Part 6 (1/2)
”You see that pocketbook there in the corner, what do you think that pocketbook is doing there?”
”What pocket - Oh.”
”Yeah, oh.”
”I'm sorry. I didn't see it when I sat down.”
”Yeah, well now you see it.”
”And there wasn't a gla.s.s or anything on the table, so I-”
”That's 'cause I didn't order yet. I was in the powder room.”
”Oh,” Roger said.
She had red hair, and the red hair was the only attractive thing about her, and he suspected even that was fake. She was wearing fake eyelashes, and she had penciled fake eyebrows onto her forehead and had made her mouth more generous by running a fake line of lipstick up beyond its natural boundaries. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s under the silk blouse were very high and pointed, with that same fake look the eyelashes and the lipstick and the eyebrows had. Her hair was a bright red, almost an orange, straight from a bottle, he supposed. She was altogether a pretty sad specimen. Even her legs weren't too hot; he supposed there was nothing she could do to fake them up a little.
”Well, I'm sorry,” he said, ”I'll just take my beer and move to another booth.”
”Thanks,” she said, ”I'd appreciate it.”
She kept standing by the booth with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to pick up his bottle of beer, and his half-full gla.s.s of beer and move to another booth. The trouble was he had taken off his shoes in order to warm his feet against the radiator, which was on the wall under the table, and he had to put his shoes on now before he could move. He swung his stockinged feet out from under the table and then searched for his right shoe. He put that on while she watched him silently with her hands on her hips. Then he reached under the table for the second shoe and couldn't find it, and got down on his hands and knees and went searching for it that way. She just kept watching with her hands on her hips all the while, not saying a word until finally she said, ”Oh, for Pete's sake, never mind! I'll move! Would you please hand me my bag?”
”I'm sorry, but-”
”Don't be so sorry, for Pete's sake, just give me my bag!”
”I took off my shoes because-”
”What are you, a farmer or something? What do you think this is, your own living room? Taking off your shoes? In a public place like this? Boy, you've really got some nerve, mister, I'm telling you!”
”It's just that my feet-”
”Never mind!”
”Here's your bag.”
”Thank you. Thank you a whole h.e.l.l of a lot,” she said, and swiveled off angrily to a booth across the room and at an angle to the one he occupied. He watched her backside as she crossed the room, and thought some women just didn't have anything, some women were just the unlucky ones in this world, they didn't have pretty faces, nor good legs nor b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and even their backsides looked like a truckdriver's.
It seemed to him he always got the ugly girls.
As far back as he could remember, even when he was in the second grade at Carey Elementary, when his father was still alive, all he ever got was the ugly girls. There was Eunice McGregor, who was possibly the ugliest kid ever born to anyone in the United States, well, her mother was no prize either, that was for sure. But she had a crush on him, and she told everybody she loved him, and she warned him she would break his nose - she was a very big girl - if he didn't give her a kiss whenever she demanded one, G.o.d she was ugly. That was in the second grade. After his father died, it seemed he got the ugly girls more and more often. He couldn't understand why they were all so attracted to him. His mother had been pretty as a picture when she was younger, and she still had a fine handsome look about her, it was the bones, you couldn't rob a pretty woman of her facial bones, they were always there, fifty, sixty, even into the seventies. His mother was only forty-six, and she still had those fine bones; sometimes she would actually laugh at some of the girls who were attracted to him. She told him once that she thought he was purposely looking for all the ugly ducklings he could find. He sure as h.e.l.l couldn't understand what she'd meant by that. He hadn't said anything to her, he didn't like to contradict her when she said something, she'd only think he was being sa.s.sy. But he'd thought about it a lot. It made him wonder, what she'd said.
Looking across to where the redheaded girl was adjusting herself in the booth opposite, doing so with all the fuss and annoyance of somebody who is just about fit to bust, he felt the same happiness he had felt before leaving the room at Mrs. Dougherty's. He watched the girl with an odd, rising feeling of tenderness toward her, pleased by the very fussy little annoyed female things she was doing in the booth opposite, pulling the skirt down over her knees, and smoothing the front of her blouse, and tucking back a stray wisp of hair, and then glancing around for the waiter and signaling to him in a prissy, annoyed, very dignified, feminine way, he almost burst out laughing. She made him feel real good. Now that his feet were warm again (his mother had told him never to take off his shoes when his feet were cold, just leave them on until the feet warmed up inside, and they wouldn't never get cold again that whole day, but he never listened to her about his feet, they were his feet and he by G.o.d knew how to make them warm) - now that his feet were warm, and now that he had a good gla.s.s of beer inside him and was in a nice warm place with a juke box going at the other end with a soft dreamy song, now he began thinking about how much money he had got for the stuff he'd brought to the city, and he began feeling very good about it again, and he thought somehow the redheaded girl, well, the fake redhead, had something to do with the way he was feeling. He watched her as she ordered, and then he watched as she got up and walked to the juke box and made a selection, and then went back to the booth. n.o.body in the place was paying the smallest bit of attention to her. There were maybe a dozen or so men in the bar, and only four girls besides the redhead, but n.o.body was making a rush to her booth, in spite of the shortage. He sat and watched her. She knew he was watching her, but she very carefully made sure she didn't look once in his direction, pretending she was still very angry because he had taken her booth.
He knew he would go to bed with her.
He wasn't at all excited by the idea because she wasn't pretty or even attractive. He just knew he would go to bed with her, that was all. He just knew that before the night ended, he would be in bed with her.
Sitting on the bench opposite the police station now, he wondered how he could explain to the police that he had known he would be going to bed with the redheaded girl. How could he explain to them that he had known he would go to bed with her but hadn't been excited by the idea, how could he explain that?
How could he go in there and tell them all about this? What would his mother think when she - well, it didn't matter, that part of it certainly didn't matter. It was just sitting across from somebody and talking about taking a girl to bed that would be very difficult. There wasn't anybody in the world he talked to about things like that, not even his mother, certainly not his mother, nor even his brother Buddy. How could he tell about Molly to a strange detective?
The idea came to him like a bolt of lightning, just like that, pow, out of the blue.
He would telephone.
He would go to a telephone booth, but wait, there were no separate listings for the precincts, how could he possibly Parker, that was his name. The detective in the luncheonette. Parker, of the 87th Squad, and the globes across the street were each marked with an 87, which meant this was Parker's precinct. Okay, he would call police headquarters and say that he was supposed to call a detective named Parker of the 87th Squad, but he had lost the number Parker had given him, and would they please give him the number. Maybe they would connect him direct, maybe they had a big switchboard down there that connected to all the precincts in the city. Or maybe they would simply give him the number of the 87th Precinct and then he would call it himself and ask to talk to a detective - not Parker, absolutely not Parker - it would be as easy as that.
Pleased, he got off the bench.
He took a last look at the police station, smiled, and walked out of the park, looking for the drugstore he had been in earlier that morning.
5.
The sergeant who answered the phone at police headquarters listened patiently while Roger told his invented story about Detective Parker, and then said, ”Hold on, please.” Roger waited. He a.s.sumed the sergeant was checking to see if there really was a Detective Parker in the 87th Squad. Or maybe the sergeant didn't give a d.a.m.n one way or the other. Maybe he received similar calls a hundred times, a thousand times each day. Maybe he'd been bored stiff listening to Roger's story, and maybe he was bored stiff now as he looked up the number of the precinct.
”h.e.l.lo,” the sergeant said.
”Yes?”
”That number is Frederick 7-8024.”
”Frederick 7-8024, thank you,” Roger said.
”Welcome,” the sergeant answered, and hung up. Roger felt in his pocket for another dime, found one, put it in the slot, waited for a dial tone, and began dialing.
FR7.
Quickly, he put the receiver back onto the hook.
What would he say when they answered? h.e.l.lo, my name is Roger Broome, I want to tell you about this girl Molly, you see we met in a bar and What? they would say.
Who? they would say.
What the h.e.l.l is this all about, mister?
He sat motionless and silent for perhaps three minutes, staring at the face of the telephone. Then he felt in the return chute for his coin, leadenly lifted his hand, and deposited the dime once again. The dial tone erupted against his ear. Slowly, carefully, he began dialing.
FR7,.
8,0,.
2,4.
He waited. The phone was ringing on the other end. He listened to it ring. The rings sounded very far away instead of just a few blocks from where he was. He began counting the rings, they must have been having a busy time over at that station house, seven, eight, nine ”87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”