Unknown Man No 89 (1977) (15 page)

Chapter
18

Virgil opened the door. He stared solemnly at the look on Ryan's face.

"You the one been calling?"

Ryan came in past him. "Where is she?"

"I believe she making wee-wee." Virgil closed the door and watched Ryan as he looked toward the hallway at the bathroom door and back to the low table where the two glasses and the half-gallon bottle, almost empty, stood among the paint tubes and pots. A cigarette burned in the ashtray, its smoke rising in the light from the chrome lamp. There were no other lights; the kitchen and hall were dark.

"How much has she had?"

"That one, one before it," Virgil said. He put a leg over one of the bar stools and leaned against the counter. "She likes the sauce, don't she?"

The inscription on the wall had been finished. No More Bullshit. It seemed to be little more than a design of thin, curving lines, without meaning. Ryan looked at Virgil. "You know what you're doing to her?"

"We talking," Virgil said. "Taking turns. I tell her something, she tell me something. You haven't talked to her like that, have you? Shit, she so surprised, I don't believe you told her nothing."

The toilet flushed.

"What I like to know," Virgil said, "how much is it the man wants to give her and where the man lives. This Mr. Per-ez? He the one you work for, huh?"

Denise came in from the hall. She looked at Ryan and past him to her glass on the low table and picked it up as she sat down. She looked at nothing then, at the wall opposite her that was stark white, bare.

"I called you," Ryan said. "I've been calling since about five."

Denise took a drink. She said, "Big fucking deal. You go to a meeting?"

"At Saint Joe's."

"How're the bleeding hearts?"

"Why don't you go to bed, okay? Get some sleep and then we'll talk."

"Why don't you fuck off?" Denise said.

A low sound, a laugh, came from Virgil. "Soon as she start drinking. I remember that from before. She used to sit still, not say anything. Then the sauce start working in her, man, she don't shut up."

"But why don't you?" Ryan said. "Why don't you get out of here?" It was an effort to say it quietly.

"Man, you the one crashing the party," Virgil said. "We having a nice time."

Ryan walked over to him. Virgil didn't move, leaning with his arm on the counter, his hand hanging limp.

"I don't want to hit you," Ryan said.

"Shit-"

"I mean it. There's no sense in us breaking up the place and making a lot of noise, maybe get her kicked out. But that's what I feel like doing," Ryan said, holding on to the quiet tone. "I feel like punching the shit out of you. Maybe you got something on you, a gun, something, I don't know. I'd be willing to take a chance. That's how strongly I feel about it. But if we get into that, what good would it do us? We got enough problems. Right?"

Virgil shook his head, grinning. "You go waaaay out and then come back around and all you've said to me is nothing."

"No, I said you better get out of here," Ryan said. "What you're doing, maybe you don't know it, you're killing somebody. I can't, I'm not gonna stand here and see it happen. I can't do it."

"Where's the man live? Mr. Per-ez."

"How about if we talk tomorrow?" Ryan said. "I'm not kidding you, if you don't get out of here we're gonna be bouncing off the walls and somebody's gonna go through the window. Okay?"

"You don't do nothing else without me," Virgil said.

Ryan shook his head. "Right, I'll call you, get your permission. Now leave, okay?"

Virgil came off the stool slowly. Ryan let him take his time.

"Is there any more wine?"

"That's it. What she's got," Virgil said.

"Okay, I'll see you." He wanted to push him, run him through the door, but he stepped away and let Virgil take his hat from the counter and put it on, holding the crown lightly with one hand and setting it on his head at the right angle with an easy motion, where it belonged, and not having to adjust it.

"That's a good hat," Ryan said.

Virgil gave him a mild look. His eyes moved to Denise. He said, "Take it easy, now," and walked out.

Ryan closed the door. Denise was pouring the last of the wine into the ten-ounce glass, filling it more than half. She put the bottle on the floor next to her. Ryan waited in the silence. She wasn't going to look this way. She was Lee again, but with short hair and clean slacks and the navy-blue sweater. Her glasses were on the drawing table. She seemed determined not to look this way. She was getting ready for him now, waiting for her cue.

Ryan walked over and sat down in the chair facing her. She was drunk but she didn't look bad: a little glassy-eyed. Her hair was combed. She seemed at ease, looking past him in thought, calmly ignoring him. Inside she was crouched, waiting.

Ryan said, "Well, here we are. You having a nice time?"

She didn't answer him.

"I'm gonna get the silent treatment, huh?"

"Fuck you," Denise said.

"Fuck you, too," Ryan said. "You dumb broad." He waited, watching her take a drink. "Can you hardly wait'll tomorrow, when you wake up? Be fun, uh? Listen, if you want, I'll tell them over at the A&P you're sick. They might want to know how long you'll be out. What do you think, a week? A month?"

"Jesus," Denise said, "is that how you do it? What do you call it? Twelfth Step work."

"To tell you the truth," Ryan said, "I've never done it before. You're my first one."

"You want to help me? Really?"

"Sure I do."

"Go across the street and get another one of these." She kicked at the empty bottle with her bare foot and missed and kicked at it again. "Get a couple."

"Why don't you go? You can walk."

"Oh, you'd let me?" She put on a slightly prissy tone.

"If I didn't," Ryan said, "then you'd have all the more reason to feel sorry for yourself. You already think it's my fault. If I don't let you out, then you'd know for sure I'm a heartless bastard, I don't care anything about you, I'm in this only for myself."

"You're a prick," Denise said. "Like all the rest."

"All the rest of what? Men? Jesus, you gonna give me that one? You poor little thing. Suck on your bottle."

"Asshole."

"What am I, parts of the anatomy? Prick, asshole. What else? How about knee? You fucking knee. Or shoulder. You rotten, miserable shoulder."

"You're really funny."

"I'm literal, if that's the word," Ryan said. "I don't have much imagination. I see something, I say what it is. I see you sitting there drinking wine. Maybe you think you've been getting a rotten deal and you want to pay me back, or you want to pay back your husband or your mother, I don't know. I don't know why you drink, but what I see, I see you killing yourself."

"And you don't want that to happen till I get the money. How much you gonna make, anyway?"

Ryan didn't say anything.

"Then you work on me some more," Denise said. "What do you have in mind? I mean, how do you get any of it out of me? Unless maybe we got married. Jesus, there must be an awful lot in this."

"A hundred and fifty thousand," Ryan said. "You were going to get half, but the way they're thinking now, you don't get anything." As he said it, he felt better. But it was a little late and not doing much for Denise at all.

She was saying, "A hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Bobby owned something worth that much?"

"It's stock," Ryan said. "I don't know what kind, though. His dad put it in his name when he was born and it's been going up ever since." He watched her thinking about it. "That's a few bottles of wine, isn't it?"

She looked at him. "You really AA, or is that part of your bullshit?"

"I wasn't looking for you when I went to that meeting," Ryan said. "I needed to go. You said your name, I still wasn't sure. You remember talking to me in the bar?"

"Virgil mentioned it. I'm not sure." She started to rise, then sat back again and put her hands on the wooden chair arms to pull herself up. She went into the hallway and came out again, looking at the floor.

"I can't find my goddamn shoes."

"Where you going?"

"Out."

"Why don't you go to bed? I mean it."

"You mean shit." Denise went into the kitchen then and turned on the light. "There you are," she said to her sandals.

Ryan went over to the door and put on the chain lock. She came out, taking her purse from the counter, and stopped, looking at the door and then at Ryan. When she moved toward the door, Ryan stepped in front of her.

"Come on, what're you going to do, tie me up?"

"Think about tomorrow," Ryan said.

"Think about tomorrow. It sounds like a fucking soap opera. Get out of the way."

"If you go to bed now," Ryan said, "not have any more, you'll be in pretty good shape."

Maybe. She was having trouble with her balance. Her eyes, narrowed at him, were glazed. She was past thinking or listening or reasoning. If she told him she hated him or wanted to kill him, he'd believe it.

"I'm going out," Denise said. "You stop me and I'll have all the more reason. You said it, I didn't. All the more reason to feel sorry for myself. Right? You'll be responsible for it, you sneaky son of a bitch."

"I've changed my mind," Ryan said. "I don't give a shit what you feel, you're going to bed."

He grabbed her, pinning her arms to her body, and dragged her, twisting against him, into the bedroom.

Denise stopped fighting. She said, "All right, leave me alone." She stood by the double bed, weaving slightly.

"Get undressed," Ryan said.

Denise looked at him, closing one eye. "Now we're horny, huh? I've been wondering when it was coming. All the times you've been here, I was thinking, I don't know, maybe he doesn't have any balls. Is that your problem, Ryan? No balls, huh?"

He left the room as she spoke, crossed the small hallway to the bathroom, and looked in the medicine cabinet for aspirin. There was a small bottle of Excedrin. He had to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he came back to the bedroom, Denise had her slacks off and was pulling the navy-blue sweater over her head. Ryan looked at her compact little can in the white panties. Good thighs, slender; but very pale. She needed sunlight on her and clean air. Ryan thought of Florida again, the second time that day, this time seeing the two of them, tan, walking along a sundown empty beach.

"Fucking sweater," Denise said, inside the navy-blue folds. It was caught on her bracelet. She pulled the sweater free, dropping it, and was looking at him again. Ryan handed her two Excedrin tablets and the glass of water. She took them without a word and handed the glass back to him, staring again with her glazed expression.

"I'm gonna stay here tonight," Ryan said.

"Uh-huh." She was unbuttoning her blouse now, working down from the top.

"I'll be in the other room."

"You're not going to sleep with me?"

He moved to the bed and pulled the madras spread and sheet from the pillows. "No, but I'll tuck you in," Ryan said.

"Was that tuck you said?"

"Be nice, okay? Get in bed."

"How nice? Hey, Ryan ..."

When he looked at her she opened her blouse to show her breasts for a moment and let the blouse fall closed again. They were small breasts, but good ones.

"What do you say, Ryan, you want to fuck?"

He walked around the foot of the bed to the door.

"Hey, I thought you were gonna tuck me in." She pulled the blouse off, hooked her thumbs in the waist of the panties, and pushed them down. When she tried to step out, she stumbled against the bed. Ryan watched her from the doorway.

Denise rolled onto the bed. She settled on her back, on top the madras cover, her legs apart, the panties caught on one ankle. As she looked at him now, with a contrived expression, eyes half-closed, she raised up on her elbows and spread her legs a little more.

"Come on, Ryan honey. You and God Honey, you know everything, don't you? You prick. Come on, you sneaky little prick, let's see if you're any good." She moved her hips up and down, twice.

Ryan moved to the side of the bed. "Lift up your can."

"Like this?" She arched her back, raising her pelvis toward him. "You want some of that?"

Ryan pulled the spread and sheet to the foot of the bed and brought them back, letting the covers settle over her. He went out, closing the door. In the living room, as he sat down and reached for a cigarette, he heard her call him. Hey, Ryan, repeating it several times. He heard her call him a rotten motherfucker and heard her voice, sounds, but not the words clearly. Finally there was silence.

During the night he thought about Denise and would see her body again, the way she had showed it to him, her private nakedness that he had had to imagine before. He wasn't worried about Denise now. That was a funny thing; he had a good feeling about her. She wasn't down in a hole, depressed; she was mad, and that was something he felt he could handle. What he thought about most of the night, when he'd wake up sitting in the canvas chair with his feet on the edge of the low table, was Mr. Perez. Mr. Perez in his hotel suite. Mr. Perez speaking in his quiet, deceptive tone. Mr. Perez, shit, standing on this thing immobile, like a dead weight, and the bayou hillbilly helping him hold it down.