Crowned Heads (51 page)

Opening his eyes again, he saw their blurred heads clustered together, dark against the brightly lighted fish tanks, with blue-green and gold reflections tossed to the ceiling and back again, subaqueous figures in an undersea cave, their faces now in profile, now turned away, huddled, ostensibly watching the fish, and they might have been fish themselves, undulant, slow-moving in the room, and brightly decorative. Willie envied them their easy rapport, their casual interchange of affection, their … trioness, no point of which could be breached by him, for that would make a square.

“Ol’ square,” he mumbled, resetting the embroidered cap on his head.

“Hey, Willie—c’mere.” Someone was asking the names of the fish; he rose unsteadily and went to supply some: zebras, white clouds, sailfin mollies, blue terras.

“No piranhas?” Arco had heard of a man who kept piranhas in a pool in his garden, “and if you stick your hand in all you’d get back is a mess of bones.”

Willie paused uncertainly, weaving in the light, watching with a stuporous expression. Drunk himself, he found it difficult to tell just how high on drugs Arco was. “Piranhas can be dangerous. Wouldn’t recommend them for around the house.”

Arco was half turned away, the marblelike planes of his face absorbing light from the tanks as he watched the fish with fierce concentration. It came to Willie then, the image he had been seeking. Arco reminded him of one of those Zurbarán figures of churchly piety that the Prado Museum is full of, those darkly brooding, saintly figures which seem to glow with an inner incandescence, a trick of the painter’s art. Arco had the look of the ascetic whose intensity of expression verged on the fanatical, an almost holiness of purpose; was it merely about buying an island in the Pacific in order to go pick coconuts?

His eye trailed a fish as it lazed through a pink stone castle, fanning the silvery membranes of its tail. Now he slid aside a pane of glass on the top of the tank, his hand flashed, dipped into the water, and he scooped up the fish and brought it out squirming in his palm.

“Hey, Wimp.”

“No,” Willie said. “Put it back.”

“Sure sure, just want to see something.” He held the fish out to Judee, who stared uncomprehendingly. “Eat it, Jude.”

She gave a nervous little laugh; her hand fluttered to her breast.

“It’s alive, Arco—”

“I know. Swallow it. I want to see something.”

“Put it back,” Willie protested again. Without looking, Arco fended him off with his elbow.

“Do it, Wimp.” His voice was quiet, level, but with a core of steely authority. He held the quivering fish closer, and her eyes started. There was a moment’s indecision, then she put her head back and opened her mouth wide. Arco slid the fish inside. She closed her mouth, and clutched her throat as she swallowed. Then her smile returned, her eyes danced, and she flung herself away, holding her stomach and screeching shrilly as she turned round and round.

“Ooh—Arco, I can feel it—it’s wriggling.” Her hand moved upward and downward, examining the sensation. “Ooh! Ooh!” she cried in little spurts of newly discovered joy. “It’s jumping around. What a trip!”

“See?” Arco said. “Anytime you want a trip, call me.”

“Oh, Arco, you’re such a crazy person!” She found a glass and took to washing the fish down in gulps of champagne. Eventually she and Bill drifted away and began dancing in the far, shadowy corner, she lolling languorously against him and dragging her shoes noisily, neck arched in a white line, pelvis thrusting in and upward at him, he moving with a pathetic lack of rhythm and the proverbial grace of the bull in the china shop. Willie feared for his bibelots.

Weaving, swaying, he watched Arco as he passed along the wall, reviewing several paintings—the Buffet, the Cadmus drawing, the Bemelmans gouache of a nun’s face under a starched wimple and flying headdress—then moving farther along to take in the carved figures mounted on square pedestals on either side of the fireplace.

“Where’d you get them?” he asked, flopping into a chair.

“They came out of the MGM auction. Church figures. Very old.”

“Quattrocento?” Again, the mocking insinuation.

“We really don’t know, but they’ve been authenticated by the museum. They probably came out of some cathedral in Italy. We think they’re very beautiful.
Ge’Italiani sono grandi amanti della bellezza.
”

“‘Italians are great lovers of beauty’—yes, pizza parlors with plaster flamingos on the lawns.” He crossed his knee and made himself comfortable, lighting up a fresh joint and inhaling the smoke.

“Why did you leave the seminary?” Willie asked.

“Discipline, man, discipline. I mean they’ve got the whole thing worked out. They didn’t like me much.”

“Why not?”

“Said I was a troublemaker.” He inhaled deeply, held the smoke down, his face growing red as he talked on his stifled breath.

“Why?”

“Asked questions. All the time I was asking questions. And they had no answers.”

“The Church has an answer for everything.”

“Oh?” He swung his leg over the chair arm and dangled it indolently. “Possibly they do. ‘You must believe,’ they said. ‘Believe what?’ I asked. ‘What we tell you,’ they said. ‘How can I know it’s right?’ I asked. ‘Because we tell you,’ they said.” He smoked in silence, taking deep drags, his puffs eating up the tobacco, and when he had finished he wet the end of the roach and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed it, winked at Willie. “Better than live fish.” They both turned as through the chapel doors a sudden blast sounded from the organ, setting the crystal ornaments on the tables to rattling. This was followed by some tentative pickings at the keys, then a few bars of a song, then the sound of Judee’s sandpapery voice, singing.

“‘My mama done tol’ meee’”—
bump—
“‘when I was in knee pa-a-ants’”
—bump—
Each
bump
was an accented chord, played slightly off key.

“Ridiculous,” Willie muttered, struggling to rise; his feet had gone painfully to sleep. “That’s not proper music for a chapel.”

When Judee had completed the eight bars, she began again. “‘My mama done tol’ meee’”
—bump—
“‘when I was in knee pa-a-ants’”—
bump—

Arco got up, clapped Willie on the shoulder, silencing his protests. “What’s the difference?” he said, steering him to the bar. Bill appeared, then joined them. Arco jerked his head toward the chapel.

“What’s the Wimp doing in there?”

“Havin’ fun.”

Arco turned to Willie. “See? Havin’ fun, that’s all. No harm.” Passing it off, he sat the still muttering Willie down on a stool and poured him a Scotch and water. Willie didn’t take it, so Arco placed his fingers around the glass and held it to his lips. Willie drank.

“‘My mama done tol’ meee’”
—bump—

Arco cupped his hands and shouted, “Cool it, Wanda Landowska.”

Judee paid no attention, started over. Arco’s look darkened.

“It’s quite all right, really,” Willie said. “If it amuses her. She’s young; maybe she’ll improve.” He drank, and twirled the cubes in his glass. “Heigh-ho.
‘Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait,’
eh?” He gave Bill a broad wink. Arco’s frown remained.

“What’s that mean?” Bill asked.

“‘If youth but knew, if age but could.’”

“Could what?”

“He means if he could get it up,” Arco snorted. Willie seemed suddenly to have wilted; his hand fell into his lap, he slid sideways against the bar. Arco signaled to Bill, who tried to prop him up. “You okay, Willie?”

“’Kay,” Willie mumbled, opening his eyes. “’M okay.”

“Listen—remember what you said you were gonna do f’r me?”

“Do? Do?”

“Doo doo doo,” Arco muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers on the bar.

“You’re gonna give me that autographed pitcher, huh? T’ start m’ collection, pardner?”

“Picture …” Willie mouthed wordlessly, blinking at him. He sat up, suddenly aware again. “Yes. Course. I ’member.” He went to a box on a shelf, slipped out an eight-by-ten glossy, brought it back to the bar and showed it. “This will do?” He went behind the bar and opened a drawer. He found a pen among a jumble of things and began writing across the bottom of the photograph in a wildly florid script:
“To Bill …”
“Last name? Forget it …” Bill gave it again.
“Bowie. Handsome is as handsome does. I have nothing but the highest faith in your star. Affectionately, Willie Marsh.”
He slid it along the bar to Bill, who held it out and read the words.

“Goldarn, that’s right nice. I really ’prishate it.”

“S’all right, m’dear.”

“Don’t call him your dear.” Arco’s words came out in a tightly controlled threat.

Willie shrugged. “Jus’ ’n expression, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Fuck it doesn’t.” Arco’s voice had gone suddenly ugly. He grabbed the photograph; Bill tried to take it, but Arco held it away. “I’m not going to hurt it,” he said, keeping it at arm’s length and studying it. “Long time ago, huh, Willie?”

“It was taken by a studio photographer.”

Arco laughed harshly. “Man, you haven’t worked at a studio in—how long’s it been?”

“I’m … semiretired.”

“Bet your ass you’re retired. Washed up, is what you are.” He made a motion as if to tear the picture in half, then laughed again and handed it to Bill. “Okay, jasper, stick it up in the bathroom where you can look at it every morning while you crap.” He snapped the words out crisply; Willie stared in amazement, trying to accommodate the swift, volatile alteration of personality. Arco hunched his narrow shoulders, looking like a small but dangerous animal. His hand shot suddenly out, collaring Bill and pulling him to him. He grasped his face between his hands and forced it in front of Willie, who cowered back on his stool. “You see him, Willie? You see him? You want to know about him? He’s bad, Willie. You watch out for Bill Bowie. He’s a killer.”

“Aw, c’mon, Arco—” Bill protested, trying to extricate himself, but the small, strong hands held him fast.

“He’s a killer, Willie,” he repeated. “You want to know what he’s come here for? He’s come to rob you. That’s right—rob you. It’s a fact.” He suddenly released Bill, who jerked away, rubbing his head where Arco’s fingers had gripped him. Arco leaned and placed his hands on Willie’s knees. “But don’t you worry, Little Willie. Arco’s here. And you know why he’s here, Willie?”

The older man shook his head, understanding nothing of it.

“He’s here to save you, Willie,” he said, bringing his face closer and speaking very softly. “Arco’s here, and he’ll save you. From what? Ask me from what, Willie.”

“Fr’m what?” he said blandly.

“From yourself, Willie. I’m going to save you from yourself.” He reared back on his stool in a wildly uncontrolled burst of laughter, then slapped Willie’s knee again. “Hey, man, don’t look so scared. Where’s your sense of humor?”

Willie looked around uncertainly. “You said … rob me.”

“I meant your izzat, Willie. You mustn’t ever let anybody rob you of your izzat, see. It’s all a man has.”

“You mean—all a joke?”

“Sure, just a joke.” The ugly menace had disappeared and in its place was the shining smile, the sparkling eyes. Relieved, almost pleased, Willie grinned from one to the other as Arco leaned back cozily and drew Bill to him, his small pale arm circling his waist. Judee reappeared, singing. “‘My mama done tol’ meee …’” She put her hands behind her head and did a stripper’s grind. “
Bump!
What’s all the ruckus, gang?” she asked. “It’s not gonna be one of
those
nights, is it?”

“Jesus, don’t you know another song?” Arco whirled on her and raised his hand; she ducked past him with a frightened look and moved behind Bill for protection.

“C’mon, c’mon, no fights t’night, huh?” Bill pleaded.

Arco laughed. “Wimp, if you’re going to do that number you’ve got to learn the bridge.” Then suddenly they were all laughing again; it seemed to be a game they were playing. Willie didn’t understand, couldn’t keep up with it all. He slumped against the bar, closed his eyes, ran his fingers over his forehead. Someone whispered something; someone else giggled. There was complicity in the room. He didn’t care; let them have their fun, their childish games. Crazy people, they were all crazy people. He shrugged; he was beyond the games, outside it all, just trying to be a good host. He opened his eyes, looked around at the mess. Styleless, graceless, witless. He glimpsed his face in a mirror: scarlet spots had sprung on his cheeks, circles like those painted on a toy soldier’s face; his nose seemed larger, redder, a toper’s nose. He became aware of Bill standing behind him, massaging his shoulders and neck.

“How’s that feel?”

He nodded and let his head loll.

Arco was playing darts. Willie watched for some moments, then clinked his glass on the bar. “How izzat, Arco?”

“Hm?” His hand stopped in midair; he glanced at Willie, who wiggled his fingers playfully.

“How izzat? I said. How izzat?”

“Izzat?” His brow furrowed again, the dart poised beside his head.

“Yes, izzat? How izzat—you know izzat.”

“Willie …” Bill began warningly.

“No no no,” Arco said easily, “it’s okay. He’s just joking, aren’t you, Willie?”

Willie winked at Judee. “Jus’ joking. Izzat okay?” He swiveled on his stool, back and forth. Then, “‘I’d like to get you on a slow boat to Fiji,’” he sang, wagging his head idiotically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arco tossed a dart lightly; it struck the cork board with a thunk.

“I hear you’re goin’ to Fiji, tha’s all.” He sang, tapping rhythm with two fingers on the bar top: “‘I’ve got an island, in the Pacific …’”

Bill flashed another glance, shook his head; Willie snickered wetly and continued: “‘And ev’rything about it is t’rrific.’ T’r-
rrific
. I’n that right, Arco? I hear the island’s ab-so-lutely terrific. Fish and poi and all that crap.”

Arco said nothing, tossed two darts in quick succession. Willie continued his needling. “Two kinds of people in the world, Arco—the haves and the have-nots. That puts you on the other side, don’t it? The have-nots?”

“Guess it does, Willie.” Plunk; another dart.