The picture would not leave his mind, even after he’d closed his eyes, and so Billy picked up the magazine and looked again at the about-to-be-raped model, fake-raped, with slip on the rise revealing thigh, garter, seamed stockings. In high heels, with her rouged lips, artful hair, artificial fear on her face, she cowered on the bed away from the hovering shadow of the artificial rapist. The change of vision from Mo to rape worked, and Billy slept the fearful sleep of an anxious loser.
Peg’s keys, clinking at the keyhole, woke him.
Plump but fetching, graying but evergreen, Margaret Elizabeth Quinn was returning from her desk in the North End Tool Company, where she was private secretary to the owner.
“It’s dark in here,” she said. “What happened to the lights?”
“Nothing,” Billy said as she switched on the bridge lamp.
“Is Danny home?”
“Upstairs.”
“What’s new? You have a decent day?”
“Great day.”
“That’s nice.”
“No it’s not.”
“Did Mama call?”
“No.”
“The receiver’s off the hook.”
“I know it.”
“How could she call if the receiver’s off the hook?”
“She couldn’t.”
Peg cradled the receiver and took off her black-and-white checked shorty coat and black pillbox hat.
“You want pork chops?” she asked.
“No.”
“Liver? That’s the choice.”
“Nothing, no.”
“You’re not eating?”
“No, the hell with it.”
“Oh, that’s a beautiful mood.”
“I’m beautiful out of business is what I am.”
Peg sat on the edge of the rocker, formidable lady in her yellow, flowered print, full knees up, glasses on, lipstick fresh, fingernails long and crimson, solitaire from husband George small but respectably gleaming under the bridge light, hair marcelled in soft finger wave. Billy’s beautiful sister.
“What’s this you’re saying?”
And he told her the Martin story: that, believe it or not, his three horses all came home. Some joke, eh kid? Sextuple your money, folks. Place your bets with Brazen Billy Boy, who lives the way we all love to live — way, way, way up there beyond our means.
Peg stood up, saying nothing. She pushed open the swinging door to be greeted by a near-frenzied collie, all but perishing from his inability to disgorge affection. From the refrigerator she took out the pork chops and put them into two large frying pans over a low flame on the gas stove. Then she went back to Billy, who was pouring a shot of Wilson’s into a soiled coffee cup with a dry, brown ring at the bottom. The phone rang and Peg answered, then handed the instrument to Billy, who closed his eyes to drive out all phone calls.
“Yeah,” he said into the mouthpiece. And then, “No, I’m closed down. No. NO, GODDAMN IT, NO! I mean I’m CLOSED. Out of business and you owe me fifty-four bucks and I need it tonight so goddamn get it up. I’ll be down.” And he slammed the receiver onto the hook.
“Wasn’t that Tod?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to eat his head off because you lost some money.”
“Lost some money? I’m dumped, broke. I can’t work. Do you get that picture?”
“You’ve been broke before? You’re broke most of the time.”
“Ah, shut up, this is bad news.”
“What possessed you to hold a three-horse parlay? I wouldn’t even make that mistake.”
“I make a lot of mistakes you wouldn’t make.”
“It doesn’t make sense, with your bankroll.”
“I can’t explain it.”
Billy gulped the Wilson’s and the phone rang. Martin Daugherty Peg handed him the phone.
“Yes, Martin, you’re a lucky son of a bitch. Nobody in their right mind bets three-horse parlays. I know it, Martin. Yeah, sure I’ll be downtown tonight. I’ll have some of it for you. No, I haven’t got it right this minute. Collections are slow, nobody paying this month. But you’ll get paid, Martin. Billy Phelan pays his debts. Yeah, Martin, I held it all myself. Thanks, I’m glad you feel bad. I wish I could get mad at you, you son of a bitch. Knock your teeth out and make you spend your winnings on the dentist. What do I make it? What do you make it? Right. That’s exactly right, Martin — seven eighty-eight eighty-five. Yeah, yeah. Yeah. See you tonight around Becker’s, or maybe the poker game in Nick’s cellar. Yeah, you son of a bitch, you sleep with the angels. What hotel they staying at?”
The kitchen gave off the rich odor of seared pork. Peg came out of it in her apron, carrying a long fork. At the foot of the stairs she called, “Danny,” and from a far height in the attic came a “Yeah?” and then she said “Supper,” and the door slammed and the steps of Daniel Quinn could be heard, descending from his aerie.
“How much cash do you actually have?” Peg asked.
“About a hundred and seventy,” Billy said. “Can you spare anything?”
Peg almost smiled. She sniffed and shook her head. “I’ll see.”
“George is doing all right, isn’t he?” George wrote numbers.
“He’s doing swell. He lost three dollars yesterday on the day.”
“Yeah. We all got a problem.”
“All of us,” Peg said. “George wants to talk to you about a new book. Somebody named Muller.”
“I’m here if he wants me.”
“What about this money you owe? How will you raise it?”
“I can always raise a buck.”
“Can you raise six hundred?”
“What does that mean, can I? I’ve got to. What do you do when you lose? You pay.”
“The Spider never loses,” Danny Quinn said as he hit the last step down.
Billy drew the bath water, hot as he could stand for his hemorrhoid, back again. Got to get some exercise, Billy. Three baths a day in the hottest, the doc said, the sweat already forming on Billy’s face, as he drew the hottest of hot baths. Has that guy Billy got any money? Has he! He’s got piles! And he’s in hot water, too, I’ll say. Might be all washed up. He really took a bath, all right. But you never can tell about a fellow like Billy, because he runs hot and cold.
Billy eased into the water and spread his cheeks so the heat would rise up the back alley and draw some bloody attention to that oversized worm of a vein which was sticking its nose out, itching the goddamn ass off Billy. Are itchy assholes hereditary? But itchy no more right now. Now soothed. Now hot stuff. Now easy livin’. And Billy settles back against the tub and forgets about his asshole and its internal stresses and considers the evening ahead of him.
He will wear his navy blue gabardine and the new silk shirt he got at Steefel’s through Harvey Hess. A fast half-dozen shirts for Billy and six, too, for Harv, who glommed them, wrapped them, and put them down as paid for in Billy’s name, and all Billy had to do was go in and pick up his order. How sweet. Billy gave Harvey all his legitimate clothing action, or as much as Steefel’s could handle, and why not? For wasn’t Harvey Billy’s grandest fish?