Chapter 4
CHUCK HUZAK WAS JUST AS HAPPY to let Eddie stay behind with that skirt doing the painter bit as he climbed the pitch-black stair-case. Strang was an obnoxious son of a bitch and Eddie was a little too quick with his hands when someone rubbed him the wrong way.
Not that Chuck would mind seeing somebody slug Strang. He'd take a swing at him himself if Strang was still as sarcastic as he used to be back in Davis. He wanted to get some information out of him first. The idea had grown in his mind ever since he talked to Strang on the phone. Find Kathy.
She'd always talked about how exciting it would be to live in New York. Maybe she moved here after graduating. Chuck had even looked her name up in the phone book a week ago, but wasn't able to find it. Maybe she didn't have a phone or maybe she lived in some other town. Strang should know. A girl like that couldn't just drop out of sight, Strang must have some idea where she was.
Of course by this time Kathy probably was married. Somehow Chuck couldn't imagine Kathy marrying anyone else, not after those months in the apartment. The memory of her had grown stronger in the last few years, he knew he had to see her or at least know where she was.
Finding her would only be the start of the problem. After the stunt he pulled, running off like that without saying anything, it was damn unlikely she'd welcome him back with open arms. Still, that was five years ago. People changed in time. He knew that he'd changed and matured since then. Maybe they could make it together now that they both were older.
At any rate he was ready to give it a try.
He was at the third floor when he heard a high-pitched giggle from up above. Thinking it might be some guy with a broad and not wanting to surprise them if they were going at it, he stumbled purposely.
"Someone's coming, Vern."
"Good, the more the merrier," Vern giggled.
Queers, god-damned queers. Leave it to Strang to have high-class neighbors. Wishing he'd worn civvies instead of the monkey-suit, disgustedly he went up the steps. There was bound to be trouble when they saw his uniform.
The stairs ended at the fifth floor. Through the dim light that came from the sky-light, he could see the two gaudily dressed figures waiting for him.
"Look, Vern, a sailor!"
"Yummy, he's for me!"
"Oh no you don't! I saw him first."
"Knock it off, you two," Chuck rasped, elbowing them aside to get to a door that showed a crease of light. He could hear a Bach fugue being played on a hi-fi. Good, it must be Strang's, he always was a nut for Bach back in Davis.
"Come on, don't be that way," the one called Vern said, stepping behind him. "What do you want to go to Strang's old party for? We can have our own party up on the roof."
"Not interested. You and your friend go back to your games."
"But I want you, instead. I'm tired of him."
"How can you be so fickle, Vern?" the other asked, offended.
"Never mind him, he's just jealous," Vern said, putting a limp hand on Chuck's shoulder.
"Knock it off!" Chuck said, angrily brushing the hand off.
"Oh, you may as well forget him, Vern. He's one of those."
"That can be cured," Vern replied, putting his hand back.
"Get your hand off me," Chuck said in a cold, angry voice.
"Just come up and have a drink with us," Vern went on, ignoring the warning. "Believe me, you'll find it's tremendous, something you've never dreamed times these queers were rough in a fight, into Vern's solar plexus. Whirling, he hit him again in karate style. Making soft, bubbling sounds, the queer sank to the floor, his vagus nerve temporarily para--uhhh!"
Not this one, though. Whimpering with fright, he cowered against the wall.
"Take it easy, he'll be all right in a day or so," Chuck said, revolted by the abject collapse.
"You-you barbarian!"
Disgusted, Chuck turned back to Strang's door. Damn queers! Well, maybe decking that sap would teach him to keep his hands to himself. About to strike the door with his knuckles, he hesitated, feeling a terrific urge to turn and run. It seemed as if there was something monstrous and evil waiting for him on the other side of the door.
Disregarding the warning, he rapped on the door, waited half a minute and rapped harder. The sound of talking stopped and he heard foot-steps approaching. The door was yanked open and Strang, tall and thin as ever, looked out. He appeared the same except for the loss of some hair on his forehead.
"You've got the wrong place, Sailor. Say, wait a second! By God, it is! Huzak himself!"
"So you remember me,, Professor Strang."
"What luck! Come in, come in! How did you find me? Oh, I know. That mysterious phone call about an hour ago. Still playing sophomoric tricks, aren't you? You don't know how glad I am to see you," Strang said, ushering him in.
A little bewildered by the friendliness, Chuck went into the apartment. Strang seemed to mean what he was saying, too. His face was beaming the same way it used to when he gave a student a failing grade in one of his courses.
It wasn't because he was trying to butter him up for a loan, either, Chuck realized. The apartment was furnished expensively with thick rugs and heavy mahogany furniture. A Picasso hung in the foyer, and knowing Strang he was certain that it was an original. The heady atmosphere of money, big money, filled the place.
There were several people in the living room who glanced at him quickly for a moment before looking back to a part of the room he couldn't see. Laughing to himself, Strang led Chuck into the kitchen and closed the door.
"What luck you came here just now, Charles! I still can't get over it. It makes me almost think that there must be something like Fate guiding our actions."
"I'm a little surprised that you're so happy to see me, Professor. I half expected you'd forgotten me."
"Not at all, not at all. Have a drink. You're a bourbon drinker, aren't you?"
"That'll be fine. You seem to be doing pretty well, Professor. Oh, yeah. I had a little trouble with a couple of clowns outside just now. I had to deck one. Named Vern, I think."
"Vern? Medium-sized with a little moustache? Tried to pick you up, I assume."
"Yeah, he got annoying."
"So you hit him? Splendid, splendid. The damned queen had the nerve to walk out of my party along with his latest love. No manners, these homosexuals. What do you think of my place? A little different from that dreary middle-class hovel I had at Davis, isn't it?"
"Looks like something you'd never find in a house like this. I thought I'd get hit for a loan when I first came up the steps," Chuck said, taking the tumbler of Old Turkey that Strang handed him.
"Yes, I've finally found my niche. I wrote that epic for the Folson Toilet Paper people, you know. How do you like being back in the Navy, Charles? Ever regret running off like that? There was quite a commotion over that, I can tell you."
"I regret leaving Kathy holding the bag like that. I don't know yet whether I was right in leaving the school."
"I know I was. Of course, leaving wasn't entirely my own idea. I imagine you're familiar with the details of my expulsion?"
"I heard about it."
"Stupid morality of that mentally-constipated town! It all worked out for the best, though. Surprising, the way things turn out, isn't it? Who'd ever have thought, six years ago, that you'd end up back in the Navy and I'd be writing moronic doggerel for the idiot multitude? Where have you been stationed?"
"Oh, I was out on the coast for a few years. I'm between ships, now. Say, this bourbon is terrific!"
"The best, of course."
"You know, I really don't know why you're so glad to see me. We never hit it off that good back in school but you're acting as if I were the prodigal son or something."
"Why, I've always had the highest regard for your ability, Charles. You were one of the very few who seemed capable of being educated back in my scholastic days. I still have great hopes for you."
"Still? I'm not a kid anymore, you know."
"No, no, I don't mean formal education. That's just a crock and we both know it. I'm referring to something broader than that. The education of the soul!"
"The soul? I didn't know you were religious."
"Oh, but I am. One of these days I'll have to explain my religion to you. You might find it quite amusing. First, I'll show you some of it. Tonight."
"You astound me, Professor Strang. I guess once a pedagogue, always a pedagogue, eh?"
"You're amused, I see. When you finish your drink I'm going to show you something about yourself and the world. I'm going to ask you to join my little party."
"Glad to," Chuck said, wondering if Strang were hopped-up. His pale, almost colorless, light-blue eyes were agleam with a secret light as he gazed at Chuck.
"It's quite convenient for a man of my tastes to live in New York. I've been able to indulge my appetite for erotic pleasure without any inconvenience. Except of course to my bank-account. Davis, as they say, cramped my style. Tonight though is my crowning effort. This will be something you'd have to go back to the Ancient Romans to emulate!"
"No kidding?" Chuck asked, draining his glass. No doubt about it, Strang was over the hill. Any second now and he'd probably start showing him his collection of pornography. Drinking with that Madison Avenue crowd probably had set him off.
"You don't seem very enthusiastic, Charles."
"I've seen some pretty rough shows knocking around in the Navy. Port Said, Marseilles, Rio. To be honest, I've sort of lost interest in them."
"I doubt that you'll be bored by what I have set up. Come, follow me."
With Strang leading the way they went into the living-room. Three people, a man and two women, were seated in a semi-circle facing a corner of the room brightly lit by several flood-lamps. The man, a long-haired type wearing French cuffs that showed several inches beyond his black Brooks Brothers sleeve, was rapidly taking shot after shot with a small Kodak Retina camera.
Turning, Chuck saw what they were looking at.
A tall young man stood in the limelight, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in a long holder in the other. Wearing an English tweed jacket and Ascot tie, he might have just stepped out of a page from Esquire.
From the waist up, that is.
Apparently he was half-naked, but Chuck couldn't see the rest of him because of the woman who knelt at his feet. She was young and splendidly built, the backless evening gown she was wearing coming almost down to the base of her spine. The hem of the gown was pulled over her knees, exposing creamy-white calves. Shapely arms grasped the standing man around his thighs while he calmly sipped his drink....
"Say, I'm going to have to take off this jacket. These lights are hot," the man said.
"Leave it on, Glen. That's what's going to make these pictures so unusual. Besides, you're going to have something to think about besides the heat pretty soon," a man called Fred said, moving closer to the kneeling woman for a close-up. "That's it, Honey. Let's have just a little more expression."
"Look, Harold is back. He has a sailor with him," one of the women said.
"Oh, a new recruit, I suppose? Where'd you pick him up, Harold, Sand Street?" the other woman asked.
"He's an old student of mine, Charles Huzak, who wasn't able to take civilian life. Chuck, may I introduce you to Fred, Glen and their wives. I'd introduce you to my own wife, but as you can see she is busy fulfilling her duties as a hostess right now," Strang said, leading Chuck to a chair directly in back of the kneeling woman.
"What! That's your wife!" Chuck exclaimed.
"Yes, I'm married again. Charming girl and very hospitable. Don't you think so, Glen?"
"A fine woman. Talented, too," Glen replied, patting her silver platinum-colored hair.
Seating himself, Chuck watched Strang's wife, unable to hide the disgust he felt. Damn it, his own wife! The man was more evil than he had imagined. She was a good-looking dame, too.
"You don't seem to approve of my little party, Charles. Joan, why don't you join him? Perhaps he feels left out. I'm sure Glen won't object."
"All right. Why should they have all the fun?" one of the women, a plump brunette, said, getting to her feet and sauntering over to Chuck. Sitting on the floor with her head resting against his knees, she lit a cigarette languidly, turned and exhaled a cloud of smoke in his direction. "A sailor! My God, it must be almost ten years since I worked Skolly Square."
"We're having a little contest, Charles. How's Glen doing?" Strang asked. The glasses he wore turned into glittering pools of light from the floods, making him look as if he had giant bug-eyes.
"He still has four minutes to go before he beats your record," the camera-man replied.
"I don't think he's going to make it," Strang remarked.
"Not a bit of it, Strang old man. I'm good for another ten, at least," Glen said, showing his teeth in a forced smile.
"Maybe Mrs. Strang is shirking her labors. Perhaps I'd best liven up her performance," Strang said, walking bent-over towards her, looking like a hunting crane with his long legs and angular body.
"Oh, boy," the woman at Chuck's feet said excitedly. "Wait'll you get a load of this! What a bugger that Strang is! You never know what he's going to pull!"
"Yeah, I can see," Chuck answered.
"Perhaps my dear wife needs a drink," Strang grinned. Running his hand down her bare back to the start of the gown, he found the zipper cleverly hidden there and slowly pulled it down, the gown spreading apart over her buttocks in a widening V. She had a skimpy pair of black lace panties and Strang, after pulling back the waist-band, poured his drink, ice-cubes and all, down into the cleft between the swelling hillocks of flesh.
Squirming and twisting her ripe-fleshed body, Strang's wife pulled the sopping garment down to her knees, baring her frigid behind to the cheering on--.lookers.
"Look at that, she didn't even miss a beat."
"I couldn't have done that."
"Terrific! She sure doesn't let anything distract her, does she."
"Oh-oh, look at Glen?"
Glen was past the stage of giving any thought to the others. Face a fiery red, he had dropped his glass and cigarette along with the nonchalant pose he had been assuming and was fondling the platinum-blonde head.
"Jeez, this is too much for me to just watch, Sailor!" the plump brunette said, fumbling at Chuck's top. "How the hell do these screwy pants work? All those damn buttons. They're great for a fast score, aren't they?"
Chuck pushed her off and leaned forward. There was something about Strang's wife that made him realize why Strang had been so happy to see him.
"That's it, that's-Oh!" Glen was saying, red as a beet. Bending stiffly at the waist, the muscles at the sides of his neck taut as cords, he swayed on his feet like a toppling pine.
The room was silent as they held the strained position for a quarter-minute, then she broke off and fell in a heap on the floor, her long legs stretched out behind her, rasping sounds coming out of her throat. Breathing deeply, Glen lurched to a chair and sat down, holding his head in his hands.
"You lost by a good two minutes, Glen."
"No kidding," Glen said through his fingers.
"Here, my dear. Have a drink. You've earned it," Strang commented, kneeling by his wife and giving her a glass. "That's it, drink up. We have another guest, you know. An old student of mine. His name is Charles Huzak."
"Yes, I know," she murmured.
"Turn around and say hello to him."
"Hello, Chuck. Long time no see," Kathy said facing him, her eyes without expression.
Stunned, Chuck sat rigidly on the chair, the color draining from him, leaving him gray as a day-old corpse.
"So once more reality comes along and trips the dreamy-eyed fanatic," Strang said, lighting a cigarette and looking at Chuck as dispassionately as a scientist observing an insect under a microscope.
In slow, jerky movements Chuck got up to his feet, horrified eyes riveted on Kathy. Then his whole body started shaking violently, his white cap falling off his head.
"No. It can't be," he said finally in a dead, hopeless voice, rubbing his eyes as if to wipe away what he saw.
"But it is, Charles," Strang was saying. "This is Kathy, and she's my wife. What are you going to do now?"
Slowly, like a man walking on the bottom of the sea, Chuck turned and staggered towards the door.
"Yes, naturally you'll run. That's exactly what I expected you to do. Where will you run to, though? Will you be able to run fast enough? What will you dream about now that your old dream is destroyed?
It'll be very interesting, seeing what your reactions will be," Strang went on, his voice calm and low.
He was talking to a closed door. Chuck was outside in the murky darkness. His foot hit something soft, someone yelled from around his ankles.
"Vern! He's back again!"
Ignoring the panic-stricken fruit, Chuck stumbled over toward the steps. His eyes, accustomed to the floods in Strang's apartment, were useless in this thick darkness. Suddenly, his foot encountered nothingness and he pitched forward in a bone-jarring fall, rolling head over heels to the landing between the floors.
Scrambling to his feet, he paid no heed to his bruised body. Finding the guard-rail, he hitched himself along it down the stairs. A shaft of light illuminated the top floor and Strang's head appeared, looking down on him.
"That's it, Charles. Run. Or perhaps you'd prefer coming back? If you want Kathy, I'll let you have her for old times sake. The same way Glen had her."
Two steps at a time, half falling and half walking, Chuck clumsily made his way down, with Strang's laughter in his ears. Blue uniform damp with sweat, he finally reached the vestibule and opened the door.
Outside he walked quickly through the streets, past staring people who nudged each other and smirked, trying to get as far away as possible. His mind was a turmoil of whirling images: Strang's leering face, Kathy's garishly tinted hair, the way Strang loosened her dress, picked up his drink and--
No, no, he mustn't think of that. He had to go somewhere, find some place where he could settle down and calm himself. It couldn't have happened! Not Kathy, not Kathy!
"What's your hurry, Sailor?" A fat middle-aged man was standing in front of him, smiling coyly. Chuck tried to walk past him but he blocked his way again.
"Care to have a drink with me? You look like you could use one."
Chuck swung out wildly, glancing a right off the other's shoulder, and walked on not looking back. The brief encounter served to calm him a little, though. He had to grin wryly. Huzak, the great queer fighter, he thought.
Best to get out of the Village. Go someplace where he could collect himself, a few shots. That would blot out everything and help him to forget.
Unbidden, the memory of Kathy standing by the bed almost completely nude that first night came flooding back to him. The way he held her trembling body until she was ready. Her eyes when she turned and brought herself into his arms.
"Hey, Sailor, you want a woman?" asked a little Puerto Rican kid no older than twelve, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a knowing leer in his impudent dark eyes.
"No, scram, Kid. Vamoose."
"She's very good woman. Come on, I'll take you to her."
"Beat it, I said," Chuck said, walking faster. A mixed crowd of Negroes and Puerto Ricans were sitting on a stoop, watching him with amusement.
"Hombre, what's the matter with you? It's only a lousy ten bucks. You cheap or something?"
"Hey, you're wasting your time, kid. That cat ain't buying tonight. Maybe he just ain't interested in making out with women," one of the Negroes cried.
"Yeah, you in the wrong neighborhood, White Boy. The Village is that way," another voice called, dissolving into peals of full-throated laughter.
Jeers ringing in his ears, Chuck went on. When he reached the corner a beer-can clanged along the pavement, narrowly missing his feet. Was this the way the world really was, he thought? Cheap and mocking and cruel? A giant ball of mud, infested with malicious, vicious pygmies?
Kathy, even Kathy. Her supple white body now the exclusive property of Strang, her full-fleshed thighs spreading to take him, her ripe, young lips opening--
No! Don't think about it! Think about the booze you're going to drink with all that money you won in the crap game! Think of the wonderful drunk you're going to throw in the next few days! Think of how you're going to drink yourself blind and deaf and dead, dead to the memory of what you've just seen!
Heading east, he left the tenement quarter and entered a region of deserted warehouses. Now he turned south and walked steadily, not realizing where he was going. Then he got there. The last street.
The Bowery.
The old Third Avenue El was long gone now, but it's ghost still lingered on. The sounds of the on-rushing trains seemed to echo in the nightmares the winos were having. Nothing shielded the flop-houses, the greasy spoons, the missions, the hock-shops and the crummy bars from the sun now. No longer sheltered in the shadows of steel girders they waited, offering the security of knowledge that you couldn't possibly fall any' lower.
Clumps of rags with the remnants of men in them sprawled in doorways, alleys and against the sides of buildings. Two of them were dead, they were the lucky ones. No more sober moments, no more nightsticks, no more freezing winters, no more memories for them. They'd finally beaten the game.
Those without a stake for a bottle of sneaky pete hunched on curbstones and leaned against walls, keeping a wary eye open for cruising police cars and anyone who looked as if he had the price of a bottle of wine. One sighted Chuck and came towards him, his seamed, ruined face twisted into a grimace meant to be a winning smile.
"Say, pardon me, but could you help out an old sailor who's a little down on his luck," he whined.
"Yeah, sure," Chuck said, pulling out his wallet and giving him a bill without looking at it.
"Thanks, Mate, thanks a lot. I used to be a quartermaster, myself," he said, turning and hurrying to the nearest liquor store to buy a night's forgetfulness.
Surprised that he knew his rating badge, Chuck watched him hobble off. He probably had really been in the Navy once. Looking down the street Chuck saw a bar. What the hell, he thought, why not? For the kind of drunk he was planning, Skid Row would be the best deal.
No well-dressed men of distinction here or ruddy outdoorsmen taking a belt while they re-wrapped their trout rods. These were the real drinkers who didn't waste time on clothes or conversation. Instant oblivion was what they craved. And so did Chuck.
There were only a few customers in the bar. Nursing their glasses of dago red, they waited in the desperate hope that somebody would come in and buy the house a round. When Chuck came in and sat on a stool opposite the hulking, bald-headed bartender, they nervously began inching towards him like scraggly vultures converging on a dying animal.
"Evening, Sailor. What'll it be?" the bartender asked, laying aside his scratch sheet.
"Bourbon and water," Chuck said, putting his wallet on the bar and leaning forward.
"Hey, how about a shot for me, Mac?" one of the rummies called out in a quavering voice. "I'm pretty dry myself," another said. "Here's a ten," Chuck told the bartender. "Feed it to these bottle babies but keep them off my back."
"Sure thing, Sailor. Don't worry, they won't bother you. Look, why don't you take the bottle to one of the back booths and work on it there?"
"Good enough. Here's another ten for the booze," Chuck said, picking up the bottle and going back to one of the booths.
None of the other patrons bothered thanking Chuck. They were long past that stage. They began emptying glasses of wine as fast as the bartender could fill them. The seats were dirty in the booth, the joint smelled and the bourbon, Old Doc Hensley, tasted like alcohol from a ship's medical stores. But Chuck didn't give a damn. Resolutely, he began pouring them down, waiting to forget. He couldn't.
The more he drank, the more he remembered. Kathy, that first time he saw her, young and healthy as a two-year-old filly frisking in a field in the spring. God, she was so happy and full of life those days! How could she change so?
Was it his fault for taking off?
No, it wasn't his fault. Strang, that was the one. Strang and his wise mouth always sneering, always cutting you down. Damn it, he'd like to cut him down, sometime! Lord, he was married to Kathy! She was his woman, living with him, sleeping with him, doing anything he wanted!
He drank faster but couldn't drown the images in his mind. The bottle, half full when he got it, was finished in less then two hours. His eyes were unfocussed and he was seeing double, his hands felt as if they were encased in thick masses of cotton candy. But he still remembered, still remembered.
"Hey! Hey, Bar-keep!" he yelled, leaning awkwardly out from the booth.
"Yeah, sure thing, Mac. What'a you want?" The bartender said, hurrying down.
" 'Nother bottle," Chuck said, pushing his face into his hand and propping his elbow on the table.
"Right away. Want any more water?"
"Naw. No water."
The bartender brought back a full fifth this time. It was illegal to let a customer pour from his own, but the hell with that! He wasn't going to let this mark go. Chuck fumbled loose another bill and handed it to the bartender who couldn't help grinning when he got another look at the thick roll.
The swabbie was loaded, and he didn't get many chances for that kind of money in this neighborhood. Watching Chuck from the bar, he saw him slowly bend over the table until his forehead was pressing against it. He could hear him saying some skirt's name over and over again.
The chump! He deserved to be taken.
Leaving the bar, he walked over to the telephone and called a number. Usually he didn't go in for the rough stuff, but hell, this was too good to pass up.
"Hello, Sal? This is Al. I'm over at the place, working. Listen, how'd you like to make a fast buck tonight? I got this sailor in the place and he must have a couple of bills on him.... Yeah, he's lapping it up like a fish. You won't have any trouble at all with him. . . . Naw, it'll be simple, you won't even need any help. Use the jack once and it's all over.... OK, go by the window when you get here and I'll close up. Just don't hit him until he's a few blocks away from the joint.... OK, one more thing, don't try and hold out on me, I got a good look at what he's carrying."
Hanging up the phone, he began hustling the customers out of the door. They complained weakly but he got rid of them easily enough. Looking back at Chuck, he saw that he wasn't passed out yet but was damn close to it.
Poor sap! Still, if he didn't take him, there were plenty of others who would. He was so stoned Sal wouldn't have to bust him up, that was one break he was getting. Not that anybody who let himself get all screwed up over a dame, like this clown, deserved any breaks. Sal looked through the window and rapped.
Going over to the booth, the bar-keep shook Chuck to get his attention. "Come on, Sailor. I'm closing up now."
"Huh? What?"
"Closing time. There's a diner a few blocks down the street that might be open yet. Why don't you go over and get some coffee? That'll fix you up fine," the bartender said, pulling him up to his feet.
"Can't get drunk. Trying to but can't get drunk."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Get that way sometimes myself. Some coffee'll straighten you out, though," he said, walking Chuck to the door and helping him out. "Right this way, the other side of that flop, Sailor. They'll fix you up there," he said, pointing him in the direction where Sal was waiting. Then he went back inside, not wanting to be outside when it happened.
Chuck stood at the curb, feeling the pavement reel under his feet. His gut began heaving; hanging on to a lamp-post, he puked. When he finished, his stomach felt better but all the liquor seemed to be packed into his head now. He knew that he was as drunk as he'd ever been in his life, but his mind still felt clear though it was all he could do to stagger down the street.
Ship out, that's what he'd do. Ship out way the hell in the boon docks for a couple of years. Get away from it all and forget the whole damn lousy bunch. Maybe they'd send him out to the Med.
His loose-jointed legs seemed to walk by themselves and he yawed from side to side like a ship with its rudder out of commission. He felt very tired and let his head fall forward on his chest. Occasionally, a car passed and drunken derelicts mumbled at him from door-ways, but none of them tried to ass him for anything.
When Blinky saw him lurching toward him, his first impulse was to rush out of the doorway and see if he could hit the kid up for a quarter or dime or nickle or anything. Blinky was in a hell of a mess.
He was sober.
At the sight of the guy following the sailor with his right hand inside his coat pocket, though, Blinky quickly stepped back into the doorway. He'd been on the Street long enough to know what was going to happen and he didn't want to get involved.
Looking quickly up and down the street, the guy walked just behind the sailor. When they reached a row of garbage cans piled up in front of a greasy spoon, the guy whipped out a sap and clipped the sailor, knocking him to his hands and knees. He hit him again, taking full armed swings and kicked him in the face.
Jeez, Blinky thought, why did they always have to kick you like that when you're down? That's how he had lost his front teeth three years back. He wished vaguely that the sailor hadn't been kicked like that.
The guy doing the mugging sure didn't waste any time. He had the wallet out in a jiffy and walked away, fast. When he reached the corner he turned up and disappeared. Nobody had seen anything. Nobody but Blinky.
Slowly, Blinky peeped out, checking to make sure nobody was around. Basically timid, he had his back to the wall and was desperate enough to take a chance. All he had on him was a dime, he hadn't been able to score at all that day.
Scuttling fearfully from his hiding place like a crab coming out from under a rock, Blinky hurried to the garbage cans, darting swift glances about him the way a rabbit does when it's in an open field and knows that hawks are about. The sailor was lying still, blood pouring out of his head when Blinky knelt by him and started tugging at his shoes.
A half hour later a cruising cop-car, flashing it's spot along the cans, sighted Chuck. Two cops got out and walked towards him. Chuck was starting to come out of it.
"This damn fool sure picked a fine place to tie one on. They kill him?"
"Naw, he's more drunk than anything else. See, he's coming around. Get the wagon, I'll stay here. Easy does it, Sailor."
One of Chuck's eyes was closed. The other opened and looked around. Then he started crying like a kid.
"Hey, take it easy, Sailor. You don't have anything to cry about. You're lucky, you could have been killed."
"That's why I'm crying, you damn fool!"