Thomas McGuane - To Skin a Cat

“Gimme your name.”

“Bobby Decatur.”

“Donna, get Bobby the pictures.”

Donna takes a stack of Polaroids off the bookshelf and sets them on the table.

“C’mere, Bobby,” says Chino. “C’mere and sit next to me.” Bobby does; it looks like a piano duet. Bobby looks through a stack of pictures of a man who has been maimed with a knife. Chino begins to speak in a comically deep voice.

“This man took a girl to Enrico’s. This girl was in the life. They turned a few dollars. This is what he got.”

“Is he dead?”

“In some ways. Now this was done with a Buck folding knife, which is very nice for an off-the-shelf knife. It’s stainless steel, and though it’s difficult to sharpen, it will hold an edge indefinitely. Lately, I have my knives custom-made for me in Lawndale, California, by a man who is a craftsman, perhaps even an artist. What is the catch? A two-year waiting list. He’s the only man in the world who can make me wait. So for a while I made do with the off-the-shelf folding knife like some nimrod, Bobby. Donna, show Bobby the Lawndale masterpiece.”

Donna fetches an ivory-handled dagger.

“Bobby, with one motion I could throw your insides halfway up Russian Hill. So why don’t you and Mrs. Scumbag find some fast-food place that would form a more suitable background for your talent and her looks.”

“I saved the best part,” says Donna. “The john she picked up was a cop.” This, thinks Bobby, has become extremely sordid.

All the way to jail, Bobby says, “Oh, God, God, God. Oh, God.” But gradually he draws himself together and does the right thing under the circumstances by posting a bond. Once they’ve gotten into a cab, Bobby attempts to alleviate the chill between himself and Marianne.

“I want to go to the Imperial Palace,” he says. “Or any restaurant with integrity and a serious kitchen. I don’t want some fluorescent-lit noodle pavilion. I want a fine old Chinese restaurant like the Imperial Palace.”

“You God damned son of a bitch.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought you were thinking.”

But they go anyway and fit themselves into the darkness of the restaurant among the silk paintings, cloisonné, and velvet panels. There are long-stemmed roses on the table. Bobby raises his drink and bravely pronounces the following:

“At least you didn’t have to go through with it.”

“Are you joking? The cop had me before the arrest. I thought I was making us money. I thought it was what we wanted.”

The waiter arrives.

“Oh, please no, Marianne. My God, I — let me order for both of us. Waiter! We shall each have Eight Precious soup. I want squab Macao, and my wife will have Five Willows rock cod with loquats, kumquats, and sweet pickles.”

The waiter departs. Bobby says, “I’m just stricken. I’m heartbroken.”

“I thought this was your fantasy, asshole! And I’m not your wife.”

“Oh, right, hang that one on me.”

“Since we met, I broke up with my fiancé, I left a good job, I was raped in an Arab jet, jailed, and taken to a Chinese restaurant.”

Silence. What a dreadful summation, thinks Bobby.

“Is that all you have to say for our romance?”

“Bobby, that is what has happened!”

In the dark hole of their bedroom, Bobby and Marianne watch television.

Bobby says, “When I’m desperate, I love Johnny Carson.”

Marianne says, “When I’m desperate, I love Walter Cronkite. Besides, Johnny Carson is supposed to have a monster coke habit.”

“Let’s plant a garden tomorrow.”

By midmorning, Bobby has spaded a loamy spot in the backyard. Marianne cultivates on her hands and knees. Bobby is a handsome zombie.

“If we could just make one thing grow,” Bobby says. “Well, it would make a difference.”

“What kind of seeds did you buy?”

Bobby fishes the packets from his shirt pocket. “Radishes, peonies, watermelon, and what’s this? Some kind of banana or something.”

“Well, you can count on the radishes. Give me those.”

“You can’t have a garden with just radishes.”

“What’s the matter with you, Bobby? That’s nothing to get upset about. Let me see these. That’s summer squash, Bobby, that’s not a banana. Can’t you see that?”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you want to have a garden?”

Bobby and Marianne are lucky enough to join the happy browsers at Ghirardelli Square, a place well known for the character of its great chocolate candies, which make one’s fillings ring like a carillon. Bobby’s usual propensity not to be normal seems far away today, and he holds Marianne’s hand in blind euphoria, driving not a few walkers from the crowded sidewalk. It has come time for him to explain it all to Marianne.

“This is one of those places where people pretend that there is no unhappiness. There can be unhappiness at Fisherman’s Wharf but not at Ghirardelli Square. At Fisherman’s Wharf, though you may bump into Joe DiMaggio, that still does not prevent you from toppling into the sea. But here you will never meet anyone bad or have anything happen to you.”

“There is no unhappiness at Neiman-Marcus,” Marianne replies. “Many cities have little areas of no unhappiness. Even the Russians are beginning to build them.”

“Marianne, I’m lucky to have such a smart girl.”

By the time they get home again, Marianne is filled with a cheerful interest in making something of Bobby’s banana garden, while clouds have once more settled on Bobby’s face. In fact, he’s soon indoors unwrapping his Smith and Wesson from an oily rag on the walnut surface of the dining-room table. He loads every chamber with the gleaming copper-and-lead bullets, snaps the cylinder back, and puts the gun in his pocket.

“Babe, I’m going to the store. Back in an hour.”

Bobby scrutinizes the customers at Enrico’s until he finds the hooker Donna. He speaks affably to her, even though she greets him as “the new kid in town.”

“Hey,” he says. “I guess my girl and me stepped all over everybody’s toes. Which we didn’t mean to do. I just wanted to say I sure was sorry. So, this is me saying sure am sorry.”

“That’s all right. Chino came down pretty hard on you.”

“Yeah, he did. But he was right. I was gonna stop by and tell him he was right.”

“Well, he’s there.”

“Should I just fall by?”

“Let me tell him you’re coming.”

Bobby takes this opportunity to leave enough money at the bar to keep Donna drinking until he sees her again. Donna returns from the pay phone. “I told him how you were feeling. He said stop on by. Chino said he don’t hold no grudges if you don’t. But I should warn you: he’s after your lady.”

Bobby heads up the familiar alley, climbs the fire escape, and on the landing is greeted by a really charming Chino, the former Donald Arthur Jones.

He says, “I understand that you are here to prove that you are a gentleman.”

“I like revisiting the scene of the crime.”

“Crime?” Chino grins. “What crime?”

Bobby gazes around the room. “The crime against taste in this creephole you call home. What do you want with those plaster Buddhas? Are you a Buddhist? And that beanbag chair? You make enough money. Is your crud taste necessary?”

Chino stares serenely at Bobby. After a moment, he asks, “Where is the gun?”

“How come lowlifes have always got hippie books on their bookshelf? What’s this, Watership Down? The Hobbit? What a soft heart you must have. Let’s have something to eat.”

In the kitchen, Bobby takes a plate down from the cabinet and gets some silverware out of a drawer. He sets a place. He goes to the refrigerator and takes out a container.