Free The Most Beautiful Woman in Town by Charles Bukowski Page A

QUARTER-TURN, I mean a QUARTER-TURN.”
    â€œwhatta I do?”
    â€œjust slip your hands in the rollers, it’s like a washing machine.”
    â€œin there?”
    â€œyeah. here we go! whoopee!”
    â€œhey, man, remember, just a quarter of a turn.”
    â€œsure, Bag, don’t you trust me?”
    â€œI gotta now.”
    â€œyou know, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
    â€œyou rotten son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!”
    Danforth left the machine running, sat down behind Bagley’s desk, lit a cigarette. he hummed a little tune, “lucky lucky me, I can live in luxury, because I’ve got a pocket full of dreams … I got an empty purse, but I own the universe, because I’ve got a pocketful of dreams…”
    he got up and walked over to the machine and Bagley.
    â€œyou said a quarter-turn,” said Bagley. “it’s been a turn and a half.”
    â€œdon’t you trust me?”
    â€œmore than ever, somehow.”
    â€œstill, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
    â€œwell, I guess it’s all right. I get tired of fucking her. every man gets tired of fucking his own wife.”
    â€œbut I want you to want me to fuck your wife.”
    â€œwell, I don’t care but I don’t know if I exactly want you to.”
    â€œI’ll be back in about 5 minutes.”
    Danforth went back, sat in Bagley’s swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk and waited. he liked to sing. he sang songs: “I got plenty of nuthin’ and nuthin’s plenty for me. I got the stars, I got the sun, I got the shining sea . ..”
    Danforth smoked two cigarettes and went back to the machine.
    â€œBag, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
    â€œoh, I want you to, man! I want you to! and ya know what?”
    â€œwhat?”
    â€œI’d kinda like ta watch.”
    â€œsure, that’d be o.k.”
    Danforth went to the phone, dialed a number.
    â€œMinnie? yeah, Dan. I’m comin’ over ta fuck ya again. Bag? oh, he’s comin’ too. he wants ta watch. no, we’re not drunk. I just decided to close shop for the day. we’ve made it already. with the Israel-Arab thing and all the African wars, there’s nothing to worry about. Biafra is a beautiful word. anyhow, we’re coming over. I want to bunghole you. you got those big cheeks, jesus. I might even bunghole Bag. I think his cheeks are bigger than yours. keep tight, sweetie, we’re on our way!”
    Dan hung up. another phone rang. he picked it up. “jam it you rotten motherfucker, even the points of your tits smell like wet dogturds in a Westerly wind.” he hung up and smiled. walked over and took Bagley out of the machine. they locked the office door and walked down the steps together. when they walked outside the sun was up and looking good. you could see through the thin skirts of the women. you could almost see their bones. death and rot was everywhere. it was Los Angeles, near 7th and Broadway, the intersection where the dead snubbed the dead and didn’t even know why. it was a taught game like jumprope or dissecting frogs or pissing in the mailbox or jacking-off your pet dog.
    â€œwe got plenty a nuthin’,” they sang, “and nuthin’s plenty for we …”
    arm and arm they made the underground garage, found Bag’s 69 Caddy, got in, each lit a dollar cigar, Dan driving, got it out of there, almost hit a bum coming out of Pershing Square, turned West toward the freeway, toward freedom, Vietnam, the army, fucking, large areas of grass and nude statues and French wine, Beverly Hills…
    Bagley leaned over and ran down Danforth’s zipper as he drove.
    I hope he leaves some for his wife, Danforth thought.
    it was a warm Los Angeles morning, or maybe it was afternoon, he checked the dashboard clock — it read 11:37 a.m. just as he came. he ran the Caddy up to 80. the asphalt slipped underneath