Wall of Eyes

Chapter 6

By the time the last show came on at one o’clock Stevie Jordan was always a little tight. But by one o’clock those patrons who intended to get tight had already done so and those who didn’t had gone home, so Stevie’s lapses went unnoticed. Discrimination dissolves in alcohol and the last show was the best. Everything looked fine under the dim lights, the drinks, the chorus girls, the orchestra and Stevie.

Stevie himself made no concessions to glamor, did not attempt to conceal what he was. He hadn’t, as some people thought, fallen out of the top drawer into Joey’s. He had climbed up as far as Joey’s from one of the bottom drawers. It was the best job he had ever had or ever would have. He was at the top, but because it wasn’t a very high top he didn’t try hard to stay there. He was always in trouble of some kind and always falling in love with the wrong woman.

“Marcie Moore. You all remember Marcie. You know what we call her round the back of this dive? Pretzel, we call her, and you’ll see on account of why. Are you ready, Marcie?”

The lights were still dimmer. A baby spot fumbled over the floor, found the entrance and the girl standing there looking as if she were afraid to come out.

“Her real name is Marcella but you’ll want to call her Marcie. Say hello to the suckers, Marcie.”

Then Marcie’s voice, shy, barely audible, “Hello. Hello, suckers.”

She came out onto the floor, reluctantly, as if the baby spot were a tangible force which pushed her along. She wore skin-tight black satin shorts and bra, but she didn’t look as naked as some of the patrons. She was too scrawny, like a young bird only half feathered.

She wasn’t scared of the crowd at all, despising them as a bunch of drunks, but Joey liked her to pretend. He kept up his part of the pretense by dismissing gentlemen who asked for her phone number with the statement that she lived at home with her mother.

“—lives with her mother,” Stevie bawled. “No kidding. Now how many of youse guys out there live with your mothers?”

A drunk at one of the floor tables said his mother was dead and began to wail softly to himself because his mother was dead, died when he was a baby, poor old mother, worked hard all her life...

The orchestra drowned him out with a tango. Marcie jerked, dipped and spun around the floor. The routine was vigorous and she had no energy to waste smiling at the gentlemen.

Half of the orchestra laid down their instruments and purred and whistled when Marcie did the splits or a back-bend. At the end of the dance she bowed briefly and unsmilingly and disappeared behind the curtain, followed by the thunder of tablepounding and stamping feet and cries of “More! More!”

Then Stevie came on the floor again, still clapping and looking toward the curtain as if he expected Marcie to come back for an encore. It was just a gag to work up more applause for her. He knew she never did an encore for the last show.

“Swell, eh? Glad you liked it.”

The drunk was still crying. Stevie went over and touched his shoulder.

“What goes on? A big boy like you crying about your mother!”

“Worked hard all her life,” the drunk sobbed.

“Oh, dry up, George!” said his lady. “Oh, dry up! Somebody dry him up!”

“We’ll have to cheer this gentleman,” Stevie said gravely. “It is’ our God-given duty to cheer this gentleman. Any ideas? Anyone?”

“Sweet Sue,” yelled a lady.

“Sweet Sue. Hear it, boys? Make it Sweet Sue.”

Sweet Sue didn’t cheer the drunk and he had to be removed. It was Stevie who did the job. He put his arm around the drunk’s shoulders and guided him off the floor with the lady weaving along behind, half crying herself:

“It’s a shame. That’s what. What did you have to go talking about mothers for in front of him for?”

Stevie got their hats and coats from the checkroom and helped the man with his coat. He told the doorman to get a taxi and then he stood with the couple until the taxi came. The drunk clung to him and told him he was a real gentleman, a gentleman with real feeling, a good guy, a real pal, the kind of guy there should be more of in this world.

“Sure,” Stevie said, grinning. “Sure. Happy landing.”

He opened the door of the taxi. When it was gone he stood on the sidewalk for a time, with the wind ruffling his hair.

“Troublemaker,” said the doorman. “Busy night, eh?”

“Yeah.”

When he went inside he smoothed his hair with both hands and straightened his tie. The drunk had made him think of his own mother. She lived down in the Village. She made pottery and she hadn’t been sober for ten years.

He stopped at the checkroom, grinning automatically at the girl attendant.

“Busy night,” she said.

“Yeah.” He paused. “Marcie’s gorilla shown up yet?”

She giggled and said, “Nope. Not tonight. Anyhow, that was no gorilla...”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe he’s staying home tonight because he’s only got one suit and he wouldn’t be seen dead in the same suit two nights in a row.”

“Oh, go on, Mr. Jordan!”

“Bloated plutocrat. I hate plutocrats when they’re bloated around the shoulders.”

She giggled some more and he pinched her cheek politely, because after all it was something to make somebody giggle. He never got a rise out of Marcie at all. She would stare at him coldly and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jordan. I guess I got no sense of humor.” Or, worse still, “You sound like you’ve been drinking, Mr. Jordan.” Whenever she talked to him her voice and face were full of disapproval or reproach. He didn’t like her very much but he was pretty sure he was falling in love with her.

The chorus were on again, thumping their feet, and Mamie Rosen was braying to the moo-hoon. Stevie knew from the way she sang that her boy friend, a wop called Murillo, had walked out on her again. He threaded his way among the tables and went backstage. He found Marcie behind the entrance curtain, looking out at the girls dancing. She was keeping time to the music with one foot, and her eyes were intense because she was shortsighted.

But the whole pose was false. Stevie knew she didn’t give a damn about the music or the show, and the girls gave her a pain. She was looking for someone.

“Stood up?” Stevie said.

She jumped, as if he had poked her, then resumed the pose again, tapping her foot and humming.

“Never trust a gentleman,” Stevie said, “not from where you sit. Any time, any place, he might meet a lady and then where’d you be?”

“You’re drunk,” Marcie said, without turning around.

“Naturally. Gentlemen get funny ideas, about homes and gardens and kids and all that.”

She turned around this time and stared at him angrily. “Well, what about it? I’m crazy about kids. I could have kids as well as anyone.”

“And gardens,” Stevie said. “Sure. Hoe me for a turnip. But...”

But the chorus was stamping in through the curtain. Professional smiles faded and gum parked in tooth cavities was deftly removed.

Mamie Rosen burst into effortless tears and came over to Stevie, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Stevie. That louse...”

“Yeah, sure.” He patted her shoulder. Drops of sweat had wormed their way through the pink greasepaint. Stevie’s hand was wet, so he patted her head this time to dry his hand.

“He’ll come back,” Stevie said. “Doesn’t he always?”

“But if I could be sure, Stevie! Maybe this time...”

“You’re safe. He can’t support himself.” He gave her a little push towards the dressing room.

When he turned back he saw that Marcie was looking out through the curtain again. She forgot to tap her foot and her eyes looked frantic, the way short-sighted people’s eyes look when they can’t see something they know should be there.

“What’s his name?” Stevie said.

“None of your business.”

“You think so?” He walked up and stood behind her, touching her only with his breath. “Everything’s my business. I’m Joey’s ears and eyes and feet, bouncer de luxe.”

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Johnny could bounce you like a ball. And don’t breathe on me.”

“My way of making love,” Stevie said. “I breathe on ’em.”

“Mr. Jordan — Stevie.”

Stevie saw that she was going to ask a favor. She wasn’t used to asking favors and she couldn’t be gracious about it. The best she could do was call him by his first name. “Stevie, do you see him anywhere?”

“Who?”

“You know. Johnny. Everything’s sort of blurred this far away.”

He made a pretense of looking out on the floor. He frowned to make it more realistic.

“Over on the left,” Marcie said. “Over there on the left where he usually sits.”

“No.”

“Over by the band.”

“No.” Stevie let the curtain drop. “Unless he’s a drunken bum like me and slid under a table, my verdict is he’s not here. I’m here, though. I haven’t slid under a table since New Year’s Eve and you know how it is on New Year’s Eve.”

She didn’t hear him. She was hugging her bare shoulders and staring straight in front of her. Her features had sharpened and she looked almost vicious, like a small untamed animal caught in a trap.

A ferret, Stevie thought. He didn’t like her at all and he was even a little frightened of her. But he said again, “I’m here.”

She moved her head to one side and said, “Oh, you.”

He almost gave up then and told her that he’d seen Johnny Heath sitting over on the left beside the band and that he was still there waiting for her. But he didn’t tell her.

“Why that tone?” he said. “I’m clean and sweet like I just stepped out of the tub.”

“Go away.”

“You go and get dressed and I’ll drive you home to momma.”

“No. No thanks.”

“Sure you will. I got a rumbleseat full of etchings but I won’t even open it. Go and get dressed.”

She hesitated, her thin fingers pulling at the flesh of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want you to think it means anything if I let you drive me home.”

“I won’t think a thing,” Stevie said cheerfully.

He watched her until she disappeared into the dressing room, then he went to get his coat, whistling under his breath. He felt so good that he leaned over the checking counter and gave the girl a playful whack on the rear. She let out a squeal and scurried between the rows of coats. She was easily excited so it took her some time to find Stevie’s coat. When she finally came back Stevie wasn’t feeling playful any more. He was talking to a big man with a bass voice and muscle-swollen shoulders.

“You did, eh?” Steve was saying. “You got here late, eh? So what?”

The big man was very polite. He looked down at Stevie and said, “I was wondering if...” Then he saw the girl behind the counter and turned to her with a smile. “I’m waiting for Miss Moore. She hasn’t gone yet, has she?”

The girl winked slyly at Stevie. “I’m sure I don’t know. Do you know, Mr. Jordan?”

“Sure she’s gone,” Stevie said. “She checked out early with a case of double pneumonia. It’s the clothes she doesn’t wear.”

The man smiled again, absently. “You’re Mr. Jordan, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Jordan, the wit.”

“Marcella talks about you. She thinks you are very funny.”

Stevie stared at him. “Yeah? She does, eh? Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

“If she’s still here, will you tell her I’m waiting? My name’s Heath.”

“O.K., Mr. Heath,” Stevie said. “I’ll do that.”

He told her. He went back and told her in a flat, bored voice because suddenly it didn’t matter much one way or the other.

After that he went outside by the back door. Some of the girls were there waiting in the alley for their dates to show up. Mamie Rosen was waiting with them, just for company. She was a Polish Jewess with very blonde brittle hair and sad dark eyes. She had been living with Murillo for years, ever since Stevie first knew her, but she was still intense about him and frequently cried when he was away, which was most of the time.

When she saw Stevie she followed him out to his car and got in beside him. She was still sniveling.

“Tie a rag around it,” Stevie said.

“Yeah, but you don’t know, Stevie. He didn’t even say good-bye, just walked off and maybe I won’t see him again for months.”

“That should save trouble,” Stevie said, “and money.”

“You get kinda used to waking up in the morning and having somebody there next to you.”

“Sure. I guess you can get used to sleeping with anything, even a cobra, especially if you’re another cobra.”

“He’s not...”

“You know the one about the skunk? A skunk sat on a stump. The skunk thunk the stump stunk and the stump thunk the skunk stunk. Now you say it.”

“Oh, gee, I can’t!”

“Go on. Say it.”

“A skunk sat on a stump. The skunk thunk the skunk... God, that’s a scream, Stevie.”

“Yeah, isn’t it,” Stevie said.

Neither of them smiled.

Stevie swung the car through the broad alley and came out on Bloor Street. He saw a long yellow roadster just pulling away from the curb in front of the club. Without turning his head he knew Mamie was looking at the roadster too because it was the kind of car people like Mamie and himself and their friends always looked at and thought, “What’s he done to deserve a car like that?” or “Some day...”

Mamie let out a sigh that was soft but spiked with envy.

“Same guy,” Stevie said, “but a different car.”

“What?”

“The other car was wrecked, the one I remember him driving.”

“What other car?” She frowned at him. “Say, are you plastered?”

“It was blue,” Stevie said. “I went to see it at the garage where they were trying to fix it up. A lot of people went to see it. There was no admission charge but you had to tip the garage man a quarter. So I went. To see the blood, I guess. I guess I’m a morbid guy. When I got there I saw the blood but it wasn’t hers, it wasn’t where she’d been sitting.”

“I don’t know what...”

“Geraldine.”

“Geraldine?” She frowned again, pretending she was trying to remember, but Stevie knew she knew.

“You took her place as singer,” Stevie said. “Now you remember?”

“Now Stevie, you quit, you stop that. I got enough on my mind. I don’t want to think about things like that.”

“So Joey took you out of the line and let you sing, the night she didn’t show up because she was dead.”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Mamie said shrilly.

“Hell,” Stevie said, “neither do I, come to think of it.”

So they drove off in silence for a time. Mamie huddled in the corner as far away as she could get, stroking the collar of her coat for comfort. It was a fine collar, real genuine silver fox. Tony had bought it for her a couple of years ago with the proceeds of a fantan game in Elizabeth Street. Later on a Chinaman came to the club and demanded the coat, but she’d hung on to it. Tony had left town for a couple of months after that and when he came back he had some scars over his chest which seemed to indicate that the Chinaman had caught up with him.

“But I still think it’s funny,” Stevie said at last.

She stirred impatiently and tweaked out a silver fox hair. “Yeah, what’s funny?”

“Heath.”

“Heath.” She repeated the name, thoughtfully, as if she recognized it and it meant something to her.

“That’s the name of this guy,” Stevie said, “the one who calls for Marcie, the one who called for Geraldine two years ago.”

“Well, what’s so funny?” Mamie said. “A lot of these big bugs go for that kind of girl.”

“What kind?”

She twisted her hands in her lap. They were nice strong-looking hands but they never seemed quite clean.

“My kind,” she said. “You know. Easy, I guess you call it.”

He looked at her deliberately. “Marcie is no slut.”

“Well, all right, who cares? We all gotta live our lives and if one girl likes it and another one don’t, well, so what!”

“Where do you live?”

“You know damn well where I live. You make me sick, Stevie.”

“Me too,” Stevie said. “I thought maybe you’d moved.”

He didn’t say any more about Geraldine until he stopped in front of Mamie’s boardinghouse on Charles Street. He leaned across her to open the door and said, “There were some others in the car too, but Geraldine was the only one who got killed.”

She tried to get out but he held her back with his hands.

“There was a girl,” Stevie said. “A long time afterward some guy tried to cheer me up about Geraldine by telling me the other girl got blind. Worse than being killed, being blind.”

“Let me go,” Mamie said. “The other girl was his sister. I remember reading about it in the papers. Thanks for the ride.”

“Listen,” Stevie said, holding her arm hard. “Don’t tell any of this to Marcie.”

She glanced at him and away again. “Well, I wouldn’t. Hell, I’m no blabber.” She was already planning how she’d tell Marcie but her face didn’t change expression. “Why not, though?”

“She thinks I don’t even know his name. Can you beat it? Me not know his name when all I see in the middle of the night is his face, so I got to get up for a drink.”

“Hell.” She pushed him away. “You’re plastered. Forget it.”

“No,” Stevie said. “And every time I walk around a corner I think, maybe this is the corner he’ll be behind and I can hit him. Only I wouldn’t hit him. I’d run.”

“You might hit him,” Mamie said cheerfully. “Sure you might. Though why in hell — well, good night, Stevie.”

He didn’t answer so she slammed the door behind her and went up the steps of her boardinghouse.

“Listen, Mamie,” Stevie said. “I didn’t hit him.” But the car windows were closed and his voice wasn’t loud enough.

He sat there behind the wheel and closed his eyes. Whenever he closed his eyes lately something came up at him, something black like a velvet curtain distended by a wind. He opened his eyes quickly and reached for the gears.

“Gotta get glasses,” he said aloud.

He talked to himself because it comforted him. This was the time of night he didn’t like, when the city was dead or else living silently behind closed doors. This was the time you looked over your shoulder, you looked back to reassure yourself.

When he turned north on Avenue Road he heard the clock on the Soldiers’ Tower strike three. Bong bong bong. One for Geraldine. One for Marcie.

“One for me,” he said. There were only three but he kept imagining there was more. “One for Joey. One for Murillo. One for Johnny Heath.”

He stepped on the gas to get away from the clock. The car climbed the hill, past the boardinghouses and small shops, then the apartments getting swankier as the hill grew, then more shops, a better kind now.

And then St. Clair. It wasn’t until he was actually at the top of the hill that he realized he should have turned off three blocks down. He didn’t feel right up here on the top of the hill where Johnny Heath lived. Johnny Heath lived up here to the left, with his yellow roadster and his blind sister. Stevie had driven past the house once just for the hell of it.

He turned left, driving very slowly, not intending to stop but just to go past the house. The car stopped itself, so Stevie turned off the ignition and parked along the curb. He couldn’t see the Heaths’ house very well from the curb. He could only see a faint glow behind the trees.

He sat there for some time looking at the glow. There were no cars moving along the road that he could wave at. After three o’clock he always waved at cars because the very lateness of the hour and the darkness were bonds between him and the people in the cars.

Someone was walking, though. The steps were behind him, slow steps and heavy, like an old man’s.

Stevie opened the car window nearest to the curb, and when the old man was abreast of the car Stevie said, “Could I trouble you for a match?”

On the seat beside him he had a whole box of paper matches advertising the Club Joey, Toronto’s Smartest Nightclub, Cover Charge One-Fifty. But he had to talk to someone, someone who was awake in the sleeping city.

The steps paused.

“A match,” Stevie said.

“Ah?”

“A match. Could I trouble you...?”

“A match?” The man leaned down and looked inside the car window at Stevie. “Do you want a match?”

“No,” Stevie said hoarsely. “No, thanks.”

This was the corner Johnny Heath was behind, this was how he looked when you came upon him unawares, the skin sagging over his face, and this was how he sounded, like an old man with a thin cracked voice.

“I have a great many matches,” the man said. “It’s no trouble.”

“Guess I don’t need any,” Stevie said. “Look. I found a whole boxful.”

He held up the box and they both stared at it solemnly.

“So you have,” Mr. Heath said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Heath.”

The face vanished, came back again.

“You know me? I’m sorry, I... One of my girls’ young men, are you? Sorry I don’t... Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Stevie said again.

After a time the glow from behind the trees disappeared.