He nodded. She handed him the bottle and he drank. The Chinese wine was mostly fire and it burned all the way going down and when it hit his belly it was electric-hot. But the climate it sent to his brain was cool and mild and the mildness showed in his eyes. His voice was quiet and relaxed as he said, “I thought Oscar and Coley made the trip alone. It didn’t figure that Riker and Hilda would come with them. But now it adds. I can see the way it adds.”
“It’s a long ride from Los Angeles,” Tillie said.
“They didn’t mind. They enjoyed the ride.”
“The scenery?”
“No,” he said. “They weren’t looking at the scenery. They were thinking of the setup here in Philly. With Oscar putting the blade in me and then the funeral and Riker seeing me in the coffin and telling himself his worries were over.”
“And Hilda?”
“The same,” he said. “She’s been worried just as much as Riker. Maybe more.”
Tillie nodded slowly. “From the story you told me, she’s got more reason to worry.”
He laughed lightly. He liked the sound of it and went on with it. He said, through the easy laughter, “They really don’t need to worry. They’re making it a big thing and it’s nothing at all. I forgot all about them a long time ago. But they couldn’t forget about me.”
Tillie had her head inclined and she seemed to be studying the sound of his laughter. Some moments passed and then she said quietly, “You don’t like black pudding?”
He didn’t get the drift of that. He stopped laughing and his eyes were asking what she meant.
“There’s an old saying,” she said. “Revenge is black pudding.”
He laughed again.
“Don’t pull away from it,” Tillie said. “Just listen to it. Let it hit you and sink in. Revenge is black pudding.”
He went on laughing, shaking his head and saying, “I’m not in the market.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” he said. Then, with a grin. “Only pudding I like is vanilla.”
“The black tastes better,” Tillie said. “I’ve had some, and I know. I had it when they told me what he did to himself with the meat-cleaver.”
He winced slightly. He saw Tillie getting up from the mattress and moving toward him. He heard her saying, “That black pudding has a wonderful flavor. You ought to try a spoonful.”
“No,” he said. “No, Tillie.”
She came closer. She spoke very slowly and there was a slight hissing in her voice. “They put you in prison for nine years. They cheated you and robbed you and tortured you.”
“That’s all past,” he said. “That’s from yesterday.”
“It’s from now.” She stood very close to him. “They’re itching to hit you again and see you dead. They won’t stop until you’re dead. That puts a poison label on them. And there’s only one way to deal with poison. Get rid of it.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll let it stay the way it is.”
“You can’t,” Tillie said. “It’s a choice you have to make. Either you’ll drink bitter poison or you’ll taste that sweet black pudding.”
He grinned again. “There’s a third choice.”
“Like what?”
“This.” And he pointed to the bottle of rice-wine. “I like the taste of this. Let’s stay with it until it’s empty.”
“That won’t solve the problem,” Tillie said.
“The hell with the problem.” His grin was wide. It was very wide and he didn’t realize that it was forced.
“You fool,” Tillie said.
He had the bottle raised and he was taking a drink.
“You poor fool,” she said. Then she shrugged and turned away from him and lowered herself to the mattress.
The forced grin stayed on his face as he went on drinking. Now he was drinking slowly because the rice-wine dulled the action in his brain and he had difficulty lifting the bottle to his mouth. Gradually he became aware of a change taking place in the air of the cellar; it was thicker, sort of smoky. His eyes tried to focus and there was too much wine in him and he couldn’t see straight. But then the smoke came up in front of his eyes and into his eyes. He looked down and saw the white clay pipe in Tillie’s hand. She was sitting on the mattress with her legs crossed, Buddha-like, puffing at the opium, taking it in very slowly, the smoke coming out past the corners of her lips.
The grin faded from his face. And somehow the alcohol-mist was drifting away from his brain. He thought, She smokes it because she’s been kicked around. But there was no pity in his eyes, just the level look of clear thinking. He said to himself, There’s only two kinds of people in this world, the ones who get kicked around and the ones who do the kicking.
He lowered the bottle to the table. He turned and took a few steps going away and then heard Tillie saying, “Moving out?”
“No,” he said. “Just taking a walk.”
“Where?”
“Spruce Street,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
He shook his head. He faced her and saw that she’d put the pipe aside. She was getting up from the mattress. He went on shaking his head and saying, “It can’t be played that way. I gotta do this alone.”
She moved toward him. “Maybe it’s good-bye.”
“If it is,” he said, “there’s only one way to say it.”
His eyes told her to come closer. He put his arms around her and held her with a tenderness and a feeling of not wanting to let her go. He kissed her. He knew she felt the meaning of the kiss, she was returning it and as her breath went into him it was sweet and pure and somehow like nectar.
Then, very gently, she pulled away from him. She said, “Go now. It’s still dark outside. It’ll be another hour before the sun comes up.”
He grinned. It was a soft grin that wasn’t forced. “This job won’t take more than an hour,” he said. “Whichever way it goes, it’ll be a matter of minutes. Either I’ll get them or they’ll get me.”
He turned away and walked across the cellar toward the splintered door. Tillie stood there watching him as he opened the door and went out.
It was less than three minutes later and they had him. He was walking south on Ninth, between Race Street and Arch, and the black Olds 88 was cruising on Arch and he didn’t see them but they saw him, with Oscar grinning at Coley and saying, “There’s our boy.”
Oscar drove the car past the intersection and parked it on the north side of Arch about twenty feet away from the corner. They got out and walked toward the corner and stayed close to the brick wall of the corner building. They listened to the approaching footsteps and grinned at each other and a few moments later he arrived on the corner and they grabbed him.
He felt Coley’s thick arm wrapped tight around his throat, pulling his head back. He saw the glimmer of the five-inch blade in Oscar’s hand. He told himself to think fast and he thought very fast and managed to say, “You’ll be the losers. I made a connection.”
Oscar hesitated. He blinked puzzledly. “What connection?”
He smiled at Oscar. Then he waited for Coley to loosen the armhold on his throat. Coley loosened it, then lowered it to his chest, using both arms to clamp him and prevent him from moving.
He made no attempt to move. He went on smiling at Oscar, and saying, “An important connection. It’s important enough to louse you up.”
“Prove it,” Oscar said.
“You’re traced.” He narrowed the smile just a little. “If anything happens to me, they know where to get you.”
“He’s faking,” Coley said. Then urgently, “Go on, Oscar, give him the knife.”