trixie was getting desperate,
she had married frank o’connell when she was 17 and he was 48, confident that he would be dead - from a heart attack or overwork or drinking or old age - in three or four years.
but here it was going on five years, and he was still alive. he was still making money, more than ever, from the construction business that he inherited from his father and he was still in solid with his pals in city hall and the assembly.
but trixie wasn’t getting any younger, and when would she get to spend the money all by herself ? and not have to put up with frank and his drunken, slobby, and occasionally jealous ways.
and then, suddenly she saw some light…
frank started staying out on a regular basis on a particular night of the week - thursday, to be exact. maybe he was just playing poker with some slice of his huge group of pals, but he never said so, and he never seemed to get any calls where he talked about a poker game or anything like it.
no, trixie told herself, it must have come at last - a girl friend! divorce court, here i come! alimony, give me a great big hug!
trixie had long had the names (in her head, not written down) of some private detectives who specialized in such matters. so one night when she was sure frank was at a corned beef and cabbage dinner for one of his assembly buddies, she put in a phone call to al’s bar, an establishment that was known to be a favorite watering hole of private detectives.
this is al’s bar, a voice, probably of al himself, answered.
hello, is vic vance there? or maybe lou gracchus?
both of those bums are here. hold on, i’ll get vance for you.
after about ten seconds, a growling voice on the line.
vic vance here.
mister vance? i wonder if you could help me. i understand you specialize in divorce work.
that a lot of other things. but. yeah, i can probably help you out. you have a name?
i prefer not to tell you my name just yet. maybe we could meet?
sure. how about right here at al’s?
i would rather not. it is too well known for this sort of thing. how about the all night automat on bedford st? beside the hotel st crispian?
i know that place. you want to meet there now?
no. how about - two thirty tomorrow afternoon. is that too early for you?
no, that’s good. how will i know you?
i will be wearing a cute little red hat. and i am kind of cute myself.
then i guess i won’t have any problem spotting you.
*
a week later.
trixie sat at a little table in the all night automat, poking at a piece of lemon meringue pie and looking out at a light rain. she was waiting for vic vance to show up for their second meeting, and to hear his first report. she had avoided contacting him by phone since her original call.
vance showed up on time, as he had for the first meeting. he sat down across from trixie without bothering to buy anything for himself.
so how did it go? trixie got right down to business.
very strange, vance answered. in fact, unique in my experience, and i thought i had seen it all.
you do not say so. can you be a little more specific?
well, let me tell you how it went down. i staked out your husband’s office on thursday, just like you said. and it starts to get dark, and it’s a little after five o’clock and a guy comes out of the building, and it looks like your husband, from the pictures i seen of him.
and then i think, wait a minute, it can’t be him, look how he’s dressed, like a complete bum. heavy overcoat, a hat that looks a dog got at it, shoes that look they got holes in them, you follow me? so i think it can’t be him.
so i step back into the shadows, and commence to wait some more. but i wait and wait, and nobody looks like your husband comes out. and the lights in the building go out. and i finally think, hey, that guy dressed like a bum must have been him after all.
trixie was getitng a little impatient, but she just said, and then what?
well, vic vance does not cheat his clients, mrs o’connell, but aims to give them full value. now you told me he is always putting on the feedbag at some function on fridays, and then it is the weekend. and you said he always goes missing on thursday, but some other nights too, so i take a chance and look out for him on monday night. you follow me?
yes, he got home late on monday. go on.
well, on monday night i get lucky, and the guy dressed like a bum comes out again, dressed exactly the same, and this time i follow him. i follow him down sixth avenue to bleecker street, and then down bleecker to the bowery. not really that surprising, the way he’s dressed.
but - the bowery! trixie exclaimed.
he goes into an establishment on the corner, called bob’s bowery bar. are you familiar with it?
i don’t think so. it does not sound like a place i would grace with my presence.
well, i know the place. it is a place you just walk into without getting checked out, in fact you can just sit in it all day as long as you don’t make trouble, so i follow him right in.
trixie laughed. i think i am starting to get the picture. he meets some redfaced straggly haired drunken bimbo his own age…
no, nothing like that at all. hear me out. there is a big table in the center of the floor and seven or eight guys sitting around it and your husband joins them. nobody pays you much mind in a place like this so i get a draft at the bar and sit down at a table right beside them where i can hear everything they say.
and they all talk loud! they all have red noses and look they could use a shave and a haircut. and you know what they are?
no, tell me.
poets! they all call themselves poets, and write poetry.
poetry? you mean, like in the sixth grade? what does frank want with them?
he calls himself a poet too. they don’t know him as frank o’connell the construction magnate, but as salty mcwilliams the hobo poet. he is leading what you call a double life.
trixie just stared at vance, who continued.
anyway, whatever else these guys are, they seem very friendly, especially if you buy them a drink, so i go over and join them and get friendly.
they start reading and reciting their poems, and your husband, who they know as salty, reads a couple of his, and i ask him if he will write one down for me, and he gives me the paper he was reading from and autographs it for me, which was nice of him.
vance took a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. want to hear it?
trixie shrugged. if you insist. i am still trying to process this.
vance started to read -
we are the damned of the damned, my friend
with footsteps down the centuries
far from the castles and penthouses
of those who do as they please
the stars are our fathers, distant and cold
the jails our welcoming mothers
the roads our pitiless teachers
stray cats and dogs our brothers
the railroad tracks glitter, but do not smile
the bulls break their sticks on our heads
we dream of beauty and kindness
but only -
o k, that is enough, trixie interrupted. tell me, are there any laws against this stuff? anything i can use for a divorce? for having a double life or whatever?
i would not think so. but if you want to pay a lawyer, you can.
vance took another, more neatly folded piece of paper, out of his pocket and put it on the table. here is my report, he told trixie. if you want to try a lawyer, let me recommend will wiley. here, let me write his number down.
he took out a pen and wrote on the back of the report. i can keep trying, if you like, maybe we can find something else.
trixie shook her head. i don’t think so. i will call you at al’s if i change my mind.
trixie had paid vance up front in cash for what he had done. he got up, tipped his hat, and left.
trixie stared out at bedford street. the rain was falling a little harder.
she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
when she thought about frank she wanted to laugh.
when she thought about herself she wanted to cry.
next story
| 
No comments:
Post a Comment