Read Online The Corpse Without a Country by Louis Trimble - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis Trimble
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earlier. But she wasn’t looking soppy-eyed at me now. We weren’t in an elevator. Or maybe the difference was the stocky character in a sweatshirt next to her.
He had pale blonde curly hair and rugged chopped features that reminded me of a punchy fighter I’d once known. He was willing to look at me even if Emily wasn’t. He had a terrific scowl.
A chair scraped back and a tall character wearing a blouselike shirt with a black ascot tie and loose-cut Dutch trousers stood up. He looked big through the chest and hips and wore his hair roached.
“Two coffees?”
I said, “Black,” as if we hadn’t had to pass inspection before getting service.
He moved away. As he passed close to a lighted candle, his torso was momentarily in silhouette. I saw that I’d made a mistake. Under the loose blouse, “he” was definitely she.
I said to Jodi, “Which one is that?”
She frowned warningly at me. “Willie. She’s the proprietress.”
“
She
is!” I said in a mincing voice. The man behind Emily deepened his scowl. I said, leaning toward him, “Are you Trillian?”
“It’s your quarter, Dad.”
I said, “Let’s talk grown-up talk.”
His voice was flat, without intonation. “What’d you come here for?”
“I came to see the exhibit,” I said.
I could have meant the art exhibit. Only I didn’t, and he knew it. He came up out of his chair. I hauled myself to my feet. The top of his head was level with the muscle jumping in my cheek. His bulk pulled against the seams of his sweatshirt when he moved his arms. He moved them very fast. His left caught me under the breastbone and his right chopped the side of my jaw.
I took the left but managed to backpedal away from the full power of the right. He came at me, light on his feet like a boxer. I decided that I had the wrong slant on poets. This character was fast and he hit hard.
I swung a left of my own. He sneered and leaned away from it. He lifted a foot and brought it down on my instep. I blew out a yowl of pain.
He stepped up to me, rough-knuckled fists ready to use on my face. I couldn’t shake the pain in my foot long enough to do anything about him. I thought, Durham is going to get chopped up by a dulcimer player.
He started his swing. Then his mouth came open. His complexion went a faint green. He doubled over like a man with a sudden cramp. The back of his neck was there, waiting for me. I hooked my hands into one big fist and smashed it down where his neck and hairline fit into his sweatshirt. The sound of his face kissing the black cement floor was dulcimer music to my ears.
Jodi regarded the toe of her shoe that had just buried itself in his groin. She said admiringly, “Nice teamwork.” She was Arne’s daughter, all right.
Seeing her boy friend writhing on the floor apparently brought Emily to life. She forgot that as a beatnik she was supposed to be indifferent to everything, and she backslid. She came out of her chair and hurled a husky one hundred and forty pounds at Jodi.
I thought she would smother Jodi, who wouldn’t weigh one-ten in a diver’s lead shoes. But Arne hadn’t raised his daughter to be a patsy. Jodi disappeared, and then Emily’s bulk was in the air, lifted by leverage and its own momentum. Emily came down on a tabletop on her back, arms and legs spread. The table gave up and flattened itself.
Emily lifted her head and began to cry. Ridley Trillian hoisted himself up and staggered to his chair and sat down, leaving her to her blubbering. She finally got herself to her feet and joined him.
Willie came and set down our coffee. The other ghouls sat and looked indifferent, just the way the rule book said they should.
Willie said, “Four bits and two cents tax.”
I paid. Jodi lit two cigarettes and passed me one. It tasted of her lipstick. I liked the flavor. I sipped my coffee. It was in a thick mug. I was hoping Ridley would try another move. I wanted to heave the cup at him.
But he wasn’t going to move
He had pale blonde curly hair and rugged chopped features that reminded me of a punchy fighter I’d once known. He was willing to look at me even if Emily wasn’t. He had a terrific scowl.
A chair scraped back and a tall character wearing a blouselike shirt with a black ascot tie and loose-cut Dutch trousers stood up. He looked big through the chest and hips and wore his hair roached.
“Two coffees?”
I said, “Black,” as if we hadn’t had to pass inspection before getting service.
He moved away. As he passed close to a lighted candle, his torso was momentarily in silhouette. I saw that I’d made a mistake. Under the loose blouse, “he” was definitely she.
I said to Jodi, “Which one is that?”
She frowned warningly at me. “Willie. She’s the proprietress.”
“
She
is!” I said in a mincing voice. The man behind Emily deepened his scowl. I said, leaning toward him, “Are you Trillian?”
“It’s your quarter, Dad.”
I said, “Let’s talk grown-up talk.”
His voice was flat, without intonation. “What’d you come here for?”
“I came to see the exhibit,” I said.
I could have meant the art exhibit. Only I didn’t, and he knew it. He came up out of his chair. I hauled myself to my feet. The top of his head was level with the muscle jumping in my cheek. His bulk pulled against the seams of his sweatshirt when he moved his arms. He moved them very fast. His left caught me under the breastbone and his right chopped the side of my jaw.
I took the left but managed to backpedal away from the full power of the right. He came at me, light on his feet like a boxer. I decided that I had the wrong slant on poets. This character was fast and he hit hard.
I swung a left of my own. He sneered and leaned away from it. He lifted a foot and brought it down on my instep. I blew out a yowl of pain.
He stepped up to me, rough-knuckled fists ready to use on my face. I couldn’t shake the pain in my foot long enough to do anything about him. I thought, Durham is going to get chopped up by a dulcimer player.
He started his swing. Then his mouth came open. His complexion went a faint green. He doubled over like a man with a sudden cramp. The back of his neck was there, waiting for me. I hooked my hands into one big fist and smashed it down where his neck and hairline fit into his sweatshirt. The sound of his face kissing the black cement floor was dulcimer music to my ears.
Jodi regarded the toe of her shoe that had just buried itself in his groin. She said admiringly, “Nice teamwork.” She was Arne’s daughter, all right.
Seeing her boy friend writhing on the floor apparently brought Emily to life. She forgot that as a beatnik she was supposed to be indifferent to everything, and she backslid. She came out of her chair and hurled a husky one hundred and forty pounds at Jodi.
I thought she would smother Jodi, who wouldn’t weigh one-ten in a diver’s lead shoes. But Arne hadn’t raised his daughter to be a patsy. Jodi disappeared, and then Emily’s bulk was in the air, lifted by leverage and its own momentum. Emily came down on a tabletop on her back, arms and legs spread. The table gave up and flattened itself.
Emily lifted her head and began to cry. Ridley Trillian hoisted himself up and staggered to his chair and sat down, leaving her to her blubbering. She finally got herself to her feet and joined him.
Willie came and set down our coffee. The other ghouls sat and looked indifferent, just the way the rule book said they should.
Willie said, “Four bits and two cents tax.”
I paid. Jodi lit two cigarettes and passed me one. It tasted of her lipstick. I liked the flavor. I sipped my coffee. It was in a thick mug. I was hoping Ridley would try another move. I wanted to heave the cup at him.
But he wasn’t going to move
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