Ed Lacy: The Men From the Boys

“I sort of suggested it. Put it all on a number and you can retire—maybe. What do you like for today?”

“I usually stick along with my house number, 506.”

“All right, play a buck for me.”

“I'll get it in. Where's the money?”

“Lilly, out of the five. Wasn't for me you wouldn't have nothing.”

I went down to my room, considered shaving, dabbed some after-shave lotion under my armpits, put on a fresh shirt, and went out. Art had his offices on East Fifty-eighth Street—pretty swank. I took a bus to Fifty-second Street and walked through the ratty section between Sixth and Fifth Avenues that's full of night spots. I knew Flo was stripping in one of the joints and for no reason I wanted to see her picture.

She wasn't the feature strip; they only had an 8” x 10” of Flo, one of her old snaps. I stared at the strong long legs, the hard body, the hard beautiful face, the small, perfect breasts. This snap was taken nine years ago, but Flo hadn't changed much. Whenever she worked one of the burleycue houses in New Jersey, I'd go over to watch her. Almost gave me a queer bang to see the clowns gaping at her, recalling all the times I'd had what they were eyeballing.

Although I never really had Flo. I was tough, but she was tougher. She was about the toughest babe I ever knew. She knew what she had, and her only aim in life was to make it pay off in folding dough. I remembered the first time I saw her, in the chorus of a crummy Broadway musical. Guess she went with me for a resting period. My salary gave her a chance to hunt around for a feature role, study up on her dancing and acting. Everything she did was part of this drive to “get to the top.” You couldn't even beat this drive out of her—I tried it a couple of times.

Maybe one of the reasons I got a kick out of seeing Flo do her act, these last couple of years, was the satisfaction in knowing she'd never made the top. She left me for a bastard who took her out to Hollywood. Flo had all the whistle stops, enough ability, but she must have slept with the wrong jokers. Over the years I'd see her in a few bit parts, then in '48 she started doing burlesque work, night clubs. Flo had to be hitting thirty-eight or thirty-nine now, just sticking around for the crumbs.

I walked slowly toward Madison Avenue thinking of Flo. If only she had had something in her blood besides ambition we might have hit things off—for a short time we had it pretty good. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, light a match and stare at her, wondering how a slob like me ever got so lucky. Dot had the brains and the warmth, Flo had the body. Although Dot could surprise the hell out of you—sometimes.

Art was sharing the first floor of a brownstone with two other doctors. I gave the nurse at the reception desk my name and she told me to sit down. I slipped a mint in my mouth and watched her legs under the desk, wondered why I was looking—Barbara had better stems. And in any event what good would...?

I belched and watched her face to see if she'd heard. She hadn't. I glanced around the office, all the modern furniture. The last time I had Art work on me was a year ago. He had a modest office up on Eighty-third Street then. The boy was climbing fast.

After a couple of minutes Art came in, looking fine in his white jacket. Although he wasn't a ladies' man, he could be—had one of these lean, homely maps that women go for, like Gary Cooper. And Art was big and fairly muscular although he never did any physical work or exercise. Once in the army when we were swimming in Venice, I asked him how he stayed in shape and he'd said, “I don't know, lieutenant. I suppose I was just born this way.” Art never called me “sir,” always “lieutenant,” which was okay with me.

After the usual hard handshake and cracks about neither of us looking a day older, I followed him into his neat office, sat down in a chair that looked like a giant ice-cream cone and which turned out to be comfortable. “How's the hotel business, Marty?” he asked, taking out my file.

“All right. With the housing shortage, hotels are making out.”

He nodded, as though he was interested. “What's all this about ptomaine? Upset stomach? According to my records you're a typical hard rock. An interesting specimen, a throwback, as I kept telling you, a ...”

“All right, cut the big words. So I'm a specimen, pickled in alcohol, and all that. Art, I think I have a case of the old G.l.'s. Been that way, off and on—and that's no pun—for the last few weeks. Nothing seems to help. Also, I have a lousy taste in my mouth, like something died in me a long time ago.”

“Any fever or chills?”

“Nope, I don't think so. I sweat, but that's because of the dog days we've been having. I belch a lot.”

“Still drinking?”

“Nope. Funny thing, haven't had a desire for a shot, or for a cigarette either.”

“According to my records you haven't had anything worse than an acid stomach in the last five years. You look like your usual burly gorilla self. Though what's left of your hair is turning gray. Marty, you worrying about anything?”

“Me? I never worried in my life.”

He stood up. “I'd say you're in good shape—for an old man.”

“I'm only fifty-four, you punk.”

“Okay, pops, take off your shirt and I'll give you the works.”

The boy really gave me a thorough examination, worked me over with several gadgets, put me in front of a fluoroscope... all the time asking questions about what I liked to eat and what I didn't, the color and shape of my bowels, any pains, and other exciting remarks.

At first we were wisecracking a lot, but after a while I knew he was putting on an act with the gags—Art was really damn serious, even frightened.

After about an hour he told me to dress and we sat down at his desk. Art asked,. “Marty, you say you're always tired, weak, not much of an appetite, lost weight and...”

“All right, Art, stop stalling, what's wrong with me?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I think you have a tumor, a growth next to your intestines... far as I can make out. You may need an operation. I'm sending you to a specialist for a gastric X ray. He'll know much more about it than I do.”

“I have a tumor in my gut?” I repeated.

“I thinly you have one.”

“Can't penicillin, one of these new wonder drugs, do the trick?”

“Perhaps. We'll see what the specialist says. You may not even require surgery. But I think it will be best to take a sample of the growth. Merely routine...”

“A sample? You mean it might be cancer?” The words seemed to sting as they tumbled out of my lips.

“Might be anything,” Art said casually. “Marty, I'm only a pill-and-temperature man, wait till we hear what the big shot says. I can be all wrong about it being a tumor. I'll make an appointment for you.”

I sat like a dummy, hearing Art pick up the phone, make an appointment for 1130 the following afternoon. I couldn't think. All I could do was taste the dry garlic stink on my tongue. There was a horse cop I knew who died of cancer of the gut. He'd been a pro boxer once and we used to work out together. He'd starved to death because the cancer squeezed his intestines tight. I spent a lot of time with him in the hospital, watching him become a bag of bones.

As Art put the phone down I told him, “I was never afraid of dying because if you don't fear death you got the world by the tail. But this... what a crummy way of going out.”

“Stop it. It could be an ulcer, an inflated stomach, a hundred and one things besides ...”

“Don't talk a hole in my head, Art!”

He stared at me for a second, then pulled a pipe out of a drawer, carefully packed and lit it. “Marty, this isn't something you can lick with hard talk or slugging, so don't be a goddam amateur doctor. Every growth isn't cancer, just as every headache isn't a nervous breakdown. If it is a tumor they cut it out and in a few weeks you're good as new. It's that simple.”