“Yeah, Friday, tomorrow, after work ... got any plans?”
If he did, he certainly could not recall any of them at this moment. “I don’t know. I guess not. No, I can’t think of any.”
“So then, howdja like to go out somewhere? Maybe a movie or something?”
“Geez, I don’t know . . . uh . . .”
“Agnes. Don’t you know my name, Arnie?”
“Of course. Agnes Blondell.” Bush was very much aware of Agnes Blondell as was every other still living man at the morgue. But while the others fantasized about “Jugs” Blondell, Bush had no clue as to how to relate to her.
“Call me Aggie, Arnie. All my friends do.”
“But we’re not friends.”
“We could be. How about tomorrow night?”
“Well, sure.” Why not? “What did you have in mind?”
“I dunno. A show, maybe? A movie?”
“We could go where I always go to see movies.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Tel-Ex Cinema at Telegraph and Ten Mile.”
“Tel-Ex? I never heard of it . . . it ain’t one of those Triple-X porno houses, is it?”
“No, no; no way.” Not that Bush did not indulge in an occasional hard-core porno flick. But only occasionally: They were so expensive.
“This is a legit movie house. But the movies only cost one buck admission.”
“All times?”
“All times.”
Now, Agnes recalled seeing listings in the newspaper movie guide for the Tel-Ex. Four screens, as she recalled, with first-rate films. You just had to be patient until every other area theater had shown the movies to their satisfaction. Eventually, many of the better ones trickled down to the “Dollar Cinema.” It made sense to her: Why waste all that money on a show, when, if you waited long enough, you could see it for a buck. And if it turned out to be rotten, you hadn’t wasted four or five dollars. Another point in Arnie’s favor: sensibly abstemious.
“Done,” said Agnes. And they made their arrangements.
At 6:30 Friday evening, Arnold called for Agnes at her apartment. She appreciated promptness. She also liked the economy-consciousness of his simple black Ford Escort. Two more pluses for Arnold Bush.
They arrived comfortably early for the 7:15 screening. The movie was “Rambo VII.” Agnes found irresistible the similarity between Sly Stallone on the screen and Arnold Bush seated next to her. Stallone appeared to be steroidally rounded, while Bush’s strength was more muted. But, no doubt: Both were strong men. And even though Stallone was given to interminable perorations toward the wind-up of each of his movies, both he and Arnold generally let their strength speak for itself.
After the movie, they repaired to the nearby Elias Bros. Big Boy. Each ate generously from the buffet and salad bar. But then, each was a fair-sized person. After dessert there was an awkward moment. What now?
“Well,” Bush said, with a tone of finality.
“Well.” The word took on a little life coming from Agnes. “Well, the evening’s young.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking maybe we could go to your place.”
Most of the other men at the morgue would have given their severance pay for such an open-ended invitation from “Jugs.” But Bush was uncertain. There were all those pictures on his walls. What would Aggie think of that? And besides . . . “My place ain’t very much.”
“I kind of figured that, Arnie. You go to economy movies. You drive an economy car. I figured you’d live in an economy flat. But I like that.”
Well, then, to hell with the pictures! “Okay, let’s go.”
The drive to Bush’s apartment took only about twenty minutes. When they arrived, Agnes had to admit that she hadn’t been mistaken. A lesser woman would have phrased it that her worst fears were realized. But, somehow, Agnes was able to view the largely deserted area as an economy neighborhood. She said as much. Arnold was pleased.
He led the way up the rickety stairs and hesitated only a moment before he unlocked and opened the door. He knew this was the moment of truth—an inevitable moment.
He entered the room, turned on the single overhead light, and stood aside. Agnes entered, smiling at the room’s spartan dimensions. Then she saw the walls. “Arnie, the pictures!” she shrieked.
“I was afraid of this.”
After her initial shock, she took a closer look. “Why, Arnie, they’re the two prostitutes that we had in . . . the serial killings.”
“Uh-huh.” He feared the worst.
She stepped closer to examine the pictures more carefully, moving from wall to wall. All in all, she did not find the pictures as distasteful as almost anyone else would have. After all, she had seen the corpses in the flesh. If anything, she appreciated the photographer’s technical excellence. However, one anomaly puzzled her. “Arnie, how come you got pictures of the whores on three walls and holy pictures on the other wall? I mean, how does the Blessed Mother figure in this?”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“No . . . why?”
“You knew it was the Blessed Mother.”
“Good God, Arnie, everybody knows that.”
“I suppose.” That Agnes was not a Catholic was not an earth-shattering revelation. But it would have been nice had they shared the same faith.
“So,” Agnes returned, “how come you got all these pictures on your walls?”
“No special reason. Some of it is my work. And the rest of it is my religion.”
“Oh.” Agnes would have pursued the subject a bit further but there was a more pressing matter. She looked around. “Arnie, where’s your bathroom?”
“At the end of the hall.” He went to the doorway and pointed to the open door at the end of the corridor. “Nobody’s using it now.”
Agnes smiled valiantly and, purse in hand, traveled the short distance to the floor’s one and only bathroom. She admired economy, but there was a limit. She equated separate facilities with the more primitive outhouse. She did not care for either.
Beyond responding to the call of nature, she inserted her personally prescribed diaphragm. One never knew how these evenings might end, and Agnes knew better than to trust a man to have a supply of condoms. However, what with the herpes and AIDS epidemic, she also came prepared with condoms to supply any prospective partner. Better safe than sorry, she reminded herself regularly.
She returned to the room to find Arnold standing uncertainly near the only window. He looked as if he felt trapped and was more comfortable near one of the room’s two exits.
Agnes sat on the bed and patted the space next to her, an invitation to Arnold to join her.
Instead, he took one of the two straightback chairs. He did not know what to make of her. At least she did not complain about his cigarettes. He had been smoking all evening. Although she did not join in, neither did she shrink from the clouds of smoke that had permeated the atmosphere around them. There was something to be said, he thought, for a woman who did not object to another person’s smoking these days.
But this invitation to join her on the bed? Confusing. All evening he had scrupulously treated her with all the respect due a good woman. Just as he’d been taught by all those nuns and priests in Catholic schools.
Agnes did not seem upset that Arnold had disregarded her invitation. She appeared gratified with what she took to be his naiveté.
“That’s nice,” Agnes said.
“What’s nice?”
“That you think so much of your religion . . . that you’ve got all these religious pictures on your wall. You don’t find many men like this these days.”
“I suppose. I never thought about it.”
“That’s another nice thing: that it comes to you so natural. You don’t even have to think about it.”
Bush shrugged. He was still trying to figure out what she was up to and where all this was leading.