Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

It had been a reflex going to work for Faulkner again in January. He had been used to it. He had thought it would give him something familiar to hold on to. It hadn’t worked. Where is the point in drawing fine clear lines on white paper while the spring sun melts the snow on the soft earth near the stones? He had known he was being careless — his work had been sloppy.

He remembered the afternoon several weeks before when Faulkner had taken him into the empty office of the boss and given him a cigarette. Faulkner had perched his lean frame on the edge of the table and said, “I’ve been trying to go along with you, Walker. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. But, man, you’re not helping yourself. You’re being a fool. I can’t cover you much longer. What are you going to do about it?”

There had been a long silence in the small office. Walker Post had sucked on the cigarette while the room had seemed to darken around him. Then he had dropped the butt onto the rug and ground at it with his heel.

He had spun on Faulkner and cut into his objections with a string of the foulest words he could think of. He had gone on and on in a low tone, watching the expressions of shock and anger color Faulkner’s long face. At last he was through and Faulkner had slid off the table and walked out the door.

Post had gathered his few personal possessions together and left the same hour. He hadn’t been back. Once he had met Faulkner on the street. He had turned his face away. They hadn’t spoken. It was like that.

He had put the furniture in storage and moved his clothes into a furnished room on Plant Street. He hadn’t tried to find work. There was still more than two thousand dollars of insurance money left in the bank. He knew he wasn’t drinking himself to death. Just enough liquor each day to cloud the pictures in his mind. Just enough to dull the constant irritation with everything around him. He slept in the cheap, sour room between the gray sheets. He ate heavy fried foods. He walked the streets slowly and wondered what there was to care about. In some distant corner of his mind he was uncertain and frightened. Some mornings he would remember and realize that it would have to end sometime. There would be no more money. But that was a long way off.

He spoke to no one. He didn’t read. He didn’t go to movies. He sat and drank and ate and slept and walked, fighting down the mad thing in his heart that wanted to flash out at the people around him. He wanted to strike and crush and batter the faces of those around him.

The bartender placed the fresh drink in front of him. “Sure is hot, hey?”

Walker Post looked up into the man’s mild eyes. He looked for several long seconds, expressionless and motionless. Then he said shortly, “Yeah.”

The man shrugged and walked back down the bar. Post sat and tapped with his blunt finger at a spot of water on the dark bar. He sipped the drink. The traffic noises seemed to be softened by the heat. A woman walked past the open door pushing a baby carriage. One of the wheels squeaked piercingly. Post wondered what it would have been like if Ruth had left a child for him to care for. Would it have been different? Maybe. Maybe it would have been no different if Ruth were still alive. Maybe the sullen core of him had been slowly growing through the years. Maybe nothing that had happened had really changed him. Maybe it was all inside himself. He scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin with his thumbnail. He dug the last cigarette out of a pack, crumpled the pack and tossed it onto the bar. It slid across and fell behind the bar. The bartender walked heavily over and grunted as he picked it up. He stared at Post and half opened his mouth to speak. Post stared steadily at him. The man closed his mouth again and licked his underlip. He walked back to his spot at the end of the bar.

Some more customers came in. Post glanced in the mirror as they walked behind him. He noticed idly that there were three of them. They were noisy.

They climbed onto the stools. “And a fine afternoon it is, Mr. Donovan. Hessy here is buying us some beer. Right out of his own pay, too. Three superior beers.”

The bartender grinned and drew three. He swiped the foam off and set them down. Post noticed that the three were young. Their hands were greasy. They wore T-shirts and soiled work pants. He figured them for mechanics or truck drivers. One had a silly bubbling giggle. Post shifted restlessly on his stool.

The bartender started to walk away and one of them said, “Hey, Donovan! Get back here. We need a cultured citizen like you to settle something.”

Donovan beamed. “And sure, what do you want to know?”

“This is important. We got two bits on it. What the hell is a cygnet?”

“It’s a ring. A signet ring.”

“Nuts, Donovan. You tell him, Hessy.”

“This kind of cygnet is spelled with a c-y , Donovan. I say it’s a female swan and Fenelle here says it’s a baby swan. You ever heard of it?”

“Never did. Sorry, boys.”

The one they called Hessy looked down the bar at Post. “Hey, you. You know what a cygnet is?”

Post felt the quick rush of irritation. What right had they to drag him into their silly argument? He turned slowly around on the stool so that he faced them. His arm hit his glass and knocked it over. The chill drink ran across his wrist. He realized that they had caused him to spill his drink, and that made the room darken before his eyes.

“Get somebody else to settle your damn argument. Don’t bother me.”

The one they called Hessy slid off the stool and strutted over. He was a slim kid with cropped hair. He had a smear of grease across his cheek. His nose was slightly twisted. He stuck his thumbs under his belt as he walked. The muscles on his brown arms looked tightly woven and efficient.

He stopped with his chest a few inches away from Post’s shoulder. Post had turned back to the bar and stood his glass up again. Donovan hurried toward them, an anxious look on his face.

Hessy stood quietly for a moment, his eyes small and his mouth compressed. “Turn around, honey, and look at me,” he said gently.

Post turned around slowly.

“When I ask a guy a civil question, I kinda like to have a civil answer. Understand?” Post stared at him, expressionless. He wondered if he could take the kid. The kid looked rough and willing.

Donovan coughed. “Hey, now. None a that, boys. Skip it. You go sit down, Hessy. None a that around here.” His words were bold but his voice was apologetic.

“Shut up, Donovan. This punk needs a course in manners. Who the hell is he?”

“I don’t know, Hessy. Please leave him alone, hey?”

The talk sounded blurred in Post’s ears. His back felt tight and strained. “Get away from me. Don’t talk to me.”

“Come on, honey. Take it sitting or standing. Any way you like it.”

“Please, boys, let’s drop it, huh?”

Post spun quickly and threw his left hand like a club at the boy’s head. He missed as Hessy drove his head back a few inches. The force of the lurching blow dragged him off the stool and he tramped on the edge of the brass spittoon. It tilted up, throwing stale water into his shoe. He couldn’t see clearly. He heard someone say, “Nice and easy now, Hessy. Nice and easy. Make it last.”

The boy took his thumbs out of his belt and moved easily around Post. He carried himself well. Post swung again, and as he realized he had missed, a fist splatted lightly against his mouth. He tasted warm flat blood. He felt blundering and clumsy. He realized the boy was good. Probably had been in the ring. He felt suddenly afraid. He wanted to drop his arms and let the boy hit him. Anything to get it over.

The boy skipped around him and he circled slowly. The fist hit him again on the mouth. He hadn’t seen it coming. It hurt. Then the boy started clowning, leaping high in the air and landing in grotesque positions. He chanted at Post, “How do you like it, honey? How do you like it, honey?” Again the hard fist smashed into his mouth. Each blow was a bit harder than the one before.