Jim Harrison - Legends of the Fall

In the morning Nordstrom shaved with his straight razor, using his soft leather belt as a strop, as his father taught him to do insisting it was the only way to get a good shave. He stuck his head out the window while drinking his three-dollar pot of coffee to taste the late morning warmth. Far below a man in a dirty white apron was smoking a cigarette in an alley. A cook should smoke his cigarettes looking at the ocean he thought. He dressed in a grandiose Hawaiian shirt (surfer against a setting sun) and baggy chinos. Into an ankle-high pair of desert boots he slipped the razor, which would discomfort his walking but might prove handy in a pinch.

He reached the restaurant purposefully a half-hour early. He spotted the Italian down the street in a parked car and paid a waiter ten bucks to take out a note that read "Hi! Be careful." Sarah was beautiful when she entered and many heads turned. They sat near the corner window and he noted the thug was gone. They talked about dancing while Nordstrom ate a double steak tartare for strength and she trifled with a salad. She had begun dancing at ten, studying with Andre Eglevsky who had only recently died. She hoped to go to Jacob's Pillow for July and August. She was the daughter of a New York University law professor. She had been married to Slats for three years. He was an exciting man though a bit volatile. Nordstrom thought that she had given no indication thus far of actually being a human being. There was the quality of a photograph or mirror image about her. She said she needed to talk to him in the strictest privacy and perhaps his hotel room would be better than a restaurant.

They walked the six or seven blocks to the hotel with Nordstrom hobbling a bit from the razor in his shoe. He decided he liked New York very much and if things cooled off a bit and after a visit to Wisconsin, New York would be the place to go to cooking school. Even the nasty air was good, somehow addictive in its mix of ozone and oxygen, the smells coming out of restaurant and subway vents, looking at Rodin's bust of Balzac with the indigestion of a big lunch, and up here on the East Side, the most striking ladies in the world. If you couldn't live in the woods for reasons of unrest this had to be a good place. Suburbs everywhere were murderous with torpor. Nothing vivid and all the trees looked planted. He paused in a shop to buy Normandy goat cheese; wrapped in straw, its odor seeping out of the package. He was amused at her impatience and accurately predicted what would happen: she would seduce him and then afterward in a parody of concern she would make an extortionary offer. She wasn't a very good actress. He was lighthearted and bouncy despite the razor, doubting that anything bad could happen before dark.

And that was how things did happen. In the room she snorted some coke and Nordstrom refused. She was girlish, turned on the radio and demonstrated some dance moves. She shed all but her underthings and pranced around. She talked about how much she liked Laura and Sonia and itwas too bad that terrible thing had happened. They made love and for a half hour or so she broke through her bad acting into simply making love in silence. While she was in the bathroom Nordstrom removed the .32 from her purse with his handkerchief and slid it under the mattress while whistling the old tavern song "Heart of My Heart." When she had done her toilet she came out affecting a troubled mien and had two more lines of cocaine.

"I don't know if I can help you . . ."

"Help me what? I doubt I can get it up again. You are one crazed little windmill. My god." He yawned deeply.

"I mean protect you from Slats. He's really pissed. In fact no one ever hit him and lived."

"Not even his mama? Didn't he ever get spanked? I bet you spanked him before."

"You better get serious. He could have offed you last night but I said, no Slats. He didn't mean it. But I can only do so much." She was getting angry.

"But I did mean it. He fucked up my daughter's graduation dinner. I'd sort of like an apology. Tell him that. He has bad manners . . ."

"That's not the way it works, you hick fuck. If it wasn't for me you'd be dead. I pleaded with him and he finally said this morning he'd accept ten grand not to kill you. That's a final offer. You got until tomorrow at midnight. And don't run. He'll find you. He's got connections everywhere."

"Tell him that's my offer, too."

"What the fuck you talking about?" she spit out.

"I won't kill him by tomorrow night. That makes us even. No one kills anyone. No one has to go to the bank. Everyone saves his money."

She left in a snit after writing out a number and saying she hoped he'd come to his senses. Nordstrom turned off the radio and fixed on the idea of coming to his senses. He had never felt more within his senses, as a matter of fact. He had fixed his point on earth as dead center in New York while at the same time his family diminished high above the Atlantic. His mother and his dad's best friend Henry were in northern Wisconsin. He had already had lunch and made love. Next came a much-needed nap, a long stroll and a late dinner. Perhaps a movie. But there was the slight aftertaste of asking the Sephard about Sarah the summer before, the increased curiosity after the warning. He toyed with the idea of the airport, or simply renting a car. Or calling Corpus Christi, imagining alternatives without interest. Then he made up his mind for good and called the desk to arrange to have the room next to his bedroom added to the suite. Then the Sephard called in a state of concern adding that he had a psychopathic second cousin over in Brooklyn that might be of help. Nordstrom assured him that everything was "lovey-dovey," and that he'd call if there were problems. The bellhop appeared with the new key, and Nordstrom prepared for his nap. He discarded the idea that this whole thing wasn't fair and that the extortion attempt was too clumsy to take very seriously, even with the threat. Later in the evening would be the test; if there was no move to freshen things up he would let it go.

Seven hours later he was sitting in a chair in the new room reading Audubon magazine. He had read hastily through the entirety of E.M. Cioran's A Short History of Decay, a book Phillip had left behind for him. Cioran immediately became Nordstrom's favorite author and he meant to scour the city for additional books. He had spread his weapons around the room; the razor on a windowsill beneath a wide-open window, Sarah's gun still wrapped in a handkerchief—the prints might prove useful—and before him on the desk a bottle of wine wrapped in a wet hand-towel to use as a sap. He was mindful of the total absurdity of what he was doing. It was impossible not to smile despite the apparent danger but then he figured he might own some modest sort of amateur's advantage: his concentration was complete because he had either lost or given up everything on earth. He went through the unlocked double door and made a pass beside the street window and turned off the light. Now if anyone were watching the window they might assume he was going to bed. He had placed a number of empty beer cans around on the floor with spoons stuck in them as a childish early warning system. He picked up his diary, went through the bedroom and into the new room, leaving the inner door ajar. He doubted if any interloper could resist the bait of the new room. He refused the urge to have a drink.

June 18, 78: The girls with Phillip took off for Europe at noon today. I am sitting here waiting for Slats' man, probably the Italian, to show up and threaten me further—probably a mild beating for the insolence of my reply to the extortion. What a surprise he'll have assuming I'm successful. Will check out cooking schools tomorrow, also Cioran books. Like those sections titled "The Arrogance of Prayer," "Crimes of Courage and Fear," "The Mockery of a 'New Life,'" "Non-Resistance to Night" and "Turning a Cold Shoulder to Time." Despite the fact that Phillip is an utter asshole I must send him a thank you note. Wish I had some fried bluegills. A drink. A pretty woman. Wonder what Cioran does everyday writing out of that abysm of despair. Presumptuous to write and ask though I suspect he's reasonably happy having gotten it out of his system as they say. I am not a violent person and I'm not interested in violence. The media romanticizes this nonsense constantly. Never read anything about anyone I knew that was accurate. The world is haphazard. You can see the strain of resisting this principle if you study faces at all. My first warning should be the elevator cable unless he comes up the stairs. But that door is locked on the inside. Locks are useless except against the most slovenly criminals. Wish I had that huge Bouvier that got hit by a car down at the beach. Terrible to keep a dog like that in the city. Sephard talked about a Spanish restaurant that makes first-rate stewed squid. Maybe tomorrow night. Forgot I had all that dough until I paid the bill at Melon's and felt lump. Sarah owns one of those truly beautifully formed pussys. A marvel of wise design amen. Remembered I could call my old friend high up in D.E.A. and have Slats rousted. But I oddly hate to see anyone locked up. And it's best to learn how to do things on your own in this new life I have so studiously chosen. Midnight now.