Pulp - Charles Bukowski [98]
“That thing stinks,” said Blinky.
“So do your excreta,” I said.
“What?”
“Bring me,” I said, “three bottles of Chinese beer. No glass.”
“This guy is a nut,” said Blinky.
I looked at him and laughed.
Then I said, “Don’t talk to me again. And don’t do anything, anything at all to irritate me or I’ll blow your lips right off your fucking face, buddy boy.”
Blinky froze. He looked like he was going to have a bowel movement.
Betty stood there.
A minute passed. Then Betty said, “What’ll I do, Blinky?”
“Get him three bottles of Chinese beer. No glass.”
Betty left for the beers.
“Now you,” I said to Blinky, “you sit yourself down across from me. I want you to watch me drinking these three Chinese beers.”
“Sure,” he said, sliding himself, somehow, into the booth across from me.
He was sweating. All three of his chins were trembling.
“Blinky,” I asked him, “you haven’t seen the Red Sparrow, have you?”
“The Red Sparrow?”
“Yes, the Red Sparrow.”
“Haven’t seen it,” said Blinky.
Betty was arriving with the Chinese beers.
At last.
43
So there I was the next night, standing outside of the apartment complex. My shoes were shined and I’d only had 3 or 4 beers. A light, slightly ominous rain was falling. “God is pissing,” we used to say when it rained when I was a kid. I felt tired, I mean in body and mind. I wanted out of the game. I wanted to retire. Say to some place like Vegas. Hanging around the gaming tables, looking wise. Watching fools blow fortunes. That was my idea of a good time. Relaxing under the lights as the grave yawned open for me. But, hell, I didn’t have any money. And I had to find the Red Sparrow. I pressed the buzzer to apartment 9. I waited. I pressed the buzzer again. Nothing. Oh my. Oh my my my. I didn’t want to think about it. Had they skipped? Deja and that motherfucker. I should have closed on them last night. Had I let them slip?
I lit my cigar with one hand, worked the door-jimmy with the other. It slid open and I entered the hall. I walked down to 9. Pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. Not even the rustle of a mouse. Oh my. God damn it. I worked the door open and entered. Walked straight to the bedroom, opened the closet. Empty. Clothes gone. Nothing but lonely hangers. What an awful sight. My first link to the Red Sparrow now turned into 32 empty hangers. I had lost it. As a dick I was a fool. I thought faintly about suicide, dismissed that, reached into my coat, found the pint, had a hit of vodka, spit out my cigar.
Then I turned around, walked out of there, down the hall and along the hall until I found what I wanted. The door marked:
MANAGER, M. TOHIL
I knocked.
“Yeah?” came this reply. Sounded like another big guy.
“Flowers, Mr. Tohil. Flower delivery for M. Tohil!”
“How’d you get in here?”
“The front door was open, Mr. Tohil.”
“Impossible!”
“Mr. Tohil, a lady was leaving and I walked in the door as she walked out.”
“You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I didn’t know that. What was I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to buzz me from outside and tell me who you are and what you want.”
“All right, Mr. Tohil. I’ll go outside and buzz you and tell you that I have a flower delivery for you. Will that be all right?”
“Never mind, boy. Here…”
The door swung open. I jumped inside, kicked the door closed and grabbed him by the belt. I had a handful. He was a big guy. Needed a shave. Smelled a little like sulfur. Tipped the scales about 240.
“What the fuck you doing? Where are the flowers? Take your hand off my god-damned belt!”
“Easy, Tohil,” I let go of him, “I’m a private investigator, fully licensed. I want to know the whereabouts of Deja Fountain, apartment 9.”
“Kiss my ass, buddy, and get the hell out of here.”
I backed off.
“Easy, Mr. Tohil. I just want this information, then I’ll go.”
“The information is private and you’ll go without it. I’m moving you out of here now!”
“I’ve got a black belt, Tohil. That’s a lethal weapon. Don’t force me to use it!”
He laughed and moved a step toward me.
“Hold it