I have seen him write his name "J.James" and let the world make guesses on how outlaw he really was. "Let them hang themselves from their assumptions," he'd say. "It isn't the hook's fault for biting what takes the bait." It was the kind of thing he said to diner waitresses whose eyes were a little too big or humor a little too indulgent. One such waitress measured him, smooth skin drum tight, pale on his cheeks, making his hawk nose that much sharper, a pure white collar and impeccable fedora, just a touch of affluent softness smoothing over a care hardened body. James Cagney James knew he had a fish on the line. "A notion of fate brought us here, and brought you here, brought us together, and dictates what we'll do together." He winked an oily black eye. It was a sly trick for a man with no room for blame who believes even an assumed name carries obligations.
I met him playing cards, he wore that same suit, the only nice one he owned. "Luck does not seem like a currency you trade in," I had just walked away from the table after a parade of bad hands, and he followed unsolicited to keep me company. "Neither do I, trade in it, anyway. Take some bad luck here, be paid back with good later," he moved invisible piles of luck with his cupped hands in a gentle demonstration, "trying to keep ahead of the ledger that's chasing you your whole goddamn life." He smiled in the way only he could, his teeth were needles. "Stay in the black and get out while the gettin's good? No, I plan on overstaying my welcome. Cash out every piece of good luck the second I can, and when I run out pass as much bad paper as I can write until five seconds before everyone smartens up and beats down my door with pitchforks and torches. The last indignity will be my manufactured luck getting me clear without so much as an offending wind inconveniencing the part in my hair, and everyone else is left with my red column in their ledger and their ass backwards desire to balance the book no matter what." We were on the dirty boardwalk looking at the blackness of the sea that night. Alone and still he leaned in to whisper, "I don't have a book," he was a karmic deadbeat. "The only way not to fall behind is to have those bills sent elsewhere."
The waitress was transfixed, charmed like a snake lulling her head, hypnotized by his steel blue gaze. "The day I was born they gave me a killer's name and here I am, an artful practitioner, living symbolism, sublime predestination. James. Cagney. James. Pleased to meet you, you sweet young thing."
I met him playing cards, he wore that same suit, the only nice one he owned. "Luck does not seem like a currency you trade in," I had just walked away from the table after a parade of bad hands, and he followed unsolicited to keep me company. "Neither do I, trade in it, anyway. Take some bad luck here, be paid back with good later," he moved invisible piles of luck with his cupped hands in a gentle demonstration, "trying to keep ahead of the ledger that's chasing you your whole goddamn life." He smiled in the way only he could, his teeth were needles. "Stay in the black and get out while the gettin's good? No, I plan on overstaying my welcome. Cash out every piece of good luck the second I can, and when I run out pass as much bad paper as I can write until five seconds before everyone smartens up and beats down my door with pitchforks and torches. The last indignity will be my manufactured luck getting me clear without so much as an offending wind inconveniencing the part in my hair, and everyone else is left with my red column in their ledger and their ass backwards desire to balance the book no matter what." We were on the dirty boardwalk looking at the blackness of the sea that night. Alone and still he leaned in to whisper, "I don't have a book," he was a karmic deadbeat. "The only way not to fall behind is to have those bills sent elsewhere."
The waitress was transfixed, charmed like a snake lulling her head, hypnotized by his steel blue gaze. "The day I was born they gave me a killer's name and here I am, an artful practitioner, living symbolism, sublime predestination. James. Cagney. James. Pleased to meet you, you sweet young thing."
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