“well now, I know about the dark. If you’re afraid of it, the only thing to do is go to sleep. Then when you wake up, it’s light again. Ho. Only thing to do. So. Back to bed we go, ho. Ho. Ho. Ho.”
Wondering, as he heard himself produce this glib patter, how the kid could possibly believe it, since he had never been able to believe it himself. Case in point: tonight, running to Lanie rather than face a dark room.
“Hold tight to my hand, ho. Off to yum-yum land, ho. Where is your room, Walter Gee? Show me where.”
After a swipe of flannel sleeve across sniffles, Walter led the way to a door that opened into the first-floor hall. Inside were a pair of narrow bunkbeds, the top one empty, the bottom one very slept-in. Elgar, smoothing its disorder, was relieved that a trip through Sitting Bull’s council chamber would not be necessary.
“I don’t like my pop-pop,” Walter Gee announced as covers were tucked in tightly under his chin. It felt safer that way, Elgar knew from experience.
“Well now, fella,” Elgar said, “those are mighty strong words. You should think twice before you say them. I always do.”
The next words were very soft and dreamlike: almost, but not quite, soft enough for Elgar to have imagined them.
“You be my pop-pop, Landlord.”
Fortunately no reply was required. A soft, contented snore rose from the pillow. A small hand still clung to his large, dumbfounded one. Elgar, gently disengaging and slipping outside, could not help feeling large and strong in comparison.
He paused thoughtfully at the foot of the stairs and checked himself over routinely. Chest, arms, gut. Yep, solid. Firmer even than on that fine morning, seemingly ages ago, when he had set out to buy sundry items of hardware.
Unearthly voices drifted down to him: two witches, heads together over the rice cauldron, cooking up an infernal stew.
“Elgar needs help around here, Miss Perkins. Really he does. He needs someone like you on his side.”
“Honey, don’t worry, I’ll look out for him. I have to. It’s in the cards.”
“You may even have to collect his rents for him. Oh, I know it’s a lot to ask, Miss Perkins. Especially of a person who’s a great star like you. But do try to let him think he’s done it himself.”
Elgar turned his back on the stairs. Obviously he was the last person they wanted to see at the moment. Well, the feelings at the moment were mutual. His empty apartment suddenly appealed, because there he could be alone in front of the mirror, to check the breadth of the shoulders, the girth of the biceps, the hard, steely glint in the clear blue eyes, and learn, maybe, what it was that the boy had seen in him. Then fall asleep, hugging the knowledge to himself like a comforting old toy that had been lost for years and was suddenly found again.
Girlish giggles rained down on Elgar; giggles at his expense, no doubt. The place sounded like a witches’ dormitory at midnight.
Elgar restrained a last strong urge to charge upstairs, enraged sacred white bull, with the news of who was going to be the boss around here. News of whose house it was, after all.
No, he told himself as he strode outside, he would maintain manly silence. Hereafter he would be contained, and a gentleman. Firm. And when things began to happen around here, as they surely would starting tomorrow, he would stand aside nobly and let them think they had done it themselves.
5
Aliquid, cooling breeze kissed Elgar awake from his sound sleep in tumbled, soiled sheets. The first morning of September. End of summer’s slumming. Away with languors and odors. Up then, and singing, even though the singing be hopelessly off key.
Elgar obeyed, leaping into the shower with several appalling bars of:
H,
A,
Double r-a,
G-i-n spells Harrigan.
—Or does it? he wondered as he toweled briskly.
Proud of all the Scottish blood that’s in me,
Divil nor man can say a word agin me.
To a tune strangely resembling “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Mothaw tried to make me musical. Lord, how she tried. An effort of a massiveness equaled only by her monumental failure.
Out again, scrubbed and shining, to select a tie. Wrinkling the fine, sensitive, aristocratic nose against yon paper bag with aromatic contents, waiting patiently by the door. Remembering to give thanks for small favors, such as one remaining clean set of underwear.
He put on his brightest blue tie, to stabilize his sea-change eyes. His eyes, like everything about Elgar, were fluid, desperately in need of anchors. He preferred them sky-blue for happiness, though wore green ties on mean days, gray ones on hopelessly bleak days.
On the dresser beside the tie clip (stainless steel, fifty-nine cents, Mothaw’s gold gift—one long lost) lay the four rent books, unopened and uninscribed except for the four hopeful names on their covers.
This was the day he meant to write in each of them, Received of for one month’s rent payable in advance the sum of, and his signature. (And show good cause, Mr. Copee, why it should not be written in your blood.) On second thought, a green tie might be the best choice.
Rent books and trusty Waterman tucked in breast pocket, Elgar swung out into the street and across to the air-conditioned igloo where he breakfasted. The D-R’s chilly interior featured a white formica counter, booths and stools with white plastic cushions, all surfaces frosty-painted and disinfected. And Lanie, capably poised behind the counter in uniform like a tall Supervisor of Nurses.
Might as well let her know immediately that the patient had recovered. “Scramble two light,” he said. “Extra cream in the coffee.”
Her eyelids, with lavender circles above and below, parted wanly. That must have been some all-night songfest and gabfest. “Don’t you want toast, Elgar?”
“No. Watching the old waistline,” he said, and patted his iron middle.
Not one to give up easily, Lanie slammed a large orange juice down in front of him. “What was the big fat idea, running out on me last night?”
Sipping, he said, “Oh, you seemed to be having fun. I’m no music lover. Besides, I had to get up early this morning.”
“Projects?”
“The project. On Poplar Street.”
“Oh. In that case you’d better have some brandy in the coffee,” Lanie prescribed gravely, and reached under the counter for the giant battered mail-pouch she called a handbag. Inside he knew was a cunning little flask, dark-blue glass and filigree silver.
He held up a warning hand. “No, thanks. Fortification will not be necessary.”
“Whatever you say, Elgar.” As she drew his coffee, steam from the urn flushed her cheeks prettily. “What’s holding up those scrambled eggs
