The mother of what?
What was he doing?
He’d never slept with her—slept.
He listened.
He’d never gone to sleep beside her. She’d been an aggressive sleeper; she took it to bed with her—punching out, kicking, snoring like she was doing it on purpose. She’d frightened him, a bit.
“Candidate?”
What was he doing? “Candidate?” The child wasn’t his. No child was his.
She was still out there. Maybe at the same desk. A phone call would tell him.
What?
What was he doing?
Was it some sort of trick, a revenge thing or something? Maybe not Brenda Wilson. Some other woman.
“Who?” he wrote.
“Why?”
He wasn’t a wild man, or cruel. He’d never been violent or very unpleasant. He was shy. They’d all said it.
“Frances.”
Frances what? What was he doing?
“Frances Crooked Tooth.” He put a line through that. He was not a cruel man.
He heard something. A press being shut slowly, air being dislodged. The kitchen. He put down the jotter. He stood up.
He looked in the presses. He looked in the sink. He listened.
He went back to the bed. He picked up the jotter. He knew before he looked, the thickness of the jotter in his fingers—the page was different.
He looked.
“I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.”
He stood up. He sat down.
His words.
Not his writing.
He got down on the floor. He looked under the bed. He left all the doors open, the press doors, the room doors. He moved things away from the walls. He took everything out of the presses, put everything on the table. He went to the bed and the jotter. “I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.” He took the duvet off the bed. He folded it small, put it back. He put the pillows on top of it. That was everything. There were no closed doors, no hiding places.
He waited. He walked. He looked in the corners. He went back to the bed. The pen was where he’d left it. He picked it up. He picked up the jotter. He listened.
“Frances.”
He tried to get at her surname. “Kind of brown hair—crooked tooth.” He put a line through “kind of.” He put two lines through “crooked.”
“Brown hair—tooth.”
It hadn’t lasted. A few weeks. He didn’t know what she’d done for a living. A teacher. Something with children. Retarded children. Something like that. And he’d broken her bra. He remembered that. Trying to get it off, and her annoyance.
She’d sent the child after him, revenge for the bra. He didn’t smile. He knew he couldn’t.
“Nice.”
She had been. Nice. He’d liked her. It just hadn’t worked out.
“Incompatible.”
He left “Nice,” put a line through “Incompatible.” He just hadn’t wanted the effort. Getting to know each other.
“Too nice.”
He’d offered to buy her a new bra. Not actually buy it—pay for it. She wouldn’t let him.
“Loser. Not great.”
He had it. The name.
“Costello.”
Frances Costello.
The kitchen. Something rubbed against something.
He got down on his knees. He crept. He stood up. He didn’t want to be too low down.
He looked—he knew. Nothing.
He slept sitting up. He held the jotter. He tried to sleep.
He slept.
He didn’t.
The child was there. At the jotter. Pulling it from his hand.
He woke. His neck was sore. He stood up, stretched, pulled off his socks.
The jotter was gone.
He went around; he charged. Empty shelves, open doors. It was gone. Back to the bed. Gone.
It was on the table beside the bed.
Where he’d left it.
No.
There was no more sleep. That night. Any night. He waited.
“Karen or Sharon.”
He didn’t know.
“Green hair. Different colors.”
He didn’t know how long ago. Six years, seven. He tied thread to the jotter, to his finger. He closed his eyes. He waited. He met her twice. Both of them drunk. They did it once, the green hair time.
He didn’t sleep. He knew he didn’t.
The second time her hair was blue and they were both embarrassed. They’d met by accident, in front of a cinema. She went to the toilet and didn’t come back.
“Good riddance.”
The thread pulled—he opened his eyes. He checked it, brought his finger closer to his face. The jotter slid toward him. It fell off the table. He picked it up. It wasn’t the jotter. It was a different—
He ran. Around the rooms. Kitchen. Noise behind him— he roared, he turned. The jotter. He was dragging it behind him. He tore at the thread. It wouldn’t break. It dug into his finger.
“Who are you!”
He didn’t touch the jotter. Black cover. Not his. His was green. He sat on the floor, against the wall. He lifted his finger. The jotter slid at him. He flipped open the cover. “Boy. Eight or nine.” He pulled the jotter closer to him. He turned another page—the list of women. It was his jotter. Except the cover. His was green.
“Green!”
He tried the hotel.
He was past tiredness. It was in his breath, in his chest. The catch, the warning. He hadn’t yawned in days.
The hotel. He thought it might work. He walked there. He walked close to the street, away from doors and gateways. Three miles. It was raining. The money was wet in his pocket. He looked before he entered. He put his face to a window. He couldn’t see properly. Running water, condensation. He went to the entrance. He could see. People, adults. No families, children—child. He entered. He tried to dry himself with his coat. The foyer wasn’t busy. He checked behind a pillar.
The receptionist didn’t like him.
“Sign. Here.”
The lift was empty. The doors were slow. No one else entered.
“Naomi.”
The fourth floor. The corridor. Empty. He checked the numbers on the wall; his room was to the right. He followed the arrow.
“Tall.”
The key was a card. It worked the first time. He pushed the door shut; it was slow across thick carpet.
Under the bed. Behind the curtains. He searched the room. He left the light on. He turned it off. The bedside light. He turned that off. He didn’t sleep. He held his penis. He heard something—the child. He charged through the room. He threw something. Something broke. Someone knocked. He didn’t answer. He stayed still. The knock again. Silence. He lay on the bed. He sat up. It was day at the curtains; he was sweating.
He left. He didn’t eat. He hadn’t eaten. In days, weeks—he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t hungry. He was never hungry.
“Naomi.”
Who was that? He didn’t know her. “Gorgeous.” He kept writing. “Tall. Great. Bit of a bitch.” He didn’t know what he was doing.
The name on the receptionist’s tag. Naomi.
Was he going mad?
No.
He walked. People looked; he saw that. They were looking. He looked at himself. Up at a window. A shoe shop. He stared, tried to see himself in the glass. He took off his glasses; he could see better up close without them. He could see. He looked fine. He pushed down his hair. Fine. He put his glasses back on. He looked fine. He was fine.
He saw him. In the glass. He turned.
There was nothing. Cars, adults.
He turned again. To the window. The child was still there. Behind, right behind him. He turned again, and fell. He got up. Before hands could grab him. He was fine. A bit wet. The child was inside—that was it. In the shoe shop. Looking out at him. He was in there.
Ghosts didn’t have reflections.
He wasn’t a ghost.
He had him.
He ran
at the door. He had him. He could see him now, clearly. Standing in there. Waiting.
He hit the door. He was fine. He pushed the glass, felt the heat—in.
Gone. The child—
There were boxes, piled. A wall of them—shoe boxes. That was where—he pulled at them, no weight, they fell away. He pulled them down, he climbed over them. He dropped his bag, got at them with both hands. Screams behind him. He didn’t look. He had him now.
“Gotcha.”
“Sir?”
“Gotcha, gotcha!”
He stood on boxes, broke boxes, climbed across them. He fell, he slipped. On boxes—he was fine. The wall was gone. The child—gone. No child.
The changing rooms. He looked around; he tried to stand. None—a shoe shop; no need for rooms. He crawled over boxes. People over him. Hands on his clothes.
“Come on.”
“Where are you!?”
Hand in his hair—he was off the ground. His glasses fell off. He was carried out. His leg hit the door. Out to the street. A hand put the glasses back on his face. Shoved them; they were crooked. Bent. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear properly. Off the ground. Being held up—three men. They stopped moving. He heard a car door, car doors. More shadows—he was surrounded. He could see blue—uniforms. They moved again. They dropped him—he fell. Against a car. A hand pushed, the back of his head. A police car. His cheek hit the roof. It was wet—the roof was wet. He couldn’t think of . . . They were putting handcuffs on him. He could feel the cuffs against his skin, the cold, pain—they twisted his wrists. They held his arms. It was raining.
“The child,” he said.
“What child? Get in.”
A hard hand on his head. Pushed down, into the car. His hands behind his back—difficult, sore. Squashed between two cops. They were moving—the car was moving. He had to say something. He needed to start. A hand in front of his eyes. It straightened his glasses. He could see, through finger marks, drops of water. The car braked. An arm stopped him from falling forward. He couldn’t turn his head much; there wasn’t space. They were moving again. He saw his bag. On a cop’s knees. He saw big hands coming out of the bag. He saw his jotter.
“What’s this?”
He didn’t answer.
“Jesus.”
“What?” The other cop.
“Who are these people? Marion, Brenda, Frances. They’re all women.”
“What?”
“What women?” The driver.
“Jesus.”
He heard the pages being flicked.
“ ‘Blonde. V. red when embarrassed. Angry. Good-looking. The best-looking. Candidate?’ ”
The cop to his left moved. Trying to put space between them.
“Candidate for what?”
He was going to explain.
Somewhere calm. Not in the car.
“For what? Hey.”
Not in the car. He’d start at the beginning. He’d try to.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
“Naomi. Gorgeous. Tall. Great. Bit of a bitch.”
“Jesus.”
“Sick.”
“Isn’t there a Naomi on that list?”
“What list?”
“The missing women.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“I think you’re right. And a Frances.”
He’d explain.
“What about this one? ‘Green hair. Different colors. Good riddance.’”
“Oh, Jesus.”
The car stopped.
His list was a different list. He didn’t know what they were talking about.
Doors opened. The cops got out; he could feel the car lift. He could feel the space, air. A hand at his sleeve.
“Come on.”
He was pulled out. Shoulders. Legs were caught—his face hit the ground.
The ground was gone—he was standing. Pushed.
“The child.”
“Go on.”
Pushed. He could taste blood. He could feel it. His eyes, glasses gone—he couldn’t see.
“The child.”
They couldn’t hear. He was pushed.
DELMONICO
by DANIEL HANDLER
“WHAT’S A DELMONICO?”
The two gentlemen had scarcely entered the place. From where I was sitting they were only silhouettes in the shiny doorway, blaring with rude sun. It was after six but dead summer, so the sun hadn’t set. I don’t drink in the daytime, but if it’s after six you’ll probably find me at the Slow Night. It’s been remarked to me that my regular spot at the bar isn’t the best one, as I have to whirl around whenever somebody walks in, just to see who it is. I suppose that’s true, that I could choose a better bar stool if I wanted a better view of the outside world. But that’s not what I like to look at when I come in.
Davis was at the cash register, her back to the door, holding two or three dollars in her palm. She was about to give them to a guy, as change for the drinks she made for him and his girlfriend. Then the guy was going to hand them back to Davis. This is how it went with Davis as long as I’d ever seen it. Davis was gorgeous, is what she was, gorgeous not in the way she looked but in the way she was. When she mixed you a drink and handed back your change you’d hand it over to her no matter what you paid and what you ordered. It wouldn’t matter if you had your girl with you, waiting at one of the tables with a high-heeled foot tapping on the carpet. You’d give it back, all your puny dollars, and still you’d feel like you hadn’t forked it over fast enough. “Delmonico?” Davis said, and looked back at the gentlemen. She cocked her head, but not like she was thinking, more like she was considering whether these guys deserved the real answer. They didn’t move. I tried to look at them myself but the sunlight still made them nothing but shadows. All I could notice was that one was taller than the other. Davis had probably noticed six or seven things more, and she’d just that second turned around from the register. “Delmonico,” she said again. “Gin, vermouth, brandy. A dash of bitters.”
The shorter gentleman gave his friend a little tap with his hand. “I told you she was smart,” he said, and then the two of them stepped inside and let the door shut behind them. Davis put her hands on her hips like this offhand compliment wasn’t nearly enough. The guy slid his money back to Davis and took his seat.
Time and time I want to tell Davis that I love her, but she’s so smart there’s no way she hasn’t figured it out already.
The Slow Night is on a fairly main drag, more or less half a block away from two other bars and just about across the street from another. These bars are called Mary’s, and O’Malley’s, and The something. I’ve never been inside them and never intend to. One of them—Mary’s, I think—has those little flags all over the ceiling, fluttering like a used-car lot. You can see it from the street because they prop the door open. All of them have the neon in the window and even on a quick walk-by you can hear the roar of music and laughing and the little earthquakes of bottle caps falling to the floor. The bars are full in the evenings, because I guess there are lots of people in the world who like to have a pitcher of something, and sit underneath a TV yelling at each other. In the daytime they’re dead like anyplace, with just a few puttering around. One of them has a pool table and people gather for that, with the chattering of the balls like teeth on a chilly day. I don’t wish any of these people any harm and am grateful that these other bars take them away. The Slow Night looks closed from the outside, with heavy draperies on the windows and no real sign, just the name fading away over the entrance. The doors are closed except when someone is walking through them. From the doorway are two steps down into the bar—mostly for show, I think, because it’s not a basement place. Inside, all the furniture’s real— real bar stools, real tables and chairs, and a real jukebox giving the world the music of the lonely, with Julie London and Hank Williams, and some quieter jazz things I never can determine. They don’t serve food although sometimes a bowl of nuts might appear from so
meplace, and the only thing one might call entertainment is a few sections of the day’s paper stacked up at the very end of the bar, in case one needs to check on something outside. Nowhere is there any advertisement of any sort, except the clock which says Quill, right in the middle of the face. Davis doesn’t know what that is. It came with the place.
The bar has something of a reputation, in guidebooks fools buy and read. “Don’t let the exterior fool you,” is the sort of thing that passes as praise, “the Slow Night is the real deal—the sort of place in which your parents might have met, with real leather booths and a lady behind the counter who will mix you any poison you can dream up.” But these lazy lies—no booths, you don’t dream up cocktails—aren’t really the thing. Below the surface of the city, murmured between I don’t know who, is the story that Davis is very smart. Not smart like a bartender who knows his World Series, but smart, like if you have a problem you can bring it up after you’ve ordered a drink and she will likely solve it for you. I’ve seen this in action—actually seen it happen. Divorce lawyers. Grad students. Geological survey men. She fixes their puzzles, although they’re no less puzzled, really, when they leave. The gentlemen must have known this too, although the tall one had to ask his quiz master question before he believed it. They took off their hats and sat down.
“Holy—” the guy said from the table, but his girlfriend shushed him. The tall gentleman gave the guy a real angry look, and the guy lowered his eyes and took a long, long sip from his drink. Martinis, both of them, the guy and the girl both. That’s the kind of couple that stays together.
“My friend here,” said the short gentleman, “was hoping not to be recognized.”
“You wander around hoping not to be recognized,” Davis said, “then you ought not to let everybody know.”
“Do you know who I am?” the tall gentleman asked.
“A customer, I’m guessing,” Davis said. “I recognize everyone who comes in that way. I ask them what they want to drink and they tell me and we go from there. So far it’s worked okay. Do you gentlemen really want Delmonicos? It’s no drink for beginners.”