Pulp - Charles Bukowski [62]
“Bad boy!” said Dante. “I told you to keep it in until I told you to take it out! Now we are going to have to start all over again!”
“Fuck you,” I said, “kill me!”
“O.k.,” said Dante.
Just then the door opened and Lady Death walked in. She was really dolled up. I almost forgot about my mouth.
“Hey,” said Dante, “what a babe! You know her, Belane?”
“We’ve met.”
She walked over to a chair, sat down, crossed her legs, her skirt riding high. None of us could believe those legs. Even I couldn’t and I had seen them before.
“Who are these clowns?” she asked me.
“They’re emissaries from a guy called Tony.”
“Get ’em out of here, I’m your client.”
“All right, fellows,” I said, “it’s time to leave.”
“Oh yeah?” said Dante.
“Oh yeah?” said Fante.
Then they started laughing. Then, all at once, they stopped.
“This guy’s real funny,” said Fante.
“Yeah,” said Dante.
“I’ll get rid of them,” said Lady Death.
Then she started staring at Dante. At once, he began to lean forward in his chair. He began to look pale.
“Jesus,” he said, “I don’t feel so good…”
He turned white, then he turned yellow.
“I feel sick,” he said, “I feel awful sick…”
“Maybe it was those fishsticks you ate,” said Fante.
“Fishsticks, smishsticks, I gotta get out a here! I need a doctor or something…”
Then I saw her staring at Fante. Then Fante said, “I’m getting dizzy…What is this?…Flashes of light…Rocket flares…Where am I?”
He moved toward the door, Dante followed him. They opened the door and walked slowly toward the elevator. I walked out and watched them get in. I saw them just before the door closed. They looked horrible. Horrible.
I walked back into the room.
“Thanks,” I said, “you saved my ass…”
I looked around. She was gone. I looked under the desk. Nobody. I looked in the bathroom. Nobody. I opened the window and looked down in the street. Nobody. Well, I mean, there were plenty of people but not her. She could at least have said goodbye. Still, it had been a nice visitation.
I went back and sat behind my desk. Then I picked up the phone and touched in Tony’s number.
“Yeah?” he answered, “this is…”
“Tony, this is Mr. Slow Death.”
“What? You still able to talk?”
“I talk real good, Tony. I’ve never felt better.”
“I don’t understand this…”
“Your boys were by, Tony…”
“Yeah? Yeah?”
“I let them off easy this time. You send them again and I’m going to take them all the way out.”
I heard Tony breathing into the phone. It was a very confused breathing. Then he hung up.
I took a pint of scotch out of the lower left hand drawer, uncapped it and had a good hit.
You messed with Belane, you were in trouble. It was as simple as that.
I capped the bottle, put it back in the drawer and wondered what I was going to do next. A good dick always has things to do. You’ve seen it in the movies.
9
There was a knock on the door. No, it was 5 rapid knocks, loud, insistent.
I can always take a reading on a knock. Sometimes when I get a bad reading I don’t answer.
This knock was only half-bad.
“Come in,” I said.
The door swung open. It was a man, mid-fifties, semiwealthy, semi-nervous, feet too big, wart on upper left forehead, brown eyes, necktie. 2 cars, 2 homes, no children. Pool and spa, he played the stockmarket and was fairly dumb.
He just stood there, sweating just a bit and staring at me.
“Sit down,” I said.
“I’m Jack Bass,” he said, “and…”
“I know.”
“What?”
“You think your wife is copulating with somebody or somebodies.”
“Yes.”
“She’s in her twenties.”
“Yes. I want you to prove that she is doing it, then I want a divorce.”
“Why bother, Bass? Just divorce her.”
“I just want to prove that she…she…”
“Forget it. She’ll get just as much money either way. It’s the New Age.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s called the no-fault divorce. It doesn’t matter what anybody does.”
“How come?”
“It speeds up justice, clears the courts.”
“But that’s not justice.”
“They think it is.”
Bass just sat in his chair, breathing, and looking at me.
I had to straighten out the Celine