Pulp - Charles Bukowski [63]
Then he spoke. “I just want to find out. I just want to find out for myself.”
“I don’t come cheap.”
“How much?”
“6 bucks an hour.”
“That doesn’t seem like much money.”
“Does to me. You got a photo of your wife?”
He dug into his wallet, come up with one, handed it to me.
I looked at it.
“Oh my! Does she really look like this?”
“Yes.”
“I’m getting a hard-on just looking at this.”
“Hey, don’t be a wise guy!”
“Oh, sorry…But I’ll have to keep the photo. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”
I put it in my wallet.
“Is she still living with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you go to work?”
“Yes.”
“And then, sometimes, she…”
“Yes.”
“And what makes you think she…”
“Tips, phone calls, voices in my head, her changed behavior, any number of things.”
I pushed a notepad toward him.
“Put down your address, home and business, phone, home and business. I’ll take it from there. I’ll nail her ass to the wall. I’ll uncover the whole thing.”
“What?”
“I am accepting this case, Mr. Bass. Upon its fruition you will be informed.”
“‘Fruition’?” he asked. “Listen, are you all right?”
“I’m straight. How about you?”
“Oh yeah, I’m all right.”
“Then don’t worry, I’m your man, I’ll nail her ass!”
Bass rose slowly from his chair. He moved toward the door, then turned.
“Barton recommended you.”
“There you go then! Good afternoon, Mr. Bass.”
The door closed and he was gone. Good old Barton.
I took her photo out of my wallet and sat there looking at it.
You bitch, I thought, you bitch.
I got up and locked the door, then took the phone off the hook. I sat behind my desk looking at the photo.
You bitch, I thought, I’ll nail your ass! Against the wall! No mercy for you! I’ll catch you in the act! I’ll catch you at it! You whore, you bitch, you whore!
I began breathing heavily. I unzipped. Then the earthquake hit. I dropped the photo and ducked under the desk. It was a good one. Around a 6. Felt like it lasted a couple of minutes. Then it stopped. I crawled out from under the desk, still unzipped. I found the photo again, put it back in my wallet, zipped up. Sex was a trap, a snare. It was for animals. I had too much sense for that kind of crap. I put the phone back on the hook, opened the door, stepped out, locked it and walked down to the elevator. I had work to do. I was the best dick in L.A. and Hollywood. I hit the button and waited for the fucking elevator to come on up.
10
Skip the rest of the day and night here, no action, it’s not worth talking about.
11
The next morning, 8 a.m., I was parked in my VW Bug across from Jack Bass’s house. I had a hangover and I was reading the L.A. Times. Anyhow, I’d done a bit of research. Bass’s wife, her first name was Cindy. Cindy Bass, formerly Cindy Maybell. Her press clippings revealed that she was a small time beauty contest winner, Miss Chili Cook-Off of 1990. Model, bit-part actress, liked to ski, student of the piano, liked baseball and water polo. Favorite color: red. Favorite fruit: banana. Liked to cat nap. Liked children. Liked jazz. Read Kant. Sure. Some day hoped to enter the bar, etc., etc. Met Jack Bass over a roulette wheel in Las Vegas. They were married two nights later.
About 8:30 a.m. Jack Bass backed out of his drive in his Mercedes and headed for his executive position at the Aztec Petroleum Corp. Now it was me and Cindy. I was going to bust her wide open. She was at my mercy. I took out the photo for a recheck. I started sweating. I pulled down the sun visor. The whore, she was dumping on Jack Bass.
I slipped the photo back into my wallet. I was beginning to feel eerie. What was wrong with me? Was this dame getting to me? She had intestines like everybody else. She had nostril hairs. She had wax in her ears. What was the big play? Why was the windshield rolling in front of me like a big wave? Must be the hangover. Vodka with beer chaser. You had to pay. Nice thing about being a drunk, though, you were never constipated. Sometimes I thought