Shoot the Moon

Chapter Eleven - The Happiest Couple On The Lower East Side

The woman didn't enter tentatively. That had been imagination and romance on my part. She wasn't afraid of what she might find when she came home. She might even be hoping; when he was gone, it would be a relief.

She had dark brown hair cut short which gave her a superficial resemblance to Echo. She wore a Burberry trench coat over a wine red suit. She looked cool and expensive and ready for work.

"Who are you?" she said.

I smiled and extended my hand, but she steamed right by and in three steps had picked up Charley's discarded glass and pulled the bottle away from him, holding the two in one hand. She'd had plenty of experience with these props.

"You must be out of your mind giving a man like this alcohol. You want to kill him!" She was right in my face now, yelling loud enough to loosen the fillings in my teeth. I didn't do anything. I tend to relax and grow very detached when people start screaming.

"I had no idea it was dangerous for him," I lied, "He asked me to bring him something to drink and I -"

She whirled on Charley and slapped his face. His head rocked to one side. Then it rocked back. He was smiling. He chuckled a little and her mouth twisted and she sobbed. She was pretty when she was in agony. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the hard wood floor. She sat down on the coffee table. I was expecting a long crying jag but she just sat there, the long fingers of one hand stretched across her mouth. Her full upper lip was pinched between her fingers, her dark brown hair spiking a frame around a handsome face. No. Striking. A striking face.

There was silence except for Charley's quiet chuckling. He kept it up longer than he seemed to want to. He had to go on until she spoke to him.

"For God's sake, Charley!"

"I'm sorry, Veev," he said.

"You don't sound it."

"Well, maybe I'm not, but I wish I was." He smiled his puckered smile at her until she looked at him and gave him a small mirthless snort in return. Suddenly she tossed the bottle at him. It seemed to hang in the air while Royce clawed his way out of the sofa toward it. He didn't catch it clean but he managed to break its fall and the bottle didn't break. He picked it up and stood over the woman. I didn't like the look on his face. He was standing barefoot in the glass she'd broken, working it with his toes. The two of them stared at each other wordlessly the drunkard smiling triumphantly in total defeat. The woman finally shook her head and turned her gaze. He nodded and walked away. He left a trail of blood. Should have been worse, but God looks out for drunks, they say.

"Good-bye, bud," he said, throwing it over his shoulder, "Come again anytime."

I watched as he disappeared down the hall.

"Look," she said to me quietly, "I don't know who you are but don't ever give him anything to drink again."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Royce, but I don't see why not." I was being obtuse to keep her talking.

"Oh, you don't? Well, that's not for you to decide is it? Aside from maybe killing him, I'm the one that has to put up with his shit. And I'm not Mrs. Royce. My name is Stackpoole. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm sorry. I just assumed you and Charley were married."

She laughed bitterly. "That's cute." She began picking up the pieces of broken glass glittering on the floor. "It's been a long time, mister, since Charley Royce was husband material." She turned her head and looked up at me, her mouth twisted into an ugly red wound in her face. The sharp edges of the glass were shining in her hands.

"How come you got elected to care for him?" I said.

"I used to love him. Besides, there isn't anybody else. Who else would want the job? Ever heard of karma?"

"Yeah."

"Believe in it?"

I shrugged.

"I do," she said, "Are you going to tell me your name?"

"My name is Murphy."

Her mouth sagged open in surprise. Yes, it's a small world.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"Asking Charley a few questions."

"About what? Charley doesn't know anything. He doesn't go out of the house any more. What do you want? Charley doesn't see Mickey at all."

"How did you know I was asking about Mickey? How do you know my name."

"I don't."

"Yes you do."

"You'd better go."

"Right," I said, "Mickey will show up. That's what everyone keeps telling me. Nice to meet you, Miss Stackpoole." I turned as I got to the door. "By the way, I wouldn't knock him around too much. Just makes them more difficult to handle in the long run."

"What would you know about it?" she said. "When he finishes the rest of that bottle he'll be looking to kill me. But I won't be here."

I smiled and closed the door on domestic bliss. I was beginning to think that Echo had a point. This secret life was unsavory to say the least. And it could be downright depressing.

*****

Back at 77 CPW the doorman handed me a small box wrapped in brown paper. That in itself wasn't unusual, but I was paranoid enough by this point that all things seemed suspicious and malevolent. Especially sloppily wrapped packages with no return address. I carried it into the elevator. It was not ticking.

I opened my door and brought the thing into the apartment. For about five minutes I dithered about calling the police bomb squad. I could not bring myself to believe that someone would send me a bomb. This is the way a lot of people think just before they open that special delivery from the Unabomber and find themselves blown out of their pajamas. But if I called the Bomb Squad, sooner or later I would have to explain it all in some fashion. It would be the last straw for the co-op board. They're a very stuffy lot at 77 Central Park West.

I decided I'd rather die. I took the package into the bathroom (which I judged to be the strongest spot to contain an explosion) took a deep breath and pulled it open. (By the way, this is a perfect example of how a boy's true character never changes.)

Inside was a large golden box of Godiva chocolate truffles and a note. It said:

                   give him one of these in the morning, and another at bedtime.  

                                       he'll be easier to handle. thanks.

                                               your friend,

                                                mickey

An hour later, I got a call from the kid on the front desk at the Washington Hotel, telling me he had something for me to pick up and I'd better come quick or he was calling the City's Department of Health and Mental Hygiene.  Since it was related to things Mickey Dolan, that sounded like the right Agency.