‘That dog of yours is so much rage. All the radios of Coney Island don’t make up to that dog, you motherfucker.’
I had the umbrella in my hand, and the one thing I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try, is when I grabbed it. I think it ‘must have been while Humboldt was standing transfixed by the realization that his mouth had been expanded by eight inches or so, but I simply can’t remember. I remember the man who looked like George Hamilton bolting for the door, and I know his name was Troy because that’s what his companion called after him, but I can’t remember picking up the umbrella I’d bought in the luggage store.
It was in my hand, though, the price tag sticking out of the bottom of my fist, and when the maitre d’ bent forward as if bowing and ran the knife through the air at me – meaning, I think, to bury in my throat – I raised it and brought it down on his wrist, like an old-time teacher whacking an unruly pupil with his hickory stick.
‘Ud!’ the maitre d’ grunted as his hand was driven sharply down, and the blade meant for my throat plowed through the soggy pinkish tablecloth instead. He held on, though, and pulled it back.
If I’d tried to hit his knife hand again I’m sure I would have missed but I didn’t. I swung at his face, and fetched him an excellent lick –
as excellent a lick as one can administer with an umbrella anyway –
up the side of his head. And as I did, the umbrella popped open like the visual punchline of a slapstick act.
I didn’t think it was funny, though. The bloom of the umbrella hid him from me completely as he staggered backward with his free hand flying up to the place where I’d hit him, and I didn’t like not being able to see him. Didn’t like it? It terrified me. Not that I wasn’t terrified already.
I grabbed Dianne’s wrist and yanked her to her feet. She came without a word, took a step toward me, them stumbled on her high heels and feel clumsily into my arms. I was aware of her breasts pushing against me, and the wet, warm clamminess over them.
‘Eeee! You Boinker!’ the maitre d’ screamed, or perhaps it was a
‘Boinger’ he called me. It probably doesn’t matter, I know that, and yet it quite often seems to me that it does. Later than night, the little questions haunted me as much as the big ones. ‘You boinking bastard! All these radios! Hush-do-baba! Fuck cousin Brucie! Fuck YOU!’
He started around the table toward us (The area behind him was completely empty now, and looked like the aftermath of a brawl in a western movie saloon). My umbrella was still lying on the table with the open top jutting off the far side, and the maitre d’ bumped it with his hip. It fell off in front of him, and while he kicked it aside, I set Diane back on her feet and pulled her toward the far side of the room. The front door was no good; it was probably too far away in any case, but even if we could get there, it was still jammed tight with frightened, screaming people. If he wanted me –
or both of us – he would have no trouble catching us and carving us like a couple of turkeys.
‘Bugs! You Bugs!… Eeee!…So much for your dog, eh? So much for your barking dog!’
‘Make him stop!’ Diane screamed. ‘Oh, Jesus, he’s going to kill us both, make him stop!’
‘I rot you, you abominations!’ closer now. The umbrella hadn’t held him up for long, that was for sure. ‘I rot you all!’
I saw three doors, two facing each other in a small alcove where there was also a pay telephone. Men’s and Women’s rooms. No good. Even if they were single toilets with locks on the doors, they were no good. A nut like this would have no trouble bashing a bathroom lock off its screws, and we would have nowhere to run.
I dragged her toward the third door and shoved through it into a world of clean green tiles, strong fluorescent light, gleaming chrome, and steamy odors of food. The smell of salmon dominated. Humboldt had never gotten a chance to ask about the specials, but I thought I knew what at least one of them had been.
A waiter was standing there with a loaded tray balanced on the flat of one hand, his mouth agape and his eyes wide. He looked like Gimpel the fool in that Isaac Singer story. ‘What -‘ he said, and then I shoved him aside. The tray went flying, with plates and glassware shattering against the wall.
‘Ay!’ a man yelled. He was huge, wearing a white smock and a white chef’s hat like a cloud. There was a red bandanna around his neck, and in one hand he held ladle that was dripping some sort of brown sauce. ‘Ay, you can’t come in here likea dat!’
‘We have got to get out’ I said. ‘He’s crazy. He’s -‘
An idea struck me then, a way of explaining, and I put my hand over Diane’s left breast for a moment, on the soaked cloth of her dress. It was the last time I ever touched her intimately, and I don’t know if it felt good or not. I held my hand out to the chef, showing him a palm streaked with Humboldt’s blood.
‘Good Christ,’ he said. ‘Here. Inna da back.’
At that instant the door we’d come through burst open again, and the maitre d’ rolled in, ever wild, hair sticking everywhere like fur on a hedgehog that’s tucked itself into a ball. He looked around, saw the waiter, dismissed him, saw me, and rushed at me.
I bolted again, dragging Diane with me, shoving blindly at the soft-bellied bulk of the Chef. We went passed him, the front of Diane’s dress leaving a smear of blood on the front of his tunic. I saw he wasn’t coming with us, that he was turning toward the maitre d’
instead, and wanted to warn him, wanted to tell him that wouldn’t work, that it was the worst idea in the world, and likely to be the last idea he ever had, but there was no time.
‘Ay!’ the chef cried. ‘Ay, Guy what’s dis?’ he said the maitre d’s name as the French do, so it rhymes with free, and then he didn’t say anything at all. There was a heavy thud that made me think of the sound of the knife burying itself in Humboldt’s skull, and them the cook screamed. It had a watery sound. It was followed by a thick, wet splat that haunts my dreams. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t want to know.
I yanked Diane down a narrow aisle between two stoves that baked a furious dull heat out at us. There was a door at the end, locked shut by two heavy steel bolts. I reached for the top one and then heard Guy, The Maitre D’ from Hell, coming afer us, babbling.
I wanted to keep at the bolt, wanted to believe I could open the door and get us out before he could get within sticking distance, but part of me – the part that was determined to live – knew better. I pushed Diane against the door, stepped in front of her in a protective maneuver that must go all the way back to the Ice Age, and faced him.
He came running up the narrow aisle between the stoves with the knife gripped in his left hand and raised above his head. His mouth was open and pulled back from a set of dingy, eroded teeth. Any hope of help I might have had from Gimpel the Fool disappeared.
He was cowering against the wall beside the door to the restaurant.
His fingers were buried deep inside his mouth, and he looked more like the village idiot than ever.
‘Forgetful of me you shouldn’t have been!’ Guy screamed, sounding like Yoda in the Star War movies. ‘Your hateful dog!…
Your loud music, so disharmonious! … Eeee!… How you ever-‘
There was a large pot on one of the front burners of the left-hand stove. I reached out for it and slapped it at him. It was over an hour before I realized how badly I’d burned my hand doing that; I had a palmful of blisters like little buns, and more blisters on my three middle fingers. The pot skidded off its burner and tipped over in midair, dousing Guy from the waist down with what looked like corn, rice, and maybe two gallons of boiling water.
He screamed, staggered backward, and put the hand that wasn’t holding the knife down on the other stove, almost directly into the blue-yellow gas flame underneath a skillet where mushrooms which had been sauteeing were now turning to charcoal. He screamed again, this time in a register so high it hurt my ears, and held his hand up before his eyes, as if not able to believe it was connected to him.