A Glimpse of Tiger Page 6

There was a pause, and Tiger, sensing that she was on, filled the void. “Do you use Crest, Gleam, MacLean’s, Pepsodent, Colgate, Plus-White—”

  Mrs. Brewsterman was unnerved. “Not all of them, but—”

  Luther asked, “One of them?”

  “Well—yes.”

  Tiger delivered it like a death sentence. “Oh.”

  And Mrs. Brewsterman protested the verdict. “What do you mean—‘oh’?”

  Luther swept in from the right flank. “Do you have any children?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do, but—”

  Tiger came in from the left. “Their beds are at least thirty-six inches off the floor, I presume.”

  “I don’t know. I never measured.”

  Luther repeated. “You never measured.” He made it sound like “How can you be so stupid?”

  Mrs. Brewsterman’s arm reached out and hooked Luther’s. “You’re doing my apartment now.”

  He resisted. “There are others who called first.”

  “Now!”

  “It may not be a problem yet—unless they’re breeding.”

  She practically pulled him into the apartment. “Right now!”

  Luther allowed himself to be coerced into Apartment 3B even though it had not been properly scheduled for service. “It’s eight dollars and thirty-three cents, plus tax, per room. But you’ll save twice that much on soap and toothpaste in no time. Also, you won’t have to throw away your provolone cheese like so many people do. Also, Mrs. Brewsterman, let’s hear no more about ants, okay? Ants are nothing next to mugwumps. Ants don’t kill.”

  Tiger followed Luther into 3B, where, at the kitchen sink, they whipped up a concoction of baking soda, Ajax, Mazola, and Pepto-Bismol. They boiled it till it foamed, then diluted it and applied it, and Mrs. Brewsterman was never again bothered by night-crawling mugwumps.

  9

  Fat Chance was very much on their premises. He kept pretty much to himself, setting up house in the east wing and rarely venturing west. Tiger wasn’t exactly delighted with his presence. She could see, from time to time, the odd sidelong glances he aimed at Luther, who innocently (or diplomatically) never seemed to notice. Fat busied himself with a lot of intense paper work—graphs and notes and calculations. He had a whole collection of little index cards that he’d read to himself fairly regularly, after which he’d roll on the floor laughing.

  Fat had refrigerator privileges which seemed to Tiger like giving Jumbo carte blanche at a bacchanal. But she kept her thoughts to herself, never once bringing up Fat as a topic of conversation with Luther. How long Fat would stay—she’d have to leave that up to Luther. But at the rate Fat was attacking their food supply, he figured to be dead of the gout within a week. And Tiger visualized his bloated corpse, swelling up in the living room, pushing the furniture against the walls and the lamps out the windows. He’d be too big to move, and the Health Department would have to come in and explode him as they’d do with any beached whale. And then they’d—

  Luther took the shoe box from the closet. Tiger hated that. Really hated it.

  The dirty old alley was well off the beaten path, in spite of the fact that it was right smack in the middle of the island of Manhattan. It was about fifty yards long, and it separated the sides of two old buildings by no more than fifteen feet. Even at high noon the sun could never find a way to shine in, and as a result, the alley was like a scene out of Hogarth, dank and grimy and foreboding. Its grubby inhabitants were primarily rats, cats, and overflowing garbage cans. But on occasion, one might see there a pretty girl shining shoes.

  The man sat on the empty orange crate, looking down between his legs at Tiger as she worked over his clunky brogans. He looked at her long hair and lithe body and at the way her small hands stroked the brushes with sex-laden authority. He liked her hands, liked the thought of them and what they might shortly be doing to him. He smiled at the body curled up in front of him, on her knees, head down in so servile a position. Shortly he would be a king.

  No one else was in the alley, nor was anyone likely to show up. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. And it had all been instigated by her, the girl between his legs. Never in his life had he been able to pick up a girl. Yet there he was, at the age of forty-four, in an alley with a beautiful young thing, and it had been at her suggestion.

  He watched the shine come up on his shoes until they looked like headlights. He knew it was getting to be time. His trousers were growing tight, and his asthma was beginning to kick up and, if there was a God in heaven, it had all better happen soon. He reached down to touch the hair of the beautiful girl.

  Tiger gave the two shoes a few quick slaps of the buffer, and like a drummer finishing up, she even made the rag crack. Then she got to her feet and stepped back from the leering man and said, “There you are, sir.”

  He was uncertain. “Pardon?”

  “There you are”—she smiled like a bright elf—“your shine.” And she gave each shoe another quick smack of the cloth, just for fabulous good measure.

  “Is that it?” he asked, his dreams taking flight, his trousers growing looser.

  “Yes, sir. All done.”

  “Just a…shoeshine?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Not just a shoeshine, but the best shine these shoes have had in many a day.” She began swiftly to close up shop, putting away the polish and brushes and things and moving with a practiced haste because she could already hear his hot breathing. “Okay, sir,” she said to reiterate, “that’s it.” She tapped his shoes the way real bootblacks do when indicating that the shine is over.

  “Hey, what is this?”

  “It’s two dollars, thank you.” And she smiled at him with angelic innocence.

  “Yeah, I know, but—say?”

  She reminded him, “I did tell you two dollars.”

  “Yeah, but—for two dollars, I thought—”

  “Well, I don’t know what you thought, sir, but you were obviously under an erroneous impression.” The trick, of course, was to allow no discussion. She slapped the little shoe box closed and, almost rudely, nudged the orange crate with her shoe, a clear indication that it was time for him to get off.

  The man got off the crate, but the incident was not yet concluded. He had not come forty-four years to be conned. “Yeah? Well, when a cute piece of tail motions me into an alley and says, ‘Two bucks for a shoe job,’ well, I got a perfect right to think—Say, what kind of farmer do you think you’re dealing with?”

  He moved toward her, more out of annoyance than lust. And she found herself backing up against the cold brick wall. “Now, sir—”

  He wasn’t one for rape because he was a businessman and a solid and reasonable citizen. So he placed both of his hands against the wall, one to either side of her head, and he offered her a deal. “Look, kid—you want it to be five bucks? Okay, I’ve got five bucks. You want ten? Okay, ten. I’ll pay. I’m not cheap. But I want what I pay for. I want a nice little…shoe job. Understand?” He eased himself closer to her, the bulge in his trousers arriving before the rest of him. He couldn’t believe he was involved in such a scene but, damn it, the kid had him so excited—he was going to get something from her, anything. Even if it was just to put himself in her lovely young hands, he was going to get something. He began to unzip his trousers. It was incredible that he was doing it—and what would his wife say?—but he was doing it.

  Tiger tried to make herself more concave than she was, but she was pressed against the brick wall and it wouldn’t give. The man’s breath was of onions and Binaca, and it mingled with the vivid aroma of Right Guard in combat. She saw his hand and what it was doing. She had some options. She could scream. Or she could kick. Or she could kick and scream simultaneously and then run. She hated whenever it was cut this close. She felt sorry for the man, really. But she’d kick him anyway. And she was about to when she heard the whistling coming toward her—“The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  The tall man came sauntering up the alley, his hands jammed into
his pockets, loose and easy. “Hah thayuh,” he called buoyantly, deep into some kind of Alabamian accent. And he smiled as he came up to Tiger, as if he were the original country bumpkin. “Am ah next? It’s two dollahs, raht? Ah heayah it’s the bayest shan in town.” He looked down at the man’s shiny shoes. “Woo-eee, will yo all lookit that! That thayuh is some shan! Why, ah can actually see maself in them thar shoes. Ain’t that the nuts?” He waved down at his two reflections. “Hah thayuh. Yoo-hoo. Hah thayuh, Jasper. Watcha all doin’ in Noo Yawk, boy?”

  Thus reinforced, Tiger stuck out an upturned palm to the man and smiled sympathetically at him but said it all the same. “Two dollars, please.”

  “Yeah?” The man wasn’t sure of anything. Except that, after forty-four years on earth, he couldn’t just leave with his tail between his legs, especially since something else was then occupying that part of his anatomy. He zipped up his trousers.

  Luther went into his idiot smile. “Ah have to sayuh, suh, that that shan is wuth it. Ah ain’t nevah seen such a luster. Two dollahs? Heck. It’s a steeyal.”

  The man had pretty much figured it all out even before Luther opened his mouth. He sized up Luther and convinced himself that it was his forty-four years of age, not his lionlike bravery, that should be taken into consideration. He dug out his wallet and grumbled. “When this city cleans up you hippy-bippies, it’ll be a better place. Goddamn anti-American dope fiends.” He peeled out two singles, glad that he had them because he knew if he forked over a fiver, they’d thank him for the tip. “Two dollars for a shoe job! Well, it’ll catch up to you, believe me!”

  Tiger was pleasant, but she couldn’t resist it. The man was, after all, a dirty old man, and he hadn’t taken out his thing just to air it. “For three dollars you can get a boot job.”

  The man started away up the long alley, choosing to leave in the opposite way from which Luther had arrived. “I’m coming back with a cop, you no-good, goddamn, flag-burning beatniks. And you two better not be here when I get back, goddammit.” He walked a little stiffly, but he walked straight. It certainly was an accomplishment.

  Luther and Tiger watched “Joe Smith, American,” make a right turn and disappear at the end of the alley. “See that?” said Luther. “Typical middle-class American sex fiend. Has to read something sexual into everything. It’s shameful, just shameful.”

  Tiger was upset and a little sick to her stomach. She usually was after each aborted shoe job. But this time she was more upset than usual, and she made no attempt to hide it. “Luther? Do we have to do this?” She had shoe polish smudges on her face and looked like Judy Garland playing an urchin.

  “Do what?”

  “This. Do we have to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? We don’t need the money. So why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Luther, every time I do this shoe job bit, I feel like a hooker.”

  He picked up the orange crate and led Tiger out of the alley. “You’re too harsh on yourself.”

  “Luther, please! I said I feel like a hooker!”

  “You’re being silly. Hookers don’t shine shoes. They’re too busy removing them.”

  She stopped walking. “Just the same, I hate it. I really do. One day it’s going to backfire, and I’m going to end up getting raped. Raped, Luther! And for only two dollars!”

  “And you’ll be worth every penny of it, I’ll tell the world.”

  “And I hate this god-awful alley. It smells of piss and beer.” The tears were coming. “And I don’t like it anymore. It holds no romance for me anymore. I don’t want to come here anymore.”

  “Funny you should mention that. I was thinking of staking out a new place, a nicer neighborhood. A place where everybody’s got black shoes so you only need one polish. And where, when you take their money and turn them down, they keep their mouths shut and go away in peace. It’s a fine place, really.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Would you believe the Rectory behind St. Patrick’s?”

  It was a desperate time for Tiger. She wasn’t getting through to him, nor would she, nor could she. So she just said, “Yes.”

  “Shall we say—Sunday, after mass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we go home now?”

  “Yes.”

  10

  Fat Chance was in the east wing, working diligently at his thing, shuffling papers, making notes, and on occasion laughing out loud at his little index cards. Luther and Tiger sat on the floor, their backs against the wall, at the far end of the west wing, but where they could see Fat and discuss him openly without his hearing them.

  “Luther?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does he laugh like that?”

  “Fat people are jolly. They’re also light on their feet. Wait’ll you see him dance. Have you ever seen him dance?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a laugh.”

  “What do you suppose is on those little cards?”

  “I don’t know. Funny dance routines.”

  “Now he’s writing again. What do you suppose he’s writing?”

  “I’m kind of hoping it’s his will. Wait’ll you hear him cough. Have you ever heard him cough?”

  “He’s been writing like that for two days.”

  “Maybe he’s writing a book.”

  “On little cards?”

  “Why not? Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg Address on a paper bag.”

  “Think he’s writing a book?”

  “Yes. A book of funny dance routines, as told to Arthur Murray by Peg Leg Bates.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s only got two more days to finish it.” She turned to him and shored up her point. “Luther, you distinctly said he’d be out in a couple, two, three, four days. You distinctly said—”

  “I know. But I like having him here because he gives the apartment ballast. Ever notice how this side of the pad always used to sag? Well, by keeping him in the east wing, it somehow seems to even the whole thing out. Have you noticed how things don’t tip over as much as they used to?”

  “You said four days.”

  “What if he’s writing a Russian novel? I’m sure no one interrupted Dostoevski. Would you have interrupted Dostoevski? Tolstoi maybe—but not Dostoevski. Nabokov and Pasternak perhaps—but not Dostoevski. Nobody ever interrupted Dostoevski. Not even Lincoln asking to borrow a paper bag.”

  She stood up, miffed. “For all our sakes, I hope he’s sending out postcards telling people of his new address—in Mozambique.”

  “Where you going?”

  “For a walk, okay?”

  “Okay. But don’t pick up any strangers.”

  Tiger went walking. Down the steep stairwell to the street. Into the neighborhood. Just a stroll, nothing more intended. Just a pleasant meandering during which she inhaled much of the air that New York still had left. She had noticed of late how stuffy the apartment had become, and for no reason she could attribute it to. Unless it had something to do with Fat’s invasion of her territory. That was probably the answer. No matter—it was good just to get away and get her head back on straight.

  People passed by in all directions. Some in pairs, some in groups. Most smiling, jabbering, happy. And it seemed to her that she was the only one traveling alone, single-o, sans stud. Worse, that feeling of “minus man” was beginning to smack of permanence. The once-soft wax was hardening, the clay setting, ossifying, petrifying. She walked alone and knew that something had to be done if anything was to become of her life. She considered alternatives, but for some reason, all that came out was some passing reliance on the defunct French Foreign Legion.

  Then the sound dropped out, as though her hearing had fallen into a hole, and she was aware of only her heartbeat. And that was none too regular, only loud. It was disquieting, that absence of sound, a reflection of her own void. She knew that it would only be temporary because
it had happened to her before, always just following some verbal altercation with Luther in which she found it impossible to get through to him. It was internal pressure that brought it on, the keeping of things inside, and it was relieved only by a short separation from him, a small walk in which she indulged in serious deep breathing, long, drawn-in inhalations…slow, extended exhalations. That would do it. Her hearing would crack back into place; only it would seem louder than before, and much more acute. Cars. Doors. Heels. Voices. Laughter. All came at her in monumental detail. And this time was no exception. Her volume turned up as suddenly as it had previously turned off. And with the volume came a clarity of focus, an exaggeration of audio minutiae that was superhuman and unsettling.

  Young men and women were suddenly screaming love things to one another. Things meant to be private, but Tiger could hear them all, every syllable.

  Or was she reading lips? But if that were the case, then where was the music coming from? Loud, cacophonous, dissonant. Stravinsky versus Bacharach, two falls out of three. Mozart versus the Electric Armpit, fifteen rounds to a decision. How could a person lip-read music? Who sings Braille? Who listens to skywriting? Who was the sweet kid last seen entering the alley with a shoeshine box under her arm? Who was the slender puss in the big boots too tall, coming up well over her knees? Where were her clothes? What was that ominous overtone, that bizarre foreshortening causing the darkness to squeeze in? Who was responsible for the filthy alley? Whatever happened to Fun City? Explain, please, why no one else is around. No one and no thing in no place at no time. Why the crumpled dollars in the little clenched fist? How many—three? The price of a good boot job, no?

  The pimpled, unpleasant, leering man—why? Leaning against the brick wall and mostly in shadows—how come? Unbuttoning his trousers and taking a few barefoot steps toward her, tromping on her eardrums. Ten yards to go. Nine, eight, seven. Music up. Rachmaninoff. Percussion buries screaming. Darkness masks horror. Paper covers rock. Man mauls Tiger.

  At the other end of the alley, aha! The U.S. Cavalry. “The Star-Spangled Banner” in a contrapuntal whistling. Another figure emanating, loose and angular, and familiar. Nine, eight, seven…