Even in the chilly dim recesses of Jilly Rizzo's club on the 79th Street Causeway in North Bay Village, between the mainland and Miami Beach, people were following the Missle Crisis on TV. But over at the bar, with a swizzle stick in his mouth, George Raft was entertaining a rich man from the Eden Roc. The man had a trophy wife in tow. She was built like Anita Ekberg, poured into a white blouse with a starched turned-up collar. Her gold lame pedal-pushers were as tight-fitting as wiener casings. Raft flipped a silver dollar as he had done thirty years before in the movie "Scarface."
"S'waddya think of this Castro guy, Mistah Raft?"
"I think they ought send in the Marines and shoot his ass."
"You gonna see your money again? From the casino he took--"
"Not a chance. Say, Pal, it's been a real pleasure."
"OK, Mistah Raft. Hon, we gotta go."
*
At the same time a few miles west, Tomas and Kit were skulking up to the box office of the 79th Street Art Theatre, hoping no one who knew them would drive by and recognize them. Their objective: catch a nudie flick, maybe a "Mister Teas."
"We have enough money?" Tomas whined.
"We have enough money."
The box office woman wore rhinestone winged eyeglasses. She looked them over once, over twice, and popped her gum. "You boys eighteen?"
"Yeah, lady," Kit growled. "We're eighteen."
"Well, ya don't lookit." Evidently she got her kicks making sweaty lads squirm.
All the back rows seemed to be occupied by goblins.
On the screen was a host of gorgeous women playing nude volleyball. Tomas stood in the aisle, transfixed, as if he had stepped on a zillion volt wire, gawking until someone yelled: "Siddown, asshole!"
They groped in the darkness for two empty seats. There was one futive soul in that row. With his knees together he shifted his legs to one side. Like a teenage girl riding side-saddle, Kit thought.
As soon as they sat down the reel ended.
"What would your mom think if she saw us now?" Teresa Reyes was never far from Kit's mind.
"Unthinkable--"
Finally the feature movie came on. The title: "A Bout de Souffle."
Jesus Christ! What the Hell is This?
Evidently it was a French film, not a movie. Together they slumped in their seats with a collective groan.
"Something about a souffle," Kit rasped. "One of those foamy--"
"Breathless," Tomas corrected, having read the subtitle.
*
Halfway through it they walked out. On the screen Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg were finagling around like clowns under the bed sheet.
As they limped past the box office the woman popped her gum and cat-called, "Hey, Sunny Boys. Can'tcha stan' a li'l kultcha?"
Crossing the street to where they were parked behind the public library, Kit barked, "Goddammit! If I'd wanted to see some yakity-yak French import I'd have gone to the Mayfair!"
"Yeah," Tomas affirmed. An ache in his balls had left him breathless.
*
Kit drove his lime green '56 Ford V8 across the causeway and turned north on Collins. The windows were down and the seabreeze caught his leonine hair in a tempest.
Not far from the Sunny Isles fishing pier was Scotty's, a car-hop renown for pretty waitresses and excellent milkshakes. The hub of activity was a diner the size of a trolly car. Its Wurlitzer piped music to the action outside.
Kit nosed into the bay nearest the seawall. He could hear "The Peppermint Twist." And he remembered a party back in high school. They were doing the Twist when a chubby girl in a red sack dress blew out her knee. Nobody could stop her from screaming.
While they waited for their baskets of burgers and fries a candy-apple street-rod thundered into the lot.The driver made the customary ritual circuits, garnering all due notice, and then screetched to a halt alongside Kit and Tomas. He clicked off his engine and the silence was enormous.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Lone Ranger and Tonto--"
Behind the wheel of the chopped and chanelled '38 Buick sat a sun-bronzed hatchet-faced hoodlum. Slouched like James Dean. Tawny hair swept into a defiant duck-ass pompadour. A long Pall Mall dangling from petulant lips. He was a diminutive man, standing five foot seven and weighing one hundred and twenty. Slim as a bear's tooth. Tough as a hickory axe-handle. He exuded eerie menace, chilling off most people.
Kit heard he had been kicked out of the Corps on a Section Eight.
Acolytes of his inner sanctum attested he was of a rare breed of genius. Kit conceeded this thug was supremely gifted. Gifted as Professor Moriarty and Doctor Fu Manchu.
Viscerily Kit knew him to be of the same ilk as the psycho played by Richard Widmark, giggling gleefully, pushing the old lady in the wheelchair down the stairs.
Kit tilted his head in an aside to Tomas. "Meet my car-thief neighbor. He goes by the name Spastic."
"Eat shit, faggot," Spastic coughed. To Tomas he ascertained: "Name's Spivak!"
Kit continued, "Did hard time for grand theft auto."
"Pleased to meet," Tomas grinned sheepishly.
"You buck-o boys up for a little party tonight? My place."
"Sure," Kit replied. "Why not?"
Spastic clicked the touchy ignition and the big motor tumbled to life.
Posi-traction. Left rubber.
To all of those cursing him in the parking lot he shot a bird.
Kit smirked: "Hi Yo, Silver--"
Then he added, dead serious: "Be careful, Pard. That cat may seem OK at times, but he is always dangerous. I accepted his invitation only because I live in the same trailer park. Savvy?"
*
Anton Spivak lit a fresh joss stick. His Zen-like altar to Lenny Bruce sat with silent minimalist dignity.
It filled a niche between two bookcases fashioned from varnished walnut planks and cinder blocks spray-painted black matte. He fired up a reefer and passed it to Tomas, sitting cross-legged where he could inspect the books. Nietzsche, Trotsky, Gide.
"Go 'head," Spastic coaxed, drawing air figures with it. "Won't hurtcha."
Tomas took a wee drag and held it, just as Kit had done.
He looked across the chaotic little room and watched Kit leaning in a corner, talking to a tall, lithe woman with black bangs and kohl eyes. "That's Cleopatra," Spastic said. "She work's at Zorita's."
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