The Hoods (28 page)

Self-consciously I put my arm around her and attempted to kiss her. She gasped her surprise and moved away.

In an astounded tone she said, “We hardly know each other. Besides—”

I cut her off. “We'll become better acquainted after we're married—”

Soberly she interrupted, “I should have had a talk with you a long time ago. I guess now is as good a time as any. I was just about to say, I'm practically engaged to be married. Besides, I'm going to Hollywood. I have a picture contract. I hope to remain there.”

Shocked, I said, “What? When are you leaving?”

“Sunday evening.”

I felt myself sinking. What was the matter with me? Was I that obnoxious to her? What had happened to spoil the perfect mood we were in? She isn't the same warm Dolores of a moment ago. She's sitting there cool, out of my reach. Why? She seemed to reciprocate my feelings a moment ago. I was sure of it. Now this sort of talk. I couldn't understand it. What was she, just a tease?

“Noodles, in the first place, I really never knew you, really I didn't. I didn't know you were such—such a nice boy.”

“Boy?” I questioned weakly.

“Well, then, such a nice gentleman. You like that better?” She smiled politely.

“Why, what sort did you think I was?”

“Well, I won't go into that, but to be frank, I imagined that you had grown up entirely different.”

“Why did you? You never gave me a chance all these years to get acquainted.”

“After all, let's be practical. I remembered you as—” She laughed, then she caught my eye. “Oh forgive me, Noodles, I wasn't laughing at you. But you were,” she sighed. “Well, I remember you as—” she hesitated, “pretty vicious.”

I goaded her. “Go ahead and say it, a filthy, stinking East Side bum.”

“Oh no.” Her hand flew up in a gesture of hurt denial. “Believe me, Noodles, I meant nothing of the kind. I come from the same background as you do. I never meant to imply anything of the sort, only, somehow, I was always afraid of you.”

“You were afraid, all right. Then were there other reasons why you ignored me all these years?”

“Well, my attitude was silly, come to think of it. I should have acted more sensibly and answered your notes and calls. First, I didn't want any outside interests interfering with my dancing. I'm very ambitious. I love dancing, and it took up all my time, and besides,” she said it quickly without emotion, “I have loved somebody for a good many years. A peaceful, conservative businessman whom some day I intend to marry. That's why I went out with you today, to explain to you not to try and see me any more or to send me flowers—or things.”

I didn't say a word. I kept looking the other way. Her words were digging into my heart. I was shocked, and my vanity was hurt. I looked out the window. Slowly I turned toward her. She moved away and kept gazing out the window. Then she turned. Our eyes met. Her hand crept into mine. She squeezed my hand.

“You know, Noodles, you're a very presentable chap.” Her eyes were full of compassion. “I really like you.”

“Yeh, you like me, but you won't have anything to do with me,” I muttered.

“Well—there are so many other attractive girls—”

Girls? Don't I know there are girls? What the hell is she telling me? Something I don't know about? Me, Noodles? I've had all of them, the ones Winchell calls Debutramps, who hang out in those Park Avenue “speaks” to Broadway tramps. If I could lay out in single file all the broads I had, they would reach from the Bronx to the Battery. What the hell is she handing me? Yeh, she's only teasing me. There's nobody else for me. I got to have her. She's in my blood. She's deep inside of me. If I don't have her at least once, I'll go nuts, I'll crack up. A crazy thought struck me. Maybe, if I lay her, it will break the enchantment, this hold she has on me. I'll give it to her now. It will force her to marry me. Yeh, I'll use her. Then, so help me Jesus, I'll forget her. That's the way it works with me, lay them and forget them. The thought aroused a sharp, ungovernable excitement in me.

I sprang at her. I grabbed her in my arms and squeezed her hard, as if I could press the beauty and love out of her body into the aching, hungry void in mine.

She was crying, “Stop, Noodles, please, stop.” She was white with fear. She cried, “You're hurting me.”

I showered her with my wet, hot kisses. I bit her lips till they bled. She was like a helpless bird in my grasp. With my knee I forced her legs wide apart. A glimpse of her black lace panties against her pink beautiful thighs stirred me to a frenzied pitch.

I pulled her dress down from her white shoulders. I broke the straps from her brassiere, exposing her two round firm breasts. I buried my face in them.

She screamed out. “Please, don't! Stop it, please, stop it!”

The car came to an abrupt stop, throwing us both to the floor. The door opened. Jimmy stood there looking agitated.

He demanded, “For Christ sake, let up. You want to kill the girl? You want to get us arrested?”

Dolores lay crumpled and unconscious in a corner. In a daze I watched Jimmy trying to revive her. After awhile I realized Dolores was injured. Frantically I bent over her. I rubbed her hands. I called to her, “Dolores, Dolores.” Gently I patted her cheek. She fluttered her eyelids. She gasped. She opened her eyes wide and stared in fright.

I cried, “How are you? How are you feeling, baby?”

I mopped the blood from her lips. “I'm terribly sorry, Dolores.”

Gently I kissed her hand. She pulled it away. She cried out, “You're a brute; you're a wicked man.”

I murmured, “It's true. I am terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”

We were parked on a deserted uptown street. She moaned.

“Let me out. I'm sick. I need some air,” she said.

We helped her out and walked her up and down the street. She was like a weak, broken little girl.

Suddenly Dolores gasped, “I'm sick, oh, I'm terribly sick.” She almost fell; then she vomited.

Jimmy jumped away. I held her tight. She retched all over my new blue suit. I didn't mind. I held her closer to me. I wiped her face. She was crying. Her make-up was spoiled. Her mascara was running in black streaks down her soft cheeks.

Weakly she said, “Please take me home.”

I helped her back into the car. I told Jimmy to stop at a gas station.

I said, “Go into the ladies' room and get washed.”

Obediently she went in. I went into the gents' room and cleaned up the best I could.

On the way back I tried to talk her out of her silent dejection. I acted contrite and apologetic. But to no avail. I couldn't shake her out of it. She sat in her corner looking out the window, morose and bitter. I didn't know how to make amends. I had never felt so wretched and miserable.

I asked, “When are you leaving?”

She answered coldly, “It's no concern of yours.”

“What time should I tell Jimmy to report with the limousine to drive you and Moe to the cemetery tomorrow?”

“We'll take the subway. I don't want any favors from you.”

The rest of the trip back to the theater, I felt ashamed. She didn't say a word, not even goodbye as she got out of the car.

I gave Jimmy the other half of the C note. He said, “Thanks. You know you got a bum approach with the girls, pal?”

The worst thing I could have done was to go up to my rooms. I brooded. I felt sorry for myself. I drank, played blues and torch songs on the victrola. I drank myself to sleep.

I woke up early the next morning—Sunday. My first thought was that today Dolores was leaving. My head throbbed as if somebody was drilling into my brain. I was a sick guy, all right. Sick at heart. Yeh, I was love-sick. I guess that was my main illness. I was in a mood, all right, a mood of dreary loneliness. I paced up and down the room, pounding my fist in the palm of my hand. What the hell was the matter with me? Why had I attempted it? What was I working myself into?

I got to get the hell out for some air, but where? Down to the stinking East Side and hang around all day in the back room of Fat Moe's with Max, Pat and Cockeye? I'd be bored to death. Boy, was I getting into a sorry state. If, after all these years, I was beginning to think I was better than they were—who the hell was I to get bored in their company? What I needed was a little action. Yeh, I was frustrated. I needed a little of the bang action we had had in the old days. Things were too dull with this Combination set-up.

I went out and wandered around midtown, from one “speak” to another. I tried the movies. I sat upstairs in the balcony of the Strand, smoking a cigar, thinking of Dolores and her trip. Yeh, that's where she was going. Where this picture was made. She was going today. I banged my lighted cigar on the floor, angry at the thought of her leaving, scattering sparks and ashes on the clothes of the guy sitting next to me. He turned on me belligerently.

“What the hell's eating you? You nutty or something?”

I went crazy. Before he knew it, I had the shiv pressed against his belly. I snarled in his face, “You want me to dig this into you, bastard? Sit down before I cut your liver out.”

He sat down.

I hurried out with voices inside me whispering, “You stinkin bully, you stinkin bully, bulldozing defenseless people, you stinkin East Side bully.”

I went around the corner to Mario's “speak.” He gave me a big hello. I snapped at him in Italian, “Fon-go-lay-tay.” He walked away fast. I had three quick double hookers. The bartender didn't want to take my money.

He smiled and said, “Professional courtesy, Noodles, you know your money is no good here.”

I threw a five-dollar bill in his face. I spit at him, “Go ahead, you bastard, ring it up.”

With a startled expression he picked it up and put it in the register.

Incensed by my nastiness, a big, well-dressed drunk with an ugly leer came lurching over.

“Hey, you're a tough guy, ain't you?” he asked.

He took me by surprise. He was pretty fast. He feinted with his left and chipped me a shot on the chin with his right. I staggered back. I almost lost my balance. There was an open quart of Golden Wedding on the bar. I grabbed it and smashed him across the face with it. He went shrieking with pain into the men's toilet. I flung the broken bottle crashing after him. The whiskey spilled all over me.

I ran outside. I remembered people shying away from me in disgust.

A kid shouted after me, “You stink like a beer saloon, mister, like a brewery.”

My feet, or was it my heart, led me? Before I realized it, I was pounding the marble counter of the information desk at the Grand Central Station. “When is the next train for Hollywood?” I shouted. I had a crazy notion of getting on the train and going there.

The frightened girl said, “In thirty-five minutes, sir.”

“What track?” I barked at her.

She told me. I went looking for it. Right ahead of me, holding hands and walking toward the same track, two red caps carrying baggage, was Dolores and a man. That was almost the end for me. Everything crashed in on me.

I don't know how I got back to my hotel, but I was suddenly aware of being on the bed fully clothed, with my shoes on. A quart bottle of Mt. Vernon was on a chair beside me. I was a woeful, miserable man. My world had cracked. Nothing was good. I was full of torment. Now I saw it all. I was a bum, an East Side bum. I began feeling sorry for myself. I took a long swig of the Mt. Vernon.

After awhile, I had drunk so much that I fell into a stupor. Hours later I woke up.

I should have known that the whiskey would only increase my longing and emptiness. Again I tried to reason away my overwhelming hunger for Dolores. What was this state I was suffering from? God, can't I shake it? Me, hard-boiled Noodles, an East Side knock-around guy, acting like a lovesick schoolboy? The best antidote is to get myself another woman. Yeh, I'll pick up a beautiful doll some place, and forget that bitch, Dolores.

I bathed and dressed with care and went out. Broadway was lit up. There were a million beautiful women on the street. Many smiled invitingly at me, but none was Dolores.

I went into a 52nd Street night spot we occasionally frequented. I sat down at a secluded side table. I ordered a bottle of Mt. Vernon. I sat drinking by myself. Helen was sitting on the piano. She was singing her mournful torch songs. Her singing made my heart heavier and heavier. I drank some more from the bottle. I sat in a drunken daze, listening to Helen's hot, husky voice moaning a song about an unrequited love.

A girl came over to my table. She was a nice-looking girl. She smiled and said, “Hello, big boy. You look lonesome.” She sat down.

There were tears in my eyes. My voice broke. I said, “Are you Dolores? I only want my Dolores.”

She said, “Boy, have you got it bad.”

“Got what bad?” I said brokenly.

“A case of the blues. You're burning the torch for someone, aren't you? Tell mama all about Dolores, baby, it will make you feel better.”

She was sympathetic and nice. She patted my hand. She motioned to the waiter for a glass for herself. When he brought it, he whispered something to her. She looked at me with a new interest. She poured for both of us.