“No,” said Moose. “I ain’t tough.”
“Well I’m tough,” Francis said. “Screw around with me, you’ll die younger’n I will.”
“Oh I’ll die all right. I’m just as busted as that ceiling. I got TB.”
“Oh God bless you,” Francis said, sitting down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s in the knee.”
“I didn’t know you had it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry anybody’s got TB.”
“It’s in the knee.”
“Well cut your leg off.”
“That’s what they wanted to do.”
“So cut it off.”
“No, I wouldn’t let them do that.”
“I got a stomach cancer,” Rudy said.
“Yeah,” said Moose. “Everybody’s got one of them.”
“Anybody gonna come to my funeral?” Rudy asked.
“Probably ain’t nothin’ wrong with you work won’t cure,” Moose said.
“That’s right,” Francis said to Rudy. “Why don’t you go get a job?” He pointed out the window at the street. “Look at ‘em out there. Everybody out there’s workin’.”
“You’re crazier than he is,” Moose said. “Ain’t no jobs anyplace. Where you been?”
“There’s taxis. There goes a taxi.”
“Yeah, there’s taxis,” Moose said. “So what?”
“Can you drive?” Francis asked Rudy.
“I drove my ex-wife crazy,” Rudy said.
“Good. What you’re supposed to do. Drive ‘em nuts is right.”
In the corner of the room Francis saw three long-skirted women who became four who became three and then four again. Their faces were familiar but he could call none of them by name. Their ages changed when their number changed: now twenty, now sixty, now thirty, now fifty, never childish, never aged. At the house Annie would now be trying to sleep, but probably no more prepared for it than Francis was, no more capable of closing the day than Francis was. Helen would be out of it, whipped all to hell by fatigue and worry. Damn worrywart is what she is. But not Annie. Annie, she don’t worry. Annie knows how to live. Peg, she’ll be awake too, why not? Why should she sleep when nobody else can? They’ll all be up, you bet. Francis give ‘em a show they ain’t gonna forget in a hurry.
He showed ‘em what a man can do.
A man ain’t afraid of goin’ back.
Goddamn spooks, they follow you everywheres but they don’t matter. You stand up to ‘em is all. And you do what you gotta do.
Sandra joined the women of three, the women of four, in the far corner. Francis gave me soup, she told them. He carried me out of the wind and put my shoe on me. They became the women of five.
“Where the wind don’t blow,” Rudy sang. “I wanna go where the wind don’t blow, where there ain’t no snow.”
Francis saw Katrina’s face among the five that became four that became three.
o o o
Finny and Little Red came into the flop, and just behind them a third figure Francis did not recognize immediately. Then he saw it was Old Shoes.
“Hey, we got company, Moose,” Francis said.
“Is that Finny?” Moose asked. “Looks like him.”
“That’s the man,” Francis said. Finny stood by the foot of Francis’s cot, very drunk and wobbling, trying to see who was talking about him.
“You son of a bitch,” Moose said, leaning on one elbow.
“Which son of a bitch you talkin’ to?” Francis asked.
“Finny. He used to work for Spanish George. Liked to use the blackjack on drunks when they got noisy.”
“Is that true, Finny?” Francis asked. “You liked to sap the boys?”
“Arrrggghhh,” said Finny, and he lurched off toward a cot down the row from Francis.
“He was one mean bastard,” Moose said. “He hit me once.”
“Hurt you?”
“Hurt like hell. I had a headache three weeks.”
“Somebody burned up Finny’s car,” Little Red announced. “He went out for somethin’ to eat, and he came back, it was on fire. He thinks the cops did it.”
“Why are the cops burnin’ up cars?” Rudy asked.
“Cops’re goin’ crazy,” Little Red said. “They’re pickin’ up everybody. American Legion’s behind it, that’s what I heard.”
“Them lard-ass bastards,” Francis said. “They been after my ass all my life.”
“Legionnaires and cops,” said Little Red. “That’s why we come in here.”
“You think you’re safe here?” Francis asked.
“Safer than on the street.”
“Cops’d never come up here if they wanted to get you, right?” Francis said.
“They wouldn’t know I was here,” Little Red said.
“Whataya think this is, the Waldorf-Astoria? You think that old bitch downstairs don’t tell the cops who’s here and who ain’t when they want to know?”
“Maybe it wasn’t the cops burned up the car,” Moose said. “Finny’s got plenty of enemies. If I knew he owned one, I’da burned it up myself The son of a bitch beat up on us all, but now he’s on the street. Now we got him in the alley.”
“You hear that, Finny?” Francis called out. “They gonna get your ass good. They got you in the alley with all the other bums.”
“Nggggghhhh,” said Finny.
“Finny’s all right,” Little Red said. “Leave him alone.”
“You givin’ orders here at the Waldorf-Astoria, is that it?” Francis asked.
“Who the hell are you?” Little Red asked.
“I’m a fella ready to stomp all over your head and squish it like a grape, you try to tell me what to do.”
“Yeah,” said Little Red, and he moved toward the cot beside Finny.
“I knew it was you soon as I come in,” Old Shoes said, coming over to the foot of Francis’s cot. “I could tell that foghorn voice of yours anyplace.”
“Old Shoes,” Francis said. “Old Shoes Gilligan.”
“That’s right. You got a pretty good memory. The wine ain’t got you yet.”
“Old Shoes Gilligan, a grand old soul, got a cast-iron belly and a brass asshole.”
“Not cast-iron anymore,” Old Shoes said. “I got an ulcer. I quit drinkin’ two years ago.”
“Then what the hell you doin’ here?”
“Just came by to see the boys, see what was happenin’.”
“You hangin’ out with Finny and that redheaded wiseass?”
“Who you callin’ a wiseass?” Little Red said.
“I’m callin’ you wiseass, wiseass,” Francis said.
“You got a big mouth,” Little Red said.
“I got a foot’s even bigger and I’m gonna shove it right up your nose, you keep bein’ nasty to me when I’m tryna be polite.”
“Cool off, Francis,” Old Shoes said. “What’s your story? You’re lookin’ pretty good.”
“I’m gettin’ rich,” Francis said. “Got me a gang of new clothes, couple of jugs, money in the pocket.”
“You’re gettin’ up in the world,” Old Shoes said.
“Yeah, but what the hell you doin’ here if you ain’t drinkin’ is what I don’t figure.”
“I just told you. I’m passin’ through and got curious about the old joints.”
“You workin’?”
“Got a steady job down in Jersey. Even got an apartment and a car. A car, Francis. You believe that? Me with a car? Not a new car, but a good car. A Hudson two-door. You want a ride?”
“A ride? Me?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Now?”
“Don’t matter to me. I’m just sightseein’. I’m not sleepin’ up here. Wouldn’t sleep here anyway. Bedbugs’d follow me all the way back to Jersey.”
“This bum here,” Francis explained to Rudy, “I saved from dyin’ in the street. Used to fall down drunk three, four times a night, like he was top-heavy.”
“That’s right,” Old Shoes said. “Broke my face five or six times, just like his.” And he gestured at Moose. “But I don’t do that no more. I hit three nuthouses and then I quit. I been off the bum three years and dry for two. You wanna go for that ride, Francis? Only thing is, no bottle. The wife’d smell it and I’d catch hell.”
“You got a wife too?” Francis said.
“You got a car and a wife and a house and a job?” Rudy asked. He sat up on his cot and studied this interloper.
“That’s Rudy,” Francis said. “Rudy Tooty. He’s thinkin’ about killin’ himself.”