Part 19 (2/2)

But why now? Why on earth now? We've got a bang-up thing going here.

Do me a favor, Doc. Hold out your hands.

Willie.

Do it, Doc.

Doc extends his arms, spreads his white-gloved fingers.

Look, Willie says. You're playing ragtime.

f.u.c.k kid-age. Happens to the best of us.

You blew that score the other night.

First time.

All the more reason.

Doc stands, walks to the bar. He throws down a whiskey, stares up at the hunters, the fox leaping a hedgerow. You may be right, Willie. Probably are right. But I can't quit. I love it too much.

Willie nods.

G.o.dspeed, Willie. I'll watch the papers for your reviews.

Days later Willie meets Eddie for lunch at a chophouse in Times Square. Over porterhouses smothered in onions Willie tells Eddie it's time. Time to start their own crew.

Eddie nods.

What gives, Ed? I expected a little more vim. This is it, what you've always wanted, the real raw-jaw stuff. Banks.

Eddie shakes a Chesterfield out of Willie's pack, lights it, takes a hard drag. I got some bad news, Sutty.

Shoot.

Old friend of yours is back in town.

Oh.

She's gettin married.

Willie pushes away his steak. He looks at his hands. Ragtime.

Where?

Baptist church.

When?

Today kid. What I'm hearin, it's an arranged thing. The groom comes from money. His family owns warehouses all along the waterfront.

Willie stands, staggers out of the chophouse. A produce truck comes barreling down the street, smas.h.i.+ng through puddles. Willie and Eddie will always disagree about whether Willie changed his mind at the last second or Eddie ran out of the chophouse just in time.

They walk around Times Square, Eddie urging Willie not to crash the wedding.

Never mind that seein it will kill you, Sutty. Her old man could have you pinched.

For what? I'm not on probation anymore.

He owns Brooklyn. He don't need a reason.

Eddie makes a good point. Willie considers wearing a disguise. He even steps into a theatrical shop, tries on a homburg and fake beard. But then he decides that he wants Old Man Endner to see him. He wants Bess to see him-at his best. He splurges on a scalp ma.s.sage, a barber shave, a haircut. He puts on his newest suit, chalk-striped, with wide, dramatic lapels. At four o'clock, as the little old lady in the flowered hat presses down on the organ keys, Willie is five rows from the altar, two rows from the Rockefellers, the Old Europeancut diamond ring in his breast pocket. Just in case.

Mr. Endner, escorting Bess down the aisle, sees Willie first. He tugs on his mustaches. He's going to halt the ceremony, call the cops. No-his eyes narrow to watery slits, his mustaches fan out across a yellow grin. Because Willie is too late.

Now Bess sees Willie. She stops, lowers her bouquet. Golden flowers to match her golden-flecked eyes, which quickly fill with tears. She mouths something at Willie, he can't be sure what.

No Willie no.

Oh Willie oh.

Go Willie. Go.

Then she presses on. She keeps walking, past Willie, past the Rockefellers, and with each step Willie feels another year clipped off his life. At the altar she turns, faces her groom. Willie bolts from the pew, up the aisle, out of the church. He doesn't stop running until he comes to Meadowport. He sits for hours staring at the ring. He sets it on the ground, walks out.

Then he turns around, retrieves it. He slips it into his breast pocket, decides to keep it. Just in case.

Photographer: He's asleep.

Reporter: You're joking.

Photographer: Snoring too.

Reporter: Unbelievable.

Photographer: Willie the Actor.

Reporter: Can we please turn down this radio? I've got a splitting headache.

Photographer: That's the Rolling Stones, brother.

Mick Jagger: Oh! Yeah!

Reporter: What does this song mean anyway? Why are rape and murder just a shot away?

Photographer: See there's your problem-everything has to mean something. Where are we going again?

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