Man from Algiers

The Man from Algiers was published as County Line in 1982 or 83 in Three Sisters literary magazine out of Georgetown University. Stupidly I gave all my complimentary copies away to friends. A surviving manuscript is missing final pages. So this is a re-write with an original ending.



        Willie Riggs was leaning like a blond Narcissus againt the blue mirror finish of his swamp-crawler Ford. He drank the last of his gone-warm beer and flattened the can into the sand. It was ten o'clock on a slow autumn night and he and a circle of friends were shooting the breeze behind the Red Rooster lounge on Highway 27.
        Some out-of-town salesman interjected a piece of narrative comedy and Riggs inwardly groaned.
        "There was a Puerto Rican, a Cuban and a Jew and they all jumped off the Empire State Building at the same time--"
        To cover his discomfort Riggs drew a slim jay from his snap-down shirt pocket and fired it up for general distribution.
        "--so who hit first?"
        Someone coughed. "Who cares?"
        Riggs saw his darling crooking her finger at him from the rear door of the lounge, so he sauntered toward her with a toothy grin eating his face. He heard the salesman deliver a punchline and then the obligatory guffaws. His Justin boots clomped onto the boards of the rear deck.
        "Hey, there--"
        "Willie Riggs, what are you doing? Prodding around like a dirty old bull."
        They kissed and went inside.
        The juke was playing Tom T. Hall's song about building whiskey castles.
        "Jane, bring that cowboy of yours over here!" shouted the bartender. He was a stocky bald man with a tremendous brown beard. Checkered flannel shirt, western cut. A huge Copenhagen belt buckle was lodged beneath his belly.
        "Hi, Prescott. Let me buy you a beer."
        "Cowboy, you're too poor to do that."
        "Hell I am!"
        Prescott pulled his beard and winked at Jane. "What you got in the fridge at home?"
        "Cold cat pebbles."
        "You win, Cowboy. Thanks for the beer."
        The corners of Rigg's face crinkled and he said, "You're welcome, Prescott."
        He snaked an arm around Jane and pressed his hand into her belly. In her ear he said, "Love you."
        "Liar."
        "Not always."
        "Mmm. Love you too."
        Prescott winked at the two of them and went to the bin where the booze was stored in glittering parade formation. He took down a bottle of Austin Nichols for Jane and drew tall draughts for himself and Riggs.
        Riggs looked around and noticed a few new things. One of them was a poster he resented. It showed GIs raising the flag Iwo Jima style and jamming the staff into the rectum of the Ayatolla's Suribachi ass.
        "Prescott, is that your idea of humor?"
        "What?"
        "That!"
        "Damn straight it is!"
        "That kind of thinking won't solve anything."
        Prescott frowned, contemplating.  "Sorry, Cowboy."
        The men sipped their beers in silence.  Ignored, Jane turned from them and attacked the juke with a fistful of quarters. She unbuttoned her trim blouse to display compressed cleavage, and shook free her auburn curls. She selected a hard series of kicker classics, skipping Elvis Costello and Dire Straits.  Dolly, Tanya, Waylon and Merle.
        "Punch our song, Darling!" Riggs called.
        Jane turned toward him and slammed her denim buttocks against the juke. Oh, that irked her for some reason. She thought: sticking out my tongue would be too girlish. Giving him the finger would give him an excuse to call me a bitch. Dammit! I'll just sashay up to him with a song!
         "You don't have to call me darling, Darling--"
         She wrapped her arms around Riggs and hauled him away from the rail.
         "Jane?"
         "It's all right. Come on. Let's dance."


                                                                               *


        Into the middle of their intimate two-step the juke dropped a bomb.
        The Bee Gees.
        Riggs grinned sheepishly as Jane swung away from him and began a clogger's improvisation of disco. She mocked his lethargy. "I  didn't punch that song. Honest!"
        "Must be Prescott's mischief then."
        Riggs glanced toward the bar where Prescott was removing his poster from the wall.
        "Well, look at that. Prescott's honoring my wishes."
        "He's a good man. You shouldn't have braced him. He told me the VFW boys gave him that poster. They ordered it from Hustler magazine."
        "Crock."
        "Maybe the Vietnam Vets then."
        "Fuck that shit."
        Ice was forming upon their conversation.
        Riggs was relieved to hear a particular Mo Bandy song. It sounded like Hank Williams: "Take me back to yesterday once more--"
        He marshalled Jane and felt her firm buttocks move like magic beneath his wooden hands. She broke from his embrace and clicked-clacked toward the bar.
        Riggs was left on the empty dance floor with nothing to do but to rearrange his hard penis.
        Jane felt light-headed. She heard herself tell Prescott to stop removing the Ayatolla.
        Prescott heard Jane yammering.  He saw Riggs. The cowboy seemed to be absently counting the nailheads in the dance floor.
        Riggs was thinking he should buy a six-pack from the Junior Mart and visit Sue Ann.
        Sue Ann.
        Sue Ann!
        Sue Ann had astounding breasts and people said she resembled Dolly Parton.
        To her dismay Jane witnessed Riggs walk out of the Red Rooster lounge and into the cooling night.
        "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."
        Prescott noticed Jane's mounting alarm. He knew from knowing her for five years that her basic fear was of being left alone by someone.
        Jane downshifted into a blue mood.  "Prescott! Gimmee a double!"
        "Never mind the Wild Turkey, Jane. Go after him!"
        "Hell you say! Just do your job and pour me a drink."
        "Sure--"
        "Men don't listen to a thing I say and you're no damned different."
        Prescott lost his patience. He banged the bottle down and  then sloshed an unmeasured round into her Texas Tumbler. He plunked in an ice cube. Its splash surprised him.
        Jane felt threatened.
        Everywhere men were cruel and superficial and--and--
        Prescott was saying, "SORRY, Jane. Sorry."
        "No, you're not. Just go away."
        As the booze wrapped warm hands around her brain, Jane embarked upon that familiar voyage into self-pity.


                                                                                                 *


        Sue Ann was watching the third installment of "Shogun" when she heard the flat thunder of Riggs' huge truck. Having abandoned the washboard red clay road, the machine prowled through the pine forest and sped across the great meadow, coming at last to her acre of land. The truck remounted the road and halted at her bone-white picket gate. High beams flooded her living room. She killed the TV and lumbered up from her Lazy-Boy, her bosom swinging to and fro. She arched her back, listening to her retrievers, Missy and Gad-about, barking their stupid hellos.
        "Hey, you dogs--" Riggs sounded drunk.
        Drawing tight her terry kimono, Sue Ann smiled, admitting that Riggs would be better company than Richard Chamberlain on TV. He would want to drink her Southern Comfort and fuck. He would listen to anything she had to say. And she could finally tell someone about the horror of breast cancer.
         I want a man's opinion. I want to hear what he has to say.
        She hailed her dogs. "You let Willie-Boy alone!"
        "Yeah, dogs. It's me! Willlie-Boy!"
        Sue Ann stood on the porch, commanding him. "Hey, hard case. If you must take a leak, then be so nice as to come inside."
        "Inside?"
        "Yes. I have all the facilities."
        "I was only admiring the moonlight upon your meadows."
        "My meadows?"
        "Come on. Let me into one of your facilities."


                                                                                            *


        Prescott lit a Camel and settled into the swivel chair behind the cash register and fiddled with a cardboard advertisement for Stroh's. He liked Jane, but after an eternity of doing business with drunks he knew when to leave her alone.
        Maybe it's best she doesn't run after Riggs, he thought. They would have had a row. Could even break things off permanently. Now all she will do is drink herself cross-eyed and start crying over some bullshit thing.
        There was a break in the steady stream of people from the parking lot.
        Prescott finished his smoke.
        Jane pouted. "Press-Baby. Another double!"
        He told himself to simply pour her the drink and refrain from giving her unsolicited advice.
        While serving he thought to ask: "How're you doing, Jane?"
        Resentment burned in ugly bands across her face.
        Prescott sighed. "I think you misunderstood me."
        "Uh-huh. Yeah."
        "All I meant was easy conversation. Have you found a job? You know I care about you."
        "I don't want to talk about it. And I don't want to talk to you. Here's my money. Leave me alone."
        Jane's voice fluttered around the room like a wounded bird. Prescott shook his head and returned to his chair. He was genuinely pleased when the front door opened for a customer.
        It was someone new, but vaguely familiar. A swarthy man in sharpest black.  Three piece HS&M. His skin was purple beneath the tricky lights, and his shirt collar was sharp and white.
        "Yesser, what'll it be?"
        "The best martini in the South. Skip the lighter-fluid."
        "Coming up. Learned my trade on Toulouse Street."
        "Good to hear. Good to hear."  A melody in his words. "N'Awlins, eh? Just got in from Algiers myself."
         The swarthy face split into a smile, its edge as friendly as a crescent moon. It asked: "Could you tell me my how I might find my ex-wife? No hassle, understand? Works for you. Name's Sue Ann."


                                                                                *


        Lost in reverie, Jane chewed her swizzle stick. She was angry. Not because her lover was an insensitive lout, but because he had departed so quickly after being rebuffed. She wanted him with her now, to do with him as she pleased. She would have given him all the sugar he wanted. All in good time.
        "Pressy! Another!"
        Three sheets to the wind.
        Jane found herself addressing a bartender without facial color. White as the proverbial ghost.
        "God, Prescott. Are you all right?"
        "I was going to asky you the same thing."
        "Well, you look like somebody just shot J.R. Ewing."
        Prescott chuckled. "See that fellow over there?"
        "Um. Yeah?"
        "That, my friend, is Sue Ann's ex."
        "The one who--
        "Who pounded that fool into raw hamburger few years back."
        "Walter Reardon was no fool."
        "He was seeing Sue Ann."
        "Sue Ann told me he was a cigarette vendor who hung around after loading the machine."
        "Yeah, well, I think he was a fool."
        "Oh, Pressy, leave the gossip to me. Will you?"
        Jane ventured a sidelong scrutiny of  Sue Ann's ex. Slab-chested, athletic and well-maintained, with the agility of a prize-fighter.
         Just look at those spiffy clothes!


                                                                                            *


        A full moon crept over the great meadow and gained slanted entry into Sue Ann's bedroom through stilled lace curtains. Willie Riggs could not keep his mouth from the most sought-after breasts in the county. Sue Ann moaned as his tongue darted around her sand-dollar areole and swabbed her nipples. His spent penis remained within her. He delighted in the way she held it, kneading it as if it were a joint of white dough.
        "Hon, oh, hon, oh, hon," was the cowboy's refrain.
        Sue Ann's own moaning was far from the theatrics of past fucks.  Her mind spun like a bottle kicked across some bleak tarmac.
        Cancer. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.


                                                                                      *


        The juke fell silent, but Jane continued to croon into her drink. "Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Ooo-ooo-oh."
        "Hi."
        "I beg your pardon."
        "May I talk with you?"
        "Sit right there, big grown-up man."
        "Name's Martin."
        "Martin Carcosa."
        "You know me?"
        "Know of you."
        "The bartender said you might help me."
        "Oh?"
        "I'm trying to find a friend of yours. Sue Ann Breedlove."
        "Yeah?"
        "I have this letter from her."
        "Mmm?"
        "Here." He unfolds it and presses it upon the bar.
        "Did you show this to Prescott?"
        "No. It's something you should read."
        "Me?"
        "Yes. Because, because you're a woman."
        "You're fucking wierd."
        "Please."


        Dear Martin,
                The doctor's report scares me to death. My breasts may have to come off. I don't know
        where to turn. Even God won't help me. All is forgiven.
                                                                                                                                          Sue Ann


        "That's it?"
        "You haven't the faintest idea."
        "Sorry."
        "Look. This address is old.  Tell me where she is now."
        "Not sure I want to."
        "You're not sure of anything."
        "Just fuck off!"
        "Cunt!"
        "Let go! Let, let go my arm!"
        Prescott did not see all of it. But what he did see caused him to freeze-up with like a blown V-8. Martin Carcosa was squeezing Jane's arm and she was shouting. Then he released her with a snarl. He raised the most fearsome fist Prescott had ever seen. The knuckles were as large as riverbed nuggets, and Carcosa whirled his entire frame and spiked that fist into the wall. The panelling split. Carcosa withdrew his fist unhurt and hurled himself like a tornado from the bar.
        Prescott stammered, "Jane? Are you all right. Hey!"


                                                                                       *


        The cool air ignited his lungs. Having left by way of the rear door, he encountered people partying in the parking lot. Someone complained after being jostled: "Hey, mister! Watch it!"
        "Watch yourself." Not breaking a stride.
        "Let the Gypsy go," a voice twanged like a taut wire. "He spoiling for a fight."
        Carcosa quickened his pace and veered toward the front of the building. His Toyota was locked and he ripped a stitch in his hip pocket while digging for his keys.
        That first voice had followed him. "Hey, mister!"
        Someone grasped his shoulder.
        He exhaled. Without turning, he asked, "You a cop?"
        "No--"
        "Then you better unhand me. Sure as hell."
        The grasp slid away.
        He climbed into his car and shut the door. He gravel-popped onto Highway 27 and cursed himself for being a fool.


                                                                                  *


        Jane had lost consciousness. Too much booze and terror had taken their toll within her sloppy brain. Her little chin struck the cushioned edge of the bartop and her saucy hip knocked over the barstool. She hit the floor with a loud Bop!  Prescott watched her disappear from view and heard the thump of her skull on the hard floor. When he reached her he saw worming rivulets of blood beneath her auburn curls. Afraid to touch her, he dialed for paramedics and deputies.
         "Dammit, yes! He's a kung-fu maniac!"


                                                                                *


        The Pines Motel had a red neon sign, a flagstone patio and rusted shell-shaped chairs that could be seen from the highway. Its pink stucco walls were hidden by azalea. The only outside light was a garish illumination suspended above the phone booth and soda machines.
        Martin Carcosa wrenched his Toyota onto the broken macadam drive and halted beside the gloomy office.
        He pressed the buzzer. Inside someone stumbled  into furniture and switched on a table lamp. Through the window Carcosa watched a paunchy man with crewcut gray hair approach him, wearing a tee-shirt and boxer shorts.
        "What is it?  What is it?"
        "Open up. I want a room."
        "Eh. Just a minute."
        Light spilled upon the flagstones as the man opened his door. Carcosa detected the reek of whiskey sweat.
        "Uh."
        "Raymond, how're you doing?"
        "Uh."
        "You are going to rent me a room."
        "Wha?"
        "Hope you don't have any dead people laying around."
        "Yeah. I mean no."
        "Just kidding."
        "Hey! I know you."
        "Sure you do. Remember me and Sue Ann Breedlove?"
        "Sue Ann. Why yeah."
        "Thought you would. Look, I need a room."
        "I aint even got my trousers on."
         "I should smile. You don't."
        "Let me look at you."
        "I'm Martin Carcosa."
        "Well, Sir. I got me a gold buyer in seven. I can give you eight. It's next to me and has heat."
        "That's swell. How about a drink?"
        "Nah. Nah. Appreciate it. But, nah."
        From his car Carcosa procured a fifth of I.W. Harper. To Raymond he said, "What do you mean, no?"
        Raymond rubbed his paunch and smiled the smile of a lonely man surprised by the advent of company. He drank with his guest and then said, "I'll be getting your room ready."
        Blue lights suddenly flickered through the blinds.
        They flickered on the fake mahogany wall with its framed lithograph of airborne mallards.
        "What the hell?"
        "Obviously the cops."
        "You done something?"
        "Kind of," Carcosa replied.  He opened his billfold. "Nothing I can't take care of."


                                                                                  *


        Through a brace of pines the sun ebbed like warm butter. Pervading the crisp cloudless morning was an oppressive stink from the cellulouse mill ten miles upwind. Blue jays began their haggling.
        Willie Riggs snored into Sue Ann's armpit. She was awake and his breath tickled her, but no laughter was possible. He had given her a gob of semen.
        Br-r-r-ring!
        The phone added a calamity she welcomed. And she was off and jiggling down the hall. She picked up the receiver, entering the crackle of on-going conversation. Then: "Sue Ann, are you there?"
        The voice startled her. It was Martin Carcosa and he sounded vexxed.
        "Martin?"
        "I've been arrested."
        "What's going on?"
        "They say I created a scene at the Red Rooster. Scared some people. And some damned woman is in the hospital."
        "Martin!"
        "I was only asking her how to find you!"
        "Who is in the hospital?"
        "Name is Jane Davis."
        "Oh, my God."
        "Drunk. Passed out. She fell of her barstool and cracked her head. The bartender swears I hit her."



                                                                             *


        The gold buyer in seven tapped his white gold wedding ring  upon the office door and shouted loud enough for everyone at the Pines Motel to hear him. "Get up in there!"
        Raymond opened his door. Hank Junior tee-shirt and blue checkered boxers. "What the flaming fuck do you want this early on a Sunday morning?"
        "It's not Sunday! It's Monday!"
        "What's the problem?"
        The gold-buyer was a sandy-haired guy far too old for his mod moptop. His sunburnt neck bulged above his collar and tie. His azure summer suit made him look like a cherub from the Moral Majority. Cerulian eyes, moist with faith in Christ.
        "This dump is bad for my business."
        Raymond stifled a laugh. "How's that so?"
       "It attracts nothing but riff-raff."
       "I could NOT agree with you more."
       "I paid you for a month. I'm checking out. You owe me a refund. Two days."
       "I don't owe you a fucking thing."
       Wiping away spittle with the back of his hand, the gold-buyer screamed. "I don't believe this!"
       Raymond began to doubt the business acumen of the gentleman.
       "Look, mister. I've been a nice guy. Now, you may have figured me for stupid. But I'm a nice guy."
       "What are you driving at?"
       "Well, look. You may think I don't know about that floozie you've been keeping in your room. Linda Ruiz. Migrant-worker whore--"
        "I have done God's work. She has been born again into my personal ministry."
        "Do tell? You two take a shower together?"
        The gold-buyer knitted his eye-brows. Raymond offered bait. "Look, I like having your trade in my motel. Tell me, what's REALLY bothering you?"
        "Well--"
        "C'mon. You've been a real flash in the pan here." Carny-smile.
        "It's the cops."
        "Cops make you nervous? Aintcha honest?"
        "Legal as can be."
        Raymond stifled a guffaw.
        "I aint innerested in yer busness. Cops don't give a tin whistle either."
        "Do they come here often? Like the other night?"
        "Freak occurence. HEY? Whaddyathink? This is a highway motel. Climb down!"
        "Yeah OK."
        "Come in and have a friendly drink. That guy they arrested left behind some nice straight Kentucky."
         "Just one."
         "Just one." 
         Livid in his memory: helping the dark Spanish woman with tanglewood hair from the bed just in time. She muttered something about her children; then sat spread-assed on the floor and, with a profound sob, released a stream of urine. The Quaaludes and beer had been shockingly effective.
         Pouring drinks, Raymond smirked. "So, how is Linda Ruiz in the sack? Hot tamale, eh?"


                                                                                     *


        Sucking a lemon drop, the hospital admissions clerk sat with brown suede boots upon his supervisor's desk and watched the clock, a huge and noisy device that dominated the far wall.
        Twenty minutes to go.
        Then his supervisor, luscious Mary Beth Hendry, would return from dinner-break. Or, more exactly, shared moments with that Jew Boy radiologist from Miami. God! He hated Jews!
         Suddenly his office door banged open and Sue Ann Breedlove stormed in with a fury he had never seen in her.
         "Tell me Jane Davis' room number!"
         "Uh. Three Ten."
          She found Jane alert, sipping Coke and watching TV.
          "Jane, dammit! What's this shit about Martin beaating you up?"
          "Don't know what you're talking about. He only squeezed my arm."
          "I'll have the cops come for your statement."
          "Why? Oh, I hate cops!"
          "Because you were out cold when you were brought in, my friend."



                                                                                 *



        old manuscript ends here.   


                                                                                         *


                Breakfast for Martin Carcosa at the county jail had been from MacDonalds. Scrambled eggs and hashbrowns. Coffee with four jots of creamer. His belly rumbled like a Jamaican steel drum.
                A sandpaper voice: "Hey, Bruce Lee! Be nice to the lady. She just sprung you."
                Holy Mother of God! There she stood. Sue Ann. In a white Swiss blouse and faded blue jeans. Her smiling face fresh as a morning glory.
                "Martin?"
                "Yes, ma'am!"
                The hick screw swung open the door and withdrew completely.
                Carcosa had half risen from his cot when she embraced him, feeling the anxcious muscles of his upper back and shoulders move like mercury. He embedded a tremendous kiss to her mouth. Years fell away and  again they were lovers  wriggling within the donut hole of an inner-tube floating down the chilly Ichetucknee! People floated by in tubes of their own, unmindful of Martin's laughter and Sue Ann's squealing during fellatio.


(more to come)