He couldn’t believe he had never heard of Albanians.
SANDY WAS WEARING her Bert Parks T-shirt with tight faded jeans. She let go of the door, resigned, walked ahead of Raymond into the living room.
“We alone?”
“You mean is Clement here? No. But Del called. He’s coming back this weekend.”
“What’s that do to your arrangement?”
“It doesn’t do nothing. I move out.”
“Clement find another place?”
Sandy seemed worn-out. She didn’t answer, she moved in a circle, indecisive, before dragging herself over to the couch and curling a leg beneath her as she sunk down.
“Tired?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Out late last night, huh?”
“Pretty late.”
Raymond came over and sat at the other end of the couch, playing with a folded piece of notepaper now, rolling it in one hand the way you might roll a cigarette.
“I’m tired too,” Raymond said. “You want to know where I’ve been?”
“Not partic’larly.”
“First I went to Hutzel…”
“What’s Hutzel?”
“It’s a hospital. Up at the Medical Center.”
Sandy held her hands close to her face, idly concentrating on a fingernail, putting it between her front teeth then, holding the nail with her teeth as she twisted the finger.
“I saw Skender.”
“Then where’d you go?”
“Skender’s in traction. He’s gonna be crippled the rest of his life. You can say, oh, what happened? And we can throw that back and forth a while, or you can tell me how you feel about it.”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” Sandy said, “so I don’t think I will.”
“You know the kind of person Skender is-quiet, very nice guy-”
“Hey, come on.” Sandy got up abruptly. She went over to the windows and stood with her back to Raymond, who rolled and unrolled the piece of notepaper between his thumb and fingers.
“What’d Clement call him, the chicken-fat Albanian?” Sandy didn’t answer. “You don’t have a typewriter, do you? I mean Del Weems.”
Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He handed her the piece of notepaper.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
Sandy unrolled it, saw:
SURPRISE
CHICKEN FAT!!!
and let the paper curl up again. Raymond took it. He left her standing at the window and returned to the couch.
“He leaves the note and shoots up my apartment with a .22. The question is, was he trying to kill me, or was he just having some fun?”
Sandy turned to the television set that was in the corner between the banks of windows, dialed the knob through the channels, back and forth, stood looking at the screen a moment, then came back to her end of the couch and sat down on her leg, her gaze holding on Bob Eubanks talking to a panel of newlywed wives, asking them what film star will their husbands say “you would most like to make whoopee with.”
“Who would you?” Raymond said.
“Robert Redford,” Sandy answered, watching the television screen. An oriental-looking newlywed wife also said Robert Redford. The other three said John Travolta.
“One time,” Sandy said, with a little more life in her now, “Bob Eubanks asked them what was the most unusual place they ever made whoopee? And this girl goes-it’s bleeped out, but you can read her lips. She goes, ‘In the ass.’ And Bob Eubanks goes, ‘No! I mean a place like a location.’ I thought he was gonna die.”
“You ever married?” Raymond asked.
“Yeah, once. This shithead from Bedford. His big ambition was to move to Indianapolis.”
“I guess you’ve seen some sights.”
“Not a whole lot worth remembering.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three.” Giving the number an edge of panic in her tone.
“I don’t mean to sound square,” Raymond said, “but you might consider a different way of life.”
Sandy was still gazing at the television screen. “Look at that”-amazed-“all four of the husbands said John Travolta. Jesus. You know how many John Travoltas there are around? If I had my choice, who I’d pick, you know who it’d be?”
“You said Robert Redford.”
“No, he’s the one I’d like to make whoopee with. No, I mean the one, like somebody I wouldn’t mind being married to.”
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t laugh, but Gregory Peck.”
“Is that right?”
“I mean a young Gregory Peck.”
“Yeah, I’ve always liked him.”
“He’s so… calm. You want to know something? When you first came here, the first time, you reminded me of him. A younger Gregory Peck-that’s what I thought of.”
Raymond smiled. “Were you smoking?”
“No. I didn’t have nothing but seeds and stems. I told you that, didn’t I? Didn’t we discuss that one time?”
“You’ve been smoking today though.”
“Some, but I don’t feel it. God, I wish I did.”
“I know what you mean,” Raymond said. “Mr. Sweety told us about the gun.”
Sandy sighed and seemed tired again. “Here we go.”
“A Walther P .38 HP model, made in Germany about 1940,” Raymond said. “It’s probably been to war, killed some people. But the only ones we know for sure it’s killed are Alvin Guy and Adele Simpson. Mr. Sweety says you’re the one gave it to him.”
“He said that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know-I thought Gregory Peck was cool,” Sandy said, “but I think you could give him some lessons. I’ve been seeing it coming and, I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t know what to do. If you think I’m gonna testify against Clement-I mean even if he was paralyzed from the neck down and had to be fed with a spoon-even if you swear you’re gonna put him away forever, like the last time, make me all these promises if I’ll say he had the gun, whatever it was that time, and I wouldn’t do it and thank God, Christ, I didn’t, cause he walked out of the courtroom, didn’t he?”
“He isn’t gonna walk this time,” Raymond said, not even convincing himself.
Sandy said, “Bull shit, you don’t know. Practically everybody he knows made him in that house-where was it, on St. Marys-with that fucking gun and he walked. The only way in the world-I’ll tell you right now-I’d ever testify against Clement is if he’s dead and buried with a stake through his heart and even then I’d be nervous.” Sandy got up. “You can send me to jail you want, but I swear I’m not saying one fucking word.” She went over to the front windows again and stood motionless, looking out.
Bob Eubanks was saying, “Now, gentlemen, listen carefully. Who will your wife say, of all your friends, is the most oversexed? First names only, please.”
Raymond got up. He walked over to the set thinking, Jerry. Turned it off and stood next to Sandy looking down at the city… cars coming off the Chrysler Freeway and turning onto Jefferson, the Renaissance Center, people in there coming out of work, conventions, meeting for drinks…
“Have you seen him today?”
“No.”
“You talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why do you stay with him?”
He didn’t think she was going to answer; but she said, after a moment, “I don’t know.” Listless again. “He’s fun…”
“He kills people.”
“I don’t know that.” She started to turn from the windows and Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, lightly, feeling small bones.
“You wish he’d disappear, leave you alone,” Raymond said. “You won’t make the move because you’re afraid to. He scares you to death. So you pretend he’s a normal person, maybe just a little wild, and say he’s fun. Was he fun when he put Skender’s leg up and took the pipe?…”