Ironweed - William Kennedy [74]
“Rotgut,” he said when the bootlegger handed him the whiskey, “but it does what it’s supposed to do.”
Francis paid the bootlegger and pocketed the change: two dollars and thirty cents left. He gave a quart of the musky and a pint of the whiskey to Rudy and when they stepped outside the bootlegger’s they both tipped up their wine.
And so Francis began to drink for the first time in a week.
o o o
The flop was run by a bottom-heavy old woman with piano legs, the widow of somebody named Fennessey, who had died so long ago nobody remembered his first name.
“Hey Ma,” Rudy said when she opened the door for them.
“My name’s Mrs. Fennessey,” she said. “That’s what I go by.”
“I knew that,” Rudy said.
“Then call me that. Only the niggers call me Ma.”
“All right, sweetheart,” Francis said. “Anybody call you sweetheart? We want a couple of flops.”
She let them in and took their money, a dollar for two flops, and then led them upstairs to a large room that used to be two or three rooms but now, with the interior walls gone, was a dormitory with a dozen filthy cots, only one occupied by a sleeping form. The room was lit by what Francis judged to be a three-watt bulb.
“Hey,” he said, “too much light in here. It’ll blind us all.”
“Your friend don’t like it here, he can go somewhere else,” Mrs. Fennessey told Rudy.
“Who wouldn’t like this joint?” Francis said, and he bounced on the cot next to the sleeping man.
“Hey bum,” he said, reaching over and shaking the sleeper. “You want a drink?”
A man with enormous week-old scabs on his nose and forehead turned to face Francis.
“Hey,” said Francis. “It’s the Moose.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Moose said.
“Moose who?” asked Rudy.
“Moose what’s the difference,” Francis said.
“Moose Backer,” Moose said.
“That there’s Rudy,” Francis said. “He’s crazier than a cross-eyed bedbug, but he’s all right.”
“You sharped up some since I seen you last,” Moose said to Francis. “Even wearin’ a tie. You bump into prosperity?”
“He found a tree that grows ten-dollar bills,” Rudy said.
Francis walked around the cot and handed Moose his wine. Moose took a swallow and nodded his thanks.
“Why’d you wake me up?” Moose asked.
“Woke you up to give you a drink.”
“It was dark when I went to sleep. Dark and cold.”
“Jesus Christ, I know. Fingers cold, toes cold. Cold in here right now. Here, have another drink and warm up. You want some whiskey? I got some of that too.”
“I’m all right. I got an edge. You got enough for yourself?”
“Have a drink, goddamn it. Don’t be afraid to live.” And Moose took one glug of the Green River.
“I thought you was gonna trade pants with me,” Moose said.
“I was. Pair I had was practically new, but too small.”
“Where are they? You said they were thirty-eight, thirtyone, and that’s just right.”
“You want these?”
“Sure,” said Moose.
“If I give ‘em to you, then I ain’t got no pants,” Francis said.
“I’ll give you mine,” Moose said.
“Why you tradin’ your new pants?” Rudy asked.
“That’s right,” said Francis, standing up and looking at his own legs. “Why am I? No, you ain’t gonna get these. Fuck you, I need these pants. Don’t tell me what I need. Go get your own pants.”
“I’ll buy ‘em,” Moose said. “How much you want? I got another week’s work sandin’ floors.”
“Well shine ‘em,” Francis said. “They ain’t for sale.”
“Sandin’, not shinin’. I sand ‘em. I don’t shine ‘em.”
“Don’t holler at me,” Francis said. “I’ll crack your goddamn head and step on your brains. You’re a tough man, is that it?”
“No,” said Moose. “I ain’t tough.”
“Well I’m tough,” Francis said. “Screw around with me, you’ll die younger’n I will.”
“Oh I’ll die all right. I’m just as busted as that ceiling. I got TB.”
“Oh God bless you,” Francis said, sitting down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s in the knee.”
“I didn’t know you had it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry anybody’s got TB.”
“It’s in the knee.”
“Well cut your leg off.”
“That’s what they wanted to do.”
“So cut it off.”
“No, I wouldn’t let them do that.”
“I got a stomach cancer,” Rudy said.
“Yeah,” said Moose. “Everybody’s got one of them.”
“Anybody gonna come to my funeral?