Free Pulp by Charles Bukowski

brushing my teeth and went back to bed. I had no kick left, no zing. I was a thumbtack, I was a piece of linoleum.
    I decided to stay in bed until noon. Maybe by then half the world would be dead and it would only be half as hard to take. Maybe if I got up at noon I’d look better, feel better. I knew a guy once who didn’t excrete for days. He finally just exploded. Really. Shit flew out of his belly.
    Then the phone rang. I let it ring. I never answered the phone in the morning. It rang 5 times and stopped. There. I was alone with myself. And disgusting as I was it was better than being with somebody else, anybody else, all of them out there doing their pitiful little tricks and handsprings. I pulled the covers up to my neck and waited.

23
    I got to the track for the 4th race. I had to break through somewhere.
    All my leads were stalled. I pulled out the list. I had it all written down:
    1. Find out if Celine is Celine. Inform Lady Death of findings.
    2. Locate the Red Sparrow.
    3. Find out if Cindy is screwing around on Bass. If so, nail her ass.
    4. Get the Space Alien off of Grovers’ back.
    I folded the list and put it back in my pocket. I opened the Form .
    They were coming out on the track for the 4th. It was a warm easy day. Everything seemed in a dream state. Then I heard a sound behind me. There was somebody sitting behind me. I turned. It was Celine. He smiled at me.
    “Nice day,” he said.
    “What the hell you doing here?” I asked him.
    “Paid my way in. They didn’t ask any questions,” said Celine.
    “You tailing me, motherfucker?” I asked.
    “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said.
    “There are a lot of things I don’t understand,” I told him.
    “Me neither,” he said. Then he climbed over the seat and sat down next to me. “We’re going to talk,” he said.
    “Sure,” I said, “now, first off, what’s your name? Your real name?”
    I felt the snub-nosed revolver poking me in the side. He was holding it under his coat.
    “You got a permit for that thing?” I asked.
    “I’ll ask the questions here,” he said, giving me a little poke with the firearm.
    “Go ahead,” I said.
    “Who put the tail on me?”
    “Lady Death.”
    “Lady Death?” he laughed. “Don’t give me that crap!”
    “I crap you not. That’s what she calls herself, ‘Lady Death.’”
    “Some nut, huh?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Where can I find this bitch?”
    “I don’t know. She only contacts me.”
    “You expect me to buy that?”
    “I don’t know, it’s all I got to sell.”
    “What’s she want?”
    “She wants to know if you’re the real Celine.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Who do you like in this race?” he asked.
    “ Green Moon ,” I told him.
    “ Green Moon ? That’s my selection.”
    “O.k.,” I said, “let me go bet. I’ll be right back.”
    I started to rise.
    “Sit down,” he intoned, “before I blow your balls off.”
    I sat down.
    “Now,” he said, “I want this woman off my tail. Also, I want her real name. I’m not buying this Lady Death thing. And I want you to get busy on this matter. In fact, beginning now!”
    “But she’s my client. How can you be my client?”
    “You figure it out, fat boy.”
    “Fat boy?”
    “You got stuff hanging from your gut.”
    “Hanging or not hanging, if I work for you I get paid, and I don’t come cheap.”
    “Name it.”
    “6 bucks an hour.”
    He reached into his pocket and came out with a roll of bills. He dropped them down my shirt front.
    “Here’s a month in advance.”
    Then there was a roar from the crowd. They were coming down the stretch and who was leading by 3? And who won by 4? Green Moon . Odds: 6 to 1.
    “Shit,” I told him, “you cost me a score. Green Moon got it all.”
    “Shut up,” he said, “and get busy on my case.”
    “All right, all right,” I said, “where do I contact you?”
    “Here’s my number,” he said, handing me a tiny piece of paper.
    Then he got up, walked