Jack and the Beanstalk (Matthew Hope) (26 page)

“Well, that’s something you’ll have to discuss with him.”

“I think I’ll offer him five hundred. That sounds about right to me. You want another one of these?”

“I think we’d better order.”

“Sure, but I’d like another one, anyway,” she said, and held up her glass to the waitress. The waitress nodded. “I was out looking over Papa’s farm yesterday,” she said. “Have you seen it? Sheesh, that’s some house. Water leaking in all over the place—it sure rains a lot down here, don’t it?”

“In the summer months,” I said.

“I’ve seen waterfront whorehouses in Houston that look better than Papa’s house. Somebody shot him, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder who,” she said idly, and turned to the waitress as she brought another round of drinks to the table. “We only wanted
one
, honey,” she said, “but you just leave the other, it won’t go to waste. We’ll be ready to order in a minute.” She lifted her fresh drink, said, “Here’s to lazy days and easy nights,” and then
picked up her menu. “All I want’s a hamburger and some fries,” she said, “but you go on and order anything you like, it’s my treat. You think anybody else’ll want to buy that farm? I sure would like to sell it, I can tell you that. Maybe set up my own escort service, you know? That’s how I got started in this business, I answered this ad said they needed attractive young girls for this escort service. I figured it was legit, who the hell knew? I mean, I was fresh out of high school, my mother was still alive then. She left Papa when I was six or seven, took me to New Orleans. She played jazz piano, Mama did. Not on Bourbon Street, she wasn’t all that great. So I go to see this guy, he’s interviewing girls for this escort service. He says I’m very elegant-looking and what he’s looking for is brilliant conversationalists who can go to fancy restaurants with visiting executives. I’m eighteen years old, this is the first time anybody ever told me I looked
elegant
. As a matter of fact, I was a little dumpy back then, I’ve lost a lot of weight since—do I look fat to you?”

“No, you look fine.”

“I’m still a little plump naked—well, zaftig, I guess you’d call it. Anyway, I take the job, and I go to this hotel where this executive is waiting to take me out to a fancy restaurant for some brilliant conversation, and the first thing he says when I get in his room is, ‘Take off your clothes, baby.’
I
gotta tell
you
. I wasn’t a virgin, sheesh,
nobody
gets to be eighteen in New Orleans and is still a virgin, but I mean, just like that? Take off your clothes? I told him I was there to go dining and conversing with him, and he lays a hundred-dollar bill on the dresser and he opens his fly and says how about dining on
this
, sweetheart? So I took off my clothes. What it was, you see, this escort service, it was an out-call whorehouse. There are no
real
whorehouses in New Orleans anymore, not since they closed down Storyville. What you’ve got, it’s either the massage parlors or the escort services, or else
you find yourself a pimp—he finds
you
, actually—and you drape yourself over a bar every night and wait for a trick to come along. So what’ll it be?” she said. “Why don’t you have a steak or something? How often do you get to have lunch with an heiress?”

“I’ll have a hamburger and fries, too,” I said.

“Cheap date,” she said, and smiled again, and signaled to the waitress. Her smile was infectious. I found myself smiling, too. She gave the waitress our order, drained her glass, and said, “You sure you don’t want this other one?”

“Positive,” I said.

“You mind if I drink it?”

“Go right ahead.”

She picked up the scotch with the splash of soda in it. “Anyway,” she said, “it’s safer to have a pimp up there. The escort service, you never knew what kind of creep you’d be meeting, and you didn’t have anybody to protect you if like a guy’s a weirdo who enjoys beating up girls, you know? I always carry a can of Mace in my bag, anyway, just in case I come up against rough trade, but it’s nice to know Bobby’ll go out there and beat the shit out of anybody who tries to mess with me. Listen, he’s no bargain himself, I mean I wish I had a nickel for every time
he
beat up on me. Still, it’s safer. Well, I guess the bartop route is safe, too, go-go dancing in some cheap dive on Bourbon, taking some guy to the back of the place and giving him a blow job in one of the booths—but that’s coarse, who needs it?”

She drank.

“The thing is, if I could sell that farm, I could maybe open my
own
escort service, you know? Give it a fancy name like some of them have—Executive Delight or Sophisticated Ladies or whatever the hell—get myself a string of nineteen-year-olds, be better than turning over seventy percent of what I make to Bobby, am I right? I can just feature him sitting still for
that
, my taking off and
starting a thing of my own, sheesh! But what this four thousand means is I got fuck-you money now. Bobby tries to lay a hand on me, I’ll have both his legs broken in six places, cost me five hundred bucks to hire a goon—just what I plan to pay Loomis. You think anybody’ll wanna buy that place?”

She drank again. The waitress came back to the table with our food. I noticed, for the first time, that there was a scar on Hester’s chin. It looked like a knife scar.

“’Cause I mean it, Mr. Hope, I never saw a dump like that in my life.
Never.
In Houston—I went to live in Houston for a while after my mother died—there are places you wouldn’t believe, the girls are all scaly-legged junkies, they march around in baby-doll nightgowns and frilly panties, take on any sailor who comes through the Ship Channel—the
pits
, believe me. But some of those places look like palaces compared to that dump Papa was living in. And the
land
! Sheesh! I walked all over it yesterday in the rain, it doesn’t look to me like you could grow
diddly
on it. Why’d this client of yours want to buy it? He musta been real crazy about weeds, I gotta tell you. I hope there’s somebody else crazy enough down here. If I could sell that farm, I’d be home free. Maybe even go to L.A., set myself up there. You get all these girls out in L.A., they go out to become actresses, next thing you know they’re working in banks for peanuts, they sooner or later begin to figure they can earn more in one night at the Beverly Hills Hotel than in six months as a teller. Get myself a string of girls out there—black, white, Chicano, maybe even Chinese—treat them nice, I bet I could make a lot of money in L.A., don’t you? But I got to sell that farm first. You know anybody crazy enough to buy it?”

The front door opened. There was a sudden gust of wind, and then the door closed again. Hester looked up. I turned in my chair to follow her glance—and my blood froze in my veins.

“Hi, fellas,” the waitress called. “Long time no see.”

Charlie had shaved off his black beard, but Jeff still sported the blond mustache. Charlie was wearing his identifying red kerchief. Jeff was wearing his blue one. They were both still wearing faded blue jeans and scuffed boots and fancy snap-button shirts. Their wide shoulders were damp from the drizzle outside. They both grinned the moment they saw me.

“Well, well, looka who’s here,” Jeff said.

“Got hisself a new girl,” Charlie said.

“Wanna dance again?” Jeff said.

Grinning, they started for the table, boots clattering on the hardwood floor, fists clenching as they approached, eyes glittering in anticipation of another hoedown with the city slicker prom-boy from Calusa.

Never get caught sitting.

Bloom’s words in the gym.

If you’re in a car and somebody’s coming at you, get clear of the door before he catches you with your ass on the seat and one foot on the pavement. If you’re in a booth, the same thing, get out of it right away. If you’re at a table, stand up and get ready for whatever’s coming, ’cause it’s gonna come fast.

I knew what was coming, and it was coming fast.

I was on my feet and clear of the table while they were still three feet away from it. But I was trembling.

“Oh look, he
does
wanna dance,” Jeff said.

Don’t wait. If you know you’ve got trouble,
you
be the one to make the first move. And make it a good one. It’s the best shot you’ll ever have.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s dance,” Charlie said, and pulled me to him in what he planned as a bear hug that would crack every rib in my body. I melted into his manly arms, and went for his balls, pistoning my knee up into his groin, the way Bloom had taught me. His jaw fell open. He grunted in pain, his arms flying
wide. I backed out of his open embrace as he doubled over to grab himself between the legs.

If you hurt him with your first shot, hit him again—fast! Put him out of action before he has time to recover.

His head was coming down, his face twisted in pain as he doubled over, clutching himself between the legs. I brought up my knee again, catching him just under the nose this time, my kneecap smashing against the ridge of his upper lip. His head jerked up. Blood spilled from his torn lip and smeared his teeth. I thought he was finished—

Never take it for granted. Make sure.

—but he came at me like an enraged bull, still doubled over, both hands clutched into his groin, his head lowered like a battering ram. I clenched my right fist, stepped slightly to the side—almost tripping over Hester’s bag where it sat on the floor—and brought the bunched fist down sharply, wielding it like the head of a hammer with a handle, connecting hard with the base of his skull. He fell flat to the floor on his face, his arms spraddled.

Kick him when he’s down. Put him away.

I kicked him in the head. He tried to get up, and I kicked him again, and this time he
was
finished. But there was still Jeff, standing there with his mouth open, as if he’d just witnessed Clark Kent taking off his clothes to reveal himself in his blue underwear and his red cape. I did not feel like leaping tall buildings or stopping locomotives with my bare hands. In fact, I felt a little sick to my stomach. I was aware of the waitress cowering against the back counter, aware of Hester watching me with what appeared to be a blend of amusement and amazement, aware of the ketchup bottle on the table, and the cutlery, aware of Jeff pulling himself together now, collecting his wits. He was a lot better at this sort of thing than I was. He knew everything Bloom had taught me, and then some. He grinned suddenly. The grin terrorized me. I
wanted to turn and run, but there was no place to go; Jeff was standing between me and the only door in the place.

If there are two of them
—

What the hell had Bloom said about there being two of them?

Take out the strongest one first
—

Had Charlie been the strongest one?

And let the second one come to you.

I did not need this singular piece of advice. The second one
was
coming to me, and fast, his fists bunched, the grin still on his face. Oh, I am going to kill you, the grin said. Oh, I am going to leave you bleeding and broken on the floor. Oh, I am going to have such a good time murdering you.

Wait till he’s close enough—

I waited.

Feint for his balls—

I jabbed a short sharp left-handed punch down toward his groin.

And then go for his eyes.

Jeff ’s hands dropped protectively.

Blind him if you have to.

Bloom’s world.

I did not want to blind Jeff, but in three seconds flat he would recognize that my jab at his groin had been a fake, and the moment he brought his hands up again—

I clenched my right fist, extended the forefinger and middle finger stiff and straight, like a horizontal V-for-victory sign, and jabbed them directly at his eyes. He tried to cover his face, but it was too late. My fingers straddled the bridge of his nose and found the jelly of his eyes. I pulled back my hand in horror.

He roared in pain, both hands covering his face, and then he whirled away from me and banged into the table behind him, knocking glasses and utensils to the floor...

Don’t just wound him
—

I had pulled back my hand an instant too soon.

Take him
out!

—flailing with both arms now, windmilling them as he staggered around the room. He collided with one of the walls and knocked a picture to the floor, and then let out a blood-curdling bellow—

Your most dangerous opponent is a wounded, angry man.

—and shook his head as if to clear it, and then turned and scanned the room, his eyes bloodshot and watering. He blinked to clear away the tears. He blinked again. And then he got me in focus at last, and he came at me, and everything Bloom had taught me went right out of my head.

He hit me in the face so hard that I thought he’d broken my neck. I staggered back and away from him, colliding with the chair Hester had been sitting in, knocking it over. Hester screamed. He hit me again, in the gut this time, and when I doubled over, he brought his knee up against my jaw and my head snapped up and I felt myself falling over backward, and then I hit the floor, and he was on me, straddling me, and his hands went for my throat. I tried to remember if Bloom had taught me anything about getting strangled. I tried to break his grip, sliding my hands up between his arms, trying to force open the vise, but pain was sapping all my strength and his hands were tightening and I realized all at once that I was choking. I flailed out with my arms, banging the backs of my hands on the floor, trying to twist away from him, hitting the leg of the table, and then something softer, something yielding, Hester’s leather bag where she’d left it on the floor.

I always carry a can of Mace in my bag.

Hester’s words, this time.

I groped for the bag. I found the opening. I fumbled inside it, Jeff’s hands choking the breath out of me, squeezing the life out of me, my own left hand scrabbling behind my head, inside the bag,
searching blindly inside the bag, my fingers tangling in all the debris a woman carries, my fingers closing on something hard and cylindrical—too late. White dots were swimming in front of my eyes, and then the dots turned gray, and the gray spread, and everything started to turn a thick ugly black, and I heard Jeff murmur, “Go, you bastard,
go
,” and I told myself I did not want to go, and I pulled the can free with my last ounce of strength, and shoved it into his face and pressed down on the push button, pressed, pressed—