A Dance at the Slaughter House

"Hard way to make a living."



"Some days it certainly seems that way."



"It's a good thing you love it."



"Do I? I suppose so."



"Of course you do."



"I guess. It's satisfying when you can keep hammering away at something until it starts to make sense. But not everything does." We were on dessert now, some kind of gooey honey cake, too sweet for me to finish. The waitress had brought us Moroccan coffee, which was the same idea as Turkish coffee, very thick and bitter, with powdery grounds filling the bottom third of the cup.



I said, "I put in a good day's work. That's satisfying. But I'm working on the wrong case."



"Can't you work on two things at once?"



"Probably, but nobody's paying me to investigate a snuff film. I'm supposed to be determining whether or not Richard Thurman killed his wife."



"You're working on it."



"Am I? Thursday night I went to the fights, with the excuse that he was producing the telecast. I established several things. I established that he's the kind of guy who will take off his tie and jacket when he's working. And he's spry, he can climb up onto the ring apron and then drop down again without breaking a sweat. I got to watch him give the placard girl a pat on the ass, and-"



"Well, that's something."



"It was something for him. I don't know that it was anything much for me."



"Are you kidding? It says something if he can play grab-ass with a tootsie two months after his wife's death."



"Two and a half months," I said.



"Same difference."



"A tootsie, huh?"



"A tootsie, a floozie, a bimbo. What's wrong with tootsie?"



"Nothing. He wasn't exactly playing grab-ass. He just gave her a pat."



"In front of millions of people."



"They should be so lucky. A couple hundred people."



"Plus the audience at home."



"They were watching a commercial. Anyway, what would it prove? That he's a coldhearted son of a bitch who puts his hands on other women while his wife's body has barely had time to settle in the grave? Or that he doesn't have to put on an act because he's genuinely innocent? You could see it either way."



"Well," she said.



"That was Thursday. Yesterday, relentless fellow that I am, I drank a glass of club soda in the same gin joint with him. It was a little like being at opposite ends of a crowded subway car, but we were both actually in the same room at the same time."



"That's something."



"And last night I had dinner at Radicchio's, on the ground floor of his apartment building."



"How was it?"



"Nothing special. The pasta was pretty good. We'll try it sometime."



"Was he in the restaurant?"



"I don't even think he was in the building. If he was home he was sitting in the dark. You know, I called his apartment this morning. I was making all those other calls so I called him."



"What did he have to say?"



"I got his machine. I didn't leave a message."



"I hope he'll find that as frustrating as I always do."



"One can only hope. You know what I ought to do? I ought to give Lyman Warriner his money back."



"No, don't do that."



"Why not? I can't keep it if I don't do anything to earn it, and I can't seem to think of a way to do that. I read the file the cops built on the case, and they already tried everything I could think of and more."



"Don't return the money," she said. "Honey, he doesn't give a damn about the money. His sister got killed and if he thinks he's doing something about it he'll have a chance to die in peace."



"What am I supposed to do, string him along?"



"If he asks, tell him these things take time. You won't be asking him for more money-"



"God, no."



"- so he'll have no reason to think that you're hustling him. You don't have to keep the money, if you don't feel you've done anything to earn it. Give it away. Give it to AIDS research, give it to God's Love We Deliver, there are plenty of places to give it to."



"I suppose."



"Knowing you," she said, "you'll find a way to earn it."



THERE was a movie she wanted to see at the Waverly but it was Saturday night and there was a long line that neither of us felt like standing in. We walked around for a while, had some cappuccino on Macdougal Street, and listened to a girl folksinger in a no-cover club on Bleecker.



"Long hair and granny glasses," Elaine said. "And a long gingham gown. Who said the sixties were over?"



"All her songs sound the same."



"Well, she only knows three chords."



Outside I asked her if she felt like listening to some jazz. She said, "Sure, where? Sweet Basil? The Vanguard? Pick a place."



"I was thinking maybe Mother Goose."



"Uh-huh."



"What's that supposed to mean?"



"Nothing. I like Mother Goose."



"So do you want to go?"



"Sure. Do we get to stay even if Danny Boy's not there?"



DANNY Boy wasn't there, but we hadn't been there long before he showed up. Mother Goose is at Amsterdam and Eighty-first, a jazz club that draws a salt-and-pepper crowd. They keep the lights low, and the drummer uses brushes and never takes a solo. It and Poogan's Pub are the two places where you can find Danny Boy Bell.



Wherever you find him, he tends to stand out. He's an albino Negro, his skin and eyes both extremely sensitive to sunlight, and he has arranged his life so he and the sun are never up at the same time. He is a small man who dresses with flair, favoring dark suits and flamboyant vests. He drinks a lot of Russian vodka, straight up and ice-cold, and he often has a woman with him, usually every bit as flashy as his vest. The one tonight had a mane of strawberry blond hair and absolutely enormous breasts.



The maоtre d' led them to the ringside table where he always sits. I didn't think he'd noticed us, but at the end of the set a waiter appeared at our table and said that Mr. Bell hoped we would join him. When we got there Danny Boy said, "Matthew, Elaine, it's so nice to see you both. This is Sascha, isn't she darling?"



Sascha giggled. We made conversation, and after a few minutes Sascha sashayed off to the ladies' room.



"To powder her nose," Danny Boy said. "As it were. The best argument for legalizing drugs is people wouldn't keep running to the lavatory all the time. When they figure out the man-hours cocaine is costing American industry, they really ought to factor in those rest-room trips."



I waited until Sascha's next trip to the ladies' room to bring up Richard Thurman. "I sort of assumed he killed her," Danny Boy said. "She was rich and he wasn't. If only the fellow was a doctor I'd say there was no doubt at all. Why do you suppose doctors are always killing their wives? Do they tend to marry bitches? How would you explain it?"



We kicked it around some. I said maybe they were used to playing God, making life-and-death decisions. Elaine had a more elaborate theory. She said people who went into the healing professions were frequently individuals who were trying to overcome a perception of themselves as hurting people. "They become doctors to prove they're not killers," she said, "and then when they experience stress they revert to what they think of as their basic nature, and they kill."



"That's interesting," Danny Boy said. "Why would they have that perception in the first place?"



"A birth thought," she said. "The mother almost dies when they're born, or experiences a great deal of pain. So the child's thought is I hurt women or I kill women. He tries to compensate for this by becoming a doctor, and later on when push comes to shove-"



"He kills his wife," Danny Boy said. "I like it."



I asked what data she had to support the theory, and she said she didn't have any, but there were lots of studies on the effects of birth thoughts. Danny Boy said he didn't care about data, you could find data to prove anything, but the theory was the first one he'd ever heard that made sense to him, so screw the data. Sascha had returned to the table during the discussion but it went on without interruption, and she didn't seem to be paying any attention.



"About Thurman," Danny Boy said. "I haven't heard anything specific. I haven't listened all that hard. Should I?"



"Be good to keep an ear open."



He poured himself a few ounces of Stoly. At both of his places, Poogan's and Mother Goose, they bring him his vodka in a champagne bucket packed with ice. He looked down into the glass, then drank it down like water.



He said, "He's with a cable channel. A new sports channel."



"Five Borough."



"That's right. There's some talk going around about them."



"What?"



He shook his head. "Nothing very specific. Something shaky or shady about it, some dubious money backing it. I'll see what else I hear."



A few minutes later Sascha left the table again. When she was out of earshot Elaine leaned forward and said, "I can't stand it. That child has the biggest tits I've ever seen in my life."



"I know."



"Danny Boy, they're bigger than your head."



"I know. She's special, isn't she? But I think I'm going to have to give her up." He poured himself another drink. "I can't afford her," he said. "You wouldn't believe what it costs to keep that little nose happy."



"Enjoy her while you can."



"Oh, I shall," he said. "Like life itself."



BACK in her apartment, Elaine made a pot of coffee and we sat on the couch. She stacked some solo piano recordings on the turntable- Monk, Randy Weston, Cedar Walton. She said, "She was something, wasn't she? Sascha. I don't know where Danny Boy finds them."



"K Mart," I suggested.



"When you see something like that you have to figure silicone, but maybe they're like Topsy, maybe they just growed. What do you think?"



"I didn't really notice."



"Then you better start going to more meetings, because it must have been the vodka that was making you drool." She drew closer to me. "What do you think? Would you like me better if I had huge tits?"



"Sure."



"You would?"



I nodded. "Longer legs would be nice, too."



"Is that a fact? What about trimmer ankles?"



"Wouldn't hurt."



"Really? Tell me more."



"Cut it out," I said. "That tickles."



"Does it really? Tell me what else you've got on your wish list. How about a tight pussy?"



"That would be too much to hope for."



"Oh, boy," she said. "You're really asking for it, aren't you?"



"Am I?"



"Oh, I hope so," she said. "I certainly hope so."



AFTERWARD I lay in her bed while she turned the stack of records and brought back two cups of coffee. We sat up in bed and didn't say much.



After a while she said, "You were pissed yesterday."



"I was? When?"



"When you had to get out of here because I had somebody coming over."