No,
she
is. Incontinent. Rubber diapers. The whole bit.”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

He just loomed there.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know what I can do about that.”

“You can’t do nothing…”

I finished my drink.

“I just wanted to ask you,” he said, “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“O.k. O.k. Do it.”

“Aren’t you Spike Jenkins?”

“Who?”

“Spike Jenkins. You used to fight out of Detroit, heavyweight. I saw you fight Tiger Forster. One of the greatest fights I ever saw.”

“Who won?” I asked.

“Tiger Forster.”

“I’m not Jenkins. Go sit down back where you were.”

“You wouldn’t shit me? You’re not Spike Jenkins?”

“Never was.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

He turned around, walked back to his booth and sat down again, just like I told him to.

I looked at my watch. It was right on 2:30. Where were they?

I signaled the waiter for another drink…

At 2:35 Celine walked in. He stood there a moment, looking about.

I waved my napkin on a fork. He walked over, sat down.

“I’ll have a scotch and soda,” he said. His timing was good. The waiter was just arriving with my 2nd drink. I gave the waiter the order.

I drank my drink right off. I was feeling odd. Like nothing mattered, you know. Lady Death. Death. Or Celine. The game had worn me down. I’d lost my kick. Existence was not only absurd, it was plain hard work. Think of how many times you put on your underwear in a lifetime. It was appalling, it was disgusting, it was stupid.

Then the guy from the booth was looming there again. He looked at Celine.

“Hey, ain’t this guy here with you, ain’t he Spike Jenkins?”

“Sir,” Celine looked at him, “if you value your balls in their present shape, please go away quickly.”

The guy left again.

“All right,” said Celine, “why am I here?”

“I am going to bring you into contact with Lady Death.”

“So, death is a lady, eh?”

“Sometimes…”

Celine’s drink arrived. He poured it right down.

“This Lady Death,” he asked, “are we going to expose her?”

“You ever see Spike Jenkins fight?”

“No.”

“He looked like me,” I told him.

“That doesn’t seem to be much of an accomplishment.”

Then
she
walked in. Lady Death. She was dressed to kill. She walked over to our table, put it down on the chair.

“Whiskey sour,” she said.

I nodded the waiter over. Gave him the order.

“I really don’t know how to introduce you two because I’m not sure who either of you are,” I told him.

“What kind of dick are you?” Celine asked.

“The best in L.A.”

“Yes? What’s L.A. stand for?”

“Lost Assholes.”

“You been drinking?”

“Recently,” I answered.

Lady Death’s whiskey sour arrived. She slammed it down. Then looked at Celine.

“So, introduce yourself. What’s your name?”

“Spike Jenkins.”

“Spike Jenkins is dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

I nodded the waiter over and ordered 3 more drinks.

Then we just sat and looked at each other.

“Now,” I said, “what we have here is a stalemate, a definite stalemate. Meanwhile, I’m buying all the drinks. So, let’s make a little bet and the one who loses buys the next round.”

“What kinda bet?” asked Celine.

“Oh, something simple, like how many numbers on your driver’s license. I mean the numbers which indicate the license itself.”

“Sounds stupid,” said Celine.

“Be a sport,” I said.

“Don’t be chicken,” said Lady Death.

“Well, I’ll have to guess,” said Celine.

“Take a shot,” I said.

“Give it your best, baby,” said Lady Death.

“O.k.,” said Celine, “I’ll say 8.”

“I’ll take 7,” said Lady Death.

“I’ll take 5,” I said.

“Now,” I said, “let’s look at our licenses, let’s have a look.”

We dug them out.

“Ah,” said Lady Death, “mine has 7!”

“Damn it,” I said, “mine has 7.”

“Mine has 8,” said Celine.

“That can’t be,” I said, “here, let me have a look.”

I reached out and took his license. I counted.

“Yours has 7. You counted the letter which precedes the numbers.

That’s what you did. Here, look…”

I handed the license to Lady Death. There were 7 numbers and also some other information: LOUIS FERDINAND DESTOUCHES, b.1894-.

God damn. I began to tremble all over. Not large trembles but good sized ones. With great will power I brought them down to a rather continuous shiver. All too much. It was
him
, sitting there with us at a table in Musso’s in an afternoon which was leaning toward the 21st century.

Lady Death was ecstatic, that’s all, ecstatic. She looked truly beautiful, glowing all over.

“Gimme my god-damned driver’s license,” said Celine.

“Sure, big boy,” said Lady Death, smiling, handing it back.

“Well,” I said to Celine, “looks like both you and I lost. So we’ll flip a coin to decide who buys, o.k.?”

“Sure,” said Celine.

I got out my lucky quarter, flipped it up in the air and yelled at Celine: “Call it!”

“Tails!” he yelled.

It hit the table and sat there. Heads.

I picked up the quarter and put it back into my pocket. “Somehow,” I said to Celine, “I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be your day.”

“It’s going to be my day,” said Lady Death.

And like that, the drinks arrived.

“Put these on my tab,” Celine told the waiter.

We sat there with our drinks.

“Somehow I feel like I’ve been taken,” said Celine.

He slugged his drink down.

“They warned me about you L.A. creeps.”

“You still practice medicine?” I asked him.

“I’m gettin’ out of here,” he said.

“Ah, come on,” said Lady Death, “have another drink. Life is short.”

“No, I’m gettin’ the hell out of here!”

He tossed a 20 on the table, got up and walked toward the exit, then was gone.

“Well,” I said to Lady Death, “he’s gone…”

“Not quite,” she said.

There was a sound, the sound of screeching brakes.

There was a loud thump, like metal hitting flesh. I jumped up from the table and ran outside. There in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard was the still body of Celine. A fat woman in a big red hat, who had been driving the ancient Olds, got out and screamed and screamed and screamed. Celine was very still. I knew that he was dead.

I turned around and walked back into Musso’s. Lady D. was gone.

I sat back down at the table. My drink was untouched. I took care of that. Then I just sat there. The good die old, I thought. Then I just sat there some more.

“Hey, Jenkins,” I heard a voice, “all your friends are gone. Where’d all your friends go?”

It was the Loomer. He was still there.

“What’re you drinking?” I asked.

“Rum and coke.”

I got the waiter. “Two rum and cokes,” I said, “one for me and,”

I pointed, “one for him.”

The drinks arrived. The Loomer sat with his in his booth and I sat with mine at my table.

I heard the siren then. It’s when you don’t hear it, it’s for you.

I drank my drink, got my tab, paid with my card, tipped 20% and got out of there.

The next day at the office I put my feet up on my desk and lit a good cigar. I considered myself a success. I had solved a case. I had lost two clients but I had solved a case. But the slate wasn’t clean. There was still the Red Sparrow. And the Jack Bass matter with Cindy.

And there was still Hal Grovers and that space alien, Jeannie Nitro.

My thoughts jumped between Cindy Bass and Jeannie Nitro. It was pleasant thinking. Anyhow, it beat sitting in a duck blind waiting for them to fly over.

I got to thinking about solutions in life. People who solved things usually had lots of persistence and some good luck. If you persisted long enough, the good luck usually came. Most people couldn’t wait on the luck, though, so they quit. Not Belane. No candyass, he. Top flight. Game. A bit lazy, perhaps. But crafty.

I pulled open the top right hand drawer, found the vodka and allowed myself a hit. A drink to victory. The winner writes the history books, is surrounded by the lovely virgins…