John MacDonald - Slam the Big Door

“For God’s sake, Troy.”

“Is she coming back today?”

“No.”

“I don’t think I could take her on top of everything else. She’s so goddamn noble and understanding and unselfish.”

“She’s all three of those, truly.”

“And I’m a pig? It follows.”

“You’re sick.”

“That’s just about the most meaningless thing you could say.”

“How about that thing right in the middle of your head, Troy? It takes up too much room. It’s round and black and lumpy, like a ball of black rubber snakes. You thought it had gone away yesterday.”

Troy stared at him, his eyes pinched almost shut, his face slack. Mike could sense his enormous surprise, his fear. But in a few moments he saw the forced smile he had expected. “Now who’s sick, Mike? You giving it to yourself right in the vein?”

“You told me about the round black thing, last night.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I think you do.”

“I was as drunk as a man can get, Mike. I was out on my feet. I probably babbled. Drunks talk nonsense. You’re a fool to take stuff like that seriously.”

“I did. You promised to see a doctor.”

“That’s a promise I don’t remember. I don’t keep promises I can’t remember. What’s wrong with you? I haven’t got time for nonsense like that. I’ve got work to do.”

“I looked into that too the last few days, Troy. I think I know a way you can make out all right.”

Durelda brought the coffee and put it on the wide arm of the chair. As soon as she had gone, Troy said, “It was only a question of time until you got your nose into that too. Somewhere you got the idea you can run my life better than I can.”

Mike looked at him for long heavy seconds. He got up. “You can go to hell, Jamison. I’ll be gone from here in twenty minutes.”

He’d walked ten feet before Troy said in a different voice, “Wait a minute, Mike.”

“You want a chance to see if you can make it worse? I don’t need proof. You can. You’re good at it.”

“No. I want to say... I’m sorry. It was a hell of a thing to say. I didn’t mean it. I’m... not myself. Sit down.”

Mike sat down again, wary and still angry. “Only because of Mary, boy. Not you. Take your choice, boy. You’re either sicker than you’ll admit, or you’re a worthless s.o.b. Take your choice.”

“Great choice.”

“I’m fresh out of alternatives. You weren’t raving last night. There’s something wrong with you. If you don’t think so, see a doctor and prove there isn’t. Or go to hell, believing you’re sane.”

“Now I’m nuts. Is that it?”

“Your actions aren’t rational. They’re self-destructive. They were like that once before.”

“Now a few drinks is suicide.”

“For some people. How about that doctor?”

Troy turned his face away. He waited long seconds. “Maybe there is... something going wrong. And maybe it scares me a little. But I can work it out myself.”

“You’re doing so well at working it out yourself. Unbelievable!”

“Get off my back!”

“The doctor, boy. The doctor!”

“Listen. I’m in no shape to make a decision like that now. Today. For God’s sake, give me a chance to unwind a little.”

“How long will that take?”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Mike. Tomorrow. Nothing is going to be any good today. The only feeling I’ve got about today is to try to live through it. That will be the only project I can handle. By tomorrow afternoon I can talk about this thing and make sense.”

“All right. We’ll leave it that way.”

“What’s this about the development?”

“That will keep. Don’t think about that. Think about yourself. For once in your life, try to look at yourself as a stranger might.”

The attempted smile was a horrid grimace as Troy said, “It’s a lot easier not looking too squarely at some of the things you do.”

“For you, it’s time.”

“The thing is, I’ve never felt like a bad guy, really. I act like one. Then I want to get away from myself. But that’s the one thing they won’t let you do. That’s the big trap.”

“What are you going to do today?”

“Be a vegetable. Lie in the sun. Take a nap later. Even standing up makes me feel weak and sweaty.”

“You’ll stay around? You won’t leave?”

“God, no!”

Mike spent the brief time before lunch writing to the boys. He had lunch alone. Debbie Ann had gone into town to have lunch with somebody. Troy didn’t yet feel like eating.

After lunch he finished the letters and mailed them on his way to Ravenna Key. He got to Red’s at two-thirty. Birdy and Jerranna weren’t there. He asked Red about them. “Haven’t been in yet today. Probably at the cottage.”

He went to the cottage. Birdy sat on the floor of the small porch, bare to the waist, intently weaving some unidentifiable object out of long thin leather thongs. His thick fingers were nimble, his expression intent. Muscles pulsed in his chest and shoulders as he worked.

He looked up, the fingers still working. “Go on in, hey. She’s sacked out. She said you’d be around.” He had made no attempt to lower his voice.

“Did she tell you what I’d...”

“Mike?” she called, her voice faint and grainy with sleep.

“Go on in, hey,” Birdy said.

He went inside. Venetian blinds cut the white light to thin slivers. Doors stood open inside. There was a small living room, a small bedroom, a bath, a kitchen corner in the living room. The place was a welter of clothing, magazines, empty bottles, unemptied ashtrays. She had been sleeping on the living-room couch. She sat up as he came in, combing her hair back with the spread fingers of both hands, yawning so widely he saw where back molars were missing. She wore crumpled white shorts and a red canvas sheath top.

“Christ!” she said. “Sleeping in the daytime gives me a mouth like a birdcage. Dump the stuff off that chair and sit, Mike.”

He picked the pants and magazines off the chair, tossed them onto another chair and sat down, facing her.

“I brought the money.”

“I told you, Birdy,” she called. “He brought it.”

“That’s nice,” Birdy said sourly. “That’s real nice.”

“So what’s the deal?”

She yawned again, and shuddered. “Somebody walking on my grave. The deal? That’s the trouble. A deal. It’s another way to say I get pushed around. You know?”

“Not exactly. It’s a thousand bucks. I’m not flipping you a four-bit piece to stop singing.”

Birdy came in, blocking the light from the doorway for a moment, and then leaned against the door frame just inside the room. He patted his hair. “It’s still a deal, buddy. You pay us and we say, ‘thank you sir, oh thank you sir,’ and take off.”

“Maybe we’re not getting through to each other,” Mike said patiently. “Or maybe I’m stupid. I’m paying you to do something. Paying you damn well.”

“And you don’t care if we like it here or not. You don’t care if we’re ready to go yet,” Birdy said in a complaining tone. “People are always pushing.”

“Won’t you go sooner or later?”

“Sure. Sometime.”

“So go now and get paid for it.”

“That means we’re doing what you want, not what we want,” Birdy said.

“That’s why I’m paying you!” Mike yelled. “To do what I want instead of what you want.”

“You see?” Birdy said. “Pressure. All the time pressure. And I don’t like it. No matter where we go then, we got to get used to the idea the only reason we’re there is you pushed us out of here.”

“Doesn’t the money mean a damn thing?”

“That’s a nice piece of money,” Birdy said.