15
The next day I was in my office. Everything seemed to be at a dead end. It had been a terrible night, I had tried to drink myself to sleep. But the walls to my apartment were thin. I had heard everything next door…
“Hey, baby, this turkeyneck is loaded with sticky white paste and it’s got to get out or I’m gonna have a stroke or something!”
“That’s your problem, buster.”
“But we’re married!”
“You’re too ugly.”
“What? Huh? You never told me.”
“I just decided.”
“Well, the cream’s rising to my ears, baby! I gotta do something!”
“You’ll do it without me, Jackhammer!”
“O.k. O.k. Where’s the cat?”
“The cat? Oh no, you bastard, not Tinker Bell!”
“Where’s that god damned cat? I just saw it a minute ago!”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare! Not Tinker Bell!”
I hadn’t been able to drink myself to sleep. I had just sat there, pouring them down. No luck.
And now, like I said, it was the next morning, back at the office. I felt totally useless. I was useless. There were billions of women out there and not one of them was making her way toward my door. Why? I was a loser. I was a dick who couldn’t solve anything.
I watched the fly crawling across my desk and I got ready to take it into the darkness.
Then there was a flash of light!
I leaped up.
Celine was selling Cindy insurance! Life insurance on Jack Bass! Now they were going to take him out, make it look natural! They were in it together! I had them by the balls. Well, I had Celine by the balls and Cindy—well, I’d nail her ass. Jack Bass was in trouble. And Lady Death wanted Celine. And the Red Sparrow still had not been found. But I felt myself moving toward something. Something big. I took my hand out of my pocket and picked up the telephone. Then I put it down. Who the hell did I think I was going to call? I knew what time it was. And Jack Bass was in deep. I had to think. I tried to think. The fly was still crawling along the desk. I rolled up the Racing Form, took a swat at it and missed. It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.
I sat back in my chair. Born to die. Born to live like a harried chipmunk. Where were the chorus girls? Why did I feel like I was attending my own funeral?
The door swung open. And there stood Celine.
“You,” I said, “it had to be you.”
“I know the song,” he said.
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“Depends,” said Celine. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Yes, but go ahead.”
He reached into my cigar box, took one out, unpeeled it, bit off the end, took out a lighter, lit up, inhaled, then exhaled a gorgeous plume of smoke.
“They sell those things, you know,” I told him.
“What don’t they sell?”
“Air. But they will. Now, what do you want?”
“Well, good buddy…”
“Cut the crap.”
“All right, all right…Well, let’s see…”
Celine placed his feet up on my desk.
“Nice shoes you got there,” I told him. “You buy them in France?”
“France, Schmantz, who cares?”
He exhaled another plume of smoke.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Good question,” he said. “It has thundered down through the centuries.”
“‘Thundered’?”
“Don’t be so picky for Christ’s sake. You act like a guy who had an unhappy childhood.”
I yawned.
“So,” he said, “it’s like this. You’re in deep shit on at least two counts. Breaking and entering. Assault and battery…”
“What?”
“Brewster is now a eunuch. You crushed his balls with that camcorder, they look like a couple of dried figs. Now he can sing ultra-soprano.”
“And?”
“We know the whereabouts of the culprit who broke and entered, who eliminated the manhood of another.”
“And?”
“And it is possible that the police might be informed.”
“You got any real evidence?”
“Three witnesses.”
“That’s a bunch.”
Celine took his feet down, leaned over the desk close to me, staring directly into my eyes.
“Belane, I need a loan of ten grand.”
“I got it. I got it! Blackmail! You swine! Blackmail!”
I felt myself getting excited. It felt pretty good.
“It’s not blackmail, sucker. I am only asking you for a loan of ten…
