Ask for Me Tomorrow

Several coats of black paint decorated with white polka dots, a black-and-white marquee topped by a neon sign indicated that the Domino catered to a better class of clientele than El Alegre. A uniformed doorman kept the hustlers on the opposite side of the street, the taxicabs in single file and the cigarette butts swept into the gutter. Otherwise things were much the same, including the fact that Harry Jenkins wasn’t in sight.

Aragon was on the point of leaving when he noticed a small man in a blue suit slumped over the table in the end booth. He thought of Emilia at the jail talking about Jenkins: He’s not a drunk, liquor’s not one of his weaknesses.

Tonight was the exception. Jenkins reeked of whiskey as though he’d spilled it all over himself. His head lay sideways on the table at an awkward angle looking detached from the rest of his body. Though his eyes were open, they were as unfocused and unblinking as a dead man’s. One of his hands was curled around an empty bottle of beer.

“Jenkins? Hey, are you all right?”

Jenkins’ mouth moved in response to his name, but the only thing to come out of it were some bubbles of saliva that slid down his chin. Aragon took out his handkerchief and attempted to wipe off the saliva. Jenkins’ whole face, his hair, his shirt and tie, even the shoulders of his suit coat were soaking wet. Instead of merely spilling some whiskey on himself, he seemed to have been the target of a whole glass of it, as though someone had thrown it at him in a rage.

“Jenkins, can you hear me?”

He moaned.

“What happened to you? Are you sick?”

One of the bartenders came over, a young man with a moist red face like underdone beef. He spoke English with a New York accent. “This a friend of yours?”

“I know him.”

“That’s good enough. Get him out of here. I don’t want him puking up the place.”

“I think he’s sick.”

“I don’t care why he’s doing it, just let him do it some other place.”

“Help me lift him and I’ll put him in a cab.”

“I got a hernia.”

“How can you have a hernia when you’re all heart?”

“Just lucky, I guess. Use the back door.”

Aragon managed to get his hands under Jenkins’ armpits and pull him to his feet. “Come on, Jenkins, wake up. Wake up and see the birdie.”

“Chicken birdie?”

“Chicken birdie it is. Can you walk?”

“I can fly.”

“Good. Let’s fly home to roost.”

Jenkins’ eyes were coming back into focus. The pupils were so dilated that only a tiny rim of iris was left around them. He stood up, holding on to the table for support. “Who — are you?”

“I’m laddie. Remember?”

“Oh, I feel funny, laddie — help me, help.”

“You’ll be all right. Come along.”

They walked arm in arm with a kind of awkward dignity out the back door and into a dimly lit area that had once been somebody’s walled garden. A water-boy fountain, the pitcher on his shoulder long since dry, stood in the middle of dusty dying weeds. The only living relic of the garden was a half-naked tamarisk tree.

Aragon put the sick man down on the concrete bench that circled the fountain. Jenkins’ forehead was hot and the pulse in his throat very rapid and irregular.

“Listen now, Jenkins. Wait here and I’ll go line up a taxi and come back for you. Have you got that? I’m coming back for you, so wait here. Do you understand me?”

It was apparent even in the dim light that Jenkins was incapable of understanding. His eyes had glazed over, vomit was bubbling down both sides of his mouth, and he was alternately chewing and spitting out chunks of sentences. His symptoms didn’t fit those of an ordinary drunk. He’d had a few moments of lucidity when his speech was clear and unslurred, and he recognized Aragon as a friend. Now he seemed to have slipped once again into a state of delirium.

“Big bird, fly me golden... help B. J., he’s sick... must go home... takeout and delivery... fry me to the moon, Emilia... bad bird boy... where are you, laddie? Get me a drink. Water. Water.”

“I’m right here. I’m going away for a few minutes, then I’m coming back to take you home. Are you listening, Jenkins? You stay where you are. Don’t move. I’m going for help.”

“Where’s laddie? Water. Drink.”

Jenkins reached out and clutched the marble water boy with both hands. Aragon left him like that, hanging on to the statue as if it were still pouring out the stuff of life.

Aragon returned through the bar to the front of the building. He gave one of the taxi drivers waiting at the curb five dollars to come and help him with Jenkins. The two men were just starting toward the club when Jenkins himself came staggering out through the front door, his head lowered as if he were about to charge some unseen unknown enemy.

Aragon shouted at him, “Jenkins, wait for me. Hey, hold it!”