Quarrel with the Moon Read online

"Let me see that," Bullins held out a broad and somewhat battered hand. He quickly checked the identification. "You're Joshua Allen Holman? 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"

  "What's left of him," the man replied dully.

  "What's your line of work, Mr. Holman?"

  "Anthropology. I work at the New York Institute of Anthropology."

  "How did you get here?"

  Josh closed his eyes and winced. His recollections were embarrassing, "I had a fight with my girlfriend. We were at the Krypton Klub. I left her there and - well, hit a couple of bars."

  "Why did you end up in Central Park?"

  "I like to run," he replied matter-of-factly. "I run here every morning."

  "Do you always run barefoot?"

  Josh shook his head and was immediately sorry. A jolting pain caused him to wince. "No, of course not. I have several pairs of running shoes."

  "Well, you either removed jour shoes yourself or some bum came along and removed them for you. I opt for the first. If somebody took your shoes, they probably would have taken a good deal more than that."

  Josh stared forlornly at his bare feet. This was a new low - even for him. Why did he have blackouts when he drank? Why could he not remember his actions? And how long would it be before it happened again?

  The cops discussed Josh as if he weren't there. "What do you think we ought to do with him?" asked McCafferty.

  Bullins dug a thick finger beneath the collar of his uniform and ran it around the full circumference of his neck. Wiping the perspiration on his trouser leg, he replied, "He's harmless enough. No point in taking the poor son of a bitch to the station house. Come on, we'll drive him home."

  They pulled Josh unceremoniously to his feet. "I really appreciate this," Josh grunted. "I'm going to be in enough trouble at home."

  "You and your lady friend live together?" asked Bullins. Josh nodded. "Then I don't envy you. My old lady would be waiting with her mouth open and her legs closed. You understand that we're going to have to take you right to your door?" Josh looked sharply at the officer. "Regulations, Mr. Holman. We got to make sure that you're really who you and your wallet say you are."

  "But I don't want Cresta to see me arriving with a police escort."

  "Sorry, Mr. Holman. We can't bend the rules that far. We should be taking you down to the station house."

  Josh's eyes flashed with anger, but he said nothing.

  The policemen walked on either side of Josh in case they were needed for support. But the young man seemed to regain his sobriety with each step. A serpentine path led them through the maze which was called "the Rambles." The air became filled with the sickening sweet smell of honeysuckle. A half-dozen lightly clad figures who had been leaning against a railing began to move with purpose toward the exit.

  "Goddamn fags," muttered McCafferty.

  The air was heavy and oppressive, as if a damp blanket had been dropped over the entire city. A rolling bank of storm clouds obliterated the moon and chased away the stars. A roar of thunder rose and fell and lightning bounded across the horizon, filling the atmosphere with a sulphurous aroma which was almost tangible. Josh stared at the swirling sky as if it somehow held the answer to his dilemma.

  As they walked up the dimly lit path toward Central Park West and Seventy-Seventh Street, they heard a rustling in the undergrowth. The bushes suddenly parted and an indistinct form rushed at them. McCafferty instinctively stepped in front of Josh to protect him; Bullins raised his revolver. The amorphous form of Maggie Meehan, a robust bag lady and denizen of Central Park, materialized under the street light. Both cops relaxed and holstered their revolvers. Maggie was harmless. Brandishing an umbrella like a sword, Maggie danced around the group, making thrusting parries with her weapon.

  "Sons o' bitchin' cops! Why haven't you found my cart? They took my cart an' you ain't even looked for it." She scrutinized Josh with rheumy eyes set in a grotesquely made-up face. "Oh no! You're too busy gatherin' nuts to find my cart."

  "Now, Maggie," said Bullins affectionately, as if speaking to a child, "you know that we've looked for your cart. We've looked and we've looked, but it's nowhere to be found. Perhaps you should go back to the A&P and get yourself another one."

  "They been lockin' 'em up at night, the sons o' bitches," the old woman grunted.

  "Have they now?" Bullins continued. "Well, I don't think they do over at the Big Apple."

  "The Big Apple," the old woman rolled the words around in her mouth like a piece of hard candy. "Didn't think of the Big Apple!"

  "I hear their carts are better anyway," grinned McCafferty.

  The bag lady smiled broadly, revealing a profusion of teeth which resembled burnt tree stumps. Then she opened her umbrella. It was torn, its ribs showing, but that didn't seem to matter to her. As proudly as a drum majorette leading a parade, Maggie marched ahead of the trio until they reached the sidewalk. Then, with a flourish, she bent over, wiggled her buttocks at the passing cars and farted. Then, shrieking like a banshee, she disappeared into the night.

  Josh glanced at the two policemen. "You seem to have your hands full tonight. I'm sorry to add to your problems."

  "Hell, Mr. Holman," said Bullins. "Our night's just beginning. I'm sure you're the least of them."

  The fast-traveling clouds, black and blue and roaring gray, broke apart. The rain cascaded down in silver sheets, scattering the hustlers, homosexuals, drug addicts, and winos from the shadows of the park to the safety of doorways and awnings. Cursing, the policemen hurried Josh to their patrol car.

  A short time later the police pulled up in front of 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street. The building was 18 stories high and occupied one-quarter of a block. It had a shabby grandeur and had only survived because it had been proclaimed a landmark (albeit minor) by the City of New York. A pair of winged gargoyles stood sentinel at the entranceway. Perhaps they were guarding the aged doorman who slept inside on a once-elegant, rococo chaise.

  For once Josh was pleased that the doorman was not alert and fulfilling his duties. He continued sleeping soundly as his tenant, escorted by the two policemen, walked across the marble tiles to the elevators beyond. They stepped inside and the gilded birdcage of an elevator noisily began its ascent. Josh glanced nervously at the policemen, hoping that would change their minds about escorting him to the door, but they ignored his silent entreaties.

  The elevator jolted to a stop and the men stepped off. There were two apartments on the penthouse floor, and the hallway was in much better condition than the lobby of the building. Josh and the other penthouse occupant had chipped in to have the walls repainted and the floor recarpeted. They had purchased Victorian brass ceiling fixtures and mirrors in ornate frames for decoration. As Josh was fumbling with the three different keys which it took to gain access to the apartment, the door opened.

  The police, startled, took a step backwards. Cresta Farraday was an astonishing-looking young woman. A model by profession and a very successful one, she was five feet, ten inches tall. Her bright hair hung around her face like a hood of silver-gold cloth. Her eyes were huge and a brilliant green, but smoldering rather than cold, like emeralds on fire. Her nose was narrow and had an insouciant tilt at the tip. In contrast, her mouth was broad and her lips full and sensuous. Perhaps her skin was her most arresting feature. It was golden and made her appear as if her veins ran with honey.

  Cresta was dressed in a white satin gown cut on the bias which she had obviously worn for the evening, for now it was wrinkled. Her face showed anger, worry and something else. Perhaps weariness of a situation which had occurred before.

  Cresta flashed her eyes, first at Josh, then at the policemen. "Josh, what's this? What have you done?"

  Bullins was the first to regain his composure. Officer McCafferty, his mouth hanging open like an unclosed drawer, continued to gape. "Ma'am, is this Joshua Allen Holman, and does he live here at 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"

  "Well, yes," she replied, her voice rising. "What
has he done?"

  "Nothing, ma'am. He just ... lost his way."

  "And his shoes," McCafferty added with a grin.

  Cresta looked down at her lover's feet. "Were you robbed, Josh?"

  Josh uncomfortably shifted his weight and replied in a barely audible voice. "I was running in the park."

  "Running in the park!" Cresta exploded. "For Christ's sake, now I've heard it all!"

  Embarrassed, the cops look another step backwards. "Well, ma'am, we have to go now. We just wanted to see him home safe."

  "Thanks, officers." Cresta replied vaguely. Then Josh stepped inside and she slammed the door.

  While they were waiting for the elevator, Officer McCafferty remarked, "I don't know why he'd want to go running with something like that waiting at home, do you?"

  Bullins shook his head. "Well now, Mike, I've never claimed to understand people and their relationships."

  Inside the apartment, Josh made his way down the long hall and turned to the kitchen. He threw off his jacket and went to the refrigerator. His mouth was dry and he wanted a beer. He opened one and was drinking it when Cresta entered.

  "Haven't you had enough alcohol for one night?" she asked with a sharp edge to her voice.

  He swung around. "Why don't you just go to bed, Cresta?"

  "No. No, I'm not going to bed. I want to fight!" She ran at him and began beating her fists against his chest. "Damn you! Damn you to hell!" Josh pushed her away, and her pent-up tears burst forth. "I've been up half the night sick with worry. I've got a sitting in the morning, and I'm going to look like a piece of shit. Where did you go this time? Do you remember? I think that's just an excuse anyway. Were you out getting another stray piece?"

  "Cresta," his eyes were pleading, "that only happened once."

  "Once. You mean I only found out once. Why the hell don't you go West and become a Mormon? There you wouldn't have to keep up the pretense of being monogamous."

  "Cresta, I swear to you it only happened once."

  "How can you say that for sure, Josh? Really for sure? You don't remember what happens during these 'dark times.'"

  "Why do you have to put a trendy label on everything? 'Dark times.' It sounds like a power failure."

  "Well, isn't that what it is, a blackout? What else would you call it? Christ, Josh, how can I help you if you won't help yourself?"

  He finished his beer and took out another one. "I don't drink that often."

  "No, you don't. But...."

  "I only get drunk about once a month. God, Cresta, you're acting like I was an alcoholic."

  Cresta sighed. "Well, aren't you, Josh? Dr. Benjamin said that you don't have to drink often to be an alcoholic."

  "Stuff Dr. Benjamin! I don't give a shit what your fancy Park Avenue psychiatrist has to say about me. Let him take care of your head."

  "It's not just his opinion. It's fact."

  "So what do you want me to do? Go to an AA meeting? Stand up among all those stumblebums and confess my wrongdoings? I haven't done any thing wrong, for God's sake!"

  "You're doing wrong to yourself. One of these nights you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."

  Josh began laughing. "Or worse? What can be worse than getting killed?"

  Cresta began laughing too. "Goddamn it, you know what I mean." Josh reached out for Cresta, but she backed away. "No, no, not this time." She was half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I want what I want, Josh."

  "What do you want, Cresta?" he exploded and slammed the beer can down on the counter.

  Her voice was tight, brittle, and controlled. "I want you to do something - see a psychiatrist, go to AA, join est ... anything! Just do something!" She clenched and unclenched her hands as tears streamed down her face. "Jesus, I'm going to be a wreck in the morning. My eyes will be as puffy as poached eggs." She grabbed a paper napkin, wiped her eyes and nose and stared at Josh.

  His straight black hair fell over his forehead like spilt paint, shadowing his haunting gray eyes. He returned her gaze with a pathetic little-boy look, a look she knew and loved. Cresta, at twenty, was not inexperienced in affairs of the heart. She had had two other lovers, but neither of them, neither, excited her like Josh Holman. Perhaps it was because he never catered to her; he hadn't even pursued her, for that matter. And once they were together, he accepted her with a casual affection which she found refreshing after so many overanxious men and tiresome compliments. She also loved him because he was intelligent, kind, and possessed a good sense of humor. But there was that other side to him. He was often moody, sometimes sharp, withdrawn and even cruel.

  Cresta shook her head in consternation. "Josh, if you love me, then fight for me. Aren't I worth it? I love you with all my heart. I want to marry you. I want to have your children. But ...," she began crying again, "not the way things are. Please, please I - I can't - help you if you won't help yourself."

  He touched her arm. "I'll try, love. I'll really try."

  She managed a smile. "That's all I wanted to hear. Now, I'm going to sleep in the guest room tonight. When you drink, you snore, and I have precious few hours left to get my beauty sleep."

  "Cresta, please."

  "Josh, I have to. I'm doing close-up work tomorrow. It's that lipstick commercial. I can't go in without any sleep at all. Rudy will probably have a devil of a time making me up anyway." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Josh finished his beer, then viciously crushed the can in his hands. She was punishing him. No matter what she said, she was not free of anger or doubt concerning his intentions. He knew that she had a right to be both angry and pessimistic. They had been through it all before. She had made the same entreaties and he had made the same promises.

  Josh knew that he would break them again, and that knowledge saddened him more than anything.

  2

  The alarm went off at eight. Josh groaned, reached out to turn it off, and knocked it on the floor. "Cresta," he mumbled, "I knocked the Goddamn clock on the floor." Suddenly he became aware that the only warmth in the bed was emanating from his own body. He raised his head. His brains felt scrambled. Leaning against the brass headboard, he tried to wish the throbbing away. He recalled having three more beers after Cresta had gone to bed. That had raised his alcohol level to such a point that he was able to sleep. Josh kicked off the light cover and looked down at his body. His feet were dirty and cut in several places. It came back to him in a rush. Central Park ... running ... the cops. Then he remembered that he didn't remember all of it.

  He did remember the disco. The Krypton Klub was the "in" discotheque for all the beautiful, with-it people. It was the last place in New York City that Josh had wanted to be. But because Cresta was a top model, she was invited to attend every screwy affair in town. It was an opening night party for a rock musical which he had also had to endure - a pretentious piece of junk about a mass murderer.

  As usual, Josh had acquiesced to Cresta's wishes; he would attend the show and later the party. The musical put him in a foul mood. And Josh knew on entering the Krypton Klub that only alcohol would allow him to deal with the deafening music, the flashing lights, and the shrill crowd.

  Josh and Cresta were crammed at a miniscule table with five of Cresta's "dearest friends." The fat homosexual wearing giant pink glasses was a successful dress designer and fancied himself "outrageous." Josh found him merely loud and obnoxious. There were two models who worked at the same agency as Cresta. Both were vapid and pretty, and both glittered in punk rock gear. And their dates: a blandly handsome actor in a soap who experimented with kinky sex and was more than happy to tell you about it, and an advertising executive who was fighting his age. His sunlamp tan, capped teeth and dyed hair only added to the artificiality of his life. The ad exec kept all of them (except for Cresta and Josh) supplied in "the best snow in town." As the rest of the table not-so-discreetly sniffed cocaine, Josh concentrated on drinking while Cresta glared at him. An hour later she coerced him onto
the dance floor, and there they had a fight. Josh didn't remember what about. The play? Probably. Her friends? Most likely. The disco? Most assuredly.

  After that everything was a blank except ... except....

  Josh staggered into the bathroom, peered at himself in the mirror and decided that he didn't look as bad as he should have. He looked in the guest room. Cresta was already off to her modeling assignment. The campaign bed was neatly made. When Josh entered the kitchen he expected to find a note from Cresta. It was a habit of hers. A note asking him to pick up something from the market or reminding him of a social engagement, or simply a reaffirmation of her love. The note was noticeably absent.

  He looked around the kitchen. Well, at least she had made the coffee. Josh poured himself a mug. While he was waiting for it to cool, he dissolved two Alka Seltzers in a glass of beer, drank it down and emitted a healthy belch. He wanted to call Cresta just to measure her mood, but he couldn't remember where she had said she would be shooting that morning. He knew that he could check with Famous, Inc., the model agency that handled her, but she didn't like to have her work interrupted unless it was an emergency. And since when was a hangover an emergency?

  Josh closed his eyes and savored the aroma of the coffee. Suddenly the odor became mixed with something else. A dry summer night, stagnant water and hot, fetid air. A blurred image of vegetation, rocks, and undergrowth rushed past his mind's eye like an unfinished watercolor. He was running, running faster than he ever had. Running as if he were being pursued ... or was he the pursuer? The predator or the prey?

  Running in Central Park. Josh grunted, shaking off the disturbing images. It just ... didn't make any sense.

  After finishing his coffee, Josh went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He glanced at himself in the fogging mirror, flexed his muscles, and smiled at his reflection. He was fully aware of his sensual good looks, his impressive physique, and he savored them, knowing that he looked nearly a decade younger than his actual thirty-two years. His shoulders, if not overly broad, were solid, and corded with muscle. His sharply defined pectorals were high and covered with a light spray of black hair which trailed down to his deeply set navel and exploded around his formidable genitals. He turned and examined his back. His spine was sharply defined and a soft circle of black hair grew just above the crevice of his buttocks which were deeply indented on either side. The outline of his bathing suit was still evident. Josh's skin seemed to drink up the rays from summer weekends and winter vacations and retained them the year round. Once again he examined his feet. They were not badly torn up. The soles were hard from years of going barefoot at every chance.