Chapter 2 Chapter two

There is a problem.To talk to Chance I had to find him, but she didn't tell me how. "I don't know where he lives," she said. "Nobody does." "no one?" "None of his girls. When two of us happen to be together and he's not in the house, it's a good guessing game. Try to guess where Chance lives. I remember one night, I With that girl named Sunny, we pass the time and come up with one weird answer after another. Like he lives in a tenement with his crippled mother, or he has a big house in '', or He had a bungalow in the suburbs, and he commuted between the suburbs every day. Or, he kept a few boxes in his car, lived off them, and slept a few hours a night in one of us's apartments."

She thought for a while: "It's just that he never sleeps when he's with me. If we do go to bed, he'll just lie down a little afterward and get up, get dressed and go out. He once said that if there's a Others, he can't sleep." "What if you have to contact him?" "There's a phone number. But it's a pick-up station. You can call that number anytime, twenty-four hours a day, and there's always a phone guy there. He's always going to check his phone records. If we Out, or whatever, he checks every half hour or hour." She gave me her phone number and I wrote it down in my notebook.Then, I asked her where he parked his car.she does not know.Remember the license plate number of that car?

She shook her head. "I never pay attention to such things. His car is a Cadillac." "That's unexpected. Where does he usually hang out?" "I don't know. If you want to find him, I'll leave a message. I'm not going to find him. Do you mean if he frequents a certain bar? He sometimes goes to many places, but not regularly." "What does he usually do?" "What do you mean?" — Stick School · E Book Group — "Does he watch ball games? Gamble? What does he do when he's alone?" She ponders this: "He does things differently," she said.

"what do you mean?" "Look who he's with. I like jazz clubs, so when I'm with me, we go there. If he wants to have a night like this, he calls me. And there's a girl, I Don’t even know her, but they go to concerts. You know, classical music. Something. And there’s another girl, Sunny, who likes sports, and he’ll take her to ball games.” "How many girls does he have?" "I don't know. There's Sunny, and Nan, and the girl who likes classical music. Maybe one or two. Maybe more. Chance doesn't talk too much about himself, you know? He keeps things to himself."

"As far as you know, his name is just Chance?" "That's right." "You've been with him for, um, three years? And all you know is half a name, no address, and a number for a pick-up station." She looked down at her hands. "How does he collect money?" "You mean from me? Sometimes he comes to me for money." "Did he call first?" "Not necessarily. Sometimes. Or, he calls and asks me to bring him the money. At some coffee shop, or bar, or somewhere, or on some street corner, and he picks me up." "You give him all the money you earn?"

She nodded: "He found me an apartment, he paid the rent, the phone bill, all the expenses. We went to buy clothes, and he paid. He likes to help me choose clothes. I give him the money I earn, and he returns it to me Some, you know, as pocket money." "Don't you keep some private money?" "Of course I did. How do you think I got the thousand dollars? It's funny, though, I didn't keep much." The place was already packed with office workers when she left.Before leaving, she had had enough coffee and started to drink white wine.She asked for a glass of wine and was left with half a glass.I have been drinking black coffee.I have her address, phone number, and Chance's pick-up station number in my notebook.That's all, not much really.After she left, I finished my coffee and paid the bill with one of the hundred-dollar bills.

Armstrong's Bar was on Ninth Avenue between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-eighth Streets, and my hotel was near the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. I went into the hotel, went to the front desk to check for my letters and messages, and called the answering station from the pay phone in the lobby.A woman answered on the third ring, repeated the last four digits of the number, and asked if I needed anything. "I want to speak to Mr. Chance," I said. "I will contact him as soon as possible," she said.She sounded like she was middle-aged, with a voice of smoking and drinking, "Do you need to send him a message?"

I left my name and hotel number.She asked me why I was calling.I told her it was a private matter. When I hung up, I was shaking, probably from the coffee I'd been drinking all day.I would like to have a glass of wine.I considered whether to get a drink at Polly's across the street, or a pint at the liquor store two doors down from Polly's.Those drinks came to my mind: Jim Beam bourbon or Dante, real brown whiskey in a decanter. Well, I thought, it's raining outside, and you don't want to go out in the rain.I left the phone booth, turned toward the elevator (not the door), and went back to my room.

I locked the door, pulled the chair up to the window, and watched the rain outside.After a few minutes, the urge to drink was gone.Then it strikes again, and then retreats again.The urge came and went for hours, flickered on and off like a neon sign.I stayed there without moving, watching the rain outside. Around seven I picked up the phone in my room and called Elaine Mader.Her answering machine answered. After indicating the sound, I said, "This is Matthew. I met your friend, thank you for the recommendation. Maybe I can repay you in a few days." I hung up the phone and waited another half hour.Chance didn't return my calls.

I wasn't very hungry, but I managed to go downstairs to get something to eat.The rain has stopped.I went to Blue Jay's and asked for a hamburger and fries.Two tables away there was a guy eating a sandwich with beer, I decided to have a beer when the waiter brought the hamburgers, but changed my mind. I ate most of the hamburger, half the fries, drank two cups of coffee, then asked for cherries for dessert and ate most of it.It was almost half past eight when we left. I stopped at the hotel—no message—and walked all the way up Ninth Avenue.There used to be a Greek bar on the corner, Antels and Spiro, but now it's a fruit and vegetable market.I turned north, past Armstrong's Bar, across Fifty-eighth Street, and when the light turned green, I continued north past the hospital to St. Paul's.I went around the side of the church and down a narrow flight of stairs leading to the basement.There's a cardboard sign hanging from the doorknob, but you won't see it unless you look for it.

It said "Alcoholics Anonymous." They were just starting when I went in.Three tables are arranged in a U-shape, and people sit on either side of the table, and there are about a dozen chairs behind it.Snack drinks are on a nearby table. I grabbed a styrofoam cup, poured some coffee from the coffee maker, and sat down in the back.A few people nodded at me, and I nodded back. The speaker was about my age.He wore a plaid flannel shirt and a herringbone jacket.He tells the story of his life, from his first sip of alcohol as a teenager, to joining Alcoholics Anonymous four years ago to break the habit.He had been divorced several times, wrecked several cars, lost his job, been in several hospitals.Then, he stopped drinking, started partying, and things started to improve. "The 'situation' isn't getting better," he corrected himself. "It's 'me' that's getting better." They always say that.They talk a lot all the time and you hear the same things over and over again.However, the stories are quite interesting.People sit in front of God and people and say the most damning things to you.He spoke for half an hour.Then, everyone rested for ten minutes and passed the fare basket.I put a dollar in it, then poured myself another cup of coffee and grabbed some oatmeal cookies. A man in an old military uniform called my name and greeted me.He asked me how I was doing and I told him everything was fine. "You're here, you're sane," he said, "and that's what matters." "I think it is." - Stick School · E Book Group - "Every day I don't drink is a good day. You can stay sober all day at a time. The hardest thing in the world is to keep an alcoholic from drinking, and that's what you're doing." It's just that I didn't do it.I just came out of the hospital and I don't know if it was nine or ten days.I'll stay awake for two or three days, and then I'll have a drink.Most likely it will be one or two or three, which is still under control.But on Sunday nights, I'd be dead drunk, binging bourbon at the Talking Stone bar on Sixth Avenue, where I didn't expect to meet anyone I knew.I can't remember how I left the bar and how I got home.On Monday mornings, I'd be shaking, my mouth would be parched, and I'd feel like the walking dead.I didn't tell him that. Ten minutes later, everyone resumed the meeting and took turns to speak.People say their names, say they are alcoholics, and thank the speaker for the narrative, the ones he tells, which they call life stories.They then say how well they understand the speaker, or look back at some memory fragment from their alcoholic years, or describe the difficulties they've had in trying to live a sober life. A girl not much older than Kim Duckinen described her problems with her lover, and a gay man in his thirties described a confrontation with a customer at his travel agency one day.It was a funny story and got a lot of laughs. One woman said: "It's the easiest way to stay sober. You just don't drink, party, and be willing to change your fucking life." When it was my turn, I said, "My name is Matthew. I have nothing to say." The party ends at ten.On my way home, I turned into Armstrong's and sat down.They tell you to stay away from bars if you want to quit drinking, but I was comfortable there and the coffee was good.If I want to drink, it's the same everywhere. When I left there, the early edition of the News was out.I bought a copy and went to my room.Still no message from that pimp Kim Duckinen.I called his liaison office again to confirm that he had received my message.I also left a message saying that there is something important, please contact me as soon as possible. I showered, put on my bathrobe, and read the newspaper.Watched the national and international news, but I've never been able to really focus on that.Only news on a smaller scale and closer to home appeals to me. There is a lot of news that attracts me.Two children shoved a young woman in front of a D train in the Bronx.She fell to the ground and escaped unharmed, despite the fact that six cars had passed by when the driver stopped the train. Near Hudson's Yards on West Street, a prostitute was killed.The news said she had been stabbed to death. A Housing Authority police officer in Corona remains in critical condition.I had read two days ago how he was attacked by two men who beat him with sections of pipe and stole his gun.He has a wife and four children under the age of ten. The phone has not rang yet.I don't think it's really going to ring.I can't think of any reason for Chance to call me back, out of curiosity, maybe he remembers.I could have called myself a cop—Mr. Scudder was more easily overlooked than Sergeant Scudder, or Detective Scudder—but I didn't like to play that game unless I had to. I want people to make up their minds early, but I don't want to force them.So, I have to go to him.That's all right, it'll give me something to do.At the same time, the message I leave will imprint my name on his mind. The elusive Mr. Chance.You'd think his pimp limousine had a mobile phone in it, along with a wet bar, leather upholstery, and pink velvet sun visors.It's all high-end stuff. After watching the sports section, I returned to the news of the Greenwich Village prostitute being stabbed.The story is far from complete.They did not list her name or any information about the victim other than identifying her as about 25 years old. I called the Newspaper to see if they knew the name of the deceased, but they refused to say.I think it may be requested by the family members.I called the Sixth Precinct, but Eddie Keller wasn't on duty, and I couldn't think of anyone else in the Sixth Precinct who would know me. I pulled out my laptop, thinking maybe it was too late to call her, half the women in town were whores, there was no reason to think she was the one who got sliced ​​up under the West End Highway.I put away my laptop, and ten minutes later, I took it out again and dialed her number. I said, "Kim, this is Matthew Scudder. I was wondering if you happened to talk to your friend after we met." "No, I didn't talk about it. What's the matter?" "I thought I could get in touch with him through his contact station. I don't think he's coming to me, so I'll have to go out and find him tomorrow. You didn't say anything to him about quitting, did you?" "Not a single word." "Fine. If you see him before I do, act like nothing happened. If he calls to ask you to meet him somewhere, call me right away." "Is that the number you gave me?" "Yes. If you can contact me, I will go to your place to perform as promised. If not, you can just go and everything will be as usual." Since the call might upset her, I spoke a little longer to reassure her and calm her down.At least I know she didn't die on West Street.At least I can sleep soundly.certainly.I turned off the light and went to bed, lay there for a long time, then gave up trying, got up and reread the newspaper.I had an idea that a few glasses of wine would stabilize the mood and put me to sleep.I couldn't get the thought out, but I was able to make myself stay where I was.At four o'clock in the morning, I told myself forget it, because the bar was closed now.There's an all-night bar on Eleventh Avenue, but luckily I don't remember it. I turned off the light again and went to bed thinking about the dead whore, the housing authority cop, and the woman with the subway train going over her, and wondering why anyone would think it was a good idea to stay awake in this city, and I drifted off to sleep with that thought .