The Adventurer

Suddenly, Gallagher had nothing to complain about. He had written a hit play; money poured in. He wanted a house; he had a house. He wanted a boat; a boat was his. His sons, formerly brooding, now smiled on him. After two years of marriage, his second wife looked at him as if he were a dish of ice cream. It was all he could do to fend off happiness.

One morning, he told his wife, "Christy, remember those sudden trips I used to take, just pick a place on the map--Panama City; French Lick, Indiana--take off and go? Remember how replenishing they were? Why don't I do that again?"

"I think you should. I've got plenty to do and I wouldn't mind being alone for a while."

The response, had it come from another woman, would have been menacing. But this (continued on page 284)Adventurer(continued from page 175) was the good-natured Christy.

So off Gallagher went to sunny Florida, the choice not quite that random. In the corner of his mind was an almost perfect blonde--her hair did frizz in the rain--he had met at a bar, probably too many months before. After one quick look, he assumed she was beyond his reach. She was tall, coltish, tailor-made for preppies. But she had been charmed by his work in the theater. She tended bar; as she reached for Scotch bottles, her movements were balletic, unquestionably aimed at Gallagher. They had some coffee; she was an actress and a friend of judges. At her apartment, they wrestled on the rug. Calls came in from the judges. Behind a curtain, a roommate who paid most of the rent slept fitfully. So the deed remained undone. They had another date. Gallagher got to second base with her, then trotted off the field to go into rehearsals. She left for Lauderdale. Now, with a hit under his belt, Gallagher flew South to bat himself home.

With the greatest of ease, he tracked her down. He checked at one bar, was steered to another, the second trimmed with coconuts and tom-toms. Sleepy bearded fellows, vaguely nautical, roamed about. The jukebox was lively, up to date. A sign said, no sad stories. She had a rich tan and wore cut-off blue jeans. If possible, her legs had improved. She ignored him; he ignored her back. Then she summoned him to a corner table, reserved for the help. "I had to be careful," she said. "Half the guys are cops."

"What's that got to do with me?"

She chuckled, as if catching on to a sly remark. She was no longer involved with judges. Indeed, she had gone the other way and was now an intimate of heavies. Her boyfriend was Schoenfeld--in the immediate area, heaviest of all.

"Oh, well," said Gallagher, cashing in his chips, "I was just passing through and thought I'd say hello."

"Don't go," she said, catching his wrist. "Direct me. I like to be told what to do."

"Maybe we could hang out together, you, me and Schoenfeld."

"Good," she said. She kicked her legs up on the table, lit a cigarette.

"One of the judges just wanted me to take showers with him," she said.

Gallagher took note of the sudden swerve in her logic--but it was a nice tidbit.

He checked into a handsome motel that appeared to be screamingly expensive but turned out to be dirt-cheap. One thing about having money, he said to himself, you can't seem to get rid of any.

He ordered up some clams on the half shell to keep his weight down, took a nap--and in the early evening, headed back to the bar. She was still there, whirling about with a drink tray. She worked long, fierce hours.

"He's over there," she said, directing him to a fellow with a spreading waist and a heavily pouched face. Schoenfeld wore a blazer and an unlaundered shirt, as if he had started to dress nicely, then said the hell with it.

"You look around the same age as me," he said to Gallagher. "I'm forty-six. How old would you say I was?"

"A little younger."

"That's what I say," he said, as if pleased, finally, to have an ally. "I was supposed to drive out to see my wife, but I've been up for five days. You don't think I should drive in this condition, do you?"

"No, I don't."

Schoenfeld appraised him through his pouched eyes, then said, "Come on inside, I'll fix you up."

Gallagher followed him past the jukebox and a bank of electronic games into the men's room. They went into the single stall, where Schoenfeld fed him generous amounts of medium-grade coke. Laughing Latins peered in at them.

"The traffic's a little heavy in here," said Gallagher.

"They're gonna fuck with me?" said Schoenfeld, raising an eyebrow. "Schoenfeld?"

They walked back to the bar. Gallagher was supposed to feel high, but he didn't. Schoenfeld patted the blonde girl on the head, then quickly joined Gallagher.

"The thing about starting a guy off on coke is then you have to continue him all night. But don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"Let me give you some money," said Gallagher.

"Schoenfeld?" he said.

A tall man with a quietly powerful body came into the bar. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and had a short and truly dreadful haircut.

"Very heavy guy," said Schoenfeld, poking Gallagher softly. "His name is Shithead, but only if you're intimate. Otherwise, it's Ralph."

"Ralph is fine with me," said Gallagher.

"Hey, Shithead," Schoenfeld called out. "Say hello to Mr. Gallagher."

In the great tradition of seriously hard men, the fellow gave Gallagher a gentle handshake.

"Hi, Ralph," said Gallagher.

The big man looked around the bar. Some sleepy girls were now slumped over on their stools. They were there to join the sleepy bearded fellows.

"I used to put little girls up on my face before it came in," said the tall man. "Put 'em right up here," he said, demonstrating.

Schoenfeld gave him some coke, which he took to the men's room.

"Nicest guy in the world," said Schoenfeld, "and then he'll go off on you."

When the big fellow came back, a polka was playing on the jukebox. He lifted Gallagher off the ground and whirled him about the floor a few times like a rag doll. Gallagher, not your basic small man, thought of resisting, but having gotten some idea of the fellow's strength, decided it was a poor idea. He let himself go limp. The fellow put him down gently.

"I can do that," said Shithead, "because I think I read something of yours once."

"Let's hit some after-hours places," said Schoenfeld.

"So early?" asked Gallagher.

"They're nice now," said Schoenfeld.

Gallagher touched base with the blonde girl. "Maybe I'll catch up with you later," he said.

"I'd like that," she said. Schoenfeld gave her a wave. She waved back and shook her head sadly. "All his girlfriends leave him," she said.

They got into Shithead's pickup truck, which was equipped with powerful bumpers, and drove out to the highway.

Schoenfeld seemed worried about his wife. "Drive in my condition, I'd probably never make it," he said.

Shithead drove off the highway onto the service road a few times to ram some parked cars in their driveways.

"That's the type of thing I do," he said.

They stopped at a roadside place. The man at the door looked around nervously before admitting them, though there seemed to be no one else in view for miles around.

Gallagher and Shithead took seats at a bar while Schoenfeld had a hot discussion with a young fellow in a ruffled shirt who seemed to be in charge. The place was modest--it featured a spotless dance floor that appeared never to have been used and a lazy blackjack game in the rear. A trio of women Gallagher took to be hookers sat at one end of the bar. No one seemed to be having any fun. Schoenfeld and the man in the ruffled shirt took turns jabbing at each other's chests, then hugged each other, after which Schoenfeld joined them at the bar.

"They're very careful who they let in here," he said to Gallagher. "They had been briefed on Shithead, but I had trouble when it came to you. Anyway, you're in. You packin'?"

"No," said Gallagher.

"Everybody else is," said Schoenfeld, "but don't worry, you're with me."

A thin, pretty hooker dropped her compact on the floor. When she stooped to pick it up, she looked like a young mother straightening up a playroom. Shithead signaled to her and she followed him to the back area.

Schoenfeld fed Gallagher another taste of the medium-grade coke and said, "You get something good, you tell me. I get something good, I tell you."

"I doubt that I'll get anything good," said Gallagher. "But if I do, I will."

Gallagher went over to play some blackjack. The dealer handed him an 18, dealt himself one, too, and took Gallagher's money.

"Wasn't that a push?" asked Gallagher.

"We don't obey that," said the dealer.

He played a few more hands to be sociable, then returned to the bar.

"How'd you do?" asked Schoenfeld, yawning.

"They take pretty good care of themselves around here."

"Well, don't you worry," said Schoenfeld. "You're with me."

Shithead returned from the back section and had a whispered consultation with Schoenfeld. It looked as if they were exchanging stock tips.

"We got a problem," said Schoenfeld. "Shithead here just tied up a hooker in the ladies' room and left her there. When they find her, they'll be pissed."

"Shouldn't we leave?" asked Gallagher.

"Before I finish my drink?" said Schoenfeld.

He sipped his beer and dozed off at the bar. When the owner was summoned to the ladies' room, Shithead grabbed Schoenfeld and shook him awake. They followed Shithead out to the pickup. He gunned the motor and tore off down the highway, hunched over in the excited style of a wheelman, but no one appeared to be following them. He slowed down and they drove easily beneath a cheery Southern moon.

"I've got to tow some Arabs out of a dune," said Shithead. "I'm gonna charge them three hundred dollars. What do you think?"

"I think you'll get it," said Gallagher.

"If they object. I'll cold-cock them."

"Maybe I ought to go back to my wife," said Schoenfeld. "Even in this condition. When I spoke to her this morning, she said, 'Drive back or that's the marriage!' What do you think?"

"If she put it that way," said Gallagher.

"That's what I think. Shithead, drop me off."

His car was parked in someone's driveway. It was a Pontiac that looked as tired as he did.

"Call me," he said to Gallagher, as he got out of the pickup. He shook his head in disappointment. "Jesus Christ, you never call me."

"I just met you," said Gallagher.

"Well, don't be no stranger."

Shithead drove Gallagher back to the bar. He appeared to want to say something but seemed nervous about it. Finally, he said, "Maybe you ought to write my story. I used to beat up Jerry Cooney."

"He's vicious," said Gallagher.

"Not with me, he isn't." He kissed Gallagher full on the mouth, then dropped him off at the bar. Gallagher wiped off his mouth and went inside to see the blonde girl. The place was much livelier than the after-hours club.

"How did you do with my friends?" she asked.

"It's a long story," he said. "The truth is, I came down here to see you."

"What about my boyfriend?"

"We won't let him in on it."

"I don't know," she said. "We usually share things. Be forceful."

"Get your ass over to my place as soon as you finish up."

"You're on," she said, twirling around to serve a customer. Twirling back, she asked, "You a spanker?"

"It's not high on my list," said Gallagher.

"I like it," she said, "as long as it doesn't escalate."

•

She wore high heels and a cream-colored skirt and looked as if she were about to have lunch at the Plaza. He didn't understand the need for all the formality, but he was thrilled about the skirt.

"I could spend a month just arranging and rearranging it," he said.

"It would be cheaper than a summer in the Hamptons," she said. She hadn't budged from the doorway. "Do you want me to stand over here for a while and look shy?" she asked.

"I don't really require that," he said. They kissed for a while and then undressed. She went to great lengths to see to it that her clothes were folded meticulously.

"I wanted to follow up in New York," he said, amazed by her body, "but I got derailed."

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "I had the judges then, anyway.

"Now," she said, rubbing her hands briskly, "were there any special things that you wanted?"

"Let's just see what happens," he said. They made love for a while. She was pretty skillful and he told her. "How old did you say you were?" he asked.

"Twenty-four," she said, "but you're giving me excellent guidelines."

"Now," she said later, sitting up, brushing her hair, "how does your dream of a golden goddess hold up?"

"Just fine," he said, but he wasn't sure he meant it.

"You've helped me in a thousand different ways," she said. "I wonder if you would take this eighth up to my girlfriend in New York." She handed him a glassine packet of cocaine. "I'm behind in the rent."

Again, he was aware of a break in her logic, but he said he would take care of it. They had a few beers on the porch. "Remember," she said, putting on her heels. "Call me wherever you are, I'll meet you halfway." She left. Everyone wants me to call them, he said to himself. He rang up Christy.

"How's it going?" she asked. "You replenished yet?"

"I'm getting there," he said.

"I miss you and I love you."

"Love you, too, babe."

He left the next morning and headed for the airport. This was his first try at carrying drugs. He got his own body through without a hitch, then waited for his valise. "I was in San Ysidro a couple of years ago," he said to a disinterested female attendant. He thought she might be an American Indian. "Everyone was using surfboards to carry stuff in. What's the trend these days?"

"Wise guys," said a short, stocky man nearby. He flashed a badge and told Gallagher to empty his pockets. The packet slid out of a leather cigar case along with two fresh Havanas. The agent confiscated the packet, then held up one of the cigars and took an imaginary puff. "These any good?" he asked.

"Those are my cigars," said Gallagher, idiotically, and flew at him.

The agent, Feld, a nimble transplant from crowded Queens, did a side step and trailed a leg. It hooked the charging Gallagher and sent him up in the air. He actually enjoyed the sensation until he landed. The break sounded as if someone had stomped on a poorly wrapped package. Feld handcuffed him, sat him in the grated rear of a squad car and drove him to a doctor in a nearby shopping center. Later, his shoulder mounted importantly in a cast, he followed Feld across the parking lot to the squad.

On a nearby loading platform, Schoenfeld awaited him, clean-shaven, amazingly refreshed. "I heard what you did," he said. "When they're finished with you, then I start in." Behind him, Shithead kicked at the dirt, embarrassed.

A car drove up, carrying the thin hooker and the after-hours man, in a fresh ruffled shirt. He squinted one eye, aimed a finger at Gallagher and went, "Bing."

Gallagher followed the agent into the squad. A brush fire of pain lit up his genitals. He imagined three kinds of V.D., only one of them a pushover. He did some quick calculations: Even with a clean slate and impressive character references, he faced a minimum of three to seven in the can.

"I don't understand you," said Feld, starting up the squad. "You don't seem like the type. And I understand you had a big success up East."

Gallagher sighed, stretched out his legs. The seat was wet, as though a frozen turkey had been there before him. In the distance, Schoenfeld bared his teeth and raised a fist.

"I know what you mean," he said to the agent. "But I seemed to have a need to complicate my life a little."

"One thing about having money, he said to himself, you can't seem to get rid of any."