Thomas McGuane - To Skin a Cat

Somehow the next day, by the time La Costa has gotten Marianne to the cable-car stop, Marianne’s vitality has begun to return. Pragmatic La Costa is not interested in how Marianne got herself into this; to La Costa, Marianne is another prostitute, and, for instance, we all have a story. She says to Marianne, “I think it’s time the rotten little kids had a spree. Marianne, let’s go downtown.”

They descend Powell Street gazing upon the beautiful city. When they pass the Bank of America La Costa says, “Many pimps in there.”

They head for Gump’s department store and proceed to its imperial interior, crossing the great showrooms and on to the Kimono Room, where they play at being old-time courtesans amid the exorbitant women’s clothing. La Costa fills their purses with silk scarves. When Marianne looks startled, La Costa says, “If we’re nabbed, yell ‘racist.’ Tell them you’re high yellow.”

On this same day, Bobby and Jane are downtown shopping in a glamorous Maiden Lane pet store, a splendid room full of South American birds, very carefully observed by an ocelot with an aqua collar.

Bobby explains everything. “I can’t have another day without a hawk. And the only thing legal here is a Colombian broadwing, which is not a first-class hawk.”

“I don’t know one from another,” Jane says, shyly gazing at Bobby.

When the shrouded cage rests on the back seat of the cab between Bobby and Jane, she says demurely, “I always thought hawks just killed chickens.”

Bobby sighs. “That’s only part of the story, Jane.”

Inside the Presidio Heights house, Bobby sets the cage on the floor and removes the shroud.

“Open the cage, Jane.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Open the cage.”

Jane gingerly opens the cage and the hawk comes out, flying around the room with terrible beating wings, to settle finally on the back of the tall chair, where it stares with unforgiving yellow eyes at the amateur pimp and his realtor friend.

The middle of the night at Quickee Char-Broil can be lone-some. The chef sweeps the little flaming pieces of meat onto a tray with salad and hands them over to Chino and Donna. Then the cook becomes the cashier and takes Donna’s money. Condominium Donald is Cheapo Chino again.

Donna carries the tray to the table and puts the meals down carefully. She aches with love. The two sit. Immediately, Chino swaps plates.

“I said rare.” He fills his mouth. “That other God damn thing’s like a baseball glove. How’d you do?”

“Four hundred.”

“Give it ta me.”

Donna hands him the money proudly. Now is her opportunity.

“I want to work in the condo.”

“No room.”

“I’m tired.”

“You want to go back to Petaluma?”

“I’m not from Petaluma.”

“I know a big-time Jap chicken farmer. I’ll send your ass to him in Petaluma.”

“I brought you Marianne, and now I’m working the hotels and she’s in the condo. That’s not fair.”

What an outburst. Chino reaches and seizes her steak in his hand. He squeezes it until beef blood runs between his fingers.

“You shit too,” he says. “See that? That’s your Petaluma face. Gimme your napkin.”

Chino puts her steak down and wipes his hands. He continues, upon reflection.

“Don’t give me no eye. Looking at me like you got nothing to eat.” Impulsively, he shoves the steak down her blouse. Tears stream as the steak bleeds through. Chino is on the verge of raving. “ ‘I wanna be in the condo, I wanna be in the condo.’ How much room you think is there? Huh? Look, I’m no McDonald’s.” He stands in total disgust and turns to the staring fry cook. “Hey.” He menaces him. “Try going blind.” He turns back to Donna, his original fury intact. “I’ll give you a condo. Petaluma Jap chicken condo. I give up.”

He upends her purse on the table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna make sure there isn’t something in here I should know about. What’s this?”

“Herbal Essence Shampoo.”

“What about this crap?”

“It’s for dry-skin relief. It’s by Revlon.”

“This is the biggest bottle of Excedrin I’ve ever seen. What’s this?”

“Silverfrost. It’s an eye shadow. Also by Revlon. That little box? That’s Aziza two-tone luster shadow.”

“What about this?”

“Supernails.”

Chino pulls out an eyelash curler and tries it on himself. Donna is crying, but she thinks he’s cute. Then a green jar. His face is a question mark.

Donna says, “That’s analgesic balm, for small injuries.”

“Let me ask you something, Miss Whore. Why don’t you take your repair kit and get the fuck out of my life?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then bring me Marianne’s boyfriend. Get him drunk first. Otherwise you’re too ugly to get the job done.”

The condo in the gloaming: long blades of bayside light penetrate the cloud-high dwelling. Marianne is in her room with her new friend, who, dressed for the street, turns shining African eyes on getting it while she can. Marianne is dressed in silk pajamas, part of the basic issue, suggesting a youthful housewife caught in an unsavory trap. Thanks to La Costa, she’s confident she can do a walk-through, keeping her mind’s eye on a better day. Meanwhile, she’s trying to explain Bobby. She says he must have caught her at the right time. She thinks maybe she fell in love with him or, as so many young women say, “I thought so at the time.” “Sometimes,” says Marianne, “you find yourself counting how long you’ve been away from home and sometimes you know you’ll never get there again.”

The door bangs open: Chino.

“You want to head out, La Costa? Marianne’s got a visitor.” La Costa makes a little comic rotary wave and leaves. Then Chino leaves, somewhat in La Costa’s wake, and the door is closed like the shutter of a stalled-out camera. When it blinks open again a huge wavering figure appears and closes the door. This is an enormous man. His tiny briefs are lost in the declivity of flesh that is the last fold of his belly. He’s about fifty and has the ponderous face of an oaf and the baleful gazing eyes we associate with martyrs whose stories have been lost.

“Do you like me?” he wants to know. His ring finger hooks the corner of his minute briefs. Desperately, Marianne recalls the buffalo paddock, the fog, the lost, adventurous dreaming of long ago. It was coming at her.

Chino and La Costa are watching a Western on TV.

Chino says, “Guy in there with Marianne?”

“Yeah?”

“He designs golf courses.”

“Is that so.”

“His wife’s a concert pianist, but he made her quit.”

“What’s he gonna make Marianne do?”

“No telling.”

La Costa is staring at the television. “Is that Montgomery Clift?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think he’s about to kick John Wayne’s butt. Don’t he just move his eyes cute, though?”

The golf-course designer appears in a blue suit.

“Highly overrated,” he says.

Chino stares, at a loss for words.

“And this pitch about resistance? I’m glad it’s on your phone bill. I’ll tell you what she is: she’s a whore. I saw through her in a minute. She’s simply a prostitute like Mandy there. Don’t call me again. I can do better at the Masters in Augusta.”

Chino is abashed. This topflight professional has made him feel like a crumbum. Then he’s mad. He’s infected with anger. It’s like some incoherent mind scabies crying for a final scratch. He makes no remark as the golf-course designer shoves open the door and leaves.

Dusty and battered after a long fight, Montgomery Clift and John Wayne are casting glances of new-won respect at each other. There’s a big free sky behind them as well as admiring townspeople to watch them become friends.