Pulp - Charles Bukowski [34]
My luck in bars was getting worse and worse.
33
So I went to my place and drank and there went that day and that night.
I awakened about noon, eliminated some waste, brushed my teeth, shaved, mused. Didn’t feel too bad. Didn’t feel too much. I got dressed. I put on an egg, let it boil. I drank a glass of half-tomato and half-ale. I let the egg run under cold water, peeled it, ate it and then I was as ready as I would ever be.
I picked up the phone and got Jack Bass at his office. I told him who I was. He didn’t seem happy with me.
“Jack,” I told him, “remember that Frenchman I told you about?”
“Yeah? What about him?”
“I got him out of the way.”
“How?”
“He’s dead.”
“Good. Was he the one?”
“Well, he was in contact with her.”
“Contact? What the hell you mean by that?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Try me, Belane.”
“Listen, I’m trying to nail Cindy’s ass. That’s why you hired me. Right?”
“I don’t know why I hired you. I think it was a mistake.”
“Jack, I got the Frenchman. He’s dead.”
“So where do we stand?”
“He can’t bang her.”
“Did he?”
“Jack…”
“Did you? All this ‘nail her ass’ shit! Are you a pervert?”
“Look, I got a tight tail on Cindy. We want hard evidence.”
“There you go again!”
“We’re closing in, Jack. It won’t be long. Trust me.”
“Then there was more than the Frenchman?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? You think so? Hell, I’m paying you good money. It’s been weeks and all you can tell me there’s a dead Frenchman and ‘I think so’? You’re just spinning your wheels! I want action! I want evidence! I want this thing busted wide open!”
“Within 7 days, Jack.”
“You’ve got 6.”
“6 days, Jack.”
There was silence at his end. Then he spoke again.
“All right. I’m leaving for the airport in an hour. Got business back east. I’ll be back in 6 days.”
“Everything will be solved, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby. What’s this ‘baby’ shit?”
“Just a manner of speaking…”
“You clean up this mess or I’ll see you in hell, motherfucker!”
“You talking to me, Jack?”
I was holding a silent telephone. He’d hung up on me. The prick. Well…it was time to get busy…
34
So, there I was, parked outside of Bass’s place, a third of a block down. It was evening, no it was night, about 8 p.m. Cindy’s red Mercedes was in the drive. I had a hunch I was onto something. Something was going to happen. There was a smell in the air. I put my cigar out. I picked up my car phone and dialed out for the results of the 9th race. Lost again. Life was wearing. I felt oppressed, wasted. My feet hurt.
Cindy was probably in there watching something stupid on tv, crossing her warm legs and laughing at something inane and obvious. Then I began thinking about Jeannie Nitro and her five space buddies. They wanted to enlist me. I was no sell-out. I had to break up that gang. There had to be a way. Maybe if I could find the Red Sparrow, the Red Sparrow would sing me the answer. Was I crazy? Was all this happening?
I picked up the phone and dialed in John Barton. He was there.
“Listen, John, this is Belane. I’m having trouble closing in on the Red Sparrow. Maybe you better get another man.”
“No, Belane, I have faith in you, you’ll do it.”
“You really think so?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Well, I’ll stay on the case then.”
“Right.”
“I’ll contact you if I get onto anything.”
“Do that. Good night.”
He hung up. Nice guy.
I started to relight my cigar. I almost spit it out. Cindy Bass was walking out of the house. She moved to her car. Got in.
Baby, baby, lead me to it.
She started up, turned on her lights, backed out of the drive. She swung around, headed north. I followed a half a block or so back. Then she turned onto the main boulevard, Pacific Coast Highway, to be exact. She headed south. I was about 3 car lengths back. She went across an intersection and the light turned red on me. I had to go through. It was close but no hit. I heard the horns and somebody called me an asshole. People lacked originality.
Then I was 3 car lengths