Sadie When She Died полностью

“That was some war,” the bartender said. “The wars they got nowadays are bullshit wars. But World War II?” He grinned fondly and appreciatively. “That was a glorious war! You know what that word means? Glorious?”

“Yeah,” Carella said.

“Excuse me, I got a customer down the other end,” the bartender said, and walked off. Carella sipped at his beer. Through the plate-glass window facing the side street, he could see the first snowflakes beginning to fall. Great, he thought, and looked at his watch.

The bartender mixed and served the drink, and then came back. “What’d you do in the war?” he asked.

“Goof off, mostly,” Carella said, and smiled.

“No, seriously. Be serious.”

“I was in the Infantry,” Carella said.

“Who wasn’t? Did you get overseas?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Italy.”

“See any action?”

“A little,” Carella said. “Listen . . . getting back to the idea of meeting somebody . . .”

“In here, it always gets back to that.”

“There was someone I was hoping to see.”

“Who?” the bartender said.

“A girl named Sadie Collins.”

“Yeah,” the bartender said, and nodded.

“Do you know her?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you seen her around lately?”

“No. She used to come in a lot, but I ain’t seen her in months. What do you want to fool around with her for?”

“Why? What’s the matter with her?”

“You want to know something?” the bartender said. “I thought she was a hooker at first. I almost had her thrown out. The boss don’t like hookers hanging around here.”

“What made you think she was a hooker?”

“Aggressive. You know what that word means? Aggressive? She used to come dressed down to here and up to here, which is pretty far out, even compared to some of the things they’re wearing today. She was ready for action, you understand? She was selling everything she had.”

“Well, most women try to . . .”

“No, no, this wasn’t like most women, don’t give me that most women crap. She’d come in here, pick out a guy she wanted, and go after him like the world was gonna end at midnight. All business, just like a hooker, except she wasn’t charging. Knew just what she wanted, and went straight for it, bam. And I could always tell exactly who she was gonna end up with, even before she knew it herself.”

“How could you tell?”

“Always the same type.”

“What type?”

“Big guys, first of all. You wouldn’t stand a chance with her, you’re lucky she ain’t here. Not that you ain’t big, don’t misunderstand me. But Sadie liked them gigantic. You know what that word means? Gigantic? That was Sadie’s type. Gigantic and mean. All I had to do was look around the room and pick out the biggest, meanest son of a bitch in the place, and that’s who Sadie would end up with. You want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’m glad she don’t come in here anymore. She used to make me nervous. There was something about her . . . don’t know.” The bartender shook his head. “Like she was compulsive. You know what that word means? Compulsive?”

He had left Nora at the door to her apartment, where she had given him her customary handshake and her now-expected “Thank you, I had a very nice time,” and rode down in the elevator now, wondering what his next move should be. He did not believe her doctor-boyfriend existed (he seemed to be having a lot of trouble lately with girls and their goddamn doctor-boyfriends) but at the same time he accepted the fact that there was a man in her life, a flesh-and-blood person whose identity, for some bewildering reason, Nora chose not to reveal. Kling did not appreciate anonymous competition. He wondered if a blitz might not be in order, telephone call when he got back to his apartment, another call in the morning, a dozen roses, a telegram, another dozen calls, another dozen roses, the whole stupid adolescent barrage, all of it designed to convince a girl that somebody out there was madly in love with her.

He wondered if he was madly in love with her.

He decided he was not.

Then why was he expending all this energy? He recalled reading someplace that when a man and a woman got divorced, it was usually the man who remarried first. He supposed that what he had shared with Cindy was a marriage, of sorts, and the sudden termination of it . . . well, it was silly to think of it in terms of a marriage. But he supposed the end of it (and it certainly seemed to have ended) could be considered a divorce, of sorts. In which case, his frantic pursuit of Nora was merely a part of the reaction syndrome, and . . .

Damn it, he thought. Hang around with a psychologist long enough and you begin to sound like one.