Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  Farrell had hired an old friend from Hollywood High to run the vending machine business day to day. Bob Marshall was in his thirties, and he had the limp of a man with a prosthetic leg. Marshall was short, heavy, and had been a child actor on a TV series called San Pedro Blues. He had lost a leg on a motorcycle a few years ago, and now he held up his socks with thumbtacks on his wooden leg. His childhood acting career was long gone, and he spent his time reading science fiction novels, which he bought by the pickup truck load, then, after reading them, sometimes two a day, he’d take the load back to a store on San Vicente, where he exchanged the books in his truck for half what he had paid, then loaded up his truck with a new supply.

  After the closing, Farrell found the truck parked in front of the building where Coin-A-Matic had its office. Bob Marshall’s back was to the street as he looked at some of the new titles in the bed of the truck.

  “Hey, Bob,” said Farrell. “Let’s look around. It’s all mine.”

  “Good, good,” said Bob.

  Bob dropped a yellowed book into the orderly piles of them in the bed of the truck.

  “Still reading sci-fi,” said Farrell.

  “Couldn’t live without it,” said Marshall.

  Farrell put the key into a small door that was set into a larger one at the front of the building.

  “This place used to make fans,” said Farrell. “For artificial wind.”

  Farrell opened the door. Inside some vending machines were along one wall, and along the other wall cases of Doritos, Oreos, cheese in orange crackers, bacon-flavored chips, all in small bags that went into the machines. A workbench was next to the machines, and above it were tools, wrenches, pliers, a set of Allen wrenches, ball-peen hammers and mallets, crescent wrenches, and an ohmmeter and other electronic devices to check the wiring of the machines. A laptop was on the workbench, and it plugged into the back of the newer machines to run diagnostic software. Sometimes a motherboard had to be replaced in a vending machine. Bob Marshall, after losing a leg, had spent a lot of time tinkering with machines, and he said he should be able to fix what went wrong. He said that this business, vending machines, was “all maintenance.” Bob Marshall smiled when he said this and he said, too, that he “was just glad to have a job.” It made him feel more real, he said.

  The first week, Marshall drove the Coin-A-Matic van over the route, up the Cahuenga Pass out to Ventura and the Valley, which was, according to the previous owner, “A ghetto of vending machines.” Marshall filled the machines, took the bills out of the sheet metal box where they fell after being put into the machines, and brought the money to the building south of Santa Monica Boulevard. “Just like hammering nails,” he said. Farrell did the books. When he’d redeposited fifteen thousand of that twenty thousand dollars he hadn’t given to Mary Jones, he’d also deposited the first haul from Coin-A-Matic. The woman with the cancer tan at the Bank of America took the cash without any curiosity, although she said, “If you’ve got a vending machine business, you should get a device to count money. Saves time.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Farrell.

  In the second week, in the evening, Farrell was at the office of Coin-A-Matic. Bob said one machine was “wonky,” but he could fix it.

  Nikolay and Pavel walked from their car, a black SUV, which they had parked across the street. Nikolay wore a tight T-shirt and looked as though he didn’t realize the benefits from lifting weights were limited, and walked with a gait that wavered from side to side, not a swagger, but something that made Farrell look at him more directly. Pavel was heavyset, too, but more from pelmeni and vodka, heavy in the stomach, short legs, his face marked with acne scars. Nikolay was taller but seemed to be Pavel’s older brother. Maybe it was just the expression, which reminded Farrell of the glance of a python. Not mean spirited, really, just all business. They had moved from Russia to Queens, and then from there to LA, where they thought it would be easier to make money.

  Nikolay stepped through the small door in the large one at the front of the building.

  “Let me introduce myself,” said Nikolay.

  “Yeah,” said Pavel. He touched his gray skin and those scars that looked like a relief map of the moon. “We’ve got to talk.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Farrell.

  “That’s right,” said Nikolay.

  “Who are these guys?” said Marshall.

  “Who are we?” said Nikolay. “Let me explain.”

  It took about twenty minutes. They stood in the main room with the supplies for the vending machines, next to the bench with tools for repairing them, and it came down to three hundred dollars a month, “regular,” said Pavel, and Farrell stood there, nodding, yes, yes, yes. Nikolay and Pavel already had a list of the places that had machines from Coin-A-Matic, and knew, too, which customers were difficult. For instance, there was a man from India who had a mini-mart on Ventura Boulevard, and he was flirting with signing with someone else. So, Nikolay said, “When an Indian in Studio City calls, you better treat him right.”

  “I noticed him,” said Bob Marshall.

  “That’s good, my friend. That’s very good,” said Pavel.

  “Word gets around,” said Nikolay. “You know, if someone has a complaint. And, if someone has a complaint, then that means I have a complaint. Because if you lose business, then I lose business.”

  “Exactly,” said Pavel.

  Then Pavel and Nikolay went out the door with that swaying, vain gait, as though they had just had a large and very satisfying meal, and they left behind them an expensive scent that hung in the air like an invisible feather boa.

  Marshall said, “Why did you go for this?”

  Farrell opened the small door and stared at the two of them as they got into their black SUV.

  “I can’t have any trouble,” said Farrell.

  “Then why are you laughing,” said Marshall.

  Farrell went on, that deep, constant laugh echoing in the small warehouse. The boxes of chips, the cases of water and Coke and Red Bull that gave off the reassuring scent of cardboard.

  “That laughing is making me uneasy,” said Marshall.

  “So,” said Farrell. “I try to do the right thing. To pay taxes on what I make, and I get this? And you ask why I am laughing?”

  “These guys don’t look funny to me,” said Marshall.

  “No,” said Farrell. “I guess not.”

  The van for Coin-A-Matic, which was parked near the front door, was new. Farrell looked at Marshall.

  “You aren’t having any trouble driving this?” said Farrell.

  “No,” said Marshall. “It’s an automatic. No trouble.”

  “The route is okay? No problems?” said Farrell.

  “Not until these two,” said Marshall. He gestured toward the door.

  Farrell put his hand to the side of one eye where the tears had collected.

  “I wish you wouldn’t laugh like that,” said Marshall.

  “If an Indian guy calls from Studio City,” said Farrell. “Let’s try to keep him happy.”

  “I can handle it,” said Marshall. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “You can never tell,” said Farrell.

  Marshall pulled up his pant leg, took out the thumbtack that held up his sock, pulled the sock up, and put the thumbtack in. It had a red head, and the socks were blue.

  “I think I’m going to go home,” said Farrell.

  “What are you going to do?” said Marshall.

  “Read Thucydides,” said Farrell. “Think things over.”

  “Like what?”

  How much longer is it going to be until Terry Peregrine gets into more trouble? What Mary Jones is doing? When the card is going to come?

  “T-t-his and that,” said Farrell.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Marshall. “I got some good books in the bed of my truck. You know what? I’ve got a copy of Tau Zero.”

  “Tau Zero,” said Farrell. “No kidding.”

 
“A classic,” said Marshall.

  “So, stick with the route,” said Farrell.

  “No problem,” said Marshall. “Piece of cake.”

  5

  THREE WEEKS AFTER THE CLOSING for Coin-A-Matic, Braumberg called to say, “He’s done it again. He says he may need your help.”

  “May? May?” said Farrell. “Can you tell me what that means, that ‘may’?”

  “I’ll call you when I know,” said Braumberg. “He didn’t sound so good.”

  No kidding, thought Farrell.

  “We haven’t got too many shooting days left,” said Braumberg.

  “The problem will come later,” said Farrell.

  “We’ll see,” said Braumberg.

  Yeah, thought Farrell, maybe the accountant is right. Sometimes it’s better not to see.

  In the weeks between the closing and the call about Terry having “done it again,” Farrell had watched Rose Marie as she moved things around in her house, put up curtains, and loaded her car with cardboard boxes for the recycling center. She stopped by from time to time.

  A few days before the call, Rose Marie tapped on his window, her freckles visible, a strand of hair in front of her nose, which she blew away, poof. . . . He opened the door and she stood there, looking him over.

  “How’s the unpacking going?” he said. “The moving in?”

  “I just wanted to get away from . . .” she said. “The . . .”

  “Clutter,” he said. “It’s the worst part of moving. Small chaos.”

  “I don’t know about small,” she said.

  “After death and disease, moving is one of the most stressful things you can do.”

  “You should go on a quiz show,” she said. “You’d make a bundle. Obscure facts.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  She still wore the T-shirt with the Children’s Hospital logo. The list of words, which he had printed from the stutter’s website, sat on the kitchen counter. Rose Marie glanced at it, mouthed a word, then looked at Farrell.

  “Tell me about that,” he said. He gestured, with his head, to the logo on her T-shirt.

  She shrugged.

  “It’s complicated. People get strange about it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Maybe you can tell me later. Is it a matter of trust?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “You know,” he said. “I bet with all that moving you aren’t cooking. Let me make dinner.”

  “Can you cook?” she said.

  “I know a few things,” he said.

  She drank a glass of white wine, which was like the distilled light of France, and she watched as he made linguine alle vongole, and a salad, which he put on the table in the small nook that had a view of her house.

  “This is good,” she said. “Wow. How do you know how to do this? It beats the Chinese takeout I’ve been getting.”

  “Trial and error,” he said.

  She took the plates from the table and put them in the sink, and when she came back, she hesitated at the list of words on the counter. Then she poured wine into each of their glasses.

  “I have a little trouble s-s-sometimes. The list helps.”

  He wondered if she thought less of him, or as a sort of human fire sale.

  “Honest, too,” she said.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said.

  She kept on looking at him.

  “So, what about that little scar in your eyebrow. There’s been some rough trade along the line. Is that it?”

  “A long time ago,” he said.

  “And so what do you do?” she said.

  “I help people,” he said. “You know, when they get into trouble.”

  “This is the right town for it,” she said.

  “That’s what I’ve noticed,” he said.

  “You must know something about this town,” she said. “Given your line of work.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I know something.”

  “Maybe you could help me,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said. “What are neighbors for?”

  He gestured to the logo.

  “What about that? Long hours?”

  “It depends on how sick the kids are,” she said.

  “So, you work with sick kids?” he said.

  “Yes. But, as I said, people get odd about it. A lot of times I tell people about the kids and then it’s not the same. They don’t turn away from me but they keep their distance.”

  “How sick are they?” he said, although everything about her suggested the answer, and so he wasn’t surprised when she said, “Terminal. They get bored, you know. You can imagine. Sitting around and waiting . . .”

  She kept her eyes on Farrell. Was he another poser you met in California, not false so much as held together by desperation?

  “Would you like to meet them?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Just like that?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to trust you.”

  “It’s your funeral,” he said.

  Then she gave him that two-hundred-watt smile.

  “You sure you want to come?” she said.

  “If I said I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” he said.

  He could see she was thinking, Is this man real, or does he just seem real? Farrell began to wonder about that himself as she kept looking at him.

  “I’ll come,” he said.

  “I’ll call a day before I ask you to visit,” she said. “To give you a little warning.”

  “What do you want me to talk about?” he said.

  “Well, the kids like nothing better than trouble. Who doesn’t?”

  “Hmpf,” he said.

  “Is that hmpf, yes, or hmpf, no?” she said.

  “It depends on the trouble,” he said.

  “I’m not asking you to get graphic,” she said.

  “I can talk around things,” he said.

  “What’s your phone number?” she said. She took a drink. “I’m going to go finish putting my kitchen together, put lampshades on, break up some boxes, the last fodder for the recycling center . . . but I’ll text you the kids’ pictures so you can learn their names. It makes things easier.”

  She emptied her wineglass, stood up, leaned close to him, the smooth skin of her cheek touching his, and said, “You are probably going to be trouble. It always happens fast, doesn’t it?”

  “When it happens,” he said.

  “But what’s a girl to do?” she said.

  “There’s always time to get out,” he said.

  “But we haven’t even started,” she said. “I think.”

  At the door she looked over her shoulder and said, “At least you can learn their names while you are brooding about whatever it is . . .”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  Then she smiled.

  The pictures came about two minutes after she closed the door to her house, and he scrolled through them on his iPad. She had included, for each photograph, a description of what was killing them.

  Gerry, Catherine, Ann, and Jack. Somehow, Farrell had assumed that they would all look alike, bald, pale, sad. But Gerry had red hair, freckles, and while he might have been a little thin, Farrell would never have thought that he was sick. Or, no, no lies. Dying. Almost dead. Gerry looked directly at the camera and smiled, his eyes showing some deep awareness, which might have been pain or anger or intense wisdom.

  Gerry. Okay. That was one name. He didn’t want to walk into the room where Rose Marie met with these kids, and have to ask their names, or, if he did ask, he wanted to make sure that he didn’t have to ask twice. What could make him look more like an idiot than having to ask a dying kid his name more than once?

  Ann was blond with curly hair, but maybe this was the way it grew back after a bout of chemotherapy, that contradictory word, as though almost killing you was therapy. Farrell guessed that’s what it too
k for the cancers that these kids had. Pancreatic cancer, for instance. Ann had that same expression of anger and wisdom and Farrell found himself looking into her eyes the way he did when he was at the top of a cliff and felt the attraction of that empty space below.

  Catherine was dark, oddly beautiful, in that sick or not, she still had a sort of heroin chic, pale skin, dark hair, and the blue eyes of a model. She didn’t smile as much as the others, as though her beauty, which she must have been aware of, was heavy or painful. Still, she had something Farrell couldn’t name, knowledge, certainty, an awareness of something most people spent their time avoiding.

  That left Jack, who had glioblastoma multiforme, a pediatric brain cancer that killed almost everyone who got it. He was a little cross-eyed, brown haired, thin, still smiling although it left Farrell with the sensation of being at the top of a roller coaster that was about to make that first long fall. Gerry, Catherine, Ann, and Jack. Farrell swiped from one to the other to make sure he had the names. Then he glanced at the clock and realized he had been looking at the pictures for a long time. What was it those kids had? Dignity and bravery.

  * * *

  The next day, his phone rang with Braumberg’s ID showing. Farrell knew it was coming, but the memory of Rose Marie in his house and the display on the caller ID left a new, an unexpected dissonance.

  Braumberg said, “You better get up there.”

  “Terry’s house?”

  “Yeah, Terry’s house,” said Braumberg. “And, get this, a mother of one of the girls is involved. A receptionist who works at Universal.”

  So there was more than one girl?

  “Is she there now?” Farrell asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Braumberg. “That’s your job, right?”

  Farrell had some cash in an envelope, and he put it in the pocket of his blue chambray shirt. He still looked like he worked for Outward Bound.

  Rose Marie’s presence from the day before lingered in the kitchen. Was it a motion in the air, a small change in the charge of the room, a vibration of some sort that was so frail that he wondered, Could I be imagining it? The air in the room seemed different, but it was impossible to say how it had changed. Now, though, the mood was going back to the way it usually was. Whatever she’d left drained away, and as it went, he tried to stop it by considering what she had told him about growing up in California, that her parent’s house, in Hidden Valley off the Ventura Freeway, had simply vanished in a fire, the foundation like dust, the stink as intense as a bombed-out city. It smelled like a skunk. The loneliness, the emptiness of what had been left lingered, or she had grafted it into herself, which made her incomplete until she began to work with the kids who were sick.