Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

He’d doff the chesterfield and the homburg, tuck the bifocals into his shirt pocket and lie back to be fitted for the shroud. Hitman that day was kind enough to wait till the barber clipped the last few strays around the neck before moving in for the kill. Splash of witch hazel, a quick whisk with the broom; kerbang ! sneezed the roscoe. Barber conveniently had his back turned in that instant, dipping combs into the blue stuff- that was his story, anyway. Hooligan made tracks, ditching the gun behind him. No fingerprints, trail cold as Siberia. Word was Hoover was behind it, he was in a stew about how Joe’d sold McCarthy out once that gig was blown. Long before I knew I’d be palling around with any Kennedy, I asked Martin if he had any inside dirt. Looked at me like I’d asked him which route his mom preferred, French or Greek, and I didn’t ask again.
    »What’d you do before this?« I asked.
    He shook his head, and brushed his hair back, trying to cover the shiny skin at the peak. Probably he’d started shedding soon as he stopped boozing; Sophia knew brothers in gin always kept thick rugs above the snowline. »Wall Street. Day trader.«
    »Seriously?«
    »Had the knack for it when I was younger. Pressure got me after a while. That and the sauce. Couldn’t take it any more.« He shook his head, and guzzled down the rest of his fizz. »Went all blooey.«
    »Blooey?«
    »You know.« I nodded. »Just had to take off. Told everyone that I was going to become the sheriff of Waco, Texas.« He pronounced it whacko, which wasn’t the exact pronunciation, but from what I’d heard, it fit.
    »Inventive.«
    »Wasn’t any of their business,« he said, and I heard a knife in his voice. »Went back to my place. Got a suitcase and emptied it out. Went down to the liquor store and filled it with scotch. Checked into the Seymour over on 44 th , stayed there five days. Mostly stayed there. Then they found me.«
    »Who?«
    He shook his head, and his eyes wavered. I was starting to think I should abandon this conversational tangent for the nonce. »My brothers,« he said. »Their mugs, anyway.«
    I took a very, very small sip of my drink.
     
    Needless to say while going through the initial motions with Jim I was still contending with my ghosts and losing three falls out of three. Though neither of my transparent moochers did anything especially annoying other than being there, the guy started trying to talk to me more often; seemed to try, at any rate. Never elaborated on his riff: Walter, he’d blow; Walter. Repeat for sixty-four bars, second verse same as the first. But however many times he spun the tune, no matter how I was sometimes disappointed if I didn’t see them first thing when I walked in, I never stopped feeling those campfire shudders. It was anybody’s guess when they would drop in. Usually after the initial start I’d be okay, but then sometimes I’d be sitting on the throne reading the paper, not hurting a fly, and suddenly Marley’d pour through the door laying on with that heavy moan. Make me want to pull the chain and flush myself down to live among the alligators.
    My happy couple’d be there every morning come roostertime. When I’d get up I’d hope Eulie’d be there too, lurking in the kitchen or parking that cute keister of hers on my sofa, but every morning I was hit with a no-show. Wasn’t hard to see she was the kind of cookie you couldn’t keep your mitts on for long, but after two weeks dripped by I started to think they figured they’d put me through enough grief, and went off to haunt somebody else. The more I missed her, the heavier the black dog sat on my shoulders. I’m not one for the mushbowl – flowers and candy do nothing for me; as Trish knew well I can gape at a full moon and the only thing that makes me howl is how utterly groovitudinous it’d be to perambulate over its chickenpox scars. But when I thought of Eulie I knew considerably more than just the old kielbasa was involved; it worried me, the way I was thinking about her – I was never that serious about anything.
     
    One cold crispy evening Jim was under the weather and since I had no desire to coop with the spirit world I paraded over to Max’s. Got there too early for real action, showing up sometime around ten. That fabulous Trish was five deep in dopesters and jugheads at the far end of the bar, hard at work playing queen of the night. She heaved a bottle sky-high in salute and shouted at me. »Get