Free The Caveman's Valentine by George Dawes Green Page B

silently for a moment. Then Romulus said, “No, I feel that pursuing my musical career would not be appropriate for me at this time of my life.”
    “Appropriate? Ap-
pro
-priate?” She laughed, her howlingest, most scathing laugh. “Oh, my. So playing detective,
that’s
appropriate? What on earth do you know about being a detective?”
    “I’ve got the eye. I can see things that other people can’t. For example, I know what kind of car the murderer drives.”
    “What kind, baby?”
    “Well, I know the color, anyway. It was white. Bone white.”
    “Oh, sure,” said Sheila. “What else would Stuyvesant drive? Baby. Baby. This isn’t for you. Try music.”
    “Go away, Sheila. Leave me alone.”
    She stirred herself. “See you in the country,” she said.
    “No. Leave me alone. Let me do this by myself.”
    She said again, “See you in the country.” Then the color went out of her, and she seeped back into the rock wall of the cave, and Romulus felt, as he always did after one of her appearances, worn out but contented. A kind of rapturous exhaustion. He lay down beside Cyclops and fell into a sound sleep.

27
    I t was Friday night and the crowds were flowing, and Eel was giving them the hiss.
    The NYU tarts and the club slime, the art holes and the once-a-week bridge-and-tunnel leatherettes, the spikes and the usual dregs and walking garbage, Eel was giving them all the hiss. He was down here at his corner of Ninth Street and First Avenue—he had the southwest corner to himself and he was bobbing and rocking and darting with the traffic, hissing, “Sense, acid, ecstasy, smoke, smoke, how can I help you, how can I be of service?”
    The patter was just pouring out of him and the last thing he wanted now was Matthew the Weasel pestering him, screwing up his rhythm, but that’s what Matthew the Weasel was doing.
    Every time the crowd ebbed, or when the cops would troll by, Eel would fade back and lean against his wall and his mind should have been strictly on business—cash flow, market share, sales ratios, new product development—but Matthew would be right there at his ear, wouldn’t let him alone. Matthew wanted D. Dope. Heroin. Eel didn’t have any D.
    “If I had any D., I’d sell it to you, Matthew. But I don’t got none. My
resource
don’t got none.”
    “But you promised.”
    “I promised before this Rotorooter shit came down.”
    Rotorooter was the name of a brand-new kind of heroin, and it was causing a lot of trouble.
    Said Matthew, “Give me some Rotorooter.”
    “You don’t want Rotorooter, man.”
    A gaggle of uptown tourists passed by, and Eel hissed, “Sense, X, ’shrooms, smoke.” They dropped their eyes to the sidewalk, all of them at once,
thud,
and they were gone.
    Eel said to Matthew, “Rotorooter’s frying people, man. That’s why the whole market’s tight. Everybody ducking, man.”
    Then a great big svelte-looking black guy in a million-dollar suit came by. Guy just glowed with the look of money. Stockbroker maybe, or TV sportscaster.
    Said Eel, “Sense, X, how can I serve you sir? Let’s make a deal here.”
    The money man caught sight of Matthew and held up. “Matthew . . .”
    “Holy shit,” said Matthew. “Rom? What happened to you?”
    “Stepping out a little, Matthew. I’ve been looking for you.”
    Said Matthew, “Well, this is the place to find me. This is where I live till this asshole comes through.”
    Eel said, “Don’t call me an asshole.”
    “I’m sorry. Eel,
please.
Sell me something.”
    “Nothing I can do for you.”
    “Then I’ll take my business somewhere else.”
    Said Eel, “Oh please be my fucking guest. Tell you what, go talk to my partner, Shaker. See him over there?”
    He pointed, and they looked. Shaker was easy to spot. Big mother, and menacing despite his bright plaid tam-o’-shanter. He was also doing the hiss, and also getting nowhere.
    Said Eel, “Go bug him, Matthew. But he don’t have no D. neither.”
    Matthew