The one pill didn't do a thing but put me in a sort of daze—and I had a head start on that. I stretched out on the bed and wasn't asleep, at least I don't think I was. I stared up at the darkness and for no reason lazily ran through my life.
Right from Mom's funeral, and her looking so cold and different in the cheap casket, so different from the way she was gay and full of jokes in our room. Then moving in with Aunt May, and all the times I ran away from that silly old bitch with her big house and a million rules about “Don't do that!” She meant well, I guess, but an old-maid bitch is the worst kind. And the three years in the “home.” Some home! I was more muscular than the average ten-year-old and I learned two things in the home. Many times a day I found out I was a bastard—till I teed off on a big kid—and also learned I could punch.
On the TV screen that was my mind I saw the semi-pro sand-lot football games, how I lived all week on the ten or fifteen bucks I made as a tackle—if we won. The bootleg boxing bouts when a carload of us “amateurs” would tour in a battered heap from New York to Albany, Utica, Buffalo, Toronto, Montreal, Binghamton—fighting each night under a phony name, returning to New York with a hundred bucks or more in our pockets, sure we owned the world.
Suddenly the girls passed on the screen of my brain—the first one I went with, up in Syracuse, and I was older than I should have been. Then all the other babes—blurred faces and figures. If I had left the gals alone I might have got someplace in the ring. I was a lot like Tony Galento in build and style. But that's slop, I was always an alley fighter—ring rules bothered my style, slowed me to a walk.
The crazy thing was, the next thing I knew I was sitting up in bed, as if an alarm clock had gone off. I felt rested and full of pep. The room gave me the spooks. I showered and cleaned out my mouth. It was only 4:30 a.m. when I tossed my key at the sleepy desk clerk he asked, “Leaving so early?” as he dived for the registration card.
“Don't worry, I'm paid—for two days. I'm done with the room. Use it for a crap game if you like.”
I walked down to Ninety-sixth Street and took the subway. The hot, stale air of the train took away my good mood. There was a creepy-looking case sitting opposite me—looked like a junkie. I sat down and pretended I was sleeping. I'd read where these punks often knifed a drunk as they rolled him.
I sat there waiting, watching, wondering if I'd try to stop the knife, like I did the pills and the gun. Then I was full of this cold fear that I wouldn't be able to die soon enough, would end up a lingering corpse in a hospital.
We were alone most of the time, but my creep didn't move. At my station I got off, feeling kind of childish, and walked over to the Grover. It was a little after five.
When Dewey saw me he asked in a whisper, “Where the hell you been?” He didn't sound like he'd been sleeping much, looked more red-eyed than usual.
“On the town, having a gay old time.”
“Jeez, whole damn town's been looking for you. That Doc Dupre has been calling all night. Then the cops been calling you, a Lieutenant Ash. And she's been waiting for you most of the evening.”
I followed his skinny, shaking finger, saw Dot curled up in one of the leather chairs. She wasn't asleep; her eyes were big and tired. She looked about the same, small and plump. And her clothes were still the kind of rags she had to wear because it was against the law to go nude. Style and sharp dressing were things Dot never bothered with.
As I walked toward her I saw the eyes were puffed from crying. Curled up, she looked smaller than ever. I pulled a chair over, sat down. “What's wrong, Dot?”
“Lawrence was beaten up, badly. He may die.”
“What? the kid...? When?”'
“Late this—yesterday afternoon.” Her voice was almost lifeless, and she seemed in a state of shock. “He'd volunteered for duty and he was beaten up on his way to the station house.”
“Where is he now?”
“Emergency ward, St. Vincent's. Marty, you must help us.”
“All right. What does the kid need, blood?” Would they take mine when I told them about the cancer?
“They're taking care of him. That isn't it. Marty, they killed Mac. I couldn't stand it if I lost my Lawrence!” Her voice quickened and she took my hand, clung to it so hard her nails cut me.
“I know how you feel. I'm sure the cops will...”
“No, Marty! I want you to do it.”
I stroked her hand. “Do what?”
“Marty, I don't know if I'm crazy or what. I know revenge is stupid and wrong, but all I've been able to think about since this happened is—I want you to get whoever did this. Marty, at times you're good and kind, and at other times you're mean and cruel, vicious—I'm appealing to the mean streak in you, your nasty side—get whoever did this so he'll never be able to hurt another Lawrence again!”
“All right. How bad is the kid?”
“Still on the critical list, but they say he has a chance. He's calling for you.” She dug her nails into my palm again. “Marty, you'll do this for me, for Lawrence?”
“Yes. I told you I would.”
She dropped my hand, stood up, said simply, “Thank you, Marty,” and headed toward the door.
I ran after her. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I'm very tired.” Her voice was dead, listless.”
“I'll get you a cab.”
“Don't bother. Marty, turn your strength, your cruelty, your toughness to some good—find out who did this.”
“All right, all right, but let me get you a cab.”
We stopped a cruising taxi over on Winter Street and she gave him an address way uptown and I slipped him five bucks, told him to take her directly there.
As the taxi drove off, I had a mouthful of bile, or something that tasted bitter as hell. I had my own troubles, and now this.
I spat the bitter stuff out and walked toward St. Vincent's Hospital.
Three
At the hospital a doctor told me, “It's good you've come, Mr. Bond, he keeps asking for you. Perhaps if you spoke to him for a few seconds, he'll relax and go to sleep. Sleep is so important for him.”
“How bad is he?”
“Off the critical list, temporarily. He's been beaten up by a professional, if you know what I mean. In the space of seconds he received a concussion and a nasty scalp cut— from a gun butt no doubt—a broken nose, broken eardrum, and internal injuries. I imagine after he was knocked down he was stomped upon—he has what appears to be a small rupture of the left kidney plus several broken ribs. That's all we've been able to find, so far. He's passing blood in his urine which could mean other injuries beside the kidney.”
“Can he talk?”
“Oh, yes. He's under a sedative, but continues to fight sleep, has been asking for you all night. Let him talk himself out and say nothing that will excite him.”
“All right.”
He took me into the kid's room, and Lawrence was just another body in a white bed, his head and face wrapped in bandages like a mummy. The doc left and when I said, “Hello, Lawrence,” the bandages moved and a small voice asked, “Marty? Marty?”