Run With the Hunted (22 page)

law.”

“anything interesting is. besides,

you see any money on the

table?”

he sat down.

that made 5 of

us.

“how was it Harry?” somebody asked

him.

“not bad, not

bad.”

the other guy went on

upstairs.

they were bad players really.

they didn't bother to memorize the

deck, they didn't know whether the

high numbers or low numbers were left, and basically they hit too high,

didn't hold low

enough.

when the other guy came down

he gave me a

five.

“how was it, Marty?”

“not bad. she's got … some fine

movements.”

“hit me!” I said, “nice clean girl. I

ride it myself.”

nobody said

anything.

“any big fires lately?” I

asked.

“naw. nothin'

much.”

“you guys need

exercise, hit me

again!”

a big red-headed kid who had been shining an

engine

threw down his rag and

went upstairs.

when he came down he threw me a

five.

when the 4th guy came down I gave him

3 fives for a

twenty.

I don't know how many firemen

were in the building or where they

were. I figured a few had slipped by me

but I was a good

sport.

it was getting dark outside

when the alarm

rang.

they started running around.

guys came sliding down the

pole.

then she came sliding down the

pole. she was good with the

pole. a real woman, nothing but guts

and

ass.

“let's go,” I told

her.

she stood there waving goodbye to the

firemen but they didn't seem

much interested

any more.

“let's go back to the

bar,” I told

her.

“ooh, you got

money?”

“I found some I didn't know I

had …”

we sat at the end of the bar

with whiskey and beer

chaser.

“I sure got a good

sleep.”

“sure, baby, you need your

sleep.”

“look at that sailor looking at me!

he must think I'm … a …”

“naw, he don't think that, relax, you've got

class, real class, sometimes you remind me of an

opera singer, you know, one of those prima d's.

your class shows all over

you. drink

up.”

I ordered 2

more.

“you know, daddy, you're the only man I

LOVE! I mean, really … LOVE! ya

know?”

“sure I know. sometimes I think I am a king

in spite of myself.”

“yeah. yeah,
that's
what I mean, somethin' like

that.”

I had to go to the urinal, when I came back

the sailor was sitting in my

seat, she had her leg up against his and

he was talking.

I walked over and got in a dart game with

Harry the Horse and the corner

newsboy.

 

 

The Hotel Sans was the best in the city of Los Angeles. It was an old hotel but it had class and a charm missing from the newer places. It was directly across from the park downtown.

It was renowned for businessmen's conventions and expensive hookers of almost legendary talent—who at the end of a lucrative evening had even been known to give the bellboys a little. There also were stories of bellboys who had become millionaires—bloody bellboys with eleven inch dicks who had had the good fortune to meet and marry some rich, elderly guest. And the
food
, the LOBSTER, the huge black chefs in very tall white hats who knew everything, not only about food but about Life and about me and about everything.

I was assigned to the loading dock. That loading dock had
style:
for each truck that came in there were ten guys to unload it when it only took two at the most. I wore my best clothes. I never touched anything.

We unloaded (they unloaded) everything that came into the hotel and most of it was foodstuffs. My guess was that the rich ate more lobster than anything else. Crates and crates of them would come in, deliciously pink and large, waving their claws and feelers.

“You like those things, don't you, Chinaski?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah,” I'd drool.

One day the lady in the employment office called me over. The employment office was at the rear of the loading dock. “I want you to manage this office on Sundays, Chinaski.” “What do I do?” “Just answer the phone and hire the Sunday dishwashers.” “All right!”

The first Sunday was nice. I just sat there. Soon an old guy walked in. “Yeah, buddy?” I asked. He had on an expensive suit, but it was wrinkled and a little dirty; and the cuffs were just starting to go. He was holding his hat in his hand. “Listen,” he asked, “do you need somebody who is a good conversationalist? Somebody who can meet and talk to people? I have a certain amount of charm, I tell gracious stories, I can make people laugh.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Make me laugh.”

“Oh, you don't understand. The setting has to be right, the mood, the
decor
, you know …”

“Make me laugh.”

“Sir …”

“Can't use you, you're a stiff!”

The dishwashers were hired at noon. I stepped out of the office. Forty bums stood there. “All right now, we need five good men! Five
good
ones! No winos, perverts, communists, or child-molestors! And you've got to have a social security card! All right now, get them out and hold them up in the air!”

Out came the cards. They waved them.

“Hey, I got one!”

“Hey, buddy, over here! Give a guy a break!”

I slowly looked them over. “O.K., you with the shit stain on your collar,” I pointed. “Step forward.”

“That's no shit stain, sir. That's gravy.”

“Well, I don't know, buddy, looks to me like you been eatin' more crotch than roast beef!”

“Ah, hahaha,” went the bums, “Ah, hahaha!”

“O.K., now, I need
four
good dishwashers! I have four pennies here in my hand. I'm going to toss them up. The four men who bring me back a penny get to wash dishes today!”

I tossed the pennies high into the air above the crowd. Bodies jumped and fell, clothing ripped, there were curses, one man screamed, there were several fistfights. Then the lucky four came forward, one at a time, breathing heavily, each with a penny. I gave them their work cards and waved them toward the employee's cafeteria where they would first be fed. The other bums retreated slowly down the loading ramp, jumped off, and walked down the alley into the wasteland of downtown Los Angeles on a Sunday.

Workmen For Industry was located right on the edge of skid row. The bums were better dressed, younger, but just as listless. They sat around on the window ledges, hunched forward, getting warm in the sun and drinking the free coffee that W.F.I. offered. There was no cream and sugar, but it was free. There was no wire partition separating us from the clerks. The telephones rang more often and the clerks were much more relaxed than at the Farm Labor Market.

I walked up to the counter and was given a card and a pen anchored by a chain. “Fill it out,” said the clerk, a nice-looking Mexican boy who tried to hide his warmth behind a professional manner.

I began to fill out the card. After address and phone number I wrote: “none.” Then after education and work abilities I wrote: “two years L.A. City College. Journalism and Fine Arts.”

Then I told the clerk, “I ruined this card. Could I have another?”

He gave me one. I wrote instead: “Graduate, L.A. High School. Shipping clerk, warehouseman, laborer. Some typing.”

I handed the card back.

“All right,” said the clerk, “sit down and we'll see if anything comes in.”

I found a space on a window ledge and sat down. An old black man was sitting next to me. He had an interesting face; he didn't have the usual resigned look that most of us sitting around the room had. He looked as if he was attempting not to laugh at himself and the rest of us.

He saw me glancing at him. He grinned. “Guy who runs this place is sharp. He got fired by the Farm Labor, got pissed, came down here and started this. Specializes in part-time workers. Some guy wants a boxcar unloaded quick and cheap, he calls here.”

“Yeah, I've heard.”

“Guy needs a boxcar unloaded quick and cheap, he calls here. Guy who runs this place takes fifty per cent. We don't complain. We take what we can get.”

“It's O.K. with me. Shit.”

“You look down in the mouth. You all right?”

“Lost a woman.”

“You'll have others and lose them too.”

“Where do they go?”

“Try some of this.”

It was a bottle in a bag. I took a hit. Port wine.

“Thanks.”

“Ain't no women on skid row.”

He passed the bottle to me again. “Don't let him see us drinking. That's the one thing makes him mad.”

While we sat drinking several men were called and left for jobs. It cheered us. At least there was some action.

My black friend and I waited, passing the bottle back and forth.

Then it was empty.

“Where's the nearest liquor store?” I asked.

I got the directions and left. Somehow it was always hot on skid row in Los Angeles in the daytime. You'd see old bums walking around in heavy overcoats in the heat. But when the night came down and the Mission was full, those overcoats came in handy.

When I got back from the liquor store my friend was still there.

I sat down and opened the bottle, passed the bag.

“Keep it low,” he said.

It was comfortable in there drinking the wine.

A few gnats began to gather and circle in front of us.

“Wine gnats,” he said.

“Sons of bitches are hooked.”

“They know what's good.”

“They drink to forget their women.”

“They just drink.”

I waved at them in the air and got one of the wine gnats. When I opened my hand all I could see in my palm was a speck of black and the strange sight of two little wings. Zero.

“Here he comes!”

It was the nice-looking young guy who ran the place. He rushed up to us. “All right! Get out of here! Get the hell out of here, you fuckin' winos! Get the hell out of here before I call the cops!”

He hustled us both to the door, pushing and cursing. I felt guilty, but I felt no anger. Even as he pushed I knew that he didn't really care what we did. He had a large ring on his right hand.

We didn't move fast enough and I caught the ring just over my left eye; I felt the blood start to come and then felt it swell up. My friend and I were back out on the street.

We walked away. We found a doorway and sat on the step. I handed him the bottle. He hit it.

“Good stuff.”

He handed me the bottle. I hit it.

“Yeah, good stuff.”

“Sun's up.”

“Yeah, the sun's up good.”

We sat quietly, passing the bottle back and forth.

Then the bottle was empty.

“Well,” he said, “I gotta be going.”

“See you.”

He walked off. I got up, went the other way, turned the corner, and walked up Main Street. I went along until I came to the Roxie.

Photos of the strippers were on display behind the glass out front. I walked up and bought a ticket. The girl in the cage looked better than the photos. Now I had 38 cents left. I walked into the dark theatre eight rows from the front. The first three rows were packed.