Again a long pause. I could imagine him rolling his pencil backwards and forwards while he thought.
Finally, he said, ‘Yeah — a welfare officer — yeah.’ Another pause, then, ‘His pad is 245 Lexington. The gang’s meeting place is Sam’s Cafe on 10th Street.’ Another pause and more heavy breathing, then he said, ‘Don’t look for trouble, buster. We have to clean up trouble in this town, and we don’t like work.’
‘That I can understand,’ I said and hung up.
I got the Plaza restaurant’s telephone number from the book and made a reservation for eight-forty.
But Spooky was a jump ahead of me.
Jenny arrived at the hotel at 20.00. I scarcely recognised her. Her hair was in a plait and wound tightly around her beautifully shaped head. She had on a black and white dress that turned her from a frump into a desirable woman. She was obviously pleased and proud of herself as she smiled expectantly at me.
‘Will I do?’
I had put on one of my better suits.
She was the first woman, since I had lost Judy, who I had taken out.
‘You look wonderful,’ I said and meant it.
We walked to where I had parked the Buick.
All the tyres were flat and the driving seat razor slashed. Across the windshield in big white letters was painted:
The evening wasn’t a brilliant success. How could it have been? Jenny was upset about the car, although I played it cool, damping down my blazing hatred of Spooky Jinx. I took her back to the hotel, sat her in one of the sagging bamboo chairs while I telephoned Hertz Rent-a-Car. In fifteen minutes a car was delivered. While we waited, I tried to soothe Jenny down.
‘Look, this doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the car fixed... that’s no problem. Forget it as I’m forgetting it.’
‘But, Larry, don’t you see this dreadful boy won’t leave you alone until you have gone? You must go! He could hurt you! Please... I know him. He’s vicious! He won’t stop at anything. He...’
‘Jenny!’ The snap in my voice stopped her short. ‘You and I are having dinner together. Let’s skip Spooky. Let’s talk about each other. You look marvellous. Why do you always wear that awful grey dress?’
She stared at me, then shrugged helplessly.
‘Oh, that? Look at the people in this town. It’s my disguise. That’s why I asked you to wear a sweat shirt and jeans. You have to dress the part here.’
‘Yes.’ I saw her point, then I went on, ‘I have only been here eight days, but I’m getting the photo. Do you really think you can help these people? No, wait a minute... I tell you I’m getting the photo. These people are scroungers. They try all the time to con. They take. Is it such a hot idea to work at the pressure you work? Aren’t you rushing up a moving staircase that is going the wrong way?’
She thought about this, then said quietly, ‘Someone has to do it. One out of fifty really needs help. If I can help that one, then I’m doing a job.’
The Hertz car arrived. I signed the form and we drove out of the town.
The Plaza restaurant, on the side of a hill with a view of the lights of Luceville, was plush and expensive. The food was good. There was a band that played soft swing. It was crowded with bulky elderly men and fat, bulging women: all who talked at the top of their voices: the kind of scene Paradise City specialises in.
We ate, made conversation, but it wasn’t a success because we were both thinking of the ruined car, Spooky and the drab, sordid life that was the background of Luceville, but we kept these thoughts to ourselves.
I drove Jenny back to her apartment. By this time it was 23.00.
She thanked me for a lovely evening. The expression in her eyes told me how worried she was.
‘Larry... please be sensible. Please go back to your own home.’
‘I’ll think about it. Let’s do this again.’ I touched her hand. ‘Next time we will have real fun,’ and I left her and drove back to the hotel.
I changed into the sweat shirt and jeans, then I went down to the lobby and asked the sad coloured boy where I could find 10th Street. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Then when I asked him again, he said it was a good half-hour’s walk. He began to give directions, but I told him to skip it.
I went out into the hot, cement-dusty night and got a taxi. I arrived at the top of 10th Street at 23.35. I paid off the taxi and started down the dimly lit street, which was lined with trash bins that smelt as if each one of them contained a rotting corpse.
People milled around: most of them were old drunks, old women... people without a roof. Further down the street, the scene changed. Neon lights made harsh white pools on the filthy sidewalk. I now moved in the shadows. There were the usual Honky Tonk parlours, the striptease clubs, blue movie shows, the bars and the cafés. This part of the street was inhabited by the young. Boys with long hair, girls with hot pants and see-through, milled aimlessly around and created noise. Most of them carried transistors which exploded into ear-shattering noise of pop.
Further down the street I saw a flashing sign that spelt out:
Still keeping in the shadows, I walked past the café.
Outside, in an orderly rank were eight Honda motorcycles: flashy, powerful with crash helmets hanging from the handlebars. The café was crowded. I had a glimpse of young people wearing the usual uniform young people dig for, and the noise erupting from the café was deafening.
I walked to the end of the street, turned and walked back. I found a dark, smelly doorway and I stepped into darkness. From there I could see the café. I leaned against the wall and waited. My smouldering rage against Spooky was now like a forest fire inside me. I thought of the cards, ruined by tar, and my car.
Around midnight, there was an exodus from the café. Kids spilled out, shouting and screaming and went running off down the street. Then eight thin youths came swaggering out: leading them was Spooky. All of them were wearing the same uniform: yellow shirts and cat’s fur pants and a wide nail-studded belt. They got astride their Hondas, slapped on their helmets, and then the air was split with the fiendish sound of powerful engines revving and revving. Then they shot off. The noise they made sounded as if the third world war had begun.
I memorised the number of Spooky’s bike, then I walked to the end of the street, picked up a taxi after a wait and returned to the hotel. I stretched out on the uncomfortable bed and waited. While I waited, I smoked innumerable cigarettes and let the forest fire of my hate rage, then around 03.00, I got off the bed and went silently down the stairs to the hotel lobby.
The nightman was fast asleep. I let myself out into the hot cement-dusty street and went in search of a taxi. Eventually, I found one on a rank in Main Street, the driver dozing.
I told him to take me to Lexington. It was a ten-minute drive. Luceville was asleep. There were no cars to stop a fast run.
The driver pulled up at the top of the street.
‘Stick around,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’
It was the kind of street where vermin must breed. Either side, tenement blocks with old-fashioned iron fire escapes blotted out the sky. Stinking trash bins, newspapers scattering the sidewalk, used contraceptives and used sanitary towels lay in the gutters.
I walked down the deserted, silent street until I came to the tenement block that had a plaque: No. 245: Spooky’s pad. I paused, seeing the glittering Honda motorcycle at the kerb. I checked the number plate.
Here was Spooky’s pride and joy.
I looked up and down the deserted street, making sure there would be no witness. The only witness was a lean, mangy cat that darted from the shadows into an alley.
I turned the Honda on its side, then I unscrewed the gas cap. When the gasoline had made a big puddle around the bike, I struck a match, stepped back and tossed the burning match into the puddle.