Shoot the Moon

Chapter Four - Nostalgia For The Gutter

1. Mickey called.

2. He didn't show up.

3. Then two guys bust in, knock me around and try to fry my face.

4. The Ghost said, "He said he gave him to you."

5. It's got to be Mickey's fault.

*****

It was a beautiful row house just west of Hudson street. I rang the bell and turned back to look at the street. When the door opened behind me, I was prepared to present a face with a smile, confiding, warm and civilized, a man you can trust, the stitches in his face merely the results of a very bad shave.

I turned and stared into blank space. Two feet down was a man's head hiding under a bush of hair dyed the garish red of a clown's wig. He looked like a hairy fireplug.

"I'm looking for Mickey Dolan."

"Who are you?" he said,

"My name is Murphy. I'm a friend of Mickey's. Does he live here?"

"If you were a friend of Mickey's, you ought to know that."

"I'm not that kind of friend. I was supposed to see him and he didn't show up. I'm a little worried. Mickey's habits being what they are."

"How'd you find this place?"

"We were walking home from the White Horse Tavern once and Mickey went in here. He lives here?"

"He stays here sometimes."

"Can I come in for a moment."

"No."

"You don't trust me, eh?"

"What happened to your face?"

"I had an accident. You look familiar to me."

"That's right." He sighed. "I used to be on TV."

"Right, I remember you were on that sitcom. What was it called?"

"Reggie!"

"Right, you were a child actor."

"I was fourteen when that started. I know, I looked like I was eight. I have a condition that inhibits growth."

"You're not a dwarf then."

"Feel free. Don't worry about my feelings."

"I find it easy to be frank with you." I said, "What's you're name?"

"Tobey Marcus. A lot of people find it easy to be frank with me. They never think it might be rude."

"I'm sorry. But listen, you're a little cranky yourself."

"I know, but that's how it is when your career goes in the toilet."

"Listen, Tobey, about Mickey...?"

"He rents a room from me. He uses it once in a while. Come on in."

"Beginning to trust me, huh?"

"No."

I followed him into a large clean living area with modern furniture and lots of black Japanese electronics.

He was saying, "I found Mickey beaten up in the gutter. He stayed for a week and ended up renting my extra room. We had a lot of fun. We went to the zoo and Jones Beach. Some people feel comfortable around freaks. You might be that way, I think."

"I don't feel that comfortable to tell you the truth and I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to insult you."

"OK, OK. I'm just having some fun."

"Why was he lying in the gutter? Mugged?"

"Who knows? It happens a lot to Mickey. Nostalgie de la bou."

"How's that?"

"Nostalgia for the gutter. Mickey is a degenerate."

I was trying to add things up, and it showed in my face.

"No," he said, "It's not like that. The drugs I take for my condition reduce my interest in anything but the most passive perversions. Now my only use to people sexually would be as an object for a certain Nazi type of individual and that is something that Mickey, whatever his kinks, is not. He helps me cheat on my taxes."

"I'll bet."

"You seem to be disappointed in Mickey. You shouldn't be. He's never hurt anyone but himself."

"You're right. I'm narrow-minded. In a hundred years, who will care?"

"That's the spirit."

"So where does Mickey actually live?"

"He used to rent a little dump of a room on St. Marks Place. In a transient hotel called the Washington. I don't know why. He seems to have plenty of money."

"He does?"

"He pays for his room here six months in advance."

"When did you see him last?"

"About three months ago."

"How did he seem to you? Crazy?"

"I just put that off to the cocaine."

"What made you think that?"

"Come on. I was in show business."

"Do you think he was over the edge? Cocaine psychosis, or something?"

"He wasn't very stable even when he was relatively sober. He said he had to fly to Europe. He rested here a few days, got himself together. He'd do that. Or when he had to hide from somebody."

"Hide?"

"Yeah. His job was very stressful."

"What was his job, do you know?"

"He said he handled money for a personal client. He was always flying to the Islands or Europe."

"Can I take a look at his room?"

"It's through there and upstairs."

As I walked through the arch to the stairs he said, "Don't steal anything okay?"

"You're beginning to trust me, I can tell."

The room was bare as a cell in a monastery: a large foam slab lay right on the floor neatly made up in clean white sheets. There was a large recliner in leather and three stacks of books, Math, physics and a mixed bag of law, contracts, and money. Nothing else. It looked like a sensory deprivation chamber. I went back downstairs to Tobey Marcus. He was sitting in front of the television. The set wasn't turned on.

He said, "You aren't going to hurt Mickey, are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't think you're a bad person."

"Thanks."

"Though I wouldn't be surprised. People are deceitful by nature. Well, good luck finding him, assuming you're a good guy." He was quiet for a while, staring into his reflection on the dead TV screen. "Mickey is a trip. You never know what he'll get up to."