Dog Soldiers (11 page)

When the room was clear, Holy-o checked out the ladies
’
room to see that no mooches had secreted themselves there and Marge and Rowena locked themselves inside. Rowena went to the toilet and lit a joint.

“
An awful lot of them are Chinese,
”
she said to Marge.
“
You notice that?
”

The ethnic reference sounded a ghostly alarm from some dark place in the ruins of Marge
’
s progressive condi
tioning.

“
Sure,
”
she said.
“
Chinese are just as horny as anybody else.
”

Rowena was thoughtful as she handed Marge the joint.

“
I think the Chinese are into a different thing. I think they dig the beauty of the bodies in a kind of aesthetic way.
”

“
I think they
’
re jerking off.
”

“
They could do both,
”
Rowena insisted.
“
I mean why should beauty be platonic? That
’
s a western hang-up. They don
’
t have the Judeo-Christian thing. You know?
”
Marge was going through her black plastic carry bag, checking the contents. It had been locked in Holy-o
’
s office with Rowena.

“
Sure,
”
she said.
“
The Judeo-Christian thing.
”

“
Right,
”
Rowena said.
“
Where sex is pejorative.
”

“
I had a pack of cigarettes in here when I put this down,
”
Marge said.
“
I
’
m absolutely sure of it.
”

“
Oh, shit,
”
Rowena sa
id and gave Marge back her ciga
rettes.

“
Ask,
”
Marge said.
“
Please.
”

She took a comb from her bag and combed her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Although she was only thirty, her dark hair was already streaked with gray. It looked good, she thought.

“
It may happen,
”
she told Rowena,
“
that you
’
re short of money and you
’
re in there with the stand money and you might be tempted. I advise you never, never to take any of it. Because if you do it even once these people will make you sorry you did.
”

Rowena regarded Marge with bewilderment.

“
Just because I borrowed a cigarette.
”
She sighed.
“
Peo
ple are so uptight. It
’
s weird.
”

“
Bear that in mind,
”
Marge said.

When they came out of the ladies
’
, they saw Holy-o and Stanley Projectionist going over the vacant rows of seats for lost articles. Stanley took the left side of the auditorium and Holy-o the right. Holy-o had opened his nightly pint of Christian Brothers brandy and was holding it by the neck between his thumb and forefinger as he patrolled the rotten carpet. He moved part of the way on his knees and the heels of his hands. His in
spections were always very thor
ough and he was clever about finding things; in the past week he had found two wallets with some money in them and a strange pair of black gloves. Stanley Projectionist was not nearly as good at finding things and Marge felt that he would really just as soon leave the whole room salvage to Holy-o. But Holy-o insisted. Marge had heard Stanley say that there was nothing on the floor after closing time except burned bottle caps and semen.

“
How come he drinks?
”
Rowena whispered as they watched Holy-o proceed along the carpet.
“
I thought he was a stuffier.
”

Marge shrugged.
“
He
’
s an old-timer. They
’
re weird.
”

There was nothing nice for Holy-o that night. He walked Stanley to the door and stood looking into the street with a worried expression. He was worried about the danger of Indian attack.

For several weeks there had been a thing between Indians and Samoans in the cities around the Bay and Holy-o was afraid that the Indians would get him one night. He had stopped going by the Third Base Bar on the way to his hotel and instead waited until two Samoans who worked as janitors at the Examiner drove around to pick him up.

While Holy-o waited for the other Samoans and Rowena waited for her boyfriend, Marge found herself waiting as well. They sat in the office under
National Geograp
hic
pic
tures of American Samoa and photographs of Holy-o in his Coast Guard uniform. On the wall over the door, Holy-o had hung a portrait shot of a cheerful red-headed woman with an Elvis Presley haircut — it was a photo of Miss Dowd, who had been the Odeon
’
s cashier until the previous year. Miss Dowd had been murdered in her cage by a demented mooch and her picture hel
d a dreadful fascination for Ro
wena.

“
I wish I didn
’
t know about it,
”
she told Marge and Holy-o.

Holy-o closed his eyes.
“
Don
’
t even think about it.
”

But Rowena continued to squint up at Miss Dowd
’
s rosy features.

“
Wow,
”
she said,
“
there are sure some creeps around.
”

“
A hippie,
”
Holy-o said grimly.

“
C
’
mon,
”
Marge said.
“
Wasn
’
t it just a guy with long hair?
”

“
It was a hippie,
”
Holy-o said.
“
I was there, I oughta know. She died in my arms.
”

Holy-o
’
s arms were short but powerful, encased in shiny blue Dacron. Marge looked at them and wondered what it would be like to die there.

“
A hippie thrill killer,
”
Holy-o said, running the brandy over his anger.
“
It wasn
’
t even a ripoff. It was for laughs.

“
Peace and love,
”
he said.
“
The cocksuckers.
”

Rowena pouted.
“
It was just one person, Holy-o.
”

“
One person shit,
”
Holy-o said.
“
What about that bug up in Yellowstone Park? He had his pockets full of human finger bones. He ate his victims, the cocksucker.
”

“
Like in Samoa,
”
Marge said.

Holy-o flashed his wet hooded eyes.
“
That
’
s bullshit,
”
he said.
“
Boy, just let one hippie show up in Samoa. Just let one show up. They
’
d fix his ass.
”

“
You know, Holy-o,
”
Rowena said,
“
just because the papers say something and J. Edgar Hoover says something doesn
’
t make it true. Like this whole Charlie Manson number…
”

As she spoke, Holy-o appeared to tremble. It was impolitic to provoke him further.

“
We agreed,
”
Marge said,
“
not to talk about him.
”

Rowena got up to go to the bathroom again. Holy-o looked after her with distaste.
“
She goes to the toilet a lot,
”
he said.
“
You think she
’
s stuffin
’
?
”

Marge shook her head.

“
She don
’
t know much,
”
Holy-o said.
“
In the old days was the original bohemians. A lot of times the bohemian was really educated and a patron of art. Then you got the beatnik, maybe a lower class of person. Now you got fuckin
’
hippies everywhere.
”

“
Holy-o,
”
Marge said,
“
you know a writing doctor, don
’
t you?
”

Holy-o shook his head as though he were telling her no.

“
So what?
”
he asked.

“
If you can get dilaudid, I
’
d like some.
”

“
What for? You got a pain?
”

“
Just wanted to try it.
”

“
Try it?
”
He seemed to think trying it was a very strange notion.
“
You have a habit, Marge?
”

“
I just thought I
’
d like to get off,
”
Marge said.

“
Forget it,
”
Holy-o said.
“
You ought to go out more.

You don
’
t need to tell your old man everything.
”

“
I sort of like the idea of dilaudid,
”
Marge said.
“
I can get some dolophine but I thought I
’
d dig dilaudid more.
”

“
Dolophine is very bad,
”
Holy-o said.
“
It
’
s m
e
thadone. It
’
ll kill you. You do better with scag.
”

“
I don
’
t want to know those people. Not on my own.
”

Holy-o smiled.
“
They
’
re just fellas,
”
he said.

When Rowena came back from the bathroom they watched her for popping signals.

“
Hey,
”
she said to Marge,
“
how was New York? I want to hear about it.
”

“
I forget,
”
Marge said.
“
I forgot I was there.
”

Someone was out in the lobby rapping on the tin doors; Holy-o went over and opened them slowly, holding the truncheon. It was Rowena
’
s boyfriend; he and Rowena shared an apartment on Noe Street and went to State. His name was Frodo.

“
Jesus, it smells weird in here,
”
Frodo told Holy-o.

Rowena went out to meet him.

“
It really does,
”
she said.
“
I notice it the first thing I come in.
”
Frodo giggled.
“
It smells like the zoo. Like the monkey house.
”

The folds of brown flesh sli
d slowly across the surface of
Holy-o
’
s eyes.

“
Next time,
”
he told Rowena,
“
meet your boyfriend in the street.
”

“
No reflection on you,
”
Frodo said.

When Rowena and Frodo were gone, Marge started down the center aisle toward the back door and the parking lot. Holy-o called her back.