Chapter 10
The Persistent Snail
The snail oozed out of its shell, its black, slimy body stretching upward. Its sticky underbody adhered to the brick wall and slowly, almost painfully, the snail dragged its white shell up toward Tony's window.
Tony sat, drink in hand, musingly watching the snail's struggle. He had been sitting in the chair by the window all afternoon. Now the sun was setting and the clouds, low on the horizon, burned a fiery red, as though a giant celestial vein had ruptured, spurting blood all over the sky.
The snail edged upward glutinously, dragging his shell another painful inch. It was almost to the window pane. For almost three hours Tony had watched it haul itself up the wall, its weaving path traced by a thin silver line of fluid left by its sticky underside.
In one last great effort, the snail arched its glistening body, reaching armlessly for the glass pane. The little soulless eyes seemed to bug from the great exertion.
But it was not the snail's day to achieve its goal. The man-made slick surface of the glass was something its animal instinct hadn't considered. The snail's body swung back and forth, hanging by a sticky thread of goop. Then it dropped to the pavement with a metallic click.
Tony felt damned sorry for the snail. The animal had spent the whole day climbing up that wall, only to lose it all in a second. He wondered how many years a human's body would be in the life of a snail. Ten, maybe?
He took a deep pull at his drink and thought about the snail's efforts. Somehow, they seemed similar to those of a slum kid trying to crawl out of the filth and poverty that engulfed him. It was a long, hard pull: and if the cards didn't fall right bang, back you were.
Tony glanced over to the open closet door where his new clothes hung. Three hundred dollars they had cost him, more than he had spent on clothing all his life. There were two imported sports jackets, several pairs of slacks, monogrammed shirts, ties and handkerchiefs, even a couple of pairs of silk shorts. And there was still a couple of hundred dollars in his new wallet.
Tony had yet to wear the clothes. Each time he put them on, disgusting memories crawled into his mind recollections of how he'd gotten the money to buy the clothing. Then they would feel greasy and dirty against his skin and he found himself pulling them off.
Tony leaned forward to see if the snail was going to try to climb the wall again. By God, he was. The animal was inching toward the brick wall, ready to invest another ten years of his life to climb out of the dirt.
Tony finished his drink, put down the glass and rose with determination. Damned if he was going to let a few little conscience pangs dislodge his grip on some of the luxuries most people take for granted. He walked to the bureau, pulled open a drawer and took out a pair of silk shorts.
He heard the outside door to Race and Margo's apartment open and close as someone left. He hadn't seen either of them in the two days since they had made the last sex movie. Tony had avoided them purposely they reminded him of the dirty, disgusting scenes that had been filmed.
Since making the movie, Tony found it difficult to meet other people's eyes, even Dobber's. He felt that somehow they could look through his eyes into his head, seeing the revolting memory-pictures there.
Tony had left the apartment only on brief trips to eat and to buy the new clothes during the last two days. He had purposely steered clear of the beach, not wanting to encounter Frankie or her young crowd. He didn't know whether he could face them. He somehow felt the last two days had aged him a thousand years.
But Tony was fed up with living like a hermif. He wanted some laughs and maybe a little good clean lovemaking not Margo's brand that made your in-sides cringe afterward.
He stripped off his dirty, sagging shorts and slipped on a new silk pair. The door opened and Dobber burst inside. He was excited. His little marble eyes gleamed behind the thick lenses of his glasses and he was breathing hard, as if he had been running. He held a brown package tucked tightly under an arm as if it were a football. He was still wearing the same filthy, rumpled jeans and T-shirt he'd arrived in. There was a three-day growth of beard on his gray, gaunt face.
Dobber held up the package. "Hey, Tony, babe, I got a good buy on some first-grade H. I found a new pusher who says he can get me all I want."
Tony looked at Dobber sourly; he couldn't forget how he'd earned the money for Dobber's fixes.
"Hell, Dobber," he said, irritated. "You're growing into a hundred bucks a day habit, man." He shook his head. "You're going to have to take the cure. There's no other way. I'm through sweating out cabbage to feed your damned monkey."
Dobber looked like a friendly hound who'd been kicked. His nose began to twitch like a sniffing rat's. "The cure's no good for me, babe. I tried it three times. I really intended to stay off the stuff each time I got out, but something always came up, know what I mean? My old man would get on my back for not getting a job and I'd start feeling like, what's the use, man? Then first thing I knew, I'm back with it again."
"But, hell," Tony said, voice bitingly angry. "What happens when you can't come up with the cabbage?"
Dobber's eyes dropped to the floor. "Then I'll make that last fix a super one, crawl into the bathtub and cut my wrists."
Tony knew these were not idle words. They sent little shivers up his spine. It was like a wet blanket on his anger.
Dobber walked over to the bureau and slipped the package inside a drawer as gently as a mother placing a sleeping baby in a crib. He turned to Tony. "You're a real pal, Tony, a real Jack Armstrong, know what I mean? And I want to pay you back for what you've done for me. When we pull this job Race is casing, I want you to have all of my share. When are we going to pull it? Has he clued you in?"
Tony shook his head glumly. "No and I'm getting tired of waiting. I'm going to see him tomorrow and if he doesn't tell me what he's planning, I think we're pulling out. All I know now is that he wants me to get a brunette broad to play up to a red-headed hick."
Tony slipped on his new imported slacks, then ran a gleaming soft leather belt through the loops. He glanced at Dobber's ragged clothes. He picked up his wallet and pulled out a twenty. He handed it to Dobber. "Here, go buy yourself some clothes. God, you look like one of the Bowery bums."
Dobber took the money and folded it inside his jeans pocket. "Thanks, Tony. I noticed your new duds. Real sharp."
"Remember clothes, not H," Tony emphasized. "Sure, sure."
Tony finished dressing and knotted a blue Japanese silk tie. He glanced into the mirror. Not bad. What was it they say clothes make the man? Tony realized with pride that he looked like Richard Conte more than ever now. He was certain that Frankie would be proud to go out with him maybe even her snooty roommate, if he could defrost her icy butt.
Tony looked out the window and saw that it was dark. Dobber rose, walked over to the bureau and took out his junkie tools blackened bottle cap, candle and needle affixed to an eye dropper.
Tony hurriedly combed his dark hair and slapped on some expensive, sweet smelling after-shave lotion. He wanted to get out before Dobber began his ritual. It was disgusting, like watching a geek eat a live chicken at a carnival sideshow.
Tony wondered if he should give Frankie a call. But hell, if Evon learned he was coming over, she'd probably leave. And Tony wanted another chance with her. With his new sharp clothes, she might thaw out a bit.
Tony put his wallet in his pocket, walked to the door and opened it. Dobber, hands trembling in nervous anticipation, was bent over a table absorbed in his preparations. It seemed as though his mind had already entered the junkie's shadowy dream world.
He didn't even know when Tony left.