Authors: Robert Stone
Dog Soldiers (16 page)
“
Groovy,
”
Joey said.
“
What it is, I gotta telephone him. He
’
s set up in this motel over by the marina. I go up first, right? Then I let you in. See, the dude is a lush and we give him time to get mellow. Listen, you sure you
’
re up for this?
”
“
Sure,
”
Hicks said.
“
I hate the bastards. Give me his phone number. I
’
m gonna call him and I
’
ll ask for you. Like I got a message or something for you. You tell me on the phone I should make it another time, but I won
’
t hear of it. Tell him you
’
re sorry I have to come up, but you
’
ll get rid of me in a hurry. Play a role.
”
Broadway Joe appeared to think about it.
“
Yeah,
”
he said.
“
O.K.
”
Hicks copied out the number on an envelope and had another drink while Joey telephoned.
“
C
’
mon, Cap. Let
’
s go to work.
”
“
I wait here,
”
Hicks said.
“
I call you from here. I got a car. I can be over there in a couple of minutes.
”
“
No,
”
Joey said.
“
Run me over there. You can call from some joint over there.
”
“
I ain
’
t using my car for this. You get yourself over there, we put the stuff in his car. Anyway, I don
’
t want to hang around over there. I don
’
t like it there.
”
“
All right,
”
the kid said. He gave Hicks another smile and poked a finger at his testicles.
“
I
’
ll be seein
’
you. You ain
’
t gonna let me down, right?
”
“
No way,
”
Hicks said.
When Broadway Joe was gone, Hicks went to the men
’
s room. In the process of returning to the bar, he was made to realize that it might be extremely difficult to make his way back to the Y. After a while, he got up again and dialed the number on the
envelope. There was a firm busi
nesslike hello.
“
Hi, there,
”
Hicks said.
“
Who
’
s this?
”
“
This is Cap, doll. Your boyfriend Broadway Joe has a bayonet. He
’
s gonna do you some nastiness with it tonight. He
’
s on his way right now to fuck you over.
”
“
Fuck me over?
”
“
It won
’
t be as nice as it sounds,
”
Hicks said.
After a thoughtful interval the man on the phone told Hicks that he was not exactly astonished.
“
Then there
’
s you,
”
the man said.
“
What
’
s your story?
”
Hicks was outraged.
“
I
’
m a nice fella,
”
he said.
“
I
’
m a good citizen. That
’
s my story.
”
“
Tell me a little about yourself,
”
the man said.
“
Are you big?
”
Hicks sighed. He was thoroughly drunk.
“
I
’
m enormous,
”
he told the man.
“
I
’
m this huge moth
erfucker.
”
“
I know what would be fun,
”
the man said.
“
Turnabout is fair play. Why don
’
t you come over and we
’
ll put a little terror in Joey
’
s young life?
”
Hicks hung up and went back to the bar. There was a sign over it he had not noticed before that said:
Today is the Fi
rst Day of the Rest of Your Life
“
That
’
s pretty good,
”
Hicks said to the bartender.
The bartender was a yellowing old man; he turned and looked at the sign with disapproval.
“
I didn
’
t put it up. It was here.
”
As Hicks went out, the old bartender reached up and
took the sign down. Ther
e was no point in provoking peo
ple.
It was cold outside and the street was dimmed by fog.
“
No place for me,
”
Hicks said.
‘
He walked looking over his shoulder. A few doors down from the bar he caught sight of a city bus coming his way and he forced himself to sprint for the corner. Stepping aboard, it seemed to him that somewhere in the course of his short run he had seen Broadway Joe, in an alley or doorway or up a sidestreet. He was too drunk to be certain.
He stood beside the nervous driver, fumbling for change; by the time he had the money in hand, he realized that the bus had carried him all the way to Jack London Square, within a short walk of the Y. He put the change away, exchanged hostile stares wi
th the driver, and climbed care
fully down to the curb.
When he was upstairs in his room, he put a Band-aid over the spy-hole and load
ed his thirty-eight with the am
munition he had purchased for it. Before filling all the chambers, he put in a sing
le cartridge and spun the cylin
der. He did it three times, and each time the shell came up flush with the barrel. He could not determine whether this was a good or a bad omen.
Waking the next morning, wretched and poisoned, he found the pistol lying on his lamp table among a litter of bullets, cellophane, and pieces of the cartridge box. He was deeply ashamed. It was Uncontrolled Folly.
A
ll through the last hours before daylight
, Marge dreamed. At the end of each dream she would be shocked awake by a curious neural explosion, stay conscious long enough to understand that her head ached, then slide
again into sleep. But it was hardly like sleeping at all.
And the dreams, one after another, were bad stuff in deed. Janey teetering on a ledge with a storm-gray New York cityscape behind her, water towers, sooty brick. Something about a mad friar and fruit with blood on it. Something terrible among trees. Each dream incorporated her headache.
Afoot, she was edgy, cramped, accident prone. Coffee burned. A saucer broke. There were two caps of dilaudid left to her but she took some Percodan instead.
She drank the burned c
offee as she waited for the Per
codan to take. When she felt well enough she read some nursery rhymes to Janey. The nursery-rhyme book had a glossy colored picture of the Old Woman Who Lived in A Shoe; The Old Woman
’
s many children balanced in the shoe
’
s eyelets, swung on the laces, swarmed into the margins in bright dirndl skirts and lederhosen. There must have been fifty. Fifty children. Janey wanted to know each one
’
s name.
“
That
’
s Linda.
“
That
’
s Janey like you.
”
Fritz. Sam. Elizabeth.
Marge felt like weeping.
“
I don
’
t know
all
their names, sweetheart. How could I know
all
their names?
”
“
Oh,
”
Janey said. When the downstairs bell rang, Marge stood up suddenly and the rhyme book dropped to the floor.
“
Oh my God,
”
she said.
Janey stood looking up at her. She stared at the door for a moment and then went to press the buzzer that opened the street door.
“
Janey, go ride your horsie for a while.
”
Janey
’
s horsie stood in a fenced-off section of the back yard, a red plastic horse on springs. Sometimes when Janie rode it, she would pass into a kind of trance and bounce for over an hour in an unvarying rhythm with a blankness in her eyes which Marge found alarming. But Janey was not in the mood for horsie riding and she began to pout. Marge could hear a man
’
s step on the hall stairs.
“
Get,
”
she screamed at Janey.
“
Get down there.
”
Janey began to cry.
“
Get, get,
”
Marge shouted, shooing the child away. Janey ran to the top of the steps that led from her bedroom to the yard and stood just outsid
e the door, tear-stained and ob
stinate. Marge closed the bedroom door. The man outside knocked.
“
Yes?
”
Marge inquired. She stood motionless in the center of the room staring at the closed door.
“
It
’
s Ray,
”
the man said.
Marge forced herself to open the door to him; he went quickly past her with a glance. He was suntanned and short-haired. He had cold
eyes. Janey had insinuated her
self back into the living room but when she saw the man she fled, through her bedroom and down the steps to the yard.
Ray set a dun-colored AWOL bag down on the living-room table and went to look out the window.
“
I
’
m not ready for this,
”
Marge told him.
He looked at her without sympathy.
“
What do you mean you
’
re not ready for this?
”
“
I haven
’
t got the money,
”
she said. Even in her own ears, the whine grated.
“
Why, you dumb cooze,
”
the man said softly.
She was trembling. That morning she had put on a dirty purple sweater and a pair of jeans out of the laundry bag.
She felt soiled and contemptible.
“
I mean I haven
’
t got it here,
”
she told the man.
He sat down in a wicker chair and rubbed his eyes.
“
You got any coffee?
”
Marge hastened to the kitchen. She poured the burned
coffee she had been drinking into the sink and put on a
fresh pot. Ray was pacing the living room.
“
I called you, right? How come you don
’
t have it?
”
“
I missed the bank. I went to the aquarium.
”
When she turned from the stove he was standing in the kitchen doorway with a slim smile.
“
You didn
’
t say anything on the phone about the aquarium. You said you
’
d be ready.
”
“
I know,
”
Marge said.
“
I really don
’
t know why. I didn
’
t want to on the phone. I was going to go to the bank today.
”
The man was knitting his brows in mock concentration.
“
Somehow I thought you
’
d come at night.
”
“
I hope you got off on the fish,
”
he said.
“
You
’
re not getting shit until I get paid.
”
“
Any way you want to do it.
”
He looked her over and she hung back against the louvered kitchen doors, ashamed.
“
When are your people coming to pick up?
”
“
Tomorrow, I think.
”
He turned his back on her and walked to the window.
“
What do you mean tomorrow, you think? What is this shit?
”
“
Yes,
”
she said quickly,
“
yes it is tomorrow. The twen
tieth.
”
“
If I beat up on you and took off your smack I
’
d be within my rights,
”
he told her.
“
You can
’
t deal with people in this outrageous fucking manner.
”
“
I
’
m sorry,
”
Marge said.
“
They get suspicious. They get mad.
”
“
I understand,
”
she said.
To her surprise, he smiled again.
“
You
’
re not trying to fuck me over, are you, Marge? You and some people?
”
“
Well, no
”
Marge said.
“
Honestly. It
’
s just me and John.
”
“
You and John,
”
Ray said.
When the coffee boiled, he asked for whiskey to put in it but Marge had nothing in the house except cassis. He poured some over his black coffee.
“
I got a hangover,
”
he explained.
“
Me too,
”
Marge said.
He blew on the coffee.
“
You a junkie, Marge?
”
Marge tried to smile.
“
Jesus,
”
she said lightly.
“
Do I look like a junkie?
”
“
That
’
s not always a factor.
”
“
Well, I
’
m not,
”
she said.
He stood by the window frowning, listening to the springs of Janey
’
s horsie in the yard.
“
What
’
s that?
”
“
It
’
s my daughter
’
s toy horse.
”
He nodded and sat down on a cushion, clasping his hands between his knees.
“
You
’
ve seen John?
”
she asked him.
“
Yeah, I
’
ve seen John. If I hadn
’
t seen John I wouldn
’
t be here, right?
”
“
How is he?
”
“
Fucked up.
”
“
Is he really in bad shape?
”
“
He ain
’
t in no worse shape than you.
”
He looked her over again, rather sourly.
“
You concerned or just curious?
”
“
Concerned,
”
she said.
“
Who are the people you
’
re selling to?
”
“
Friends of friends.
”
“
You mean you don
’
t know them?
”
“
I don
’
t know people like that,
”
Marge said.
“
John set it up. He knows a lot of weird people over in Nam. He
’
s good at that sort of thing.
”
“
No, he
’
s not.
”
“
I thought he was,
”
Marge said.
He stood up quickly and went to the window again.
“
You
’
re a mark, Stuff. The people you
’
re dealing with are gonna know that right away. Unless they
’
re as uncon
scious as you are.
”