The Wounded and the Slain Read online

  She went on pouting about it, remaining crouched behind the bar. A bleeding Jamaican came flying over the top and landed in a senseless heap beside her. As he went deeper into slumber, he used her head for a pillow. Without giving any thought to it, she put her arm around him, sort of cradling him. That made it less lonely here, even though there was still no one to talk to.

  Some moments later one of the Norwegians described an awkward somersault that brought him down behind the bar. He came to rest on the other side of Winnie, with his feet sticking up in the air. She gave him a push that put him right side up, and then, semiconscious, he fell against her. So that now she didn’t feel lonely at all, and the sullen dismal pouting was gone. She sat there between the slumbering Jamaican and the dazed Norwegian, her arms around their shoulders. There was a dim, wistful smile on her lips, sort of a Madonna smile. Her flat, dried-up breasts seemed to be filling; she sensed the flow, the slow serene current of feeling that they really needed her now.

  It was a very pleasant feeling and she drifted deeper into it, became lost in it, and didn’t hear the noises of battle that came crashing in from the other side of the bar. She didn’t even hear the customer who was pounding on the bar and demanding another drink.

  “Come on, I’m thirsty,” Bevan complained. He hit his clenched hands against the wooden surface of the bar. “What’s the matter here? The bartenders on strike?”

  He’d given up waiting for a waitress and had managed to get to his feet, had worked his way slowly and staggeringly across the room, moving through the chaos of all-out combat that enveloped him and slammed into him but somehow failed to knock him off his feet. He was dimly aware that something hectic was happening, but it didn’t mean anything to his liquor-soaked brain. He wanted another drink and that was all.

  Again he rapped his knuckles against the top of the bar. He said, “What’s holding up the play? You think I’m a—” A fist meant for someone else’s face clipped him on the side of the head. He staggered and almost fell, his hands clutching at the edge of the bar. He blinked a few times, then tried again. “You think I’m a loafer or something? You think—” And then from the other side he was bumped violently by a Jamaican sailing backward after taking a hard punch in the mouth. In almost the same instant someone’s elbow caught him in the ribs, and a broken chair leg aimed at someone’s skull hit Bevan’s shoulder instead. He gave a sigh of weary annoyance and said, “Oh, leave me alone, for Christ’s sake. Go play in the yard or something.” Then, resuming his attempt to purchase a drink, “Let’s examine the facts of this matter. I said I’m not a loafer. You hear me? I’m not here to take up space. I’m a cash customer. I’ll prove it.” His hand groped for his lapel, missed it a few times, then found it, found the inside breast pocket, and took out the wallet. He opened the wallet, displaying green paper and saying indignantly, “There. You see? You see?”

  But it didn’t get him a drink. It didn’t even get a spoken reply. He sighed again, closed the wallet, and put it back in his pocket. “O.K.,” he said, more sadly than indignantly. “If that’s the way it is, I’ll take my trade somewhere else.”

  He meant it, too. He seriously meant it. He had to get that drink, and the need for it throbbed in his brain as he gazed around, searching for the nearest exit. He saw the side door at the far end of the bar and started pushing his way toward it, slowly forcing a path through the swarming, seething mass of wild-eyed men. Somehow they had him listed as a neutral, and without giving any thought to it they refrained from banging at him as he made his way toward the side door.

  But there was one Jamaican whose attention had been drawn to the displayed wallet and the thick sheaf of green bills it contained. The Jamaican’s eyes became narrow and calculating. He detached himself from the whirlpool of battle and his expression was catlike as he followed the drunken tourist toward the exit that led to a dark alley.

  Bevan arrived at the door and opened it and stumbled outside. The alley was very dark. It was littered with garbage and tin cans and empty bottles. He stood there blinking and frowning, trying to get his bearings. The thing to do was make it back to Barry Street and find another house where they’d sell him a drink. He mumbled aloud, “Which way is Barry Street?” and then decided it must be that faint glow of lamplight filtering through the darkness not very far away. He took a few steps in that direction, tripped over a garbage can, and fell flat. He pulled himself up, stepped past the overturned garbage can, then kicked aside some empty bottles, saying to anyone who cared to listen, “Where’s the street cleaners around here? Why don’t they get to work?”

  The reply was a footstep that he didn’t hear, and a moment later it was a blackjack coming toward his skull. But he was a poor target, swaying drunkenly, and the blackjack only grazed his shoulder. He thought it was some night bird flying past, and turned his head to see if another night bird was coming. The lamplight drifting in from Barry Street showed him the black shape of a leather-covered cudgel, above it the black face of the Jamaican. He shrugged and then said, “Come on, take me to a bar. We’ll get a drink.”

  The Jamaican worked the blackjack in a sideward arc aimed at Bevan’s temple. Bevan’s arm came up instinctively and he took the impact just below his elbow. The Jamaican became impatient and made another try. Again Bevan took it on his forearm, the force of it going through his arm and against his ribs and sending him sideways going down. He landed on his hip, looked up and saw the Jamaican’s eyes telling him this was for real, and told himself he had to do something, he couldn’t just sit there and take it.

  As the blackjack came down again, he rolled away, then rolled back so that his weight came in hard against the Jamaican’s legs. The Jamaican went down but came up fast, still holding onto the blackjack. Bevan glanced around, saw an empty bottle nearby, reached out, and grabbed it. In that instant the Jamaican was closing in and swinging the blackjack. Bevan raised the bottle, using it for a shield. The blackjack hit the bottle, cracking it along the side near the bottom. In Bevan’s hand the broken bottle gleamed with a sudden importance that caused the Jamaican to hesitate. But he came lunging in again, his right hand swinging the cudgel and his left hand shooting out to get inside Bevan’s jacket. He was trying to do two things at once and it fouled him up;

  the blackjack missed and his left hand swept past Bevan’s shoulder. The impetus of his lunge ended his life. The cutting edge of the broken bottle sliced his throat and split his jugular vein. All he could do was make a few gurgling sounds, and then he was finished.

  Bevan lifted himself to his feet. He looked down at the motionless body. It was resting face down. He said, “You all right?” For some moments he stood there waiting for an answer. Then somehow he knew there’d be no answer. But even so, he told himself, you’d better have a look and make sure. He leaned over and turned the body on its back. And then he was staring at the bulging unblinking eyes that started back at him and said, Look what you did. Look what you did to me.

  He moved away from the corpse, headed blindly toward any place at all that would get him far away from here. He went down the alley away from Barry Street, through another alley, and then another. And finally he found himself on Harbour Street. In the distance he could see the lighted windows of the Laurel Rock Hotel.

  Chapter Four

  There was a side entrance that brought him into a foyer off the main lobby. At this late hour there was no doorman, no bellhops or attendants moving around. That helps some, he thought, looking down at his bloodstained clothes. His clothes were brightly, stickily stained with Norwegian and Jamaican blood.

  The foyer had its own stairway. His rum-glazed eyes tried to focus on the stairs as he went up very slowly, somewhat zigzag. Some years ago he’d done some mountain climbing, and this was like a fifth-grade ascent; it seemed almost vertical, really a tricky proposition. He seriously wondered if he could make it to the third floor.

  It took him several minutes to get to the third floor. He weaved and staggered along th
e corridor, arrived at 307, and began groping for the room key in whatever pocket he’d put it in. But somehow his fingers couldn’t get anywhere near the right pocket. Finally he gave it up. He leaned his forehead against the door, hitting the heel of his palm against the wooden panel. It made only a small sound and he tried to hit the door harder but his arm lacked the power. His arm and all the rest of him felt like a lump of damp clay.

  He went on hitting the door. Eventually he heard her calling, “Who is it?”

  “The milkman,” he said, wondering why he had to put it that way. Or maybe it was better to put it that way. “James?”

  “Check,” he said. His eyes were half closed and he was trying to grin. If she saw him grinning it might be easier for her. He wanted to make it easier for her. He said, “It’s James the milkman.”

  The door opened. He was doing his best not to fall headlong into the room. He went on grinning as he swayed like a thin-stemmed plant in a stiff wind.

  He couldn’t see her yet. All he saw was something wispy white, sort of yellow on top. That’s probably her hair, he thought, her adorable pale-gold tresses.

  Cora pulled him into the room and closed the door. “Good evening,” he said, and she said, “Just stand there. Don’t touch anything.” He heard her moving away, and then in the darkness she was at the windows, pulling the blinds down all the way.

  “What’s all the commotion?” he wanted to know. She didn’t answer. She came toward him and went past him, going to the wall and flicking the light switch.

  The ceiling bulbs were very bright and the light hurt his eyes. He stood there blinking hard. “The better to see me, my dear? What’s there to see?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Not hardly. I’ll just float. Where do you want me to float?”

  “Float into the bathroom.”

  “Why the bathroom? I’m not sick.”

  “I want you to take off your clothes,” she said. “If you take them off in here, you’ll mess up the entire room.”

  “I guess you have a point there.” But he didn’t move. He was still grinning and blinking hard in the brightness of the room.

  “Please go into the bathroom.”

  He didn’t move. He put his fingers against his bloodstained jacket. “It’s so sticky,” he said. “It’s like raspberry jam.”

  She said very slowly, “Will you please go into the bathroom?”

  He went into the bathroom. He sat down on the tile floor. He bent over and tried to take off his shoes. Boola-boola, he sang without sound. And then, with sound, “Bulldog! Bulldog! Rah-rah-rah! E-li Yale!” His fingers fell away from the shoelaces and he toppled over at an acute angle that sent his head banging against the side of the bathtub. The impact, added to the rum and everything else, was just a little too much for him, and he went out.

  Then hours later he opened his eyes. He saw thin streams of daylight seeping in through the blinds. Of course, the first thing he wanted was a drink. He reached mechanically for the phone on the table beside his bed. But then he saw her in the other bed. She was awake and she was looking at him.

  “Oh, hello,” he said.

  She nodded toward the telephone. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought I’d ring for a drink.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Go right ahead.”

  “What’s the matter?” And then, a trifle louder, “What’s the matter with you?” She didn’t answer.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll ring for breakfast instead. What would you like for breakfast?” “I don’t want any breakfast.”

  He removed his hand from the telephone. “You know something? We haven’t sampled much of their food. Keeps up like this, they’ll think we’re staging a hunger strike.”

  She was quiet for some moments. Then, not looking at him, “Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s still rather early.” She gestured toward the clock on the dresser. The hands pointed to a little after six-fifteen.

  He looked at the face of the clock. He said, “Yes, it’s very early. It’s certainly too early in the morning to talk. Or let’s change that. Let’s say it’s too late to talk. That is, unless you feel like talking.”

  “I wish you’d go back to sleep.”

  “All right, dear. Anything you say. You want me to sleep, I’ll sleep. You want me not to wake up, I won’t wake up.”

  “Is that necessary? Talking that way?”

  He didn’t reply. He was giving some serious thought to that question. But reaching for an answer was like groping in a dark deep pool, too dark and too deep. He said to himself, Let it alone, let it drift away. He said to Cora, “I hope you’ll pardon me. I’m a trifle hazy this fine morning. Purely a matter of biochemistry, the natural effect of hundred-proof nectar of the sugar cane on John W. Hemoglobin, resulting in a rather unique color scheme, the red and white playing second fiddle to amber-colored corpuscles. Incidentally, how in God’s name did I get in this bed?” “I put you there.”

  “You did?” And then seriously, really meaning it, “Oh, I’m sorry about that. It must have been quite a strain.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re not very heavy, James. And besides, I’ve done it before. I’ve done it so many times before.”

  “You sure have,” he said. “You’re a true friend and a boon companion and—”

  “I put your clothes in the bathtub,” she interrupted quietly. “I’m letting them soak, but of course it won’t do any good, the suit is ruined. It’s a pity, you wore it only a few times.”

  “Maybe if I have it dry-cleaned—”

  “You can’t do that,” she said. “You know you can’t do that.”

  He glanced around the room. “I wish this layout had a fireplace.”

  “Oh, well, we won’t worry about it now. We’ll think of something.” But as she said it, her voice quivered.

  The quivering came at him in a series of tiny waves that felt ice-cold, and he almost shivered as it went into him, telling him what an effort she was making to remain calm, her throat choked with the stifled questions: What happened last night? How did you get all that blood on your clothes? What are you trying to hide from me?

  He gave a little sigh and said, “No use keeping you guessing. You’re due to find out sooner or later and it might as well come from me. What happened was”— and he was trying to shrug as he let it out—“a man tried to get my wallet.” “You didn’t—”

  “Yes, I did.” He sighed again. “All he wanted was my money. I could have given him the money and let it go at that. Or let him hit me with the blackjack. He wouldn’t have done much damage—he wasn’t swinging for the fences. Just an infield single.”

  “James—”

  “A broken bottle, that’s what did it. I picked up the bottle and— Poor devil, he looked so full of life just before it happened.”

  “Maybe it didn’t happen. After all, you were very drunk. You can’t be sure—”

  “I’m sure. I’m quite sure.”

  Then he looked at her. He saw she was sitting on the edge of her bed. Now her eyes were closed and she had her hands pressed against her chest. She seemed awfully frail and helpless sitting there, like a maiden captured by demons and about to be sacrificed. Or make it one demon, he thought. Just one. A rum-drunk demon, and when it wasn’t rum it was gin and when it wasn’t gin it was bourbon or rye or whatever they had to sell. Well, you’ve done it now. You’ve really given it to her this time. You’ve given it to her good and proper, mister. Strictly according to the rulebook used by your brother demons. We’re all of us a very select group and we can’t do it any other way; a chartered society of wasted protoplasm, each of us wearing the lodge pin with the one-word motto inscribed: Impotent.

  So if we can’t do it one way, we do it another. Some of us go to private showings of contraband cinema. And some go in for live showings where the admission is fifteen dollars and up. But that’s too unsanitary for most of us. Most of us try very hard to be sanitary, or call i
t gentlemanly, call it anything you like, it’s nevertheless a sham, a falsity. So it’s always Halloween in this league; there isn’t a single maneuver that’s genuine. On the surface you cut his throat in self-defense, and under the surface, under all the rum and the silliness, your mood was homicidal. Now go ahead and try to deny that.

  Try to deny you didn’t mean to do it, you didn’t want to do it. But remember, you can’t be cagey with this party. This party knows you, sees inside you. All you can say to this party is: I saw something yesterday that set me off, started me on a campaign aimed at destruction. Yes, I looked out that window and saw her down there at the side of the swimming pool with the suddenly acquired boyfriend we’ve named Flatnose or Carrot-top or any name at all that tries to make it comical. But of course it wasn’t comical, and when you walked out of the hotel and headed for God-knows-what, it was actually you-know-what and you won’t admit it. Because you were completely disorganized, you lacked whatever it took to go down there to the swimming pool and confront them and assert your claim to this woman, assert your manhood.

  Some manhood. The only thing you had was yellow jelly inside that got to boiling up and boiling over and you felt the need to strike at something, destroy something.

  That makes it premeditated, I guess. What do you mean, you guess? The taxi driver wasn’t guessing when he took off in nothing flat. He saw it in your eyes and he knew his only move was rapid transfer. Oh, well, you must have thought without knowing you thought it: I missed getting this one but I’ll get the next one.

  At any rate, the windup came according to the blueprint. And who’s the architect? He’s an unseen instigator who specializes in the unpredictable. In this case he drew up a set of plans that started with two people sitting in beach chairs near a swimming pool, and ended with broken glass in the throat of a man I’d never seen before.

  I think it would be entirely in order if you said all this out loud so she could know just what you are, what you’re made of. But that’s the tickler; it’s this yellow jelly you’re made of that causes the traffic jam and prevents a verbal statement. It would be interesting, though. It would be an interesting experiment if you could get all this past your lips.