Denis Johnson - Angels

There were four of them in the booth, and two men sitting in chairs. “What’s that — five in a row?” somebody said. The others around him reacted appropriately to Bill Houston’s good fortune or failed to react, according to each one’s interest in his own hand. Bill Houston was betting thirty dollars at a shot right now, but in a minute the man dealing, a young fellow wearing a shabby hat for luck, would have to lower his limit owing to a lack of funds. Bill Houston warred successfully against the urge to count his money, while his heart rushed among accumulating numbers. The young man with the hat tossed him three twenties, made his other payments and collections, and threw down another round of cards. “Limit’s fifteen,” he said blackly to Houston. “Okay, this go-round I’m handing everybody shit.” He gave them their upcards. Bill Houston took back his thirty dollars and laid out a ten and a five. He showed a queen, and there were chuckles. “It just all depends, don’t it?” the dealer said. He presented a jovial face, but it was clear he was deeply angry.

Miranda was overjoyed to be sitting in the cab’s front seat. “Mama, what do these numbers say?” “Keep your hands off the meter, honey,” the driver told her. “I thought I died,” Jamie said, talking to Baby Ellen in her lap. Ned Higher-and-Higher kept reaching up under her skirt to squeeze her bare thigh. Jamie pushed her face against the freezing window, and that was as far away from him as she could go. “You know something?” Ned said to the cab driver, “I’ve seen you before. Where have I seen you?” “Just keep the kid in her seat,” the driver said, “what do you want to put a little kid up front for?” “Hey, if you don’t like it, we can stop right now,” Ned Higher-and-Higher said. “ Ma -ma, what do these num bers say? Is this a little TV scream?” Miranda said. Ned Higher-and-Higher started laughing. “Aaaaah, shit, ” the cab driver remarked to nobody. Jamie could not stop weeping and weeping. “Loosen up,” Ned Higher-and-Higher said. “It’s not like you’re a virgin, is it? I’m just a seducer, that’s all. I’m just a destroyer. You know something?” he said, pinching her thigh and then making his fingers walk around on Baby Ellen’s head, “I never met your boyfriend. I mean, every body has a tattoo, right? Every body drinks. Ha ha ha!” He leaned forward, arms draped over the front seat. “Was it in the Baghdad Lounge? Used to be the Thief of Baghdad? Do you ever go there?” When the driver failed to answer, he sat back. “I know I’ve seen you,” he said. To Jamie he said: “I really fooled you, didn’t I?” Out in the world, the streets whirled around them like the blades of a fan. “You have to admit,” he said, “I can really charm the ladies.”

When the cab stopped, he took her chin in both his hands. “Now, we’re going to go in there and get you a room. You’re going to go in that room and stay there all night and don’t leave . You shut up!” he said suddenly to the driver. And to Jamie: “All right. Let’s go.”

She stood in a hallway while he rang bells and talked to people she didn’t see. Miranda tried to put her arms around her mother’s legs and go to sleep standing up, but Jamie said, “Don’t touch me.”

“This way,” Ned Higher-and-Higher said.

They were standing in front of a door. At the end of the hall another door stood open, and beyond, a greying bathtub with the paws of an animal. Then they were standing in a room, and Miranda was lying down on the bed. “Where’s the seat? The infant seat for Ellen?” Jamie said.

“The hell with it. Put her on the bed,” Ned Higher-and-Higher told her, and she put the baby on the bed immediately.

He took hold of her right hand and wrapped her fingers around some money and stood looking intently into her eyes. She wondered what was going to happen. “Do not leave this room until morning,” he said, “do you understand? Do not leave.” She nodded. Part of the room was getting closer, and part was getting unimaginably far away. “Maybe we could get together again,” he said, “huh?”

Jamie sat on the bed.

“You mad?” Ned Higher-and-Higher said. “Hey — you mad?”

She studied her hand. Things were out of reach. Her legs seemed to end at the knees. “Me?” she said.

This is me.

He was gone. On the bed were her two children, and in her hand were two ten-dollar bills. This is me. Did you get what you wanted? Because I gave you everything.

This is me this is me this is me.

I have drifted, Bill Houston told himself, out of my league. Everybody’s got a foreign accent. Fruits and vegetables are for sale.

He had wandered all the way up to Howard, the line between Chicago and Evanston. The Chicago side of the street was littered with small taverns and package stores, while the Evanston side, where liquor establishments were forbidden, offered vacant lots and the struggling concerns of inconsequential merchants. He stood at a newsstand and read the caption beneath the photo of a woman who looked just like Jamie: Search for Friends Ends in Tragedy. “Twenny cents,” the newsguy said, as if calling out some kind of destination.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill Houston said, “I don’t believe it. I know her.” He was lost. “They raped her.”

“C’mon,” the newsguy said. In his hunting cap and bulky plaid coat, he looked to Bill Houston like a moron somebody had dressed up to take into the woods; and Houston stood for a moment at the edge of violence, looking him over. He reached into the pocket of his surplus army coat, and very carefully handed the man a quarter.

They were vacuuming the Crown & Anchor in the afternoon. Through two windows on the street side, you could tell the day was turning sunny. There was no one but a couple of out-of-work substitute teachers in there, and Bill Houston, and the bartender running his machine back and forth across the defeated rug. “Teachers?” Bill Houston said. “Maybe you could teach me a few things,” and the women laughed. I don’t know why they respond to me, he thought; I have to look puked-on. “If you could give me some change,” he said to the bartender. The bartender acted like he didn’t hear, and Houston went over close and said, “Don’t act like you don’t hear.” The bartender was not a big man. He silenced the puling of his machine by prodding it with the toe of his boot, and went inside the horseshoe-shaped bar and worked the register. Bill Houston handed him a twenty and said, “Give it to me in quarters. I got business.”

Standing at the pinball machine by the payphone near the restrooms, he cracked open his roll of quarters and dropped one down the slot. It was one of the new machines that go blip blip toot toot. Stupid. Okay. In rapid succession he shot his three chances, paying the progress of each metal ball no mind whatever, and studied the contraption’s face — a space-age tableau of the rock group Styx, the lead guitarist of whom was evidently about to be fellated by a mindless jungle woman strewn before his feet. Behind them, intergalactic bodies flashed with electricity, the phosphorus-fires of infinite patience. Essentially you could never defeat these things, because they were the living dead. He moved his operation over to the telephone, dialled the number and deposited the money and said, “Mom.”

The two substitute teachers were merry souls. They had taken to throwing ice at one another, giggling, chewing up their skinny red plastic straws. Mournfully indicating the ice cubes on his rug, the bartender reprimanded them. They found the idea of the rug hilarious. “Where’s James, Ma?” Bill Houston said into the phone. “I’m looking for James.” The teachers wanted another round, and the bartender tried to talk them into beer. Bill Houston dialled and deposited. The teachers were entertained by the suggestion that they might enjoy a beer now, and countered by suggesting that the bartender engage in solo sexual maneuvers while freshening their drinks. “James?” Bill Houston said into the telephone, “You recognize who this is?” He regarded, through clear eyes, the glittering dust that fell through the sun onto the heads of the two women and the man behind the bar. The atmosphere was muted, rarefied, and holy. “James, I’ll tell you straight out,” he told his half-brother, “I’m looking for some shit to get into.” Completely expressionless, the bartender stood before the howling blender, grinding up for his exhilarated patrons another couple of margaritas.