Breakfast at Tiffany's（下）

runs. If I were free to choose from everybody alive, just snap my fingers and say come here you, I
wouldn't pick José. Nehru, he's nearer the mark. Wendell Wilkie. I'd settle for Garbo any day. Why not?
A person ought to be able to marry men or women or -- listen, if you came to me and said you wanted
to hitch up with Man o' War, I'd respect your feeling. No, I'm serious. Love should be allowed. I'm all
for it. Now that I've got a pretty good idea what it is. Because Ido love José -- I'd stop smoking if he
asked me to. He'sfriendly , he can laugh me out of the mean reds, only I don't have them much any
more, except sometimes, and even then they're not so hideola that I gulp Seconal or have to haul myself
to Tiffany's: I take his suit to the cleaner, or stuff some mushrooms, and I feel fine, just great. Another
thing, I've thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dollar on every goddamn star in the
goddamn planetarium. It's a bore, but the answer, is good things only happen to you if you're good.
Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest -- I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead
man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type honest. Be
anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest
heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancermay cool you, but the other's sure to. Oh, screw it,
cookie -- hand me my guitar, and I'll sing you afada inthe most perfect Portuguese."
runs. If I were free to choose from everybody alive, just snap my fingers and say come here you, I
wouldn't pick José. Nehru, he's nearer the mark. Wendell Wilkie. I'd settle for Garbo any day. Why not?
A person ought to be able to marry men or women or -- listen, if you came to me and said you wanted
to hitch up with Man o' War, I'd respect your feeling. No, I'm serious. Love should be allowed. I'm all
for it. Now that I've got a pretty good idea what it is. Because Ido love José -- I'd stop smoking if he
asked me to. He'sfriendly , he can laugh me out of the mean reds, only I don't have them much any
more, except sometimes, and even then they're not so hideola that I gulp Seconal or have to haul myself
to Tiffany's: I take his suit to the cleaner, or stuff some mushrooms, and I feel fine, just great. Another
thing, I've thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dollar on every goddamn star in the
goddamn planetarium. It's a bore, but the answer, is good things only happen to you if you're good.
Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest -- I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead
man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type honest. Be
anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest
heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancermay cool you, but the other's sure to. Oh, screw it,
cookie -- hand me my guitar, and I'll sing you afada inthe most perfect Portuguese."
It happened to fall on the 30th of September, my birthday, a fact which had no effect on events, except
that, expecting some form of monetary remembrance from my family, I was eager for the postman's
morning visit. Indeed, I went downstairs and waited for him. If I had not been loitering in the vestibule,
then Holly would not have asked me to go horseback riding; and would not, consequently, have had the
opportunity to save my life.
"Come on," she said, when she found me awaiting the postman. "Let's walk a couple of horses around
the park." She was wearing a windbreaker and a pair of blue jeans and tennis shoes; she slapped her
stomach, drawing attention to its flatness: "Don't think I'm out to lose the heir. But there's a horse, my
darling old Mabel Minerva -- I can't go without saying good-bye to Mabel Minerva."
"Good-bye?"
"A week from Saturday. José bought the tickets." In rather a trance, I let her lead me down to the street.
"We change planes in Miami. Then over the sea. Over the Andes. Taxi!"
Over the Andes. As we rode in a cab across Central Park it seemed to me as though I, too, were flying,
desolately floating over snow-peaked and perilous territory.
Over the Andes. As we rode in a cab across Central Park it seemed to me as though I, too, were flying,
desolately floating over snow-peaked and perilous territory.
"I don't think anyone will miss me. I have no friends."
"I will. Miss you. So will Joe Bell. And oh -- millions. Like Sally. Poor Mr. Tomato."
"I loved old Sally," she said, and sighed. "You know I haven't been to see him in a month? When I told
him I was going away, he was an angel.Actually " -- she frowned -- "he seemeddelighted that I was
leaving the country. He said it was all for the best. Because sooner or later there might be trouble. If they
found out I wasn't his real niece. That fat lawyer, O'Shaughnessy, O'Shaughnessy sent me five hundred
dollars. In cash. A wedding present from Sally."
I wanted to be unkind. "You can expect a present from me, too. When, and if, the wedding happens."
She laughed. "He'll marry me, all right. In church. And with his family there. That's why we're waiting till
we get to Rio."
"Does he know you're married already?"
"What's the matter with you? Are you trying to ruin the day? It's a beautiful day: leave it alone!"
"But it's perfectly possible -- "
"Itisn't possible. I've told you, that wasn't legal. Itcouldn't be." She rubbed her nose, and glanced at me
sideways. "Mention that to a living soul, darling. I'll hang you by your toes and dress you for a hog."
The stables -- I believe they have been replaced by television studios -- were on West Sixty-sixth street
Holly selected for me an old sway-back black and white mare: "Don't worry, she's safer than a cradle."
Which, in my case, was a necessary guarantee, for ten-cent pony rides at childhood carnivals were the
limit of my equestrian experience. Holly helped hoist me into the saddle, then mounted her own horse, a
silvery animal that took the lead as we jogged across the traffic of Central Park West and entered a
riding path dappled with leaves denuding breezes danced about.
"See?" she shouted. "It's great!" And suddenly it was. Suddenly, watching the tangled colors of Holly's
hair flash in the red-yellow leaf light, I loved her enough to forget myself, my self-pitying despairs, and be
content that something she thought happy was going to happen. Very gently the horses began to trot,
waves of wind splashed us, spanked our faces, we plunged in and out of sun and shadow pools, and joy,
a glad-to-be-alive exhilaration, jolted through me like a jigger of nitrogen. That was one minute; the next
introduced farce in grim disguise.
For all at once, like savage members of a jungle ambush, a band of Negro boys leapt out of the
shrubbery along the path. Hooting, cursing, they launched rocks and thrashed at the horse's rumps with
switches.
Mine, the black and white mare, rose on her hind legs, whinnied, teetered like a tightrope artist, then
blue-streaked down the path, bouncing my feet out of the stirrups and leaving me scarcely attached. Her
hooves made the gravel stones spit sparks. The sky careened. Trees, a lake with little-boy sailboats,
statues went by licketysplit. Nursemaids rushed to rescue their charges from our awesome approach;
men, bums and others, yelled: "Pull in the reins!" and "Whoa, boy, whoa!" and "Jump!" It was only later
that I remembered these voices; at the time I was simply conscious of Holly, the cowboy-sound of her
racing behind me, never quite catching up, and over and over calling encouragements. Onward: across
the park and out into Fifth Avenue: stampeding against the noonday traffic, taxis, buses that screechingly
swerved. Past the Duke mansion, the Frick Museum, past the Pierre and the Plaza. But Holly gained
ground; moreover, a mounted policeman had joined the chase: flanking my runaway mare, one on either
side, their horses performed a pincer movement that brought her to a steamy halt. It was then, at last, that
I fell off her back. Fell off and picked myself up and stood there, not altogether certain where I was. A
crowd gathered. The policeman huffed and wrote in a book: presently he was most sympathetic, grinned
and said he would arrange for our horses to be returned to their stable.
statues went by licketysplit. Nursemaids rushed to rescue their charges from our awesome approach;
men, bums and others, yelled: "Pull in the reins!" and "Whoa, boy, whoa!" and "Jump!" It was only later
that I remembered these voices; at the time I was simply conscious of Holly, the cowboy-sound of her
racing behind me, never quite catching up, and over and over calling encouragements. Onward: across
the park and out into Fifth Avenue: stampeding against the noonday traffic, taxis, buses that screechingly
swerved. Past the Duke mansion, the Frick Museum, past the Pierre and the Plaza. But Holly gained
ground; moreover, a mounted policeman had joined the chase: flanking my runaway mare, one on either
side, their horses performed a pincer movement that brought her to a steamy halt. It was then, at last, that
I fell off her back. Fell off and picked myself up and stood there, not altogether certain where I was. A
crowd gathered. The policeman huffed and wrote in a book: presently he was most sympathetic, grinned
and said he would arrange for our horses to be returned to their stable.
"Fine."
"But you haven'tany pulse," she said, feeling my wrist.
"Then I must be dead."
"No, idiot. This is serious. Look at me."
The trouble was, I couldn't see her; rather, I saw several Holly's, a trio of sweaty faces so white with
concern that I was both touched and embarrassed. "Honestly. I don't feel anything. Except ashamed."
"Please. Are you sure? Tell me the truth. You might have been killed."
"But I wasn't. And thank you. For saving my life. You're wonderful. Unique. I love you."
"Damn fool." She kissed me on the cheek. Then there were four of her, and I fainted dead away.
That evening, photographs of Holly were frontpaged by the late edition of theJournal-American and by
the early editions of both theDaily News and theDaily Mirror . The publicity had nothing to do with
runaway horses. It concerned quite another matter, as the headlines revealed: PLAYGIRL ARRESTED
IN NARCOTICS SCANDAL (Journal-American), ARREST DOPE-SMUGGLING ACTRESS (
Daily News), DRUG RING EXPOSED, GLAMOUR GIRL HELD (Daily Mirror).
Of the lot, theNews printed the most striking picture: Holly, entering police headquarters, wedged
between two muscular detectives, one male, one female. In this squalid context even her clothes (she was
still wearing her riding costume, windbreaker and blue jeans) suggested a gang-moll hooligan: an
impression dark glasses, disarrayed coiffure and a Picayune cigarette dangling from sullen lips did not
diminish. The caption read:Twenty-year-old Holly Golightly, beautiful movie starlet and cafe society
celebrity D.A. alleges to be key figure in international drug-smuggling racket linked to racketeer
Salvatore "Sally" Tomato. Dets. Patrick Connor and Sheilah Fezzonetti (L. and R.) are shown
escorting her into 67th St. Precinct. See story on Pg. 3 . The story, featuring a photograph of a man
identified as Oliver "Father" O'Shaughnessy (shielding his face with a fedora), ran three full columns.
Here, somewhat condensed, are the pertinent paragraphs:Members of café society were stunned today
by the arrest of gorgeous Holly Golightly, twenty-year-old Hollywood starlet and highly publicized
girl-about-New York. At the same time, 2 P.M., police nabbed Oliver O'Shaughnessy, 52, of the
Hotel Seabord, W. 49th St., as he exited from a Hamburg Heaven on Madison Ave. Both are
alleged by District Attorney Frank L. Donovan to be important figures in an international drug
ring dominated by the notorious Mafia-führer Salvatore "Sally" Tomato, currently in Sing Sing
serving a five-year rap for political bribery ... O'Shaughnessy, a defrocked priest variously known
in crimeland circles as "Father" and "The Padre," has a history of arrests dating back to 1934,
when he served two years for operating a phony Rhode Island mental institution, The Monastery.
Miss Golightly, who has no previous criminal record, was arrested in her luxurious apartment at a
swank East Side address ... Although the D.A.'s office has issued no formal statement, responsible
sources insist the blond and beautiful actress, not long ago the constant companion of
multimillionaire Rutherfurd Trawler, has been acting as "liaison" between the imprisoned Tomato
and his chief-lieutenant, O'Shaughnessy ... Posing as a relative of Tomato's, Miss Golightly is said
to have paid weekly visits to Sing Sing, and on these occasions Tomato supplied her with verbally
coded messages which she then transmitted to O'Shaughnessy. Via this link, Tomato, believed to
have been born in Cefalu, Sicily, in 1874, was able to keep firsthand control of a world-wide
narcotics syndicate with outposts in Mexico, Cuba, Sicily, Tangier, Tehran and Dakar. But the
D.A.'s office refused to offer any detail on these allegations or even verify them ... Tipped off, a
large number of reporters were on hand at the E. 67th St. Precinct station when the accused pair
arrived for booking. O'Shaughnessy, a burly red-haired man, refused comment and kicked one
cameraman in the groin. But Miss Golightly, a fragile eyeful, even though attired like a tomboy in
slacks and leather jacket, appeared relatively unconcerned. "Don't ask me what the hell this is
about," she told reporters. "Parce-que Je ne sais pas, mes chères. (Because I do not know, my
dears). Yes -- I have visited Sally Tomato. I used to go to see him every week. What's wrong with
that? He believes in God, and so do I. " ...
Hotel Seabord, W. 49th St., as he exited from a Hamburg Heaven on Madison Ave. Both are
alleged by District Attorney Frank L. Donovan to be important figures in an international drug
ring dominated by the notorious Mafia-führer Salvatore "Sally" Tomato, currently in Sing Sing
serving a five-year rap for political bribery ... O'Shaughnessy, a defrocked priest variously known
in crimeland circles as "Father" and "The Padre," has a history of arrests dating back to 1934,
when he served two years for operating a phony Rhode Island mental institution, The Monastery.
Miss Golightly, who has no previous criminal record, was arrested in her luxurious apartment at a
swank East Side address ... Although the D.A.'s office has issued no formal statement, responsible
sources insist the blond and beautiful actress, not long ago the constant companion of
multimillionaire Rutherfurd Trawler, has been acting as "liaison" between the imprisoned Tomato
and his chief-lieutenant, O'Shaughnessy ... Posing as a relative of Tomato's, Miss Golightly is said
to have paid weekly visits to Sing Sing, and on these occasions Tomato supplied her with verbally
coded messages which she then transmitted to O'Shaughnessy. Via this link, Tomato, believed to
have been born in Cefalu, Sicily, in 1874, was able to keep firsthand control of a world-wide
narcotics syndicate with outposts in Mexico, Cuba, Sicily, Tangier, Tehran and Dakar. But the
D.A.'s office refused to offer any detail on these allegations or even verify them ... Tipped off, a
large number of reporters were on hand at the E. 67th St. Precinct station when the accused pair
arrived for booking. O'Shaughnessy, a burly red-haired man, refused comment and kicked one
cameraman in the groin. But Miss Golightly, a fragile eyeful, even though attired like a tomboy in
slacks and leather jacket, appeared relatively unconcerned. "Don't ask me what the hell this is
about," she told reporters. "Parce-que Je ne sais pas, mes chères. (Because I do not know, my
dears). Yes -- I have visited Sally Tomato. I used to go to see him every week. What's wrong with
that? He believes in God, and so do I. " ...
There is one especially gross error in this report: she was not arrested in her "luxurious apartment." It
took place in my own bathroom. I was soaking away my horse-ride pains in a tub of scalding water
laced with Epsom salts; Holly, an attentive nurse, was sitting on the edge of the tub waiting to rub me with
Sloan's liniment and tuck me into bed. There was a knock at the front door. As the door was unlocked,
Holly called Come in. In came Madame Sapphia Spanella, trailed by a pair of civilian-clothed detectives,
one of them a lady with thick yellow braids roped round her head.
"Hereshe is: the wanted woman!" boomed Madame Spanella, invading the bathroom and leveling a
finger, first at Holly's, then my nakedness. "Look. What a whore she is." The male detective seemed
embarrassed: by Madame Spanella and by the situation; but a harsh enjoyment tensed the face of his
companion -- she plumped a hand on Holly's shoulder and, in a surprising baby-child voice, said: "Come
along, sister. You're going places." Whereupon Holly coolly told her: "Get them cotton-pickin' hands off
of me, you dreary, driveling old bull-dyke." Which rather enraged the lady: she slapped Holly damned
hard. So hard, her head twisted on her neck, and the bottle of linement, flung from her hand,
smithereened on the tile floor -- where I, scampering out of the tub to enrich the fray, stepped on it and
all but severed both big toes. Nude and bleeding a path of bloody footprints, I followed the action as far
as the hall. "Don't forget," Holly managed to instruct me as the detectives propelled her down the stairs,
"please feed the cat."
Of course I believed Madame Spanella to blame: she'd several times called the authorities to complain
about Holly. It didn't occur to me the affair could have dire dimensions until that evening when Joe Bell
showed up flourishing the newspapers. He was too agitated to speak sensibly; he caroused the room
hitting his fists together while I read the accounts.
Of course I believed Madame Spanella to blame: she'd several times called the authorities to complain
about Holly. It didn't occur to me the affair could have dire dimensions until that evening when Joe Bell
showed up flourishing the newspapers. He was too agitated to speak sensibly; he caroused the room
hitting his fists together while I read the accounts.
"Well, yes."
He popped a Tums in his mouth and, glaring at me, chewed it as though he were crunching my bones.
"Boy, that's rotten. And you meant to be her friend. What a bastard!"
"Just a minute. I didn't say she was involvedknowingly . She wasn't. But there, she did do it. Carry
messages and whatnot -- "
He said: "Take it pretty calm, don't you? Jesus, she could get ten years. More." He yanked the papers
away from me. "You know her friends. These rich fellows. Come down to the bar, we'll start phoning.
Our girl's going to need fancier shysters than I can afford."
I was too sore and shaky to dress myself; Joe Bell had to help. Back at his bar he propped me in the
telephone booth with a triple martini and a brandy tumbler full of coins. But I couldn't think who to
contact. José was in Washington, and I had no notion where to reach him there. Rusty Trawler? Not that
bastard! Only: what other friends of hers did I know? Perhaps she'd been right when she'd said she had
none, not really.
I put through a call to Crestview 5-6958 in Beverly Hills, the number long-distance information gave me
for O.J. Berman. The person who answered said Mr. Berman was having a massage and couldn't be
disturbed: sorry, try later. Joe Bell was incensed -- told me I should have said it was a life and death
matter; and he insisted on my trying Rusty. First, I spoke to Mr. Trawler's butler -- Mr. and Mrs.
Trawler, he announced, were at dinner and might he take a message? Joe Bell shouted into the receiver:
"This is urgent, mister. Life and death." The outcome was that I found myself talking -- listening, rather -to
the former Mag Wildwood: "Are you starkers?" she demanded. "My husband and I will positivelysue
anyone who attempts to connect our names with that ro-ro-rovolting and de-de-degenerate girl. I
alwaysknew she was a hop-hop-head with no more morals than a hound-bitch in heat. Prison is where
she belongs. And my husband agrees one thousand percent. We will positivelysue anyone who -- "
Hanging up, I remembered old Doc down in Tulip, Texas; but no, Holly wouldn't like it if I called him,
she'd kill me good.
I rang California again; the circuits were busy, stayed busy, and by the time O.J. Berman was on the line
I'd emptied so many martinis he had to tell me why I was phoning him: "About the kid, is it? I know
already. I spoke already to Iggy Fitelstein. Iggy's the best shingle in New York. I said Iggy you take care
of it, send me the bill, only keep my name anonymous, see. Well, I owe the kid something. Not that I
owe her anything, you want to come down to it. She's crazy. A phony. But areal phony, you know?
Anyway, they only got her in ten thousand bail. Don't worry, Iggy'll spring her tonight -- it wouldn't
surprise me she's home already."
But she wasn't; nor had she returned the next morning when I went down to feed her cat. Having no key
to the apartment, I used the fire escape and gained entrance through a window. The cat was in the
bedroom, and he was not alone: a man was there, crouching over a suitcase. The two of us, each thinking
the other a burglar, exchanged uncomfortable stares as I stepped through the window. He had a pretty
face, lacquered hair, he resembled José; moreover, the suitcase he'd been packing contained the
wardrobe José kept at Holly's, the shoes and suits she fussed over, was always carting to menders and
cleaners. And I said, certain it was so: "Did Mr. Ybarra-Jaegar send you?"
the other a burglar, exchanged uncomfortable stares as I stepped through the window. He had a pretty
face, lacquered hair, he resembled José; moreover, the suitcase he'd been packing contained the
wardrobe José kept at Holly's, the shoes and suits she fussed over, was always carting to menders and
cleaners. And I said, certain it was so: "Did Mr. Ybarra-Jaegar send you?"
"Where is José?"
He repeated the question, as though translating it into another language. "Ah,where she is! She is
wailing," he said and, seeming to dismiss me, resumed his valet activities.
So: the diplomat was planning a powder. Well, I wasn't amazed; or in the slightest sorry. Still, what a
heartbreaking stunt: "He ought to be horse-whipped."
The cousin giggled, I'm sure he understood me. He shut the suitcase and produced a letter. "My cousin,
she ask me leave that for his chum. You will oblige?"
On the envelope was scribbled:For Miss H. Golightly -- Courtesy Bearer .
I sat down on Holly's bed, and hugged Holly's cat to me, and felt as badly for Holly, every iota, as she
could feel for herself.
"Yes, I will oblige."
And I did: without the least wanting to. But I hadn't the courage to destroy the letter; or the will power to
keep it in my pocket when Holly very tentatively inquired if, if by any chance, I'd had news of José. It
was two mornings later; I was sitting by her bedside in a room that reeked of iodine and bedpans, a
hospital room. She had been there since the night of her arrest. "Well, darling," she'd greeted me, as I
tiptoed toward her carrying a carton of Picayune cigarettes and a wheel of new-autumn violets, "I lost the
heir." She looked not quite twelve years: her pale vanilla hair brushed back, her eyes, for once minus their
dark glasses, clear as rain water -- one couldn't believe how ill she'd been.
Yet it was true: "Christ, I nearly cooled. No fooling, the fat woman almost had me. She was yakking up
a storm. I guess I couldn't have told you about the fat woman. Since I didn't know about her myself until
my brother died. Right away I was wondering where he'd gone, what it meant, Fred's dying; and then I
saw her, she was there in the room with me, and she had Fred cradled in her arms, a fat mean red bitch
rocking in a rocking chair with Fred on her lap and laughing like a brass band. The mockery of it! But it's
all that's ahead for us, my friend: this comedienne waiting to give you the old razz. Now do you see why I
went crazy and broke everything?"
Except for the lawyer O.J. Berman had hired, I was the only visitor she had been allowed. Her room
was shared by other patients, a trio of triplet-like ladies who, examining me with an interest not unkind
but total, speculated in whispered Italian. Holly explained that: "They think you're my downfall, darling.
The fellow what done me wrong"; and, to a suggestion that she set them straight, replied: "I can't. They
don't speak English. Anyway, I wouldn't dream of spoiling their fun." It was then that she asked about
José.
The instant she saw the letter she squinted her eyes and bent her lips in a tough tiny smile that advanced
her age immeasurably. "Darling," she instructed me, "would you reach in the drawer there and give me my
purse. A girl doesn't read this sort of thing without her lipstick."
her age immeasurably. "Darling," she instructed me, "would you reach in the drawer there and give me my
purse. A girl doesn't read this sort of thing without her lipstick."
It began: "My dearest little girl -- "
Holly at once interrupted. She wanted to know what I thought of the handwriting. I thought nothing: a
tight, highly legible, uneccentric script. "It's him to a T. Buttoned up and constipated," she declared. "Go
on."
"My dearest little girl, I have loved you knowing you were not as others. But conceive of my despair
upon discovering in such a brutal and public style how very different you are from the manner of woman
a man of my faith and career could hope to make his wife. Verily I grief for the disgrace of your present
circumstance, and do not find it in my heart to add my condemn to the condemn that surrounds you. So I
hope you will find it in your heart not to condemn me. I have my family to protect, and my name, and I
am a coward where those institutions enter. Forget me, beautiful child. I am no longer here. I am gone
home. But may God always be with you and your child. May God be not the same as -- José."
"Well?"
"In a way it seems quite honest. And even touching."
"Touching?That square-ball jazz!"
"But after all, hesays he's a coward; and from his point of view, you must see -- "
Holly, however, did not want to admit that she saw; yet her face, despite its cosmetic disguise,
confessed it. "All right, he's not a rat without reason. A super-sized, King Kong-type rat like Rusty.
Benny Shacklett. But oh gee, golly goddamn," she said, jamming a fist into her mouth like a bawling
baby, "Idid love him. The rat."
The Italian trio imagined a lover'scrise and, placing the blame for Holly's groanings where they felt it
belonged, tut-tutted their tongues at me. I was flattered: proud that anyone should think Holly cared for
me. She quieted when I offered her another cigarette. She swallowed and said: "Bless you, Buster. And
bless you for being such a bad jockey. If I hadn't had to play Calamity Jane I'd still be looking forward to
the grub in an unwed mama's home. Strenuous exercise, that's what did the trick. But I've scaredla
merde out of the whole badge-department by saying it was because Miss Dykeroo slapped me. Yessir, I
can sue them on several counts, including false arrest."
Until then, we'd skirted mention of her more sinister tribulations, and this jesting reference to them
seemed appalling, pathetic, so definitely did it reveal how incapable she was of recognizing the bleak
realities before her. "Now, Holly," I said, thinking: be strong, mature, an uncle. "Now, Holly. We can't
treat it as a joke. We have to make plans."
"You're too young to be stuffy. Too small. By the way, what business is it of yours?"
"You're too young to be stuffy. Too small. By the way, what business is it of yours?"
She rubbed her nose, and concentrated on the ceiling. "Today's Wednesday, isn't it? So I suppose I'll
sleep until Saturday, really get a goodschluffen . Saturday morning I'll skip out to the bank. Then I'll stop
by the apartment and pick up a nightgown or two and my Mainbocher. Following which, I'll report to
Idlewild. Where, as you damn well know, I have a perfectly fine reservation on a perfectly fine plane.
And since you're such a friend I'll let you wave me off.Please stop shaking your head."
"Holly. Holly. You can't do that."
"Et pourquoi pas? I'm not hot-footing after José, if that's what you suppose. According to my census,
he's strictly a citizen of Limboville. It's only: why should I waste a perfectly fine ticket? Already paid for?
Besides, I've never been to Brazil."
"Just what kind of pills have they been feeding you here? Can't you realize, you're under a criminal
indictment. If they catch you jumping bail, they'll throw away the key. Even if you get away with it, you'll
never be able to come home."
"Well, so, tough titty. Anyway, home is where you feel at home. I'm still looking."
"No, Holly, it's stupid. You're innocent. You've got to stick it out."
She said, "Rah, team, rah," and blew smoke in my face. She was impressed, however; her eyes were
dilated by unhappy visions, as were mine: iron rooms, steel corridors of gradually closing doors. "Oh,
screw it," she said, and stabbed out her cigarette. "I have a fair chance theywon't catch me. Providedyou
keep yourbouche fermez . Look. Don't despise me, darling." She put her hand over mine and pressed it
with sudden immense sincerity. "I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell
him anythingregarding Rio -- he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the
nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O.J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou
in a single poker hand: we're square. No, here's the real shake: all the badgers want from me is a couple
of free grabs and my services as a state's witness against Sally -- nobody has any intention of prosecuting
me, they haven't a ghost of a case. Well, I may be rotten to the core, Maude,but : testify against a friend
I will not. Not if they can prove he doped Sister Kenny. My yardstick is how somebody treats me, and
old Sally, all right he wasn't absolutely white with me, say he took a slight advantage, just the same Sally's
an okay shooter, and I'd let the fat woman snatch me sooner than help the law-boys pin him down."
Tilting her compact mirror above her face, smoothing her lipstick with a crooked pinkie, she said: "And
to be honest, that isn't all. Certain shades of limelight wreck a girl's complexion. Even if a jury gave me
the Purple Heart, this neighborhood holds no future: they'd still have up every rope from LaRue to
Perona's Bar and Grill -- take my word, I'd be about as welcome as Mr. Frank E. Campbell. And if you
lived off my particular talents, Cookie, you'd understand the kind of bankruptcy I'm describing. Uh, uh, I
don't just fancy a fade-out that finds me belly-bumping around Roseland with a pack of West Side
hillbillies. While the excellent Madame Trawler sashayes her twat in and out of Tiffany's. I couldn't take it.
Give me the fat woman any day."
A nurse, soft-shoeing into the room, advised that visiting hours were over. Holly started to complain, and
was curtailed by having a thermometer popped in her mouth. But as I took leave, she unstoppered
herself to say: "Do me a favor, darling. Call up theTimes , or whatever you call, and get a list of the fifty
richest men in Brazil. I'mnot kidding. The fifty richest: regardless of race or color. Another favor -- poke
around my apartment till you find that medal you gave me. The St. Christopher. I'll need it for the trip."
around my apartment till you find that medal you gave me. The St. Christopher. I'll need it for the trip."
But Holly, ignoring my cheerful conviction that her flight would not go, continued her preparations -placing,
I must say, the chief burden of them on me. For she had decided it would be unwise of her to
come near the brownstone. Quite rightly, too: it was under surveillance, whether by police or reporters or
other interested parties one couldn't tell -- simply a man, sometimes men, who hung around the stoop. So
she'd gone from the hospital to a bank and straight then to Joe Bell's Bar. "She don't figure she was
followed," Joe Bell told me when he came with a message that Holly wanted me to meet her there as
soon as possible, a half-hour at most, bringing: "Her jewelry. Her guitar. Toothbrushes and stuff. And a
bottle of hundred-year-old brandy: she says you'll find it hid down in the bottom of the dirty-clothes
basket. Yeah, oh, and the cat. She wants the cat. But hell," he said, "I don't know we should help her at
all. She ought to be protected against herself. Me, I feel like telling the cops. Maybe if I go back and
build her some drinks, maybe I can get her drunk enough to call it off."
Stumbling, skidding up and down the fire escape between Holly's apartment and mine, wind-blown and
winded and wet to the bone (clawed to the bone as well, for the cat had not looked favorably upon
evacuation, especially in such inclement weather) I managed a fast, first-rate job of assembling her
going-away belongings. I even found the St. Christopher's medal. Everything was piled on the floor of my
room, a poignant pyramid of brassières and dancing slippers and pretty things I packed in Holly's only
suitcase. There was a mass left over that I had to put in paper grocery bags. I couldn't think how to carry
the cat; until I thought of stuffing him in a pillowcase.
Never mind why, but once I walked from New Orleans to Nancy's Landing, Mississippi, just under five
hundred miles. It was a light-hearted lark compared to the journey to Joe Bell's bar. The guitar filled with
rain, rain softened the paper sacks, the sacks spilt and perfume spilled on the pavement, pearls rolled in
the gutter: while the wind pushed and the cat scratched, the cat screamed -- but worse, I was frightened,
a coward to equal José: those storming streets seemed aswarm with unseen presences waiting to trap,
imprison me for aiding an outlaw.
The outlaw said: "You're late, Buster. Did you bring the brandy?"
And the cat, released, leaped and perched on her shoulder: his tail swung like a baton conducting
rhapsodic music. Holly, too, seemed inhabited by melody, some bouncybon voyage oompahpah.
Uncorking the brandy, she said: "This was meant to be part of my hope chest. The idea was, every
anniversary we'd have a swig. Thank Jesus I never bought the chest. Mr. Bell, sir, three glasses."
"You'll only need two," he told her. "I won't drink to your foolishness."
The more she cajoled him ("Ah, Mr. Bell. The lady doesn't vanish every day. Won't you toast her?"), the
gruffer he was: "I'll have no part of it. If you're going to hell, you'll go on your own. With no further help
from me." An inaccurate statement: because seconds after he'd made it a chauffeured limousine drew up
outside the bar, and Holly, the first to notice it, put down her brandy, arched her eyebrows, as though
she expected to see the District Attorney himself alight. So did I. And when I saw Joe Bell blush, I had to
think: by God, hedid call the police. But then, with burning ears, he announced: "It's nothing. One of them
Carey Cadillacs. I hired it. To take you to the airport."
He turned his back on us to fiddle with one of his flower arrangements. Holly said: "Kind, dear Mr. Bell.
Look at me, sir."
He turned his back on us to fiddle with one of his flower arrangements. Holly said: "Kind, dear Mr. Bell.
Look at me, sir."
The Carey chauffeur was a worldy specimen who accepted our slapdash luggage most civilly and
remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptown through a lessening rain, Holly stripped off
her clothes, the riding costume she'd never had a chance to substitute, and struggled into a slim black
dress. We didn't talk: talk could have only led to argument; and also, Holly seemed too preoccupied for
conversation. She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned constantly forward to peer out the
windows, as if she were hunting an address -- or, I decided, taking a last impression of a scene she
wanted to remember. It was neither of these. But this: "Stop here," she ordered the driver, and we pulled
to the curb of a street in Spanish Harlem. A savage, a garish, a moody neighborhood garlanded with
poster-portraits of movie stars and Madonnas. Sidewalk litterings of fruit-rind and rotted newspaper
were hurled about by the wind, for the wind still boomed, though the rain had hushed and there were
bursts of blue in the sky.
Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, she scratched his head and asked.
"What do you think? This ought to be the right kind of place for a tough guy like you. Garbage cans. Rats
galore. Plenty of cat-bums to gang around with. So scram," she said, dropping him; and when he did not
move away, instead raised his thug-face and questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes, she stamped her
foot: "I said beat it!" He rubbed against her leg. "I said fuck off!" she shouted, then jumped back in the
car, slammed the door, and: "Go," she told the driver. "Go. Go."
I was stunned. "Well, youare . Youare a bitch."
We'd traveled a block before she replied. "I told you. We just met by the river one day: that's all.
Independents, both of us. We never made each other any promises. We never -- " she said, and her
voice collapsed, a tic, an invalid whiteness seized her face. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then
she had the door open, she was running down the street; and I ran after her.
But the cat was not at the corner where he'd been left. There was no one, nothing on the street except a
urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweet-singing children. Other children emerged from
doorways and ladies leaned over their window sills to watch as Holly darted up and down the block, ran
back and forth chanting: "You. Cat. Where are you? Here, cat." She kept it up until a bumpy-skinned
boy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: "You wants a nice kitty, miss? Gimme a
dollar."
The limousine had followed us. Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door, she hesitated; she
looked past me, past the boy still offering his cat ("Haifa dollar. Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it ain't
much"), and she shuddered, she had to grip my arm to stand up: "Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each
other. He was mine."
Then I made her a promise, I said I'd come back and find her cat: "I'll take care of him, too. I promise."
She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. "But what about me?" she said, whispered, and shivered
again. "I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours
until you've thrown it away. The mean reds, they're nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my
mouth's so dry, if my life depended on it I couldn't spit." She stepped in the car, sank in the seat. "Sorry,
driver. Let's go."
again. "I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours
until you've thrown it away. The mean reds, they're nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my
mouth's so dry, if my life depended on it I couldn't spit." She stepped in the car, sank in the seat. "Sorry,
driver. Let's go."