Pulp - Charles Bukowski [108]
“Yeah,” I said, “I get it. But we’re talking about my life here, you know. It’s like it doesn’t matter, you know.”
“It doesn’t,” said Johnny. “We’re running a business. Business has never been concerned with anything but profit.”
“I can’t believe that this is happening,” I said, sliding the desk drawer open.
“Hold it!” said one of the apes, stepping forward and poking a luger in my ear. “I’ll take that piece!”
He slid my.32 out of there.
“You move fast for a fat fuck,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he smiled.
“All right, Belane,” said Johnny Temple, “we’re all going for a little ride.”
“But it’s broad daylight!”
“All the better to see you with. Come on, get up!”
I got up from behind the desk and the two apes squeezed me between them. Temple walked behind us. We left the office and walked down to the elevator. I reached out and pressed the button myself.
“Thanks, punk,” said Johnny.
It came up. The doors opened. Empty. They shoved me on. Down we went. Empty feeling. First floor. Lobby. We walked out on the street. It was crowded. People walking everywhere. I thought, I’ll scream out, hey, these guys are going to kill me! But I was afraid if I did that, they’d do it then. I walked along with them. It was a beautiful day. Then we were at their car. The two apes got in the back with me in the middle. Johnny Temple took the wheel up front. He pulled out into traffic.
“This whole thing is a bad senseless dream,” I said.
“It ain’t no dream, Belane,” said Johnny Temple.
“Where you takin’ me?”
“Griffith Park, Belane, we’re going to have a little picnic. A little picnic on one of those isolated trails. Secluded. Private.”
“How can you fucking guys be so cold?” I asked.
“It’s easy,” said Johnny, “we were born that way.”
“Yeah,” laughed one of the apes.
We drove along. I still couldn’t believe it was happening. Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe at the last moment they’d tell me it was all a joke. Just trying to teach me a lesson. Something like that.
Then we were there. Johnny parked the car.
“All right. Get him out boys. We’re going for a little walk.”
One of the apes yanked me out of the side of the car. Then each ape had me by an arm. Johnny walked along behind us. Then we were on a discarded horse path. It was covered with brush and tree branches and the sun was blocked off.
“Listen you guys,” I said. “This is enough. Tell me this whole thing is a joke and we’ll all go have a drink somewhere.”
“It’s no joke, Belane, we’re taking you out. All the way,” said Johnny.
“600 dollars. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the world works this way.”
“It does. We gave you our reasoning. Keep walking,” said Johnny.
We kept walking. Then Johnny said, “This looks like a good spot. Turn around, Belane.”
I did. I saw the gun. Johnny fired. Four shots. Right in the gut. I fell on my face but managed to roll on my back.
“Thanks a bunch, Temple,” I managed to say.
They walked off.
I don’t know. I must have passed out. Then I was back. I knew I didn’t have long. I was losing blood, lots of it.
Then I seemed to be hearing music, music like I’d never heard before. And then it happened. Something was taking shape, appearing before me. It was red, red, and like the music, a red I had never seen before. And there it was:
THE RED SPARROW.
Gigantic, glowing, beautiful. Never a sparrow so large, so real, never one so magnificent.
It stood before me. And then—there was Lady Death. Standing beside the Sparrow. And never had she looked so beautiful.
“Belane,” she said, “you really got suckered into a bad play.”
“I can’t talk much, Lady…Fill me in on the whole matter.”
“Your John Barton is a very perceptive man. He sensed that the Red Sparrow existed, was real, somehow, somewhere. And that you would find it. Now you have. Most of the others—Deja Fountain, Sanderson, Johnny Temple—were con artists, trying to trick and bleed you. Since