The door swung behind Kidd. When it slammed, only one looked up.
Against the wall leaned a motorcycle with a day-glo gas tank. In one corner stood a dressmaker's mannequin, splashed with red paint, head twisted to the side, and looped with rounds of greasy chain (but none of the kind Kidd wore under his shirt and pants).
"I been doing work for the people upstairs. I was just wondering who was down here." The room smelled stale, and the cooking odor brought him momentarily back to a filthy fried-food stand where he had not been able to finish eating in waterfront Caracas. "That's why I came down."
Somewhere the sound of water ceased. Wet, blond hair dripping down his shoulders, a boy walked, naked, into the room, picked up a pair of black jeans. Glistening, he balanced on one leg. He glanced at Kidd, grinned: then his foot, bunioned, hammer-toed, and mostly ankle (with a dog's choke chain wrapped three times around it), went into the denim.
"The people upstairs?" The man shook his head, chuckling. "They must be somethin', all the shit that comes down here. What they do to each other all the time? Hey, you want to smoke some dope? Smokey, get our friend here some dope. Get me some too." The girl moved away. "You like dope, man, don't'cha?"
Kidd shrugged. "Sure."
"Hey, yeah. I thought you looked like you did." He grinned and hooked his thumbs over his beltless jeans; his first finger joints were tattooed love and hate. Between thumb and forefinger on the left was a large, red 13. "The noise that comes down here out of that place; was he beatin' her up last night?"
"Huh?" Kidd asked. "I thought you made all the damn noise."
Someone else said: "Oh, man, there was all sorts of crying and stuff comin' down."
And someone else: "Look, Thirteen; what come up from this place must be pretty weird too sometimes."
The second voice was familiar. Kidd looked for it:
Sitting on the bottom bunk, out of the light, was the newspaper carrier, Joaquim Faust — who now raised a finger in greeting. "How you doing, kid?"
Kidd gave back a bewildered smile.
There was someone in the bed Faust sat on.
Smokey returned with a glass jar, a plastic hose and brass bowl in the rubber stopper.
Thirteen took it from her. "God-damn water pipe, and you think somebody would fill it up with water — or wine or something. That's nice too, you know? Creme de Menthe or like that." He shook his head. "Nobody's got time." On the wall he struck a wooden match. "Some good hash, man." He pursed his lips on the rubber tube. The flame suddenly inverted over the brass. The bottle swirled with grey. "Here you go!" he mouthed, with tucked chin.
Kidd took the warm glass and sucked sweet, chalky smoke.
The arch of air grew solid beneath his sternum: breath held, palate tight, somewhere after ten seconds he felt sweat on the small of his back. "Thanks…!" Smoke exploded from his nose.
The pipe had gone to others.
"What kind of work you doing?"
"Hey, Thirteen, he gonna eat?" somebody called from the kitchen.
Through the doorway Kidd saw an enamel stove licked with burn marks.
The boy from the shower stooped to buckle his boots. "Give you a hand in a second." He tucked his cuffs into the boot tops, and stood. Scratching his wet belly, he ambled inside and asked, "What is that shit, anyway?"
"I've been moving furniture around for them, upstairs." Kidd said. "Thirteen — that's you?"
Thirteen raised his tattooed hand, then snapped his fingers. "Sure. Come on in, come on inside and sit." The girl passed Thirteen the water pipe and he extended it toward Kidd. "And have another toke."
Kidd drew in another chest full, and passed the pipe to someone else who wandered by.
Holding in the hash, Kidd noticed the mirror on the side wall, the end table with the crumpled antimacassar lingering from previous occupancy. He coughed: "How—" plosive with smoke—"long have you guys been down here?" What covered the door hole was the framed photograph of mother, father, and three children in their dated sailor suits, with the cracked coverglass.
"Too—" Thirteen exploded smoke of his own—"much. Somebody left that in the hallway, you know?"
He nodded.
Thirteen went on, "I just been here a couple of weeks. I mean in this place. Guys in and out here all the time. I don't even know how long I been in the city. Months, maybe. Cool. You?"
"Days." He looked again to Faust.
Faust was looking intently at the shape in the blanket.
Thirteen looked too, shook his head. "She got messed up, you know? I think she's got an infection or something. Course, it could be bubonic plague for all I know." He jabbed Kidd with his elbow. "Long as you're healthy, Bellona is great. But there's no doctors or nothing, you know?"
"Yeah. That must be bad."
From the kitchen; "What did you put in this shit, huh?"
"Will you stop bitching? Half of it's from last night."
"Then I know half of it won't kill me."
"Here, do something huh! Scrape that." A kitchen knife growled over metal.
"This place used to be all scorpions." Thirteen nodded toward the bed. "That's when she came here; she decided to be a member. Which is fine if you can do it. Guys get messed up like that too. But now she got an infection… If that's what it is."
Smokey returned with the waterless pipe, waiting at Thirteen's shoulder.
Kidd took it, sucked; Thirteen nodded approval.
"You… guys… are…?" Kidd loosed smoke-spurts between his words.
"— Scorpions? Shit, no… Well, you know." He scrunched his face, with an appropriate hand joggle. "I don't intend to be, again, ever; and Denny in there," he thumbed at the boy from the shower who passed by the kitchen door, "ain't exactly on active duty any more."
And that one's Denny, Kidd thought.
Thirteen took the pipe, sucked, and went off into a coughing fit.
"Hey, will she be all right?" Kidd asked, coming to the bed.
Faust made some noncommittal lip movement, lost in beard. "Somebody ought to take care of this girl." He kneaded his maroon and raveled knee.
She she she "She asleep?" sleep sleep. The hash was coming on. Sleep.
The olive landscape, mountains of shoulder and hip, was immobile.
Nobody there. Pillows?
Faust moved over for him.
Kidd sat on the bed's edge, warm from Faust.
"Isn't there a doctor any place in the city?" all over the city, city?
Faust's wrinkles shifted around on his face. "These sons of bitches wouldn't know if there was. I can't figure out whether to let her sleep or make her eat."
"She must be pretty tired if she can sleep through all this noise," Thirteen said. Coming up, Smokey handed the pipe to Faust, who closed his wrinkled eyelids when he sucked. When he. When.
"Maybe," Kidd suggested, "you better let her sleep. Save some food for when she wakes up," akes, akes.
"That—" Thirteen shook a tattooed finger—"is brains at work, Joaquim. Which are in short supply around here… Man!" He shook his head, turned away.
"Maybe," Faust nodded.
Kidd wondered whether it was Faust or the hash that muddled the meaning.
"Here."
He looked up for the pipe. Pipe. Plate? A plate of. Denny, face and chest still wet, stood in front of him, holding out a plate in a white, bath-wrinkled hand.
"Oh, thanks."
Faust took the other one.
"You ain't got no fork?" Denny asked.
"No." It was rice, it was onions, it had string beans in it, and corn. "Thanks." He looked up and took the fork. Water tracked on the white arm, shimmered in adolescent chest-hair, broken with acne.