Shoot It Again

CHAPTER 10

For the next five days Lucille and I settled into a convenient, and not entirely uncomfortable routine. We moved the following morning to another sleazy hotel in Brooklyn, still perfumed with sharp anti-bug odors, but the room was large and light, with a one-plate burner for cooking, and after the rock-and-roll racket of living over the record shop —seemed restfully quiet. Lucille made an arrangement with the lump-faced desk man, who was also the porter, and probably the owner, to turn a “few tricks” per day without having to walk the streets or solicit. As she happily explained, “Tony, all I have to do is knock off two guys a day—one for us and one for him. He'll send the tricks up, keep it quiet. It couldn't be better.”

But the desk man complained to me.; 'What's the matter with your broad? She's built to take it, and I can send her a dozen hot pants a day without attracting too much noise. No sense in her sitting on all that money.”

“She was in an accident, lost a lot of blood, has to rest up,” I told him, resisting the temptation to break his fat jaw.

Lucille seemed positively content. With ease and in a comparative few minutes she earned enough for our food, and a bottle, and of course I had 'stuff' to last her lifetime. Actually, she rarely left our room. Early in the morning I'd go out—never more than a block from the hotel—buy the papers, food, a bottle, and whatever paperback she wanted to read. We'd spend the rest of the day in the room, sleeping a lot, eating, drinking a good deal. At night, or whenever Lucille was with “clients,” I went up on the roof, to shadow-box and exercise —for some unknown reason.

I also worked-out often with Lucille. Being an untidy creature (her bra and panties were in worn shreds) she had this fetish about always being in the nude, ready with her corny, “As the wise man said, have fun: what else is there in life?” It was mostly clinical interest on my part, trying to decide if I really was arousing her, or if she was merely faking her passion. It's so damn much easier for the woman to fake it.

Although she still called me Tony, Lucille knew I was the artist the police were seeking and while she never mentioned it, we had some off-the-wall talks about art. I bought a cheap pad and a soft pencil, made dozens of sketches of every curve of her body, each feature in the wide face. She was a good model, rarely moving, but never very excited about the sketches. Of course I destroyed them the second they were finished. On Sunday, I made a collage with the colored comic pages and her nail polish—cutting out various shapes of colored paper, pasting them on a sheet of brown wrapping paper. I was trying to copy Nolde's Yellow and Red Sunflowers. The collage was a new form for me, a chance to use colors, and it all turned out pretty fair. When I showed it to Lucille she said. “The users call Sunday... death day: hard to get a fix. Tony, you ever exhibit in Washington Square? I went down last September to look at the pictures.”

“No real artist shows there.”

“I thought the pictures were good.”

I suddenly laughed, wondering why I was putting on an act now. “Sure, there's many damn fine artists showing there, along with the week-end dabblers. Tell you the truth, I never thought I was good enough to sell there, so I joined the sneerers.”

“You ever read Lust For Life? I got that as a free bonus when I joined the book club. That's about an artist and... You listening, Tony?”

Sometimes, half drunk, lazing around in bed with Lucille, I had a feeling of retirement: this effortless life would last forever. But whether or not I wanted it to continue, I was well aware of a number of definite reasons why our days were numbered.

Mr. Ping and Shorty certainly were still on their deadly hunt for the three million bucks of 'boy' I was carrying around. For this reason I was glad Lucille never left the hotel: in the efficient business set-up of organized crime it would only be a simple matter of checking minor employees to locate a free-lance prostitute.

Nor was I forgetting the police. Although there wasn't anything in the papers about Gus being found, and even my name and the Al Foster killing had drifted toward the back pages and then vanished... any day now the putrid odor which was Gus might escape the camphor bag tomb. Or in a few weeks the janitor would break in to evict Lucille. Once Gus's remains were found, a police dragnet would bag Lucille in short order.

Plus there was always the chance the police had my description by now, might collar me when I left the hotel for my brief shopping walks.

But there was a more important reason why it couldn't last—I didn't want it to! Being a pimp wasn't my idea of any last stop. Oh, I held no illusions about myself, knew the art world would never miss me, but before I'd fed my ego a number of excuses—half believed them. I was merely 'borrowing' money from women for the sake of my 'art.' Or, seducing a few dollars from a babe was cushioned by the rational that she needed the bed work, I was but giving her therapy. Or, it could be as simple as thinking she could well afford to part with a few hundred.

But now, minus any possible self-delusion, I was a pimp. For Lucille it was a job. Once she told me, “Don't act so damn fussy... Suppose you worked at cleaning cesspools, or collecting garbage—when you finished for the day, the dirty work angle would be forgotten. Think of it like that, Tony.”

The sordid aspect was far too real for me to kid myself. Once, waiting out in the hallway I heard Lucille scream: her 'client' had the perverted idea one of her nipples was a cigarette, was trying to light it. I had to bust in, throw the bed bug out.

I still had hopes of making enough money to return to painting on some clean beach—but faced this contradiction: it wasn't safe for Lucille to leave the hotel, yet she was my only possible contact with any dope ring. The one time she left the place, at my urging to see if she could recognize local users—make a contact... Lucille returned with a package of wheat germ and other crap she'd purchased in a health store. When I accused her of not trying, certain if she had needed a fix, she would have made a connection—somehow—Lucille answered it was impossible without returning to her old “turf,” the hangouts where she knew the pushers, and was known.

While this made sense, I also felt she was stalling —she was stealing from my bag: only a few ounces of the stuff but enough to make 'caps' and 'decks' to last her a long time. Except for the fear of Gus' corpse being found, Lucille had a fine thing going, didn't see any reason to risk ruining it by leaving the hotel.

I tried every means I knew to make her find a way of selling the damn heroin—even the charm pitch... daydreams about us going to Mexico or Haiti, where she would kick the habit, then we'd marry, have kids. But I wasn't a convincing enough liar, never got to her.

Actually I doubted Lucille really wanted to break her habit, despite becoming hysterical with self-pity at times, swearing up and down she loved me, that I was the only jasper to ever 'move' her... sexually. But at other times she wanted to turn me on, urging me to try a shot. “Tony, there's nothing in this dirty world as wonderful... as exciting... so different...”

I even told her of Nice's clean, rocky beach, the lush and sophisticated life of the Riviera... ended feeling more dirty and homesick for Nice myself. Every breath of the funky, insecticide hotel air made me remember the good air, the soft flower colors of the Cote D'Azur.

The seventh day we were at the hotel turned out so muggy I felt smothered in the dirt, simply had to get away. Although it was risky as hell, I couldn't stand it any more—decided to take a cab to the Long Island railroad station at Atlantic Avenue, spend the day at some quiet beach. Lucille thought I was nuts, but since I took the duffel bag with me, she went along.

We went out to Jones Beach, rented suits and towels, had lunch, and started walking along the beach. We reached an isolated spot not too near a few scattered summer houses, where we were able to sleep in the shade of a dune, even take a fast, nude, swim. It was a peaceful, wonderful afternoon, made me feel as if I was living again. Lucille got a bad bum and I had to rub her down with oil. Then she had to spoil things by giving herself a fix. It seemed to me she was “bombing” herself more frequently the last few days. Even though she was hidden by the ridge of the dune, I saw the spot where she'd cleaned the hypo needle of blood—a red smudge in the sand—which I washed away with sea water. It left me all the more determined to sell the junk for whatever I could safely get, somehow breakout from my state of stinking helplessness.

Returning to the heat and smell of the hotel early in the evening, the desk clerk—my partner in pimping—was highly indignant at Lucille having been gone all day. “Two Johns were back—that's where the real loot is, a steady trade of weekly repeaters—and where is your broad—putting her hips down on some sand instead of on her bed! Tony, I can tell you're new at this, wise up. Make her work! With your looks, go out more, break in another gal, get yourself a stable of hustlers.”

“Relax. She may be forced to lay... off... for a few days. Bad sunburn on her back.”

He shook his thick head, sighed. “You'd think a whore's back would be the last place she'd let be damaged.”

“Occupational hazard,” I told him, playing it straight-faced. The sun had left us both bushed and after rubbing her red back down, we turned in early. About an hour later, the desk man knocked on the door, told Lucille one of her customers, a little fish-eyed slob of an old goat, was willing to pay thirty dollars for a session. “When I told him your back was raw... he got all excited, upped the pay.”

“Nothing doing,” I mumbled, still in bed.

“Send him up—in a minute,” Lucille said, yawning as she shut the door. “Tony, wait in the can for a few minutes. That's all it will take to...”

“Tell him to go to hell!”

“What for? We haven't turned a dime all day. Thirty bucks—almost puts me in the call girl bracket.”

“We can't get a decent night's sleep without some goddamn pest bothering us!”

“This pest is parting with thirty pieces of bread. Anyway, no point in getting the hotel manager sore, ruining our set-up. Stop making such a fuss and get going.” Lucille stretched, like a pitcher warming up.

“I'm in no mood to wait out in any damn hall!”

“Stop pouting about nothing, Tony. When you come back, as the wise man said...”

“Oh shut up.” Taking my duffel bag, cursing her and the world in general, I walked down the hall to the can—which smelled like yesterday's vomit— wondering what I was doing in this hell. Granted I was a lousy artist, I was an artist, not a two-bit panderer! Of course, at the moment I was an artist-murderer.

Standing around the horrid john—far worse than the one in madame's stinking hotel—I raged at Lucille for not making a connection so I could unload the damn junk. Was she really trying, or stalling to hold on to me and my bag? If...

Hearing our door open down the hall, I stepped out to see this plump old gent spryly heading for the stairs, happy grin on his moist face, coat buttoned cockeyed. I glared at him. I looked silly, coming out of the toilet wearing only shorts, carrying a duffel bag... but when the old windbreaker smirked at me I damn near booted him down the steps; managed instead to rush to the hall window, stare at the dull, dark street until I cooled off.

When I entered our room Lucille was sprawled on the sheet—messy from the lotion on her back—snoring lightly. The place had this peculiar heavy odor. Staring at her gross body, the hideous darkness of the vein in her left arm—I knew I simply couldn't take this much longer. I tried to tell myself murderers and dope carriers couldn't be choosey, but it didn't help—I had to break out of this sewer.

When I hit the damp bed, like a robot Lucille rolled over to press her hot breasts against me, still snoring. I pushed her away hard, moved to the coolest spot I could find on the sheet, tried to sleep. I had this crazy dream where I was riding a scooter on the road to Monte Carlo, somebody sitting behind me, their arms hugging my stomach. Passing the old villas and the new modern ones, the camping sites, I'd turn now and then to say something to my rider. But the rider was never the same person: like a game, I'd turn to see Syd, or Noel, Amy, a naked Lucille... and once it was Hank holding me.

When I awoke the morning was terribly hot and humid. Lucille was making coffee, in the nude as usual, looking greasy and unbathed. Dressing, I went down to buy the paper, some rolls and jam. Returning to the room I found her sitting by the window, reading a book, scratching her breasts and rump now and then, like a pleased cow. Putting my duffel bag and packages down, I thumbed through the paper as Lucille said, “The coffee is done.” She didn't even glance up from her book.

There wasn't anything in the paper. Taking her purse from the drawer, I pulled out three five dollar bills, announced: “Get dressed, we're going to the beach.”

“Again? Tony, do you think it's wise?”

“I think it's very wise—and damn necessary!” I snapped.

“Being out on the street... Also, my back is still red...”

“You weren't worrying about your back last night, with that old pig! More sun will help your skin, make it brown. Stay here, if you wish!”

As she slipped on her dress and shoes. I told myself if the desk moron said a word, I'd break his nose.

But he wasn't around, probably in the can sipping his wine, and we managed to sit in an air-conditioned car on the Long Island railroad, so by the time we reached Wantagh, and finally Jones Beach, I was in a better mood. In fact I was so relaxed, I almost forgot about the police. Still, minus her harsh make-up Lucille looked different, and with my hair cut so short... we were fairly safe. Renting suits again, we had a glass of beer and hot dogs, then strolled along the beach to 'our' deserted dunes. I took a swim while Lucille sat on the edge of the sand like a big baby, let the waves wash her off, then we slept for an hour or so. She started reading a book she'd picked up on the way out, while I stared at the mixed-green of the Atlantic, remembering the clean, ultramarine blue of the Mediterranean, wishing I had oils and a canvas with me, dared use them. Some teenagers appeared on the beach, near us, and laying on top of the dune—the hot sun soothing on my back—I watched them horse around in the water with their fins and aqualungs.

When they left I went back to sleep until Lucille gently shook me awake. With her skin taking on a reddish-brown tan, glistening with lotions and oils, the dark hair, she looked quite charming and almost South Pacific-ish. “Tony, it's after three—how much longer are we staying here?”

Blinking at a pastel rainbow in the salt haze, I felt of the duffel bag tied to my right hand, stretched, and then slapped her backside. “Still hot, might as well make a day of it. Leave around six, safer to be in the crowd.”

“I'm hungry, give me a couple of bucks. What do you want to eat?”

“Hamburger, pie, and a beer,” I said, reaching for my pants, giving her three singles. “Long walk back to the snack bar.”

“I don't mind. My eyes are too tired to read, and I am hungry.”

“Me too—hurry back.

For a time I watched her walk the beach, the strong movement of hips and sturdy legs. I took a swim, enjoyed the sheer luxury of urinating on the empty beach. I tried skimming stones in the waves, took another dip and dried off, went back to the slight shade between the dunes, read Lucille's book. I gave up after a few pages and watched the waves, childishly wishing there was a secret tunnel in the Atlantic to take me... anywhere.

Getting thirsty, I stuck my head out to look for Lucille. She was down the beach, walking along the water's edge, carrying a paper bag of food... about a hundred yards behind her was a tall, thin man wearing a straw hat, a short, squatty, bareheaded man. There was no doubting they were Ping and the knife runt! Nor could there be any doubt about Lucille knowing she was being followed—only the three of them on that stretch of the beach and the two goons stood out—they were completely dressed.

It was too late for me to run—be a stand-out target myself if I moved.

Cursing her for selling me out, I picked up the duffel bag, crawled around the back end of the dune: then ducking-walking like we used to do in football training, I reached a dune farther down. Pulling Gus' gun from the duffel bag, I waited. I was neither excited nor cool—but absolutely impersonal about it all. I decided to gun Ping down first, then the knife-thrower, and Lucille last. But as she came nearer I noticed that if her hips still had a gay swing, her face was tense and strained.

When Lucille walked past 'our' dune, a sort of wild joy filled my throat—she wasn't crossing me!

Knowing she was being followed, Lucille was deliberately walking on, taking the killers with her— and away from me. Mixed with my joy was cold anger plus a kind of twisted logic: here was the answer to my tangle—I'd knock off Ping and Shorty, then—assuming the police still hadn't found the camphor bag full of Gassy Gus, Lucille would have a few hours, even a day or two, to chance returning to her old hangouts, make the connection for the sale of my bag.

Holding the gun in my left, I carefully dried my right hand on my chest hair, then gripped the gun firmly again. The top of the dunes were too far for an accurate pistol shot—at least two hundred feet from the water's edge where they were walking. Leaving the blue duffel bag, I came around the side of the dune as Lucille and the two goons passed. Walking silently on the sand, I followed them, holding my breath as best I could. When about seventy-five feet behind, I called out, “Keep your hands in sight!”

My voice was crisp, even tough. They both stopped abruptly, didn't turn. Lucille began circling back—keeping out of the way. Ping had a corny loud sport shirt over the top of grey slacks—obviously covering a hip holster. Never taking my eyes off Ping's hands, I came up behind Shorty, kicked the back of his left knee.

As the runt went sprawling on his face, Ping spun around, right hand going for his shirt tails. I fired once at his gut, raced toward him as he went over backwards—shot him again in the side of his peanut head at almost point blank range: his ear seemed to jump, then gush blood. Spinning around like a Western TV hero, I shot Shorty still on his knees, knife hand raised to throw. The slug tore into his wide chest. Dropping the knife, he knelt with his right hand still in the air—as if praying—fell over on his face.

Lucille came running. “Tony! Tony! I knew they'd spotted me, but there wasn't anything I could do but keep walking in this direction...!”

“Keep still!” Glancing around carefully, I studied the beach. There wasn't a soul in sight, the sounds of the waves had smothered the barking of the gun. Ping's head was a stepped-on tomato, Shorty's puss was buried in the hot sand.

Picking up his knife, I hurled it into the ocean. Turning to Lucille, who was clutching her belly and throwing up, I said softly, “Babes, back of that dune is the bag—get it. Fast!”

Nodding, she staggered over to the sand dune. I kept looking up and down the beach: the bathers far down on Jones Beach were spots on the sand: if only nobody came by within the next few minutes we'd be okay.

Face pale with hysteria and fright, Lucille walked toward me, dragging the blue bag behind her in the sand. Shoving the gun in the crotch of my swim shorts, I grabbed the bag with my left hand, told her, “Come on, get a hold of your nerves —well make it okay! Help me pull these stiffs behind the dune.”

I took Shorty's foot with my right hand, Lucille picked up his other leg. We started dragging him across the beach, toward the dune.

“I... I... can't...” she gasped, dropping Shorty's leg and throwing up again. Leaving the duffel bag, I took both of the runt's thick legs, pulled him up and over the dune. Then I ran down and stepped between Ping's long legs, grabbed his ankles, pulled him up the hill of sand. Reaching the top of the dune, I heard Lucille running behind me, mumbling, “So much blood...”

I turned to grin coldly at her. “Don't worry, hon, the tide's coming in, wash it all away... soon.”

The last word died in my open mouth. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Shorty up on one elbow, blood gushing out of his shirt, a large ugly .45 held by both hands. I flung Ping toward him, tried to push Lucille back as I made a tackle-dive for him... seemed to hit a wall of orange flame making me do a back flip in mid-air. I found myself sitting on the sand above him, sure he'd missed me... until a fiery wind swept through my guts, a dry scream actually whistled up my throat. In a daze I heard another roar of thunder, a hot flash zinged by my face... Lucille came tumbling down near me, one breast hanging out of her burnt bathing suit: horrible piece of bloody raw meat.

Digging my left hand through the fire in my belly, I found the .32—turned to face Shorty. He was glaring at me with cold, childish-large eyes, trying to raise the heavy .45 with trembling hands. I couldn't move my legs... falling on my face, left hand extended until it was inches from the bastard's head, I pulled the trigger until there wasn't any more thunder... nor much left of his stupid face.

Staring at the mess of hair, blood, crushed skull and pink brains, I whispered, “Little... smart sonofabitch... you had a gun... too,” as if Shorty could hear me. A clawing, searing pain reached for my wild heart. I had this feeling of flying straight up... like a rocket... crashing through misty rainbows of sad soft colors...

I passed out in a burning red wave.

It was the most exciting canvas—mild blue shot through with streaks of gold wash. “How... can you... have a gold... wash?” I asked. It took a vague moment to finally realize I was on my back, seeing the sky. It took a far longer moment to believe I was still alive. I felt weightless—as if from the chest up I was a balloon drifting in air. Every few seconds the wind scooped me up so high and far, I seemed lost in this delicate baby blue fog.

Then I'd surface down to reality, regain consciousness. I moved my head, a mighty effort but little pain. From the top of my chest down I felt drugged... drugged; hell of a thing to say. Examining the sky again I knew several hours had passed.

Pushing my elbows into the sand, I propped myself up—with only one dizzy stab of pain. For a second I thought Lucille had vomited on my lap. Then I realized—minus any horror and with only a detached curiosity—I was looking at my own entrails hanging out. Lord, what ugly stuffing! Turning my head away, I saw Ping and Shorty already had the indifferent placidity of death, the stiff lines of...

There was a small, dry sound behind me. Putting my head far back against the sand as possible, I could see Lucille. She was lying stomach down on the crest of the dune, making animal coughs. Her legs were painted with dried and bright fresh blood. I stared at her for a long time; blood on her hands and swim suit, bloody bosom, on her dark hair. Her face—what I could see of it—looked ancient and wrinkled. But the eyes were glassy-bright, very alive—eyebrows still pretty. She was gazing straight ahead with great effort, making her pathetic barks, as if her mouth was full of sand.

Digging in with my elbows I started to move up toward her...on my back, head first. Oh, this was a gigantic task... and a dozen times I drifted up into the sky to rest, float around. But, after a long, long time, I made the top of the dune, was gasping beside her. “Lucille... honey... hon...”

I could hear myself talking—from a great distance—but she never even glanced at me. For a long moment I had to rest, studying the deeper gold in the sky... now. Really, a marvelous shade. Working with my right elbow only, I managed to turn on my side—at least my shoulders and head turned... the rest of my numb body was left someplace behind.

Lucille's face was so close to mine I could hear her rasping breath, but she never once moved her eyes from what she was staring down at.

On the beach in front of us, a plump and over-blonde housewife type in a red bathing suit, was sitting on a green beach chair, facing the ocean as she read a newspaper.

Much nearer to the advancing foamy water struggling up and down the beach, a little boy of about four was building a fine sand castle. He was a skinny kid wearing cute blue trunks, had the woman's yellow hair. Both he and mama sported a good tan. The castle was certainly a remarkable affair, complete in detail to towers, turrets, and even wall openings for the archers.

A foot or so to one side of the kid was my blue duffel hag and towel, the powdered-white heroin spilling all around it. I wondered, vaguely, if the plastic inner bag had torn while Lucille had been dragging it through the sand, or had the little boy opened the bag?

With great care the boy was placing a handful of junk on top of a tower, keeping an eye on the advancing tide. He was a smart kid, topping the rest of the castle with the stuff, the white making a neat contrast to the grey-brown sand.

When the boy used up as much of the seven kilos of horse as he could scoop up from the damp sand, he brushed his hands, called out, “Mommy, come see my white castle.”

“Yes, dear,” the bitch called out, too bored to look up from her paper. “It's very nice. The tide is almost full, means it's nearly six; we'll have to leave soon. Daddy will be home before us.”

Lucille made this tearing-barking sound again. Was she crying at the loss of the dope, or trying to call for help? Who wanted help with two corpses behind us to explain?

She cried out again. Raising my left hand high in the air, I let it drop on Lucille's sticky head. Gently as possible, until the rasping barks stopped.

The last press on her head sent me sailing into the air. Closing my tired eyes, I waited for the slow descent to consciousness. It took a very long time and when I opened my eyes, the sun, the beach, and the white castle seemed behind a faint gauze screen. It was a wonderful effect—I could see each delicate detail of the tiny square lines of the gauze.

The woman had her beach chair and the paper under one arm, was holding the boy with the other. She was actually an awful pot, the bathing suit a number of sloppy, fat curves. Yanking at the boy's hand, she said, “Oh, come on.”

“Wait, Mommy.” He was looking at the pretty castle.

“Come on. Watch now, this wave will do it.”

In the haze I saw the white castle, the junkie castle, standing bravely against the onrushing foamy thin water. The ocean, with military strategy, surrounded the castle, rushed down on it from the vulnerable rear.

Somehow, it was the most beautiful sight Td ever seen. The castle crumbled as the waves raced back to the ocean. A thunder of foam sent another front line of water charging up the beach, this one practically leveled the castle, leaving only one turret standing—a turret sparkling pure white in the dying sun.

The woman said, “Let's go.”

The kid began crying. “My castle! My castle is gone!”

She yanked at his arm. “Daddy has a fit if he's home before us, waits two lousy minutes for his supper. Now come on, you'll build a better castle tomorrow.”

They walked along the beach, the weeping boy twisting to look at the remains of his castle. Watching them, I wanted to shout, “You're so wrong... mama. He'll never build a better castle, that was a three million buck toy... he had. An historic castle tracing... tracing... its... evil past back all of six or eight days... to a casino in... Nice. Place a twenty franc chip... on...3... end up dead on Jones... Beach...“

I suddenly orbited, the sky a blaze of livid gold. The air became too thin for my lungs, began slicing at my throat like a slim knife. Gasping, I kept looking down, staring at the little white turret—now so tiny—but bravely fighting the greedy waves. It... seemed so terribly... important... to keep it in... sight...for as... long... as...I... could.

—end—