The Novels of William Goldman Read online

  Heat.

  Chicago was in the midst of an August bonfire and Sid prayed for it to hold. He listened to the weather forecasts on the radio every hour on the hour. At one in the morning he first heard reports of a cold front moving down from Minnesota and that news sent him quickly toward despair. The two-o’clock news repeated chill words of the arrival, but Sid, exhausted, could not wait for further bulletins. He fell asleep, the radio still going full blast. When he awoke, groggy, he staggered to the window and said hello to Friday.

  It was a steamer.

  For the rest of the day Sid moved. Down to the Loop for a furtive transaction with Whittaker, the Negro train porter, then back north for peanuts, quickly to another store for dry potato chips, then a long bus ride west for the best tomato juice in town. When he arrived back at his apartment he forced all the windows shut and tried to nap, first going over everything one final time. The alarm woke him on schedule and, not taking time to stretch, he burrowed through his closet for his oldest suit and, with surgical care, ripped the left trouser leg along the seam. That done, he rumpled the coat, dirtied his face good, dressed, eyed himself one final time in his full-length mirror and went forth to do battle.

  “What happened to you?” Esther said, opening her apartment door, staring out.

  “I tripped.” Sid hesitated in the doorway, looking at her. She was dressed all in black; black was his favorite color.

  “What do you mean, tripped?”

  “Fell down. I fell down. See, I was a little late getting over here so I ran across the street a block back and my foot didn’t make the curb, I guess. Anyway, I skidded and ripped the pants and—”

  He stopped at her laughter.

  “I don’t think it’s so funny, Esther.”

  “You don’t, huh? You should see yourself.”

  “Esther, I might have got hurt, Esther. All right, all right, go ahead and laugh.”

  She did.

  Sid waited. “Listen, I can’t take you to dinner like this. Tell you what. I’ll go home and shower and change and get back here as fast as I can. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “An hour!”

  “Maybe a little less.”

  “I don’t much feel like waiting around, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Why don’t I come along with you?” And she went for her purse. Now why didn’t I think of that? Sid thought, and while her back was turned he allowed himself to beam.

  They taxied through the heat, Esther grousing about food and the heat and being kept waiting. When they stopped in front of his apartment house she pursed her lips with evident disdain. Sid paid, led her up the steps and into the building. “Second floor,” he said, and he mounted the stairs ahead of her, unable to ignore the strong smell of onions clouding the hall. “Italian people live next door,” Sid explained and Esther nodded. Sid took out his key, smiled at her, unlocked his apartment and ushered her in.

  “My God, it’s a steam bath.” And she retreated quickly to the hall.

  “It’ll cool off quick,” Sid said, and he plunged through the still air, throwing both windows open. “In this neighborhood, leaving your windows open isn’t so smart.”

  “That I believe.”

  “Kitchen, bathroom, living room, bedroom,” Sid said, pointing as he spoke.

  “Palatial,” she gave him.

  “Now, Esther, I never once said it was a palace.”

  “Maybe not, maybe not.”

  “And it’s clean. You got to admit that.”

  Finding no dust, she had to shrug agreement. “Still, I’ve seen better.”

  “I ain’t gonna die here, Tootsie; you better believe it.” He slipped off his suit coat and hung it in the closet.

  She wandered around the room. “Sid?”

  “Huh?”

  “You got anything to nosh on?”

  “We’re going to a good restaurant; leave your appetite alone.”

  “I asked did you have anything to nosh on.”

  “Esther—”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “All right, all right, check the cupboard.”

  “Umm,” she said a moment later. “Peanuts.”

  “Well, go easy.”

  “And potato chips.”

  “I said go easy.”

  “Peanuts I love.” She returned with a handful. “Want one?”

  “I’m not spoiling my appetite.” He took off his shirt and tie, then covered himself with his robe.

  “Modest fella.” And she returned to the cupboard for another handful of peanuts.

  Sid tied the robe and moved to the bathroom. Closing the door, he leaned against the wall opposite the mirror and looked at himself, waiting.

  “Sid?” He let her try again. “Hey, Sid.”

  He opened the door a crack. “What is it? I’m trying to take a shower.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “I don’t wonder with all those peanuts.”

  “What have you got that’s cool?”

  “Water.”

  “What else?”

  Sid opened the door. She was sitting on his couch, eating peanuts. “I got some cold tomato juice.”

  “Great. Nothing I like better.” Didn’t I know that, Sid thought. Didn’t she order it (the large glass, twice as expensive) with almost every meal he’d ever bought her?

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  “That’s all right. Take your shower.” She started to rise.

  “You’re in my house, Esther. I’m the host, O.K.?”

  “O.K.” She sat back down.

  Sid sauntered to the kitchen, but, once out of sight, he started to fly. Out came the tomato juice and the ice cubes and the biggest glass he owned (bought today special), and once they were assembled he took a deep breath before reaching far behind the stove for the secret ingredient.

  Vodka.

  It almost amused Sid, years later, when the North Shore bridge ladies discovered the stuff. “Try it,” they would urge him. “It has no taste at all.” “No taste?” he would reply, unable not to smile. “I can’t believe it.” How could they sense that he’d known about it all his life, that he had first used it (successfully) on Midgie Greenblatt when they were both seventeen, that his father had taught him of its loosening qualities, that it was Sid’s only worthwhile legacy from his old man?

  Sid poured a lot of vodka into the big glass. After came a handful of ice cubes; finally the tomato juice, sweet and cold. He gave it a quick stir with his finger, felt the glass’s exterior starting to chill, hesitated one moment more, then walked back to Esther.

  “Here,” he said. “Don’t drink it too fast.”

  She gulped it down. (She had to. He said drink it slow, so she had to.) Sid watched her, a dark creature of infinite curves, a sour, tantalizing bitch about to go into an unsuspected heat. God, but he wanted her, and the proximity of fulfillment did not make life any easier.

  “I’m a new woman,” Esther said, putting the glass down, “Was that good!”

  “You can’t taste anything when you drown yourself in it like that.”

  “Let me have a little more.”

  “Why don’t we just forget all about dinner,” Sid said, approximating annoyance.

  “I’ll eat, don’t worry; just a little more.”

  Sid grunted, took her glass and made her another drink, except with half again as much vodka. She took it from him, and as he headed for the shower he could hear her humming softly behind him.

  What a shower! Sid (no singer) sang “Great Day,” “When the Organ Played at Twilight” and “Singin’ in the Rain.” All the time the water cascaded down, dancing across his shoulders, sliding along his shapely legs to the final safety of the porcelain. When he had taken as much time as he could without arousing suspicion, he turned off the knobs, threw the robe around his shoulders, a towel around his neck and gave a quick check to his pigeon.

  She was sitting heavily agai
nst the back of the sofa, arms at her sides, eyes staring blankly out the window. Sid stood before her, waiting while she slowly turned her heavy head up to face him. He smiled at her and, wonder of wonders, she returned it. (That vodka, it’s fabulous.)

  “I won’t be much longer,” Sid said.

  She waved a hand. “Take your time, take your time.”

  Without asking, Sid picked up her glass and made her the crusher in the kitchen. Half and half (at this stage, who could taste?) and easy on the ice (dilutes). Setting the drink carefully into her hand, he nodded approvingly as she sipped steadily away.

  “Bes’ damn tomato juice,” Esther said.

  “For you, Tootsie, only the very finest.” Sid zipped back to the bathroom and dried himself good before carefully applying exotic oils to his face, imported cream to his armpits. He hummed “Five foot two, eyes of blue” as he combed his hair, getting it to lie just right. Then he brushed his teeth with Colgate’s and stepped back, eying himself, trying to be critical. He had never looked better and he knew it as he scurried to his bedroom for his only pair of genuine silk underwear. (For you, Tootsie, only the very finest.) Then, donning his blue sharkskin slacks, he hid his belt in a bureau drawer and closed in for the kill.

  “Esther?”

  “What?”

  “I leave my belt out there?”

  “I don’t see it.”

  He walked into the living room, bare-chested. He was well muscled and-she noted him with what he knew was pleasure as he approached. “Where the hell’s my belt?” He searched the room, circling closer to the couch.

  “Where did you leave it?”

  “That’s a bright question, Tootsie.”

  She thought about it a moment before commencing to laugh, her entire body going into the action, quick tears shining in her eyes, and while she was amused (no time like the present) Sid slid down beside her, grabbed her tight, pulling her against his bare chest, and, taking dead aim, went for her mouth.

  It all made for a sloppy kiss.

  Not that she resisted; rather, it was a matter of her being unable to control her lower lip. It sort of lay limp across Sid’s cheek, like a wet fish. Ye gods, he thought; have I maybe overdone? A quick glance at the table showed that the third vodka was gone. Sid stared at Esther, who could not stare back, being able only to blink in slow rhythm. Sid kissed her again and, when it ended, held her close. “Oh God,” he said carefully into her ear. “Oh God.”

  “Sid,” she came back. “Sid.”

  “Esther, I love you. Oh, I love you, believe me, Esther, I love you, do you believe me? Say you do.”

  “Sid,” she said. “Sid.”

  “Esther, my beloved,” and he started with the hands, moving tentatively along her shoulders, then down. “My darling, my darling, I love you so, oh God, Esther, I just love you.”

  “Sid,” she said. “Sid.”

  “My sweetest, dearest, beloved Esther,” and he repeated that a while as he riddled with the buttons. She didn’t resist him (or help him for that matter) but just kept saying “Sid, Sid,” over and over, and as he was well along with depriving her of her dress he felt a momentary fear that maybe she wasn’t all real; maybe cotton padding had given Mother Nature a helping hand. But the fear in no way crippled him, and when she was naked on the couch (slumped, but naked) he saw joyously that his fears were groundless. “Oh, my beautiful sweetest sweetheart,” Sid said. “You creature from my dreams, I worship you and love you.” And she kind of nodded with her eyes closed, and he knew she wasn’t paying too close attention, but he always felt sound was important in and for itself, so he talked a blue streak as he perused her shape. “Oh, oh, you Esther, my Esther, my sweet Esther, I love you, I love you,” and she nodded a little but she wasn’t doing much talking anymore. The couch was no longer required, so Sid (at heart a true romantic) started to carry her (with style) to the bedroom. “Esther, my own, my own,” and he shoved one arm under her back, which shouldn’t have tickled her, but she did manage a small laugh. “I’m taking you to dreamland, beloved,” and the other arm struggled under her dimpled knees. “We’re going now, my sweet,” Sid said. “To dreamland.”

  It took a while to get there.

  Sid lifted her halfway off the couch, but his grip on her back proved untenable and down she slumped. “Yes, my sweetheart, we’re flying off to heaven,” and he attacked her again, trying to get her off the damn couch. Finally he managed to brace his knee under her and with one final tug he had her up in his arms. Sid staggered back under his burden. “Only a moment more, dumpling, and we’ll be floating on heavenly clouds.” He banged her knees against a wall and her eyes half opened with distant pain, so he kissed them closed. “A little accident was all, my beloved; now rest up for dreamland.” He was strong enough and she wasn’t that heavy, but there was no denying that she was one hundred percent dead weight and bulky at that. “We’re at the door to dreamland, my sweet,” he said (wheezing a little now). “Heaven, here we come.” But the narrow door presented an unexpected problem in logistics and, try as he would, he could not solve it. He tried her first, him first, sideways, backward, front, but nothing came of it. His arms aching, he finally bulled his way through, scraping her knees again and banging her head for good measure. Again she came to life, but by now he was a little weary from all the talking so he didn’t bother to speak. Instead he fell forward, dumping them both on the bed. Immediately he assuaged her with tender kisses and then pulled off the bedspread (first maneuvering her to one side of the bed, then rolling her to the other), revealing sheets both cleaned and ironed. Sid stepped out of his pants, ripped off the clinging silk underwear and, sweating like a pig, leaped to his revenge.

  Sweet it wasn’t.

  Sid had to maneuver for both of them, never the Platonic ideal, but he was professional enough to manage it with reasonable success. And Esther lying like a lump was not the Esther he envisioned. But lump or no, she was still Esther, delectable as any plum. So if the battle was not an overwhelming rout, still it was a victory, clean and tasty. And when Sid deposited her at her doorstep (first filling her with several bowls of chili) he could feel the laurel wreath resting on his curly head. And that night, as he fought sleep alone in his bed (one more time—he had to go over it all just one more time), he knew he could give cards and spades to Valentino and not come out behind.

  The way Sid lingered in bed the next morning, Greta Garbo might have been there. He had no Swede, of course, nor, for the first time in his life, did he want her. He had his daydreams; he was rich enough. Said daydreams consisted of the scene he was about to play with Esther, which would begin with his saying. “So long, Tootsie,” to which, shocked, she would reply, “So long? So long? You’re leaving me?” “That I am, Tootsie.” “But my ... my maidenhead—you took it.” “Better me than the garbage man, Tootsie.” “You ... you deflowered me.” “You should feel proud, Tootsie.” “Proud? Why proud?” “Because, Tootsie, you were planted by the greatest goddam gardener in the world.”

  Luther Burbank stretched in bed. Gloating was a terrible habit, and whenever he did it (often) he felt, ordinarily, pangs. But not this morning. For Esther had been an adversary worthy of his guile (worthy? My God, for a while she looked a winner) and only genius had brought her to her knees (pun), so why should a genius feel guilty? Rising, he allowed the rug to cushion his pink feet as he journeyed to the bathroom. Inside, he gave the mirror a longer than usual look at his baby blues while he selected the proper Sid to enter Turk’s deli and bid humped Esther a fare-thee-well: Grinning Sid, Sober Sid, Modest or Brilliant Sid—there were so many, each more perfect than the last. He decided finally on Sid the Wandering cavalier. (The element of mystery was what appealed most to him; after all, who could explain Napoleon, Charlemagne, mighty Alexander?)

  He dressed with great care, combing his curly locks to perfection, brushing his teeth till they glistened. (Let her remember him at his most beautiful; might pain her just a speck more in the long run.
) Then, jaunty as d’Artagnan, he mounted a trusty taxi and set off in quest of his final fillip, that terminal burp which always signals the settling of a perfect meal. Next to the delicatessen was a shoeshine parlor and there Sid dismounted, letting the rhythmic Negro touch up his Florsheims. Flipping a quarter to the grateful black, Sid invaded Salamiland.

  Old Turk was armpit deep in his pickle barrel (maybe he’d dropped a penny?), and the way his monolithic nose was screwed over to the left indicated his displeasure in his task. At Sid’s approach he gratefully removed his withered arm from the brine. “Pickle man’s coming tomorrow,” he explained. “Therefore the census.”

  “A job for a lesser man than you,” Sid said. “Counting cucumbers.”

  “Agreed.” The old man nodded, sponging his dripping arm. “But—” and he shrugged—“a little humbling is good for the soul.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps no. Where is your beauty this morning?”

  “Up.” His dry thumb indicated the apartment above.

  “I would speak with her.”

  “I would not.”

  “I must.”

  “She is bursting with alum, I promise you.”

  “I’ll sweeten her.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “It’s a chance I have to take. We must have words.”

  “Then go to your doom,” Old Man Turk said, plunging back into the pickle barrel.

  Sid left him and sauntered up the stairs. Knocking, he waited. Nothing. He knocked again. More of the same. Sid tried the door, found it open and entered. Striking a pose in the center of the living room, he called softly, “Esther.” No reply. “Esther?” He moved toward her closed bedroom door. “Esther! It’s me. Sid. Esther, you in there, Esther?” The sound of inner thrashing indicated that she was. “I’m out here, Esther,” Sid said and when her stumbling had become consistent, he retreated toward the living-room window, posing himself so that the sun streamed in around his curly head, burnishing him an almost solid gold.

  If he had never looked better, she had never looked worse. She leaned in the doorway, eyes half closed, pale, a torn gray robe flattening her curves. “Yeah?”