Читать книгу A House in Naples - Peter Rabe - Страница 9

TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO Rome had a harbor, Ostia. Today Ostia is like Coney Island, with the same kind of fry odors, tinsel excitement, and brass sounds of all Coney Islands. It shuts down after a while, late at night, and only some places stay open. There is a ring of permanent buildings at the edges of Ostia, old and ratty, and that part of Rome doesn’t have the excuse of real age, of being antique. It just stinks. There are rooming houses, some dives, and the usual osterias.

Charley sat in the crowded place and ate his Piatto del Giorno. It smelled more like fish than fish ought to. He looked at the packed bar, the tables that made an untidy clutter all over the room. There was a door to the corridor in the back and every so often somebody went there. It wasn’t the toilet. The toilet was outside, in the rear.

Charley pushed his plate away and moved carefully in his chair, because of his side. It was nighttime, after a bad day. He still had no name. He sat and was still running. Maybe the way things were going he wouldn’t need a new name. They’d dig up the old ones and then maybe they’d give him a number.

He ate an aspirin and ordered some coffee. The long bar was only a few feet away, but he had to yell for it because of the racket. He watched the girl wind herself his way with the cup and the pot but it took her a while. There were a lot of customers who weren’t thinking of buying coffee when she came by and then a French sailor walked up and had a discussion with her. He put his duffle bag on Charley’s table so there wasn’t much room for anything else and then his buddy came up. While they were trying to convince the girl the buddy kept sipping from the coffee she was holding. She must have said the right thing after a while because they let her pass, the sailor picked up his duffle bag, gave Charley a friendly nod, and helped put the cup and pot on the table. They took the girl by one arm each and Charley didn’t have to pay for his coffee.

The strong stuff burned his mouth, but that’s what he wanted. Another hour before making his call, and then what? The way the pressure was building up it didn’t matter much what the phone call would say. The phone call couldn’t give him a month till Del Brocco got out of jail or till Alivar got around to fixing him up. It never occurred to him to hide for a month, to wait a month or more till he looked legal again. One way or another it had to be soon, and for good.

“Hey, buddy boy.”

At first Charley didn’t hear. He was breathing carefully because of his side and he wasn’t going to make any fast movements because he felt it might end up a swing in somebody’s face.

“Dear liddle buddy boy,” said the voice again, and this time Charley couldn’t ignore it. The smell was strong and the drunk dropped in the chair opposite.

“Don’t feel so bad,” said the drunk. His confidential manner was ugly. “She’ll be back in maybe ten minutes, buddy boy, couldn’t take longer, and you can order more coffee.”

“Who asked you?”

“Who cares,” said the drunk, “as long as you’re listening.” His worn-out face made a squint and leaned closer. “And when she’s back we’re next. Them French may look hot, buddy boy, but they don’t last but a minute. Like rabbits, get it?” He laughed with his teeth showing. He didn’t have too many.

Charley sipped coffee and looked quiet. He even had the small smile around his mouth. Let the drunk talk and maybe the time will pass faster.

“And when she comes back we’ll show her what’s what, huh, buddy boy?”

“All you ever got stiff on is a bottle,” said Charley and looked friendly.

It made a pause. The drunk worked his tongue around one tooth and looked at Charley like murder.

“You trying to beat my play?” he said. “I saw her first. I been sitting here all afternoon before you ever showed up, buddy boy, and I been watching her all that time.”

“That figures.”

“You American, ain’tcha?”

Charley didn’t answer.

“So am I. That’s why I figured I give you a break, buddy. That’s the only reason I figured—”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

The drunk reached a bottle out of his coat and sucked. It wasn’t just any old hooch, but rye with an American label. That drunk had connections.

“Notice that bottle?” he said. “I ain’t been in the States for twenty years, buddy boy, but I know my way around.” He watched for Charley to look impressed but Charley only smiled.

“Twenty years on one bottle. You’re doing real good.”

The drunk answered something but Charley wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch, checking time, and thought the drunk hadn’t turned out to be the funny kind.

“—high-hat a countryman, you sonofabitch,” the drunk was saying. He sounded vicious. “Maybe you’re one of them slumming tourists coming around here, having fun with the local color? I’ll give you color, you damn sonofa—” and the drunk hauled out with his bottle.

It didn’t take much to grab the bottle away from him and push him back in his chair. But Charley was getting irritated. The time was grating him, his side hurt like hell, and he had to sit without getting anything done. He was dying for aspirin. The drunk reached for his bottle but Charley knocked his hand out of the way.

“Behave, bum. Or I’ll have you deported.”

It made the drunk laugh till his pale scalp turned red.

“Deported, he says! Deported where, Officer? To hell, maybe? I been there. To the U.S.? I can’t get a visa. Or maybe back where I come from just a few days ago? Oh, wouldn’t they love that back there. A guy pays my way all the way back like I never been gone and oboyoboy—” he ended up gurgling and reached for the bottle again.

Charley let him. He watched the wrinkled neck with the Adam’s apple jerking around and then he wiped his hands. Fifteen minutes till the call, and then run again. Back to Alivar, maybe, but first a few other stops. He had to swing it one way or another—

“You can’t deport me,” the drunk was saying. He sounded off-hand, made an important gesture. “On account of the people I know. Besides, I’m an Italian. Been that ever since Thirty-five. Boy, those were the days. Ever hear of Benny?”

“Sure. Big wheel at the Last Chance Mission.”

“Listen, you sonofabitch. Benito. I mean Benito.”

“Oh, sure. You’re the one arranged for the Abyssinian War.”

“Those were the days,” said the drunk. His eyes were up and he thought about those days. “Whaddaya mean, war?” He came back to earth, looking mean. “I was at the reception. Two of ’em! Benny’s buddy, one of his buddies was renting my villa on Ischia so that’s how we were pals. And I got to go to all the receptions, tourist! Me!”

“So what happened to Benny?”

“Who cares about Benny. Listen, tourist, I don’t need nobody. I got my own life, nobody tells me nothing, and I go where I please.” The drunk leaned his chin in one hand and looked coy. “Bet you don’t know where I was two days ago?”

“Did they have polka-dot elephants there?”

“Listen, tourist. Don’t talk. I was in Cairo, buddy boy. Five years in Cairo!”

“That’s big stuff. Real big stuff.”

“I hope to tell you,” said the drunk, and tilted the bottle. “And how did I get back?”

“By boat.”

“Right! And me, Delmont, I come and go with nobody telling me nothing. What a joke!” he laughed. “What a joke!”

“What joke?”

“Five years in Cairo, tourist, and me with no papers! All that time they’re lying here in my trunk, safe as safe, and me without papers. That’s operating!”

“I’ll say. So they threw you out. That’s real operating.”

“Who, the police?” and he gurgled his laugh again. “Listen, tourist, my buddy Amir brung me back, on his little yacht. I come back the way I left, nobody the wiser. That’s how I operate!”

“Good old Amir,” said Charley, but it sounded mechanical. He had enough of the game. It was time to phone.

“Amir is a sonofabitch,” said the drunk, “another of you high-hat sonsabitches, only Egyptian. After five years he throws me out, me, Delmont, what showed him how to operate. Listen, tourist, that lurch is no friend of mine. I only got one buddy. Me. And Bantam, maybe.”

Bantam. Charley knew of a Bantam.

“My buddy Bantam. I gotta go see him tomorrow maybe. Ten years is a long time for buddies to be apart; maybe my buddy—”

The drunk was getting whiney and Charley saw it was time. He didn’t listen any more because the drunk had done his job. Time was up. Call Joe. Charley squeezed to the bar and said he wanted a phone. He went through the curtain in back, found the door with light behind it and went in. There was a phone on the beat-up desk and a guy sleeping on a couch. Charley got Naples,

“Joe?”

“Ya. I’m here.”

“Look, Joe, it isn’t good. It’ll be a while, unless I dig something up between now and tomorrow. The merchandise I want is scarce.”

“I know. You shoulda done like I done. Start early and take your time.”

“Don’t preach, dammit. Now look, I’ll be back tomorrow late, because—”

“That’s too early, Chuck.”

“What?”

“Hell broke loose.”

“What are you talking about! Vittore lose his head?”

“He just talked.”

“Oh that everloving bastard! What—”

“They been here, looking for you. They figured I knew something, seeing Vittore hangs around our place. They’re around asking for Charley. You.”

“That figures. What did you tell them?”

“Just that they were wrong. I set up a story for you, like you told me. I told ’em—”

“Never mind, never mind. They got me identified for sure?”

“I don’t know, Chuck. Maybe not. But enough to dig up the works if you come back.”

Charley kept still after that because it was worse than ever. Don’t come back, hide someplace else, maybe let me know where you are in a while and I send you your suitcase. Or maybe you don’t even need your stuff seeing the way you’re going to be traveling, seeing you’re going to be needing a total change anyway.

“That’s how it is, Chuck. Anything you want?”

And then again this would be the time for everybody to do a little pushing, except Charley of course. He’d be the one that gets the push. Chuck pushing out, the carabinièri pushing after, Uncle Sam pushing up with some unfinished business—

“—and better don’t call any more,” said Joe, and Charley could just see that mouth hanging open, the eyes looking lazy and maybe Fanny was standing there, within reach unless there was a new model by then.

“I won’t,” said Charley.

It didn’t sound like the same voice to Joe. Something had happened at the other end of the line, something that he better know about. Then Charley told him.

“I’m coming back. With bells on.”

He hung up, went back to the bar. He wasn’t limping any more. While he paid his bill he looked around the room like he knew what he wanted.

“And gimme an empty glass,” he said to the barman who brought the change.

“And keep the change,” he said when he got the glass. Then he went and sat down where Delmont was, holding the bottle.

The drunk had been coasting with just a nip here and there because what he mostly wanted was talk. That tourist bastard was okay. A little out of focus maybe and kind of snotty when he opened his mouth but he didn’t talk much. He listened. He didn’t impress much but that would come, tourist bastards always impressed after a while. Might even be good for some fun, or a sucker play. Somebody was due for a sucker play right around then because Delmont himself had been getting it in the neck lately, too much lately, like getting the boot from that buddy bastard Amir in Cairo, like being stranded with just one bottle left between him and the screaming willies—so when Charley sat down and took the bottle out of his hand it was a surprise. Charley poured into his glass, gave the bottle back, and hoisted his glass.

“To Delmont,” he said and drank.

If Delmont had known that Charley never drank, almost never, he would have watched out. He would have held on to his bottle and made a beeline for the first open door or window or crack in the wall.

“Hey,” he said and worked his tongue around that tooth.

“That’s better, Delmont. Talk it up. Make it gay. Come on, up on your feet. This place is too noisy. I can hardly hear what you’re saying.”

“Hey,” said Delmont, but Charley had him up and talked friendly.

“Where’s your room, buddy? You got a room?”

“What in hell—”

“So you can talk some more. Big shot like you ought to have lots to talk about. All right, big shot. You do the talking and I bring the bottle. A full one, big shot.”

“Upstairs,” said Delmont. “Upstairs in the back. And you bring the—”

“Yeah. I’ll bring the.”.

Charley got a quart of bar cognac and steered the drunk to the rear. There were doors all along the corridor and in back, where the lightbulb hung, there was a staircase. The downstairs rooms didn’t have permanent guests, just rabbit jobs like the two sailors. But upstairs you could stay all night, even longer. Maybe it wouldn’t take all night, Charley was thinking. Plan it right, get to work with no small talk in between, and maybe it wouldn’t take all night. It wouldn’t take a month, that was a cinch. After all, what’s four questions?

Delmont opened the room in back and switched on the light. There was a bed, a table, two chairs, and a suitcase under the bed. The drunk looked around, then at Charley, as if he was waiting to be commended. In the adjoining room somebody giggled.

“This one’s on me,” said Charley and plunked the full bottle on the table.

Delmont got it open and drank. There was a small window behind the drunk. It gave out to a blind wall where a storehouse backed up to the yard. Charley watched the wall and waited for Delmont to get done with the bottle.

When Delmont was through he wheezed in his throat, put the bottle down and eyed Charley. Charley was smiling again. Cold-nosed like a dog. One queer sucker, thought Delmont. Better have one more drink. But now Charley had the bottle, filling his glass, and then he hoisted it like before.

“To Delmont,” he said.