Pulp - Charles Bukowski [83]
Then I picked up the phone and punched out Celine’s number.
It rang four times. Then I heard his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Sir, you’ve won a 2 pound box of chocolate covered cherries and a free trip to Rome.”
“Whoever you are, don’t fuck with me.”
“This is Nick Belane…”
“I’ll take the chocolates…”
“I want you to meet me at Musso’s tomorrow afternoon at 2:30.”
“Why?”
“Just show up, Frenchy, and your troubles will be over.”
“You buying?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there…”
He hung up.
Nobody ever said goodbye anymore. Not in our world.
I stared at the sake.
Then went for it.
27
It was 2:15 p.m. I was holding down a table at Musso’s. I had a vodka-7 in front of me. Celine and Lady Death were about to meet. Two of my clients. Business was good, it was just without direction. Guy in the booth across the way kept staring at me. Some people stared, you know, like cows. They didn’t know that they were doing it. I took a hit of my vodka, put it down, looked up. Guy was still staring. I’ll give him two minutes, I thought, then if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to bust his sack.
I got up to a minute and 45 seconds and then the guy stood up and started walking toward my table. I checked my holster. It was there. Snug. The best hard-on a man could have. Guy looked like a parking lot attendant. Or maybe a dentist. He had an ugly mustache and a false smile. Or maybe it was a false mustache and an ugly smile. He got close to my table, stopped, loomed there.
“Look, buddy,” I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any loose change.”
“I’m not hittin’ you for coin, baby,” he said.
He made me nervous. He had eyes like a dead fish.
“What’s your ache, then?” I asked him. “They throw you out of your motel room?”
“Naw,” he said, “I live with my mother.”
“How old are you?”
“46,” he told me.
“That’s sick.”
“No, she is. Incontinent. Rubber diapers. The whole bit.”
“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
He just loomed there.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know what I can do about that.”
“You can’t do nothing…”
I finished my drink.
“I just wanted to ask you,” he said, “I just wanted to ask you something.”
“O.k. O.k. Do it.”
“Aren’t you Spike Jenkins?”
“Who?”
“Spike Jenkins. You used to fight out of Detroit, heavyweight. I saw you fight Tiger Forster. One of the greatest fights I ever saw.”
“Who won?” I asked.
“Tiger Forster.”
“I’m not Jenkins. Go sit down back where you were.”
“You wouldn’t shit me? You’re not Spike Jenkins?”
“Never was.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
He turned around, walked back to his booth and sat down again, just like I told him to.
I looked at my watch. It was right on 2:30. Where were they?
I signaled the waiter for another drink…
At 2:35 Celine walked in. He stood there a moment, looking about. I waved my napkin on a fork. He walked over, sat down.
“I’ll have a scotch and soda,” he said. His timing was good. The waiter was just arriving with my 2nd drink. I gave the waiter the order.
I drank my drink right off. I was feeling odd. Like nothing mattered, you know. Lady Death. Death. Or Celine. The game had worn me down. I’d lost my kick. Existence was not only absurd, it was plain hard work. Think of how many times you put on your underwear in a lifetime. It was appalling, it was disgusting, it was stupid.
Then the guy from the booth was looming there again. He looked at Celine.
“Hey, ain’t this guy here with you, ain’t he Spike Jenkins?”
“Sir,” Celine looked at him, “if you value your balls in their present shape, please go away quickly.”
The guy left again.
“All right,” said Celine, “why am I here?”
“I am going to bring you into contact with Lady Death.”
“So, death is a lady, eh?”
“Sometimes…”
Celine’s drink arrived. He poured it right down.
“This Lady Death,” he asked, “are we going to expose her?”
“You ever see Spike Jenkins fight?”
“No.”
“He looked like me,” I told him.
“That doesn’t seem to be much of an accomplishment.”
Then she walked in. Lady Death. She was dressed to kill. She walked over to our table, put it down on the chair.
“Whiskey sour,” she said.
I nodded the waiter over.