I walked over to the curb. A gypsy cab, the only kind that cruises Harlem, slowed as it approached. The driver, a middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing a brimmed cap over kinky red hair, decided I looked all right. I got in the back seat, closed the door, told her to take me to Fifty-eighth and Ninth.
On the way there my mind was all over the place. My hands were still trembling, though not so violently as before, but the internal shakes were as bad as ever. The ride seemed to take forever, and then before I knew it the woman was asking me which corner I wanted. I told her to pull up in front of Armstrong's. When the light changed she nosed the cab across the intersection and stopped where I'd told her. When I made no move she turned around to see what was wrong.
I'd just remembered that I couldn't get a drink at Armstrong's. Of course they might have forgotten by now that Jimmy had eighty-sixed me, but maybe they hadn't, and I felt myself burning with resentment already at the thought of walking in there and being refused service. No, fuck them, I wouldn't walk through their goddamned door.
Where, then? Polly's would be closed, they never ran all the way to closing hour. Farrell's?
That was where I'd had the first drink after Kim's death. I'd had eight sober days before I picked up that drink. I remembered that drink. Early Times, it was.
Funny how I always remember what brand I was drinking. It's all the same crap, but that's the sort of detail that sticks in your mind.
I'd heard someone make that very observation at a meeting a while back.
What did I have now? Four days? I could go up to my room and just make myself stay there and when I woke up I'd be starting my fifth day.
Except that I'd never fall asleep. I wouldn't even stay in the room. I'd try, but I couldn't stay anywhere, not the way I felt right now, not with only my own whirling mind to keep me company. If I didn't drink now I'd drink an hour from now.
"Mister? You okay?"
I blinked at the woman, then dug my wallet out of my pocket and found a twenty. "I want to make a phone call," I said. "From the booth right there on the corner. You take this and wait for me. All right?"
Maybe she'd drive off with the twenty. I didn't really care. I walked to the corner, dropped a dime, stood there listening to the dial tone.
It was too late to call. What time was it? After two, much too late for a social call.
Hell, I could go to my room. All I had to do was stay put for an hour and I'd be in the clear. At three the bars would close.
So? There was a deli that would sell me beer, legally or not. There was an after-hours on Fifty-first, way west between Eleventh and Twelfth. Unless it had closed by now; I hadn't been there in a long time.
There was a bottle of Wild Turkey in Kim Dakkinen's front closet. And I had her key in my pocket.
That scared me. The booze was right there, accessible to me at any hour, and if I went there I'd never stop after one or two drinks. I'd finish the bottle, and when I did there were a lot of other bottles to keep it company.
I made my call.
She'd been sleeping. I heard that in her voice when she answered the phone.
I said, "It's Matt. I'm sorry to call you so late."
"That's all right. What time is it? God, it's after two."
"I'm sorry.
"It's all right. Are you okay, Matthew?
"No."
"Have you been drinking?"
"No."
"Then you're okay."
"I'm falling apart," I said. "I called you because it was the only way I could think of to keep from drinking."
"You did the right thing."
"Can I come over?"
There was a pause. Never mind, I thought. Forget it. One quick drink at Farrell's before they closed, then back to the hotel. Never should have called her in the first place.
"Matthew, I don't know if it's a good idea. Just take it an hour at a time, a minute at a time if you have to, and call me as much as you want. I don't mind if you wake me, but-"
I said, "I almost got killed half an hour ago. I beat a kid up and broke his legs for him. I'm shaking like I never shook before in my life. The only thing that's going to make me feel right is a drink and I'm afraid to take one and scared I'll do it anyway. I thought being with someone and talking with someone might get me through it but it probably wouldn't anyway, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called. I'm not your responsibility. I'm sorry."
"Wait!"
"I'm here."
"There's a clubhouse on St. Marks Place where they have meetings all night long on the weekends. It's in the book, I can look it up for you."
"Sure."
"You won't go, will you?"
"I can't talk up at meetings. Forget it, Jan. I'll be all right."
"Where are you?"
"Fifty-eighth and Ninth."
"How long will it take you to get here?"
I glanced over at Armstrong's. My gypsy cab was still parked there. "I've got a cab waiting," I said.
"You remember how to get here?"
"I remember."
The cab dropped me in front of Jan's six-story loft building on Lispenard. The meter had eaten up most of the original twenty dollars. I gave her another twenty to go with it. It was too much but I was feeling grateful, and could afford to be generous.
I rang Jan's bell, two long and three short, and went out in front so that she could toss the key down to me. I rode the industrial elevator to the fifth floor and stepped out into her loft.
"That was quick," she said. "You really did have a cab waiting."
She'd had time to dress. She was wearing old Lee jeans and a flannel shirt with a red-and-black checkerboard pattern. She's an attractive woman, medium height, well fleshed, built more for comfort than for speed. A heart-shaped face, her hair dark brown salted with gray and hanging to her shoulders. Large well-spaced gray eyes. No makeup.
She said, "I made coffee. You don't take anything in it, do you?"
"Just bourbon."
"We're fresh out. Go sit down, I'll get the coffee."
When she came back with it I was standing by her Medusa, tracing a hair-snake with my fingertip. "Her hair reminded me of your girl here," I said. "She had blonde braids but she wrapped them around her head in a way that made me think of your Medusa."
"Who?"
"A woman who got killed. I don't know where to start."
"Anywhere," she said.
I talked for a long time and I skipped all over the place, from the beginning to that night's events and back and forth again. She got up now and then to get us more coffee, and when she came back I'd start in where I left off. Or I'd start somewhere else. It didn't seem to matter.
I said, "I didn't know what the hell to do with him. After I'd knocked him out, after I'd searched him. I couldn't have him arrested and I couldn't stand the thought of letting him go. I was going to shoot him but I couldn't do it. I don't know why. If I'd just smacked his head against the wall a couple more times it might have killed him, and I'll tell you, I'd have been glad of it. But I couldn't shoot him while he was lying there unconscious."
"Of course not."
"But I couldn't leave him there, I didn't want him walking the streets. He'd just get another gun and do it again. So I broke his legs. Eventually the bones'll knit and he'll be able to resume his career, but in the meantime he's off the streets." I shrugged. "It doesn't make any sense. But I couldn't think of anything else to do."
"The important thing is you didn't drink."
"Is that the important thing?"
"I think so."
"I almost drank. If I'd been in my own neighborhood, or if I hadn't reached you. God knows I wanted to drink. I still want to drink."
"But you're not going to."
"No."
"Do you have a sponsor, Matthew?"
"No."
"You should. It's a big help."
"How?"
"Well, a sponsor's someone you can call anytime, someone you can tell anything to."