Cooking with tripe

It was late on a Saturday night in August and I wanted to drink and I wanted to fuck, but I only had money for one. Which was it to be? Scotch and a hand-job? A fuck and a thirst? No half measures tonight. I put on my shoes and went out to see what there was.

Mrs Pandolfo opened her door as I went down the stairs. She must have been waiting there all day. House coat on and her hair up, arms folded, red-painted toe nails like lines of cherries. Shame about the bunions. It was always bunions that did it for me. My first wife had them - big raw knuckle-bones - dug them into my back when she came. Otherwise, Mrs Pandolfo looked okay for a woman of 55. Christ knows what she'd be like when she got there. She took out a cigarette and tapped it on the side of the pack.

"How you been, Mr Krauss?"

"Okay."

"Ain't seen you too much."

"I've been sick."

She lit the cigarette. "Thought you said you'd been okay?"

"I'm better now."

"Good." She blew smoke through her nostrils. Behind her, I could see laundry hanging on the picture rail, underwear that didn't look too clean. An orange lamp. Music playing on a cheap radio. Cooking smells.

"Any idea when I might get some rent?"

I hunched my hands in my coat pockets.
"Soon as I get my check from the magazine, I promise. It should be here Monday."

She raised her eyebrow.

"Do these publishers work weekends?"

"Tuesday at the latest," I said. "The story's in. I've seen it. I'll get a copy and show you."

She pushed out a cheek with her tongue.

"Tuesday," she said. "Plus ten per-cent."

"Sure," I said.

She looked me up and down.

"It's late. Where you going at this time?"

"I need some air," I said. "Help my recovery."

She tossed her head, then stepped back in.

"Mrs Pandolfo?"

She looked out at me.

"Can you spare one of those smokes, please?"

She still looked out at me.

"Tuesday," she said. Then she closed the door.

The streets were damp and warm. I looked in at one bar. Maybe a dozen people, alone with their drinks. The barman gave me the eye, like he knew me from someplace else. He looked like he might ask me. I backed out and carried on along. There was no one about. The cabs had all gone. The girls had all tabbed. At a night mart, I picked up two bottles of whisky, a case of beer and a pack of Kools. I asked for a copy of the magazine - the one with my story. They didn't stock it. The clerk put two carriers together, one inside the other, for the beer. I put the bottles in the inside pockets of my jacket. I handed over my cash and popped a smoke.

"Have a good evening, sir," said the clerk. He had a smirk on him I could have wiped.

"Shame you're on duty. With a mouth like that, you could have helped me."

If he answered, I didn't hear him. I hurried back along the streets, the bottles hitting against my ribs. I stopped by a bus stand, took one out, took off the top and filled my mouth. It took the scum off my teeth. Things came back into focus. I carried on home.

I'd just reached the turn on the stairs when her door opened again. Orange light wedging out. She never stopped waiting.

"You brought some of that air back with you, I see."

I smiled. I know it looked feeble. It always did.

"I thought you didn't have any money."

"My tab's good."

She laughed smoke.

"Well, I hope you don't plan on settling it before your rent."

She opened the door a crack wider. She still had her house coat on, but looser. I could see the dimples at the top of her chest. She wasn't that well put together, but the bits were all there. I went up half a step. One of the bottles clanked against my key.

"How about sharing some of that drink. On account."

I wasn't getting past this.

"Sure."

I stepped over and handed her the opened bottle. She took it and moved away from the door, inside. The belt of the house coat trailed as she went.

"I prefer to use a glass," she said. "More lady-like."

She opened a cupboard and reached up inside. The coat came loose from her shoulders, but held. On the floor, just inside the door, like a couple of curled-up puppies, sat her mis-shapen shoes. She took down two glasses.

"Why don't you sit and tell me about your story," she said.

In this way, the evening was settled.