Joe's Liver Page 7

  “Good, Artie, good. Always get it in writing, that’s my motto, har, har! Okay. Walk down Washington Street until ya get to The Pink Pussy. That’s where all the guys’ll be.”

  “I take it I’m to look for a pet store, then ?”

  “Artie, you’re a riot. Lissen, if ya get lost, just ask for directions to the Combat Zone, okay?”

  “An American Legion Post, no doubt, Mister Balboni?”

  “Artie, ya kill me! Okay, see you there.”

  “Mister Balboni, what attire do you recommend? Should I wear my uniform?”

  “Hey, loosen up, kid. Ya must have some other clothes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good enough, wear ’em, wear ’em. Catch ya later, Artie.”

  Ardy hangs up and goes to his room to change into the pants and shirt Roseanna bought him in Vermont (romantic locale of their first tryst!). Contemplating the effect in the mirror, he hums a bit of “Day-O.” As a last-minute addition, he tosses on a sports-jacket from the closet of Roy, the college-ensconced son, dons his chauffeurs overcoat, and ventures out.

  Negotiating the various subway transitions proves easy enough, and soon Ardy is out on Washington Street, enjoying the crisp December air, marveling at the Christmas decorations, alert for the pet store where he is to meet “the boys.”

  As Ardy leaves behind the cheerful families burdened with packages, the character of the neighborhood changes. Stores are replaced by fenced construction sites and a few gentrification-defiant movie-theaters and bars. The movie-houses are promoting obscure features with nearly identical titles: cherry girls, high-school girls, naughty girls, naughty high- school girls lose their cherries.…

  Ardy assumes these are some of the new “youth- market” films he has heard about, emulating the work of Hughes or Tarantino.

  After passing several raucous bars, Ardy’s gaze is caught by flashing neon that spells out the name of his destination, alongside neon outlines of curvaceous females. Stepping carefully around several supine gentleman enjoying a brief nap on the sidewalk, Ardy enters the establishment, intent on visiting first the parakeets, for a reminder of his native land.

  The interior of The Pink Pussy is lit rather like the inside of a human body, in somber reds, purples, yellows and blues. Music with a driving beat batters at Ardy’s ears. The atmosphere is so full of smoke, Ardy can barely distinguish the patrons seated at various tables. There is a bar, a long raised runway, pool tables.… Ardy at last admits to himself that he has been invited to an actual non-teetotaling watering-hole.

  A loud voice calls out, “Hey, Artie, over here!”

  Ardy makes his way to a table he finds is occupied by Mister Balboni and an assortment of other chauffeurs. Each man has a drink in hand and a woman upon his lap. Ardy is distressed.

  “Mister Balboni, I expected a more decorous environment in which to comport ourselves.…”

  “Hey, fellas, lissen to this kid, willya? Talks just like a goddamn dictionary, don’t he? But he’s awright, he’s awright, I tell ya, I known’m from ’way back. Sitcha skinny butt down, Artie, grab a drink, grab a girl, whatever ya want, it’s all on me, I hit the Trifecta today.”

  “Mister Balboni, I just don’t —”

  “Siddown! The show’s gonna start!”

  Ardy sits.

  Before he can speak up a drink is placed before him. Ardy sips some and discovers it goes down surprisingly easily. When his eyes cease watering, he looks straight ahead to find his vision blocked by a sea of tummy-rounded white lace.

  Standing before Ardy is a well-proportioned young woman clothed all in white. Her high-heels are white, as are her stirrup-tights and bustier. Red hair — some or all of which might be artificial — hangs halfway down her back. Her features are Hispanic. From Ardy’s vantage, she appears about six-two.

  “Hi-darlin’-I’m-Chichi-what’s-your-name?” pours forth from this Amazon as if a single multisyllabic word.

  “Are —”

  “What a nice lap you got, honey.”

  “Madam, please …”

  “Call me Chichi.”

  “Miss Chichi, would you remove yourself from my lap, please?”

  “Aw, honey, be a sport and buy a girl a drink.”

  Reluctantly, since this woman outweighs him, Ardy consents. Solely for strength, not seeking any neurological thrills thereby entailed, Ardy downs his own drink. Another promptly appears. After consuming that one, Ardy finds that Miss Chichi s presence is no longer as disagreeable as it once was. In fact, she feels positively natural snuggled close inside his arm. He tries not to think of what Roseanna would say, were she to catch him in such a compromising embrace.

  “Are you acquainted by chance, Miss Chichi, with a good friend of mine, one of your own ethnic grouping, named Mister Enrico ?”

  “Har, har, I tole you guys he’s awright, dinnit I?”

  Hours pass in a translucent haze. Everyone appears to have reached a definite level of insobriety. From time to time, couples arise from the table and disappear. A risque floor show much befogged by smoke is mounted. From somewhere far away, Ardy hears Miss Chichi’s voice attempting to convince him to go where the others have gone. Not wishing to miss anything here in the main room, he stands — or sits — fast.

  Sometime past midnight the door to The Pink Pussy is banged open with more than usual violence. A wave of alarm courses through the crowd. A voice calls out above the hubbub.

  “Drug bust, folks, everyone Stay right where you are. I’m Agent Johnson, and this is my partner, Agent Johnson.”

  “No relation.”

  “Kill the fucking lights!”

  As darkness drops like a guillotine’s blade, Ardy feels Miss Chichi depart with alacrity. Screams, curses and imprecations are being volleyed. A flying object — possibly a beer mug — impinges upon Ardy’s head at this juncture, and he goes boneless with the impact and slips beneath the table. Recovering a second or two later, Ardy decides muzzily that there is less action down near the floor. On all fours he crawls from beneath the table and toward the door, which is outlined by streetlight glow. At the door he stands, hesitant. Will he be walking out into the arms of the police? The crack of a pistol-shot motivates him to exit, regardless of such finer points.

  Outside he encounters no one. Even the sleeping gutter-men have gone. Doubtlessly the Agents Johnson felt no need of reinforcements, in light of their renowned competence.

  With an incipient headache blooming, missing his expensive chauffeur’s overcoat, Ardy stumbles away from the barroom melee.

  The next time he meets with Mister Balboni, that roustabout sports two black eyes and a bruise-mottled jaw.

  “Hey, kid, good time, huh?”

  “Mister Balboni, it was like nothing I ever experienced before. I am not certain if I care to undergo such a night again. As Voltaire once remarked, ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.’”

  “Hey, that’s life, kid, never the same thing twice, right?”

  “Your vernacular restatement of the aphorism is also fit for the pages of the Digest, Mister Balboni.”

  “Whatever ya say, kid.”

  When Roseanna returns from her ski trip, tanned and plainly exhilarated, Ardy is at the airport to meet her. Once she is shielded by the car door he is holding open for her, she grabs him in a sensitive location in a clench normally associated with a doctor’s instructions to cough. Ardy stifles a squeak.

  Once more on Beacon Hill, after he has lugged her heavy bags inside, Roseanna flops wearily down into a chair. “What a week! I’m pooped! It was fun, but if I never see another chalet in my life, it’ll be too soon! Was there any trouble while I was away, Ardy?”

  “None at all.”

  “That’s fine, since I’m so exhausted I don’t think I could bear to hear about any crises.”

  “I have nothing I wish to report.”

  “Wonderful. Would you give me a massage, Ardy dear? That plane was so cramped, and I’ve missed you terribly.” />
  “And I you, Roseanna.”

  “You’re sweet. Mmmm, that’s nice. A little lower, now …”

  The next day the doorbell rings in the early afternoon and Ardy answers it. A deliveryman stands upon the Stoop, holding a container that looks like a giant’s lunchbox by its handle. One end of the container is screened.

  “Mountjoy?”

  “I’ll take it, thank you,” says Ardy.

  As soon as Ardy touches the container, a ferocious yapping emanates from inside, and the cage lunges and vibrates, as if a Tasmanian devil or Arctic wolverine were attempting to free itself.

  Ardy lifts the heavy cage to face-level and peers inside. He dimly discerns a snarling canine face. Attempting to calm the beast, Ardy speaks to it in his accustomed winning Spice Island patois. He detects no effect.

  Attracted by the commotion, Roseanna appears from upstairs.

  “Oh, he’s arrived! Bring him here, Ardy!”

  Ardy delivers the carrier to Roseanna, who unsnaps the locks, swings open the door, reaches in, and takes out what appears to be an animated dust-mop. Cradling it in her arms, she bends herself around it, cooing and stroking.

  “Roseanna, what manner of high-strung dog is this?”

  “A Lhasa Apso, Ardy. Priscilla Bayswater brought hers along to Aspen, and I really fell in love with him, so I’ve ordered one of my own. Isn’t he adorable?”

  Roseanna sets the dog down on the floor. It immediately pisses on Ardy’s foot.

  “Oh, what a naughty boy! Ardy, get something to clean that up. We’ll have to train him out of that. Don’t you think he’s so cute?”

  “It looks like a withered Oriental grandfather with hyperpilosity.”

  “Oh, you and your goddamn picturesque speech! Sometimes it makes me sick!”

  “Please forgive me, Roseanna, I meant no harm. What is this little fellow to be called?”

  Ardy tries to pet the dog, but it quickly scuttles backwards like a centipede.

  “I thought ‘Poo-Chee.’”

  “That’s — charming.”

  Ardy, going to the kitchen for paper-towels and Mr Clean, foresees an undying enmity between himself and the dog.

  The next few days bear out his fears. Poo-Chee reveals an astonishing capacity for making Ardy’s life miserable. His shoes are chewed, his bed pissed on, his chauffeur’s cap dragged off somewhere undiscoverable. This last loss Roseanna orders him to make good out of his savings. A new cap costs Ardy exactly $54.49. (Thank heavens that through the good offices of Mister Balboni he managed to recover his overcoat — slightly the worse for wear — from the bar, or he would have been even further out of pocket.) His departure for Pleasantville — which lately has come to look somehow more and more appealing, despite the trip entailing leaving security behind — is delayed commensurately.

  One day Roseanna informs Ardy that she will be going out that night.

  “May I ask where, so that I can study the most likely route?” inquires Ardy.

  “The MFA is having a charity affair after regular hours. Members only. Something to do with their new wing. Of course I’ll need you to wait.”

  “Very good.”

  Ardy retires to his room, where he studies his much-thumbed map of the city, finally locating the Museum of Fine Arts out on Huntington Avenue. He memorizes a direct route, then falls to preparing his uniform, attempting to hide the worst teeth-marks on his shoes with a thick coat of black polish.

  The ebony sky above the Museum parking lot appears infinitely deep, and the urban atmosphere, for once, is so empty and pellucid that the stars hardly shimmer, instead looking like those in a video-game display. Behind the Museum dead reeds rattle in the Back Bay Fens. Traffic surges along the Fenway and Huntington, producing a comforting backdrop to the chauffeurs’ talk, which emerges in puffs of chill Steam.

  “Mister Balboni, I understand that your household boasts the presence of a purebred Lhasa Apso.”

  “You heard right, kid. Hey, why doncha share this booze with me?”

  “No, thank you. May I enquire how you get along with the aforementioned canine?”

  “Not too good, kid, not too good.”

  “What would you recommend to appease it?”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to please it, kid. In fact, I’ve kicked its asshole up around its neck so much it’s got a permanent collar.”

  “I will take that tactic under advisement, Mister Balboni, if I am pressed much further.”

  “Well, enough jawin’, Artie, it’s about time we drove around to pick up the stiffs.”

  “Please do not refer to Mrs. Mountjoy in that fashion, Mister Balboni.”

  “Loosen up, Artie.”

  “Mister Balboni?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I like myself the way I am.”

  “More’s the pity, kid.”

  Ardy Starts up the Jaguar and joins the procession of limos that snakes around to the front of the Museum. Once in the long curving driveway, the procession slows to a crawl. The jovial, champagne-filled patrons, clustering in a drunken gaggle on the steps of the Museum, are having difficulty ascertaining one car from another.

  After sitting in his motionless car for ten minutes, Ardy shuts off the motor and leaves in search of Roseanna.

  On the broad steps men and women dressed in an assortment of expensive clothes are milling about. Some are displaying tipsy affection, possibly for their mates, possibly for the mates of others. Some are gesturing imperiously toward cars stuck way back in line, as if demanding that they magically transport themselves over the intervening vehicles. Some are busy consummating what could be either business dealings or romantic assignations, the difference being sometimes quite indistinguishable to Ardy’s eyes.

  Ardy spots Roseanna. She is wearing a luxurious tawny fur over her black gown and looks striking. She is engaged in conversation with two men. A momentary pang of jealousy stabs through Ardy, but he quickly quashes it as unworthy of his better nature.

  Moving through the crowd, Ardy is able to discern Roseannas voice.

  “… nutmeg on caviar! Who would ever have thought of such a thing but Helena! I simply must congratulate her, Duncan, when I see her again.”

  “Yes, she is rather a wizard when it comes to such culinary matters. Nouvelle cuisine, and all that. I’ll be sure to tell her on your behalf.”

  Hearing the man’s name, Ardy freezes in his tracks. He moves to bolt, but it’s too late. Roseanna has seen him, and now hails him. Ardy has no choice but to go to her side.

  “This is marvelous! Duncan, I’ve been meaning to arrange this reunion for weeks! Ardy, surely you recognize Mister Armitage and Mister Fitzwater. Here’s a chance to renew your acquaintanceship.”

  Ardy confronts the two men. One has sandy hair, the other dark. Both are in their early thirties, tanned, sleek, confident, wearing heavy topcoats. Their eyes glitter with alcoholic conviviality. Ardy’s only hope is that they are both dead drunk.

  Armitage extends his hand first. “Hello. Can’t say as I exactly recall —”

  “We met in San Juan, Mister Armitage, shortly after your passport was stolen.”

  “Ah, of course, so many new faces down there, and the press of business …”

  The man’s words make Ardy feel slightly drunk himself. This is all going better than he could have hoped. Elated, he begins to push his luck.

  “I quite understand, sir. Mister Fitzwater, hello to you too, sir. May we shake …?”

  Spalding Fitzwater is regarding Ardy intensely, and does not offer his grip. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

  “Certainly, San Juan —”

  “No, that’s not it, I’ve seen your picture hanging somewhere. Or was it a sketch? Damn me if I can remember right now.…”

  Roseanna steps in at this uncomfortable instant, and Ardy wishes he could kiss her. “Perhaps it was a bust or something in the African exhibit just now. Ardy has such classic features, don’t you think?”

  “I d
on’t believe that was it. Now where did I stop today? Bank, post office …”

  “Mrs Mountjoy, I believe there’s an opening for us to depart now. And poor little Poo-Chee is home all alone.”

  “Oh, all right, if we must. Ciao, all.”

  “If I only had another minute, I’m sure I could recall …”

  “I’ll tell Helena you enjoyed the nutmeg, Rosie.”

  In the car there is silence as Ardy tools competently along on Huntington. At a red light he turns around and finds that Roseanna has passed out. Shortly she begins to emit gentle feminine snores.

  “‘Rosie,’ thank you for extricating me from yet another potential debacle,” Ardy says softly aloud.

  No answer but a chirring sort of buzz.

  Back on Beacon Hill Ardy manages to carry Roseanna inside and put her to bed. He goes downstairs. Poo-Chee is gnawing on his new hat.

  Ardy gives the beast a new pink collar as a reward.

  He feels much better for it.

  Unfortunately Ardy’s unpremeditated act of violence has repercussions. The next day Poo-Chee is not to be found for hours. Eventually Ardy unearths him from under the couch. The dog is unusually quiet and cowed. Roseanna is fearful for its health. Ardy is inwardly ashamed, but says nothing. The dog refuses to eat all day, and by evening Roseanna is frantic.

  “You must take him to a vet tomorrow, Ardy, first thing. I can’t bear to see him suffer so.”

  “Don’t worry, Roseanna, dear, I will do all within my power to restore the little fellow to his pristine condition of bilious ferocity.”

  In the morning, Ardy sets out. He bears a business card which Mister Balboni has graciously delivered from Priscilla Bayswater. It gives an address for a veterinarian who comes highly touted. His name is Doctor Spence Hubert, an appellation Ardy finds faintly familiar.

  At the office, Ardy is told by a receptionist to wait. He sits. At his feet, Poo-Chee whines in his carrier. Then, miracle of miracles, Ardy’s eyes fall on the very latest copy of the Digest. Like one famished for stimulation, he reaches for it and settles back to enjoy himself. The lead article is “Are You a Sexually Happy Housewife?” Ardy reads it diligently, hoping to find hints about Roseanna’s needs.