Max Collins - Quarry's deal

“You’re kind of an unlikely candidate for civic reformer, aren’t you, Frank?”

“Look, I know dope’s just a business, like anything else. Of course I never fucked with it myself, or any people I worked with, either, the DiPretas, say, they never had their hands in that kind of shit. A lot of mob people never did get into it, and hardly no mob people are into it, anymore. It’s the niggers and spicks who own it, now, but even so, I know I’m not gonna single-handed wipe out dope in the world, and couldn’t care less if I did. I just want to cause some trouble for the fucking leeches who turned a decent kid into a vegetable, all right? And I must be pulling it off, and it looks like, even though I kept in the background on this thing, word’s out I’m the one who put the heat on.” He shrugged. “So somebody bought a contract.”

“That’s what somebody did,” I said.

“Anyway, they’re two different things entirely.”

“What?”

“Running a gambling house and selling poison.”

“Right,” I said.

And finished my drink.

She was half asleep and completely naked, sheets and covers twisted and not covering much of her at all. She was on her stomach but turned to one side, hugging a pillow, against which rested one generous breast, cuddled there, not squashed, its large dark nipple soft and smooth and delicate, a flower with its petals unfolded. Her face, sans make-up, looked young, almost child-like, except for the worldly cast of those eyes and the faint smile of the freshly fucked. She lay there, dark blond hair tickling her shoulders, beads of sweat glistening along the sweep of her slender back, legs sprawled but gracefully so, slopes of her ass spread gently, exposing wisps of pubic hair and a glimpse or two of pink and one firm creamy thigh.

Often, in the clinical light of post-coital moments, a man may notice for the first time a pimple on a formerly perfect ass, or a dark coarse hair growing along the edge of a nipple, or how her one breast seems now oddly smaller than the other one, or the redness from the elastic around panty hose, or a scar or stretch marks or a birthmark, and pretty soon he can’t remember what was the big deal.

Lu was what every man is looking for: a woman who looked as good after as before.

I brought her a cup of Sanka. I brought myself one, too.

She looked up at me with hooded eyes, still hugging her pillow. “People are supposed to smoke afterwards, don’t you know that? Not drink instant coffee.”

“I say if you can’t smoke during, why bother?”

She laughed. Her laugh was throaty, baritone, like her voice. “You know,” she said, leaning on an elbow, “I used to smoke. I gave it up. Had an uncle who died from it.”

“Cigarettes killed my mother.”

“No kidding? That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. She got hit by a Chesterfields truck.”

“Go to hell,” she said, showing her gums as she smiled. “Gimme that goddamn coffee.”

She sat up in bed, took the coffee, draping a sheet over her lap, for decorum’s sake, I guess. I wondered how decorum would feel about those two big naked boobs.

“Seriously, though, folks,” I said, sitting by her on the bed, “I like it that you don’t smoke. It’s nice to taste a girl’s mouth that tastes like a girl’s mouth. Kissing some women is like sucking a tailpipe.”

“It’s the same with men. Fucks your teeth up, too.”

“It’s too bad everybody can’t be clean-cut like us.”

“Fuckin’ shame. Hey, you haven’t said how your job interview went, this afternoon.”

That was the story I told her. I even told her I was going to the Amanas, to see about a job selling the refrigerators and shit they make there. It was now about six, and I’d been back half an hour.

“I won’t know for a while,” I said.

“Don’t you even have a gut reaction to the interview or the job?”

“Sure I got a gut reaction. I think it sounds like a crazy job, and the guy I talked to was also crazy, but I’ll probably take it anyway.”

“Is that desperation talking, or just apathy?”

“Protestant work ethic, I think. How’d you spend your day off?”

“Like I thought I would: shopping. Didn’t you see the packages and sacks and stuff on the kitchen table?”

Like I was supposed to?

“Well, since you’re probably broke, why don’t I take you out to dinner? I understand Riccelli’s has terrific pasta.”

“They do,” she said, “only…”

“Only?”

“We already have plans.”

“We?”

“You and me. You remember us, don’t you, Jack?”

“Vaguely. But I seem to have forgotten our plans.”

“That’s because I haven’t told them to you yet. Anyway, you’re finally going to get to meet Ruthy.”

We hadn’t had time to see Ruthy after the Sunday performance at the Candle Lite, because Lu had to get to the Barn to work. It was about time I met her bosom buddy… and Tree’s. I still hadn’t broken the news to Tree, yet, about his current bed partner being a pal of the woman who was the surveilling half of a hit team that probably included a certain guy who was lousy at cards and good at smashing lamps in people’s faces.

“Where are we going to meet her?” I asked.

“Another Italian restaurant that’s supposed to be good. Downtown. It’s called DiPreta’s. Heard of it?”

“Yeah. Family restaurant, isn’t it?”

She didn’t catch my joke, or pretended not to. Instead she just nodded and said, “We’ll be meeting her there around midnight.”

“Midnight? Midnight as in six hours from now?”

“That’s right. We can have some popcorn at the show, if you’re so hungry.”

“What show is that?”

“The one you’re taking me to, as soon as we get dressed.”

“What show are we going to?”

“I thought I’d let you pick it.”

“I don’t know if I can handle all this responsibility.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“That would be an even bigger responsibility.”

“The paper’s on the kitchen counter. See what movies are playing and what the times are.”

I did.

I suggested a Clint Eastwood double feature, which she rejected as too violent. I pointed out that we had a lot of time to kill, and we settled on a Woody Allen double feature.

I watched her get dressed.

“Do you own any kind of underwear except trans- parent?” I asked her.

“Nobody else has complained.”

“It’s just that I got a sample case someplace of real lacy things that you could have, if you wanted them. You know. If you ever were feeling feminine or something.”

“Is this feminine enough for you?” she asked, grinning, giving me the finger.

“I’ll just take you up on that,” I said, and a while later we were having some more instant coffee, and I said, “Why midnight?”

“It’s the first chance Ruthy’ll have to get away. It’s strike weekend.”

“Strike weekend?”

“Sunday was the last day for Born Yesterday. A new play opens Wednesday, The Fourposter, I think.”

“That’s some explanation.”

“Don’t you know what strike means?”

“Sure. Strike a match, strike it rich, the Teamsters…”

“It means, like, strike the sets. They tear down all the old sets and put up new ones, one play making room for the next.”

“Why’s an actress like your friend Ruthy involved in that?”

“It’s a repertory company. Everybody works both back stage and on. You can be lead in one play and prop man in the next. On strike weekend they work their butts off.”

“Interesting. Well. I guess we better try to get dressed again.”

“Right. Hey, I almost forgot.”