That was the start of it. And it went on for years.
3
I had a new leg one day. It just arrived, at the end of my stump; I’d no memory of buying or being given it. I left the room and went right out, to give it a go. The leg was light; the straps were soft and soundless. I could move without hauling it after me, leaning out to drag it ahead, waiting till it landed clean and I could go on and take the next step.
I was the only man on the street. There was life behind the walls and windows but the street itself was deserted. I didn’t know where I was. I’d no street or hotel name - I knew I’d just been in some sort of hotel. I’d walked straight out, into white sunlight; I was crossing the same street into shade. I stepped onto the sidewalk, no bother, no real determination needed. I looked out from the shade, back the way I’d just come, into the glare and shimmering air. I saw, far off, where the hotel was, a figure, someone on the street. Male or female - I couldn’t tell. But I thought - I hoped - it was a woman. And that hope was a feeling that just opened its eyes and stretched. I kept looking. I liked being in the shade. I liked the feeling on my back, like reassuring hands. The figure got no bigger; no shape or colour was added. I stood there for a while, until the figure had faded to nothing, and no other figure replaced it. I could stand there; I had the strength to do that. The leg was already my own. I knew what I was doing.
Then there was fuck-all.
I was in a car. I was sitting in the back. The driver was talking to me. I saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror. I’d been in this car before. I’d seen the eyes.
—It took a while, he said.
His name was Bill. I knew that.
Another of those long streets. There were no real corners in this place.
He was Ford’s driver.
I was in Ford’s station wagon.
—Where are we going? I asked.
—Mister Ford’s place, said Bill.
—Where’s that? I asked.
—It’s at Odin Street.
It meant nothing.
—Have I been there before? I asked.
—Think so, said Bill.
—Did you bring me there?
—I think so, he said.—Yes, sir.
His eyes were on me again.
—Three, four days ago, maybe, he said.—It took me a while to find you this time.
—Where was I?
—Where we just came from.
—Where was that?
—Well, Christ - excuse me - that was your new hotel. The Elsinore.
—New hotel, I said.—New?
It had happened before. I’d gone missing, more than once. And this guy finding me; there was a routine. But the curiosity was new. The collapse of proper time was getting on my wick and I didn’t like the stupid man it made me.
—That’s right, he said.—New. I’d never looked for you in that particular establishment before.
I saw his eyes. He didn’t look surprised or spooked.
—Like I said, said Bill.—It took a while to find you. To figure out what happened.
—Tell me.
—Well, he said.—They wouldn’t let you back into your hotel. Remember?
—No.
—Far as I can make out, you went out for a stroll.
—Yeah.
—You remember?
—Yeah. When was that?
—Two, three days ago.They weren’t sure.You remember coming back?
—No.
—You had a few under your belt, I guess.
—No.
I saw him nod.
—They wouldn’t let you back in, he said.—The hotel people there.
—Why not?
—Said you didn’t look like the type that would be a paying guest in their establishment.
—But I’d already been there.
—That’s right.
—The fuckers.
—That’s about the size of it, said Bill.
—Did they not see me going out?
—Well, said Bill.—That’s Los Angeles, I guess.
I could still see his eyes. He wasn’t smiling.
—There’s a world of difference between getting in and going out, he said.—Going out is something you can do for yourself. But getting in?
—I’m with you, I said.—It’s the same everywhere.
I knew what I was talking about. My life was there to back me up.
The room was dark. The cigar glowed, and faded. I heard him shift the butt across his mouth. But he didn’t speak.
I’d been there before. I knew it when Bill the driver brought the station wagon up the drive. And in here - I’d been in this dark room before. This time the smell reminded me of something, a jail cell. The old breath, and the leaks of a man who’d been locked up for a long while.
The cigar was red again, and faded.
I didn’t move. He was blind but he’d be watching. He wasn’t going to get the better of me.
The cigar was red again. He muttered words too dry and broken to catch.
I heard legs crossed, but not in front - beside me. They weren’t Ford’s legs.
Meta Sterne’s glasses caught a fragment of the light that tore at the edges of the window blinds.
—Good afternoon, she said.—Pappy’s glad you’re here. Pappy could go and fuck himself.
—That’s great, I said.
—There’s a chair beside you, she said.
—Grand.
I was rusty. She’d been there all that time. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that there might be someone else, besides myself and Ford. Thirty years before I’d have been dead for that, or she’d have been.
A click - she’d turned on the light beside her.
I didn’t blink. I sat in front of Ford. His head was hanging. There was white cake on the corners of his lips. He was wearing one of those bathrobes. It was manky, and his bare legs were yellow and shining.
He muttered. His tongue went out, and in.
The Sterne woman held her pen ready.
He’d been that way the last time I’d been there, sitting in the same chair, with the woman to my left. I’d done this before; he’d been drunk for weeks. But her presence beside me had still been a surprise.
I locked my eyes on the black lenses and the eyes behind them. I watched his tongue wetting his lips, again and again. I remembered what I’d told him the last time I’d been there. About my wedding and the photograph and the few guarded hours in the middle of the war. He’d loved it; he’d forgotten he was drunk.
I waited.
Meta Sterne leaned out of her chair. She spoke quietly.
—Pappy says Thank you.
There was no hint of sadness on her face, or malice. She was simply giving me the message.
I stood up and walked out.
There was a hat on the table beside the front door. It was one of the slouch hats Ford liked wearing. It would do till I found something better.
I walked past the station wagon.
—Mister Smart?
It was Bill the driver.
—Mister Smart?
I kept going.
Pappy says Thank you. There was an evil little fucker hiding inside Pappy. But I was grateful to him, and not because he’d hauled me out of the desert. He was making me angry; he was making me think.
I was out on the street now. Somewhere. Under palm trees and a high sun.
The anger felt like fingers, straightening me, pulling and prodding me into shape. Ford could find me if he wanted. I wasn’t on the payroll.
I didn’t even know if that was true. I hadn’t thought about it, until now. I had the new leg. I had a room, in a place called the Elsinore. I checked my pockets. I had six paper dollars and some change. I hadn’t a clue where I’d got it. I was on a street with no sidewalk, wearing another man’s hat.
I sat on the bed. The room was hot. I could feel the hat, a band around my head. I took it off. It was a fedora, brand new. It wasn’t pearl-grey. But it was mine. I was sure of it.
I looked around the room. There was no one else there, and nowhere to hide. It was the bed and a chair, a window and the door.
The knock didn’t surprise me.
—Mister Smart.
—This is the Elsinore.
—Sure is, he said.—Nice hat.
—Thanks.
—Ready?
—Lead the way.
—Eaten?
—Not in years, I said.
—You don’t eat?
—No.
He left it at that.
I felt it as I walked across the empty lobby; I knew where I was. I knew that Bill would have to pull the door, not push.
The station wagon was right outside.
—Well, sir, said Bill.—Mister Ford is looking forward to talking with you.
—Yeah.
He got us moving.
I looked at Bill there behind the wheel and I knew what he was doing. Louis Armstrong had taught me how to drive.
Stop when you see the cotton, Pops.
But I hadn’t driven since I’d lost the leg. I didn’t know if it could be done with wood. I hadn’t really wondered, until now.
Now.
I let that sink. I’d map the trip. I’d remember the street names and distances. I’d no idea where I was. It was just more fuckin’ palm trees.
—What time is it? I asked.
—Ten-abouts, said Bill.
I felt the car turn. Another avenue of trees.
—Where are we going? I said.
—Studio.
I saw the sign now. I was on Washington Boulevard, in Culver City. This was the start. I’d keep jabbing at that all day, keeping it awake.
—Were you there that time? I asked him.
—That time?
—The time in the desert, when your boss found me.
—No, he said.—No, sir, I wasn’t.
—But you heard about it.
—Yes, sir.
—How long ago was that?
—Must be a year.
—Yeah.
—More than a year.
—It’s hard to keep track, I said.
—You been busy.
—There you go.
We turned off the street. We stopped for a guy in a uniform, under some kind of an arch. He wasn’t a real cop but he had a Webley in his holster. I lifted my fedora so he’d see I wasn’t hiding.
The toy cop nodded and we moved again, slowly. We went between two high warehouses. People on the narrow street got out of the way, as if they knew the car. I took it all in. We turned another corner, into thick shade and, suddenly, there wasn’t a sinner.
They’d brought me here to shoot me - memory poked me in the back.
I didn’t get out of the car.
Bill opened his door.
—You okay, Mister Smart?
I listened for the slap of shoe leather, metal sliding over metal.
—Mister Smart?
—Okay, I said.
I got out of the car. The heat, even in the shade, pulled at my face and shirt.
No one was going to whack me; I was fine. I followed Bill to a black metal door. There were two caged lightbulbs right above, green and red. The green one was lit. Bill grabbed the door and pulled it back. He waited - he wanted me to go in first.
I grabbed him - I got a hold of his jacket. He was my shield and I was tucked in right behind him. I pushed him in ahead, through a black heavy curtain.
I was back in the fuckin’ desert.
I let go of Bill and made my way through a loose gang of men in blue uniforms. I stopped. I was standing on sand but there was solid ground beneath it. There was a cactus and tumbleweed, not tumbling, and some scrawny-looking sage and creosote brush. It was a little square of the desert, under a high roof and heavy lights.
A lad with a cap picked up a cactus and moved it a foot to the left. He bent down and hid its base with handfuls of sand. There were men and girls rushing about, over the sand and around it. There were more men way up at the overhead lights. There was coffee somewhere; I could smell it. There were rifles and guns all over the shop, leaning against a flimsy-looking wall, or lying on the floor beyond the sand. But no one there was going to shoot me.
There was another guy in front of me.
—The hat’s wrong, he said.
—What?
He looked up at the lights, and at me again.
—Wrong century, my friend, he said.—We did not conquer the West a-wearing felt fedoras. The gangsters are on Stage 11.
His hands came up, and he pushed my chest. I grabbed his wrists.
His life was saved by an accordion. Someone was playing
The Minstrel Boy
.
Some men picked up a horse trough and carried it away. And I saw Ford. The black lenses were staring at me. He was sitting well back in a canvas chair; the bottom half of his face was hidden by one of his knees. His chair was on the sand, and the Sterne woman had a chair beside his. I couldn’t see his eyes, but he was sober. He was wearing the slouch hat I’d taken from his house.
I let go of the twerp and walked towards Ford, over the shallow sand. He broke the gaze; he said something - he threw words over his shoulder. The lad I’d seen with the cactus came running from behind a dusty black drape, with another canvas chair. He put it beside Ford’s, made sure it sat nicely in the desert. The accordion still played
The Minstrel Boy
. Then it changed, and I was listening to a song that had never been written.
—The bold Henry Smart, said Ford.—Sit down.
I didn’t have a choice; I thought I was going to fall over. The accordion played on. And Ford joined in.
—THE HEART OF A FENIAN—
HAD THE BOLD HENRY SMART.
He nodded, once, and it stopped. I saw the accordion player, another small guy sitting on the back of some kind of a wagon, off the sand. He smiled across at me.
Jack Dalton had sung that song, the night we met and he brought me into the Irish Republican Brotherhood. That was in 1917, and five years later I found out that there’d never been a song. (—You wrote it yourself, you fuckin’ eejit. It was only ever a couple of lines.)