‘Well... what’s your name?’
‘Frank.’
‘Glad to know you, Frank.’ He thrust his hand closer to the man.
‘Get lost, Happy,’ Frank said.
Pete grinned, undismayed. ‘You ought to relax,’ he said, ‘I mean it. You know, you’ve got to stop...’
‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got to stop. Who the hell are you, anyway?’
‘Pete Charpens. I told you.’
‘Take a walk, Pete Charpens. I got worries of my own.’
‘Want to tell me about them?’
‘No, I don’t want to tell you about them.’
‘Why not? Make you feel better.’
‘Go to hell, and stop bothering me,’ Frank said.
The bartender brought the second drink. He sipped at it, and then put the shot glass on the bar top.
‘Do I look like a hick?’ Pete asked.
‘You look like a goddam queer,’ Frank said.
‘No. I mean it.’
‘You asked me, and I told you.’
‘What’s troubling you, Frank?’
‘You a priest or something?’
‘No, but I thought...’
‘Look, I come in here to have a drink. I didn’t come to see the chaplain.
‘You an ex-Army man?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I was in the Navy,’ Pete said. ‘Glad to be out of that, all right. Glad to be right here where I am, in the most wonderful city in the whole damn world.
‘Go down to Union Square and get a soap box,’ Frank said.
‘Can’t I help you, Frank?’ Pete asked. ‘Can’t I buy you a drink, lend you an ear, do something? You’re so damn sad, I feel like...’
‘I’m not sad.’
‘You sure look sad. What happened? Did you lose your job?’
‘No, I didn’t lose my job.’
‘What do you do, Frank?’
‘Right now, I’m a truck driver. I used to be a fighter.’
‘Really? You mean a boxer? No kidding?’
‘Why would I kid you?’
‘What’s your last name?’
‘Blake.’
‘Frank Blake? I don’t think I’ve heard it before. Of course, I didn’t follow the fights much.’
‘Tiger Blake, they called me. That was my ring name.’
‘Tiger Blake. Well, we didn’t have fights in Whiting Centre. Had to go over to Waterloo if we wanted to see a bout. I guess that’s why I never heard of you.’
‘Sure,’ Frank said.
‘Why’d you quit fighting?’
‘They made me.’
‘Why?’
‘I killed a guy.’
Pete’s eyes widened. ‘In the ring?’
‘Of course in the ring. What the hell kind of moron arc you, anyway? You think I’d be walking around if it wasn’t in the ring? Jesus!’
‘Is that what’s troubling you?’
‘There ain’t nothing troubling me. I’m fine.’
‘Are you going home for Christmas?’
‘I got no home.’
‘You must have a home,’ Pete said gently, ‘everybody’s got a home.’
‘Yeah? Where’s your home? Whiting Centre or wherever the hell you said?’
‘Nope. This is my home now. New York City. New York, New York. The greatest goddamn city in the whole world.’
‘Sure,’ Frank said sourly.
‘My folks are dead,’ Pete said. ‘I’m an only child. Nothing for me in Whiting Centre anymore. But in New York, well, I get the feeling that I’m here to stay. That I’ll meet a nice girl here, and marry her, and raise a family here and... and this’ll be home.’
‘Great,’ Frank said.
‘How’d you happen to kill this fellow?’ Pete asked suddenly.
‘I hit him.’
‘And killed him?’
‘I hit him on the Adam’s apple. Accidentally.’
‘Were you sore at him?’
‘We were in the ring, I already told you that.’
‘Sure, but were you sore?’
‘A fighter don’t have to be sore. He’s paid to fight.’
‘Did you like fighting?’
‘I loved it,’ Frank said flatly.
‘How about the night you killed that fellow?’
Frank was silent for a long time. Then he said, ‘Get lost, huh?’
‘I could never fight for money,’ Pete said. ‘I have a quick temper, and I get mad as hell, but I could never do it for money. Besides, I’m too happy right now to...’
‘Get lost,’ Frank said again, and he turned his back. Pete sat silently for a moment.
‘Frank?’ he said at last.
‘You back again?’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you about something that’s painful to you. Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s...”
‘Forget it.’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No. I told you no a hundred times. I buy my own damn drinks!’
‘This is Christmas E...’
‘I don’t care what it is. You happy jokers give me the creeps. Get off my back, will you?’
‘I’m sorry. I just...’
‘Happy, happy, happy. Grinning like a damn fool. What the hell is there to be so happy about? You got an oil well someplace? A gold mine? What is it with you?’
‘I’m just...’
‘You’re just a jerk! I probably pegged you right the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re probably a damn queer.’
‘No, no,’ Pete said mildly. ‘You’re mistaken, Frank. Honestly, I just feel...’
‘Your old man was probably a queer, too. Your old lady probably took on every sailor in town.’
The smile left Pete’s face, and then tentatively reappeared. ‘You don’t mean that, Frank,’ he said.
‘I mean everything I ever say,’ Frank said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. He studied Pete carefully.
‘About my mother, I meant,’ Pete said.
‘I know what you’re talking about. And I’ll say it again. She probably took on every sailor in town.’
‘Don’t say that, Frank,’ Pete said, the smile gone now, a perplexed frown teasing his forehead, appearing, vanishing, reappearing.
‘You’re a queer, and your old lady was a...’
‘Stop it, Frank.’
‘Stop what? If your old lady was...’
Pete leaped off the bar stool. ‘Cut it out!’ he yelled.
From the end of the bar, the bartender turned. Frank caught the movement with the corner of his eye. In a cold whisper, he said, ‘Your mother was a slut,’ and Pete swung at him.
Frank ducked, and the blow grazed the top of his head. The bartender was coming towards them now. He could not see the strange light in Frank’s eyes, nor did he hear Frank whisper again, ‘A slut, a slut.’
Pete pushed himself off the bar wildly. He saw the beer bottle then, picked it up, and lunged at Frank.
The patrolman knelt near his body.
‘He’s dead, all right,’ he said. He stood up and dusted off his trousers. ‘What happened?’
Frank looked bewildered and dazed. ‘He went berserk,’ he said. ‘We were sitting and talking. Quiet. All of a sudden, he swings at me.’ He turned to the bartender. ‘Am I right?’
‘He was drinking,’ the bartender said. ‘Maybe he was drunk.’
‘I didn’t even swing back,’ Frank said, ‘not until he picked up the beer bottle. Hell, this is Christmas Eve. I didn’t want no trouble.’
‘What happened when he picked up the bottle?’
‘He swung it at me. So I... I put up my hands to defend myself. I only gave him a push, so help me.’
‘Where’d you hit him?’
Frank paused. ‘In... in the throat, I think.’ He paused again. ‘It was self-defence, believe me. This guy just went berserk. He musta been a maniac.’
‘He was talking kind of queer,’ the bartender agreed.
The patrolman nodded sympathetically. ‘There’s more nuts outside than there is in,’ he said. He turned to Frank. ‘Don’t take this so bad, Mac. You’ll get off. It looks open and shut to me. Just tell them the story downtown, that’s all.’