Fever Winds in the Alley

          The lights dimmed and the curtain rose. Suspended in blue was the bedroom, and through the gauze I could see the sparkling glass animals. They were arranged upon a low table. Somewhere was the unicorn, yet unbroken. I settled in my seat, and my own memory play began.


          It all came back: the suppertime smell of spuds frying, sugar cubes and lemonade, a fistful of pidgeon seed thrown in the park, the gold-tooth grin of the old shortstop who hawked racing forms on the corner, the milk cold and creamy in moist bottles being delivered to our landing on the fire-escape, and, oh sweet Jesus yes, Sammy Marcucci's jazz, blowing hotly from across the alley.
          One evening Sammy leaned out of his window and called to me. I could see him from my position at the kitchen table. For a moment it seemed as if his dark head had become part of that violet space between our buildings. Then a window opened above him and a shaft of golden light beamed down from that roaring tinsel heaven two flights up. This magical light made the sweat on his face glisten. His teeth flashed white.
          "Hey, swinger. Whatcha doing?"
          I had been writing. Though it appeared that all hopes of continuing were dashed for the night, I leaned back in my chair and toyed with the idea of ignoring him. No damn way.
          "What's that, swinger? A diary? I wonder what kind of hot stuff you dream up to put in it. Hah hah hah!"
          "None of your business," I replied testily. "Say, Sammy. Why don't you lean further out and maybe take a swan dive."
          He let out a slow whistle. "Man, I'd sure hate to pancake down there!"
          Suddenly there was a loud banging outside my window and then the sounds of hard scuffling  in the alley below.
          "What's going on?"
          "Oh, somebody is getting his head knocked."
          Garbage cans were being upended and slammed against the brick wall. I heard the sound of flesh and bone yielding to quarter-inch pipe. Someone moaned. Then came the sound of scurrying Keds. By the time I reached the window all there was to see was a black kid slumped against the wall and holding his ear.
          "How many were there?" I asked.
          "Don't know, but he sure as hell was outnumbered."
          A moment later I detected a shadowy form sprawled behind three cans. The kid with the gashed ear picked up his length of pipe and slipped away.
          For a while Sammy and I gazed down at the silent battlefield. Neither of us said much. Then from that place above us there came a chorus of "heys" and, rolling down in trumpet-like ripples, the hearty laughter of Doris the Archangel reminded us that her never-ending party was in full swing.
         I pointed up toward the action and teased, "Sammy, why don't you crash that party? That's where the real swingers play."
          "No kidding."


                                                                                   *


          The story I was writing was titled "Dead Cat Alley."


          The wild ju-ju woman stroked her violin. Her black Creole hair, spun into a hot tangle, shone sort of blue-ish beneath the glare of a naked bulb. She was looking absently down the hall from which you could ease out of situations, obligations, and the building itself.
          You exited into Dead Cat Alley, a pathway to that Fresh Start, moonlight permitting. When you enter the alley you cannot tell exactly what lies at its end. But once you have taken your first naive steps into the gloom, things ahead look promising.
          Dead Cat is not paved. It simply leads you to the back door of the Inferno Bar, and situations.
          The Witch was communicating. Her violin sobbed ancient laments that bore traces of Spain, Morocco and the Louisianna bayou. Our eyes would not meet.
          Leave, she said. Leave this place.
          Dante brought me a drink. On the house. I poured water, and the green poison turned white. I braced it with vermouth. By now my breath was bad, with a mad perfume of anis and blended Columbian. The drink was harsh, very harsh. A mudslide toward oblivian.
          Dante put a finger on my knee. He bent close and whispered: "Her man, The Skinner, is looking for her, I hear--"
          "So?"
          He straightened up. Stiffly: "So, Padre. It means nothing."
          The Skinner had cut off one of Dante's fingers, to get, it is told, a ring. So goes the myth. Truth is, The Skinner and The Witch desired the finger to work magic. Thus Dante ended up in a Spell Box.
          The thing that was Dante now laughed nervously and walked away. In the light his black curls shone damp with oil and sweat. Momentarily he and The Witch shared the same smokey cone of light. Then he passed on.
          The Creole woman paused in her playing and put down the violin. She took a seat at a nearby table. Our eyes finally met.
         "Hello, Padre."
         "Hello, Maria."
          She chuckled and said, "Crazy man, you know that tonight it the worst night for this."
          "I wanted to see you."
          Then with her best bedrom smile she said, "This is a public place."


          I called to Sammy. "Hey, are you going out?"
          "Going right now."
          "Mind if I tag along?"
          "No, swinger. Not tonight."
          His head zipped back into that amber world of whiskey, jazz and prophylactics. He drew down his paper shade and that was all there was to Sammy Marcucci.