Lawrence Block - Manhattan Noir

It became a habit to get together with Maureen for drinks when my girl Louise was out of town touring in a musical. I don’t do musicals.

The deal was, if Maureen met someone I would fade from the scene.

We were at the Bucking Bull on West 72nd Street.

A fervent “Oh!” erupted from Maureen when Vitorio strutted in. It was as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

The first time Maureen and I met Vitorio Valley was the week before. Vitorio Valley. How’s that for a show-biz name?

He was body-builder sleek and she was wearing a tight green sweater with her nipples pushing at the fabric. They looked at each other and it was instant lust. Vitorio was a wrong dude and I knew it. But I wasn’t Maureen’s lover, I was her friend, and it was her life.

Without being asked, Clive the bartender set her drink down, announcing in deep practiced tones, “Chivas Regal.”

Like Maureen and me, and Vitorio, Clive Paige was in show business.

“I’ll have a Chivas, too,” Vitorio said, exuding his sexiest smile for Maureen. I was surprised he didn’t strip, ripple his muscles, and rotate his tits. He sipped the scotch slowly, keeping his eyes on her while he drank.

“Pit stop,” Maureen announced when Vitorio set his glass down. She spun around, twirling her black skirt, before heading back to the washrooms. You have to know that Maureen had a steel bladder; she never went to the bathroom in public places.

In a very short while Vitorio stood. “Must be catching.” He too hurried to the back.

I sat there pissed off, drinking my beer. Why was I so pissed? Was I hoping Maureen and I would make it again for old time’s sake? Would I do that? Could I? I loved Louise. But to be honest, I wasn’t sure what I wanted.

I liked that I was committed to Louise. What I missed-what I missed more and more-was my youth, and the thrills that came with various relationships. Not just the sex. The adventure. The thrill of the chase.

Vitorio returned to the bar first, smirking like the rutting Cheshire Cat he was. Forming a circle with his lips, he made a slurping noise, nodded at me man to man, bragging with his mean eyes. I wanted to knock his fucking block off.

When Maureen reappeared she was glowing. Freshly made-up, she flashed an enigmatic smile. Bar stool to bar stool, torso to torso, she and Vitorio exchanged breathy whispers and biting kisses.

Abruptly Vitorio left. Maureen’s face fell and I thought she was going to cry. I talked her out of another drink and walked her to Broadway, where I watched her board the east-bound bus. Was I hoping she would invite me home for a drink? Would my answer have been yes or no?

She didn’t ask. I grabbed a cab to my place on Central Park West, ate a grilled ham and cheese, and watched a movie on TV.

During the following week while I made acting rounds, I asked some friends about Vitorio. Word was that he lifted weights and fucked anything that moved. His other favorite pastime was getting into barroom brawls. Enough outlet for anyone’s testosterone. You’d think.

I ran into Vitorio when I stopped at Actor’s Equity on 46th Street to relax in the lounge. Flashing that smirk, he bitched about Maureen calling him all the time. I was angry but I’m no tough guy, so I didn’t confront him. I simply walked away as fast as I could.

Friday, Maureen called me again about having drinks at the Bull.

I could hear the wind blowing through the park. It was supposed to rain. I’d ordered Chinese takeout and there was good stuff on TV.

But Maureen sounded so desperate. And I enjoyed going out drinking with an attractive woman other than Louise.

And something could happen. “Okay. See you there about 8:00.”

“I went down on the son of a bitch!” she yelled before I could hang up. “And he walks out on me like that. What a jerk I am.”

My mind buzzed with words like dignity and self-esteem and self-respect, but I didn’t say any of them. I listened to more ranting until we finally said goodbye. I was sure she’d been going to bed sucking on a bottle every night.

The calendar said September. The wind told me December. No rain yet, but the night wasn’t over.

So there we were. She was hoping for déjà vu to happen in the Bucking Bull-that some guy or the same guy would show up. It was a fair bet that she’d buried the degradation down deep.

The Bucking Bull is a steak house with a small bar. The decor is a cliché of snorting bulls and brave toreros in tight yellow outfits and funny black hats, at the ready with red capes in one hand and raised swords poised to strike in the other.

This night the bar was almost as cold as outdoors. I ordered black coffee and a double Courvoisier. On the music machine Wynton Marsalis was blowing the blues.

I had successfully quit smoking the year before. But since Maureen met Vitorio I’d started again. I lit up, chased my booze with coffee, and puffed my cigarette, trying to form smoke rings while Clive made faces at me. It was illegal to smoke in the bar. That was the routine while I waited. Smoking and drinking and breaking Clive’s chops.

Finally, Maureen raced in. She was wearing a shiny low-cut dress. Blue. It looked good with her pale skin and red hair. “Hey, pal,” she said, pressing her cheek against mine, dropping a blue sequined purse on the bar, and draping a small blue cape on the stool next to me. The cold didn’t seem to bother her.

That’s when I noticed her split lip. The kind you get when someone smacks you. Hard.

I thought about asking what had happened but didn’t. In spite of her battle scars she was still gorgeous, acting as if the world was her oyster. She pushed a bunch of quarters into the machine and danced over to me before the Latin music even began.

“Working?”

She nodded. Her right hand mimed holding a tray. Like many Broadway gypsies, she kept body and soul together waiting tables. She showed Clive an index finger.

“One Chivas Regal,” Clive said, pouring and delivering a double along with a bowl full of cashews.

Maureen tossed her drink down and rapped the bar with the heavy empty glass. Clive obliged with another double.

She had a long svelte body, and though she’d gotten too skinny for my taste, she was still a looker. She was also very screwed up.

One of my oddest memories is of waking up with most of those twenty or so Barbies in bed with us, and Ken, the master and daddy, clasped to Maureen’s chest.

Now I was the pal she told her sad stories to.

With a ballet dancer’s grace Maureen leaned forward, and without touching the glass, delicately sipped a taste of her drink. Smiling, she undulated -that’s the only word that fits-to the music, doing that hands-down-her-breasts move and continuing clear to her thighs.

The door to the Bucking Bull opened, bringing in the dark, cold night air, and the real bucking bull Maureen had been dreaming of. Vitorio.

I had a cigarette in my mouth, but I didn’t light it.

Maureen stopped dancing. Her body tense, she stared at Vitorio. It wasn’t all lust. There was dread there, too. Maybe that added to the sexuality. What did I know?

Vitorio glided over to Maureen, pulled her to him, kissed her, then flung her, Apache-style, across the room. Very Rudolph Valentino. Corny but it worked. They danced, looking great together.

After a big finish they settled in at the bar. Vitorio chugged Maureen’s drink and ordered another round. What the hell. She would pay for them. Maureen talked to me a couple of times to support the fiction that she and I were there together.

Pretty soon I was the invisible man. That was fine for me.

But I worried about Maureen. With each new round Vitorio got meaner and louder. He started manhandling her, grabbing her bare arms and leaving welts.