Pulp - Charles Bukowski [57]
It was the next day.
I had cancelled my appointment to speak before the Palm Springs Chamber of Commerce.
It was raining. The ceiling leaked. The rain dripped down through the ceiling and went “spat, spat, spat, a spat a spat, spat, spat, spat, a spat, spat, spat, a spat, a spat, a spat, spat, spat, spat…”
The sake kept me warm. But a warm what? A warm zero. Here I was 55 years old and I didn’t have a pot to catch rain in. My father had warned me that I would end up diddling myself on some stranger’s back porch in Arkansas. And I still had time to make it. The Greyhounds ran every day. But busses constipated me and there was always some old Union Jack with a rancid beard who snored. Maybe it would be better to work on the Celine Case.
Was Celine Celine or was he somebody else? Sometimes I felt that I didn’t even know who I was. All right, I’m Nicky Belane. But check this. Somebody could yell out, “Hey, Harry! Harry Martel!” and I’d most likely answer, “Yeah, what is it?” I mean, I could be anybody, what does it matter? What’s in a name?
Life’s strange, isn’t it? They always chose me last on the baseball team because they knew I could drive that son-of-a-bitch out there, all the way to Denver. Jealous chipmunks, that’s what they were!
I was gifted, am gifted. Sometimes I looked at my hands and realized that I could have been a great pianist or something. But what have my hands done? Scratched my balls, written checks, tied shoes, pushed toilet levers, etc. I have wasted my hands. And my mind.
I sat in the rain.
The phone rang. I wiped it dry with a past due bill from the IRS, picked it up.
“Nick Belane,” I said. Or was I Harry Martel?
“This is John Barton,” came the voice.
“Yes, you’ve been recommending me, thank you.”
“I’ve been watching you. You’ve got talent. It’s a little raw but that’s part of the charm.”
“Great to hear. Business has been bad.”
“I’ve been watching you. You’ll make it, you just have to endure.”
“Yeah. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Barton?”
“I am trying to locate the Red Sparrow.”
“The Red Sparrow? What the hell is that?”
“I’m sure it exists, I just want to find it, I want you to locate it for me.”
“Any leads for me to go on?”
“No, but I’m sure the Red Sparrow is out there somewhere.”
“This Sparrow doesn’t have a name, does it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, a name. Like Henry. Or Abner. Or Celine?”
“No, it’s just the Red Sparrow and I know that you can find it. I’ve got faith in you.”
“This is going to cost you, Mr. Barton.”
“If you find the Red Sparrow I will give you one hundred dollars a month for life.”
“Hmm….Listen, how about giving me all of it in a lump sum?”
“No, Nick, you’d blow it at the track.”
“All right, Mr. Barton, leave me your phone number and I’ll work on it.”
Barton gave me the number, then said, “I have real confidence in you, Belane.”
Then he hung up.
Well, business was picking up. But the ceiling was leaking worse than ever. I shook off some rain drops, had a hit of sake, rolled a cigarette, lit it, inhaled, then choked out a hacking cough. I put on my brown derby, turned on the telephone message machine, walked slowly toward the door, opened it and there stood McKelvey. He had a huge chest and looked like he was wearing shoulder pads.
“Your lease is up, punk!” he spit out. “I want your dead ass out of here!”
Then I noticed his belly. It was like a soft mound of dead shit and I slammed my fist deep into it. His face doubled over into my upcoming knee. He fell, then rolled off to one side. Ghastly sight. I walked over, slipped out his wallet. Photos of children in pornographic poses.
I thought about killing him. But I just took his Gold Visa Card, kicked him in the ass and took the elevator down.
I decided to walk to Red’s. When I drove I always seemed to get a parking ticket and the lots charged more than I could afford.
I walked toward Red’s feeling a bit depressed. Man was born to die. What did it mean? Hanging around and waiting. Waiting for the “A train.” Waiting for a pair of big breasts on some August night in a Vegas hotel room. Waiting