Shoot the Moon

Chapter Eight - Round Two

Junior was rocking back and forth on his heels in front of the elevator, hands in his pockets, and whistling a catchy tune. His hair was cut very short now, probably to even it out with the side that was singed away in the explosion. One side of his face was slick with ointment over the fading remnants of a burn. He looked at me as I approached and I tilted the stitches in my eyebrow away from him. His eyes were cold on me like the suckers of a deep sea creature. But he didn't recognize me with clothes on. He turned away and went back to the contemplation of his own smoky image reflected in the burnished steel of the elevator door.

I stepped over to the opposite bank of elevators and picked up an old tall steel ashtray left over from the days when you could still smoke in New York City. I swung it through the air in a slow arc. Junior started to turn when the big silver cylinder chunked into his ear. The blow drove him face first into the elevator door. He bumped heads with his reflection and slid to the floor dragging his lip along the door. It left a shiny line like a snail's track. I was setting the ashtray down in the middle of the hall when a bell went "ding" and the elevator doors opened. The bunch inside went "Wha?"

"My friend here had a seizure," I said. "Don't worry I'll phone for help in my office." A woman in the group nodded at me and the doors closed.

I reached down and grabbed the fighter's belt and carried him like a suitcase down the hall. He was a lightweight but he was all protein in a compact package and I ended up dragging him the last ten feet to the men's room door.

I dropped him on his face and fiddled with the door until it popped open. When I looked down he was trying to swim away. I kicked him in the side of his head and dragged him inside. I pulled him by his arms into one of the stalls, flipped up the lid and sat him down in the bowl. He folded in half and I propped his chin over is knees, took off my belt, and quickly looped it under his knees and buckled it behind his neck. I had to pull to make the last notch. He would choke a little but I didn't want him to answer the bell and start punching.

There was a small trickle of blood coming from his ear and some bleeding from his nose. His eyelids began to flicker and suddenly he jerked and tried to straighten up. When he found he couldn't he groped at the belt around his neck. I knocked his hands away and pulled him out of the toilet and onto the floor. The seat of his pants was dripping and I danced away trying to stay dry. I turned him around and set him back in the toilet head first, balancing on his shoulders on the edges of the circle of damp white porcelain. The tip of his nose touched the water. It was an antique American Standard with a straight forced water flush. I pulled the handle. The water rushed out around his head and he flailed back with his arms. I pushed down on his back forcing one shoulder into the bowl. I let him drown for a moment and then I pulled him out gasping for breath. He bucked for all he was worth but he wasn't going to break that belt. It was a very expensive gift from Echo. I pounded his right kidney a few times and he went limp.

"Hey" I called, "You hear me? Who are you guys? What do you want?"

He mumbled something. I couldn't make it out as it echoed around the toilet but I recognized the tone. I leaned over and pulled the handle again. Water slopped over the edges of the bowl and soaked my brand new Ferragamos. I saved him from drowning again, but he still wouldn't talk to me. I flushed the toilet two more times before he started speaking a quick strangely accented Spanish. My high school language skills were no help.

"Hey, hombre," I shouted, "Do you habla Ingles?"

He kept saying no and I kept flushing until I believed him. By then he was half dead anyway and I thought I'd better let up. I took everything out of his pockets and left him folded up on the wet tiles studying indoor plumbing.

I should have followed him around got to know his friends. But revenge was more what I had in mind. The kind served piping hot. Thinking about that, I started to wonder if I should break his kneecaps for him. It would lay him up for a while and that might be a plus when he got his strength back and started looking for me. But I hadn't brought my hammer. In fact, I had begun to feel a little sorry for him coughing up toilet water the way he was, never mind that, the other night, he was willing to burn my "focking" face off. I backed out of the stall, pulling assorted trash from his plastic wallet. He had no I.D. to speak of, just a fake card with his picture that he had had run up in an East Village novelty store. The rest was a boxing clipping from El Diario, an ad for a spiritualist, and a New York City Numbers ticket. 357 boxed. I wonder if he won.

I tossed the stuff in the toilet, walked out of the men's room to the fire stairs. I grabbed the elevator on the floor below. The folks I rode down with paid me no mind. They might remember the puddle of water at my feet but I didn't look for trouble in that direction. Junior in the men's room would work his way free sooner or later. I doubted he would complain to the police.

Times Square is undergoing a renovation into a Disney theme park but on the side streets you can still find discount (read cheap) stores. I bought a new plastic belt. $10.95. The guy in the store said, "Last until you get sick of it." I put it through the loops of my trousers and looked in the mirror. I was sick of it already.

I was leaving the cheapo store, my soaked pants legs flapping wetly, when I heard someone call my name.

"Jack? Jack!"

It was Echo's old Sarah Lawrence nemesis, Phillippa Calder. She was all done up in a haute couture outfit that made her look insane. You always wonder who wears that stuff? Here she was.

"Jack, what were you doing in there? Yeeew. And why are you wet?"

"There was an accident. Ah...a pipe broke?"

"Ah-hmmmm. You didn't buy anything in there did you?"

"Just a belt."

"And it's very nice. What is it made of? Plastic?"

"Bakelite, I think."

"Ha, ha. Oh, Jack. But where's your belt, Jack?"

"I had to use it for... securing a package."

"Ah-hmmmmmmm. How's Echo?"

"Fine. She's on tour with the company."

"Oh, the dance thing? She's still at it, huh? Well, everyone to their dish of tea, I suppose."

Dish of tea?

"Give her my best when you talk to her, Jacky-boy. I really should call her and catch up. A plastic belt! Jack, you are a card."

Phillippa went off down 46th street, probably headed for an early lunch. It's never too early to squeeze in the first martini of the day.

The receptionist had given me an address for Mickey Dolan on the East side. Three places to stay was a little much even for a guy who liked to drink and didn't want to pass out in the subway. It was just right however for a guy who wanted to hide out from the Ghost and Junior.

*****

I told the super that I hadn't heard from Mr. Mickey "Carradine" in more than a week and I was starting to worry. We went up in the elevator. He didn't like the idea of finding a dead body in an apartment. He asked me if it was possible that Mr. Mickey was passed away even now in apartment 6D. I said I hoped not.

After ringing the bell several times, the super took out his keys and opened the door. The place had been turned over from one end to the other. But whether they found Duro or not, I had no way of telling.

I still had no idea what Duro was.