by P G Loiselle
“Boo,” he whispered and giggled. “Got something for you, Moore.” He held an envelope above his head, making conductor movements with his hands while attempting a pirouette.
“I’m about to punch out. What if I don’t want it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing for work. It’s for you, personally.” He let it fall onto the floor and started singing, ‘la-di-dadi, la-di-dadi’…
I picked it up, sliced open the brown envelope at its seam and removed the document. A notice, it was. “Another increase in my interest rate? What’s this all about?”
“I think you know. And can do the math. Let’s see…twenty G’s times 25% is…hmm…five thousand dollars a year. That’s an awful lot of money for someone on your salary, especially with a mortgage on top.”
“This isn’t legal.”
“You’re the one who begged for an advance and then signed the contract with those gentlemen I was nice enough to introduce you to. Pity you didn’t read the fine-print”
“I thought they were bankers.”
“They are of sorts. I could gladly arrange for them to pay you a visit and discuss the new terms if you’d like. Or…,” he wiggled his ten fingers like he was playing piano, “you could hire an expensive lawyer. They’d most certainly advise you to be a good sport and pay your debts. We all have debts to pay…some more than others. Got to go, Moore. Have a pleasant day,” he said and twinkle-toed away singing his ‘la-di-dadi’ song.
Thursday, July 16, 1987
Besides Carney, who’s grinding on me and I’m beginning to detest, it’s gotten very quiet for us since Monday, as if nothing ever happened. Stone and his other devotees were nowhere to be seen. They stopped coming to my house, didn’t bother me at work, and didn’t follow me. Stevie, Mike and the rest of our gang weren’t pestered by their unwelcome presence either. Besides, Stone’s hatchet men even moved on to bully others in the office. I’m sure it’s too good to be true, and they’ll show up when least expected and least wanted. This recess without them on my back has done me good, and better yet, I got to meet Amy, on more than one occasion.
Monday, I was there with Stevie, and we got nowhere with our plan. Tonight, was more of a clandestine mission, and I’d gone it alone. I didn’t even ask Stevie if he wanted to come. It would have only complicated things. And it was emotional, very. And even though we’re still in mortal danger, I feel better, much.
Dale swapped his chopper for an on/off-road Suzuki PE 250 cc enduro, which is much better for cruising up and down the Towpath or on any heavy terrain in case of a chase. I’d be more flexible and, in and around the mills, there are a lot of escape routes if you’re two wheeling it on a light yet powerful dirt bike and know where to go.
Once nighttime settled in, I slipped out the back for the third time this week and was quickly on route to the warehouse via the long way. It took fifteen minutes extra than going direct but was much safer since I could be sure nobody was following me. I started north on Mendon Road, swung a left at the Boys Club and drove on towards Quinnville. Right after the bridge over the Blackstone River, I turned onto the Towpath and continued until I reached my destination. I’d been on the Towpath countless times before but not bawling along at high speeds in the pitch black of night on a Japanese rice burner, hardly keeping it under control. It was both frightening and exhilarating. Never was I afraid to stand up for myself, even in the toughest of situations, however, this was different. The stakes were high, and if we were sloppy or our luck ran out, one or more of us could pay the ultimate price.
Going back to see Amy again already was stupid, but I somehow had to be with her. I felt that she needed somebody, and it might as well have been me. Yeah, it was me, and I felt great about it. It was as if it were a game, or a movie, or like one of those fantasies I used to have as a teen where I was tall and muscly and saved the girl that I was in love with from some tragedy that was about to happen to her. It was probably rather boyish of me thinking of myself as some sort of hero or savior, but that’s what it felt like. When I arrived, the ladder slid down, and I ascended only to be greeted by the sanctuary’s ecstatic captive.
“Wow, you’re really here,” Amy said, seeming both excited and desperate. “I haven’t talked to anybody all day besides Michael. It’s insane. I watched all the videos in Mike’s father’s collection already, and cable sucks ass.” She leaned to the right side and peeked behind me. “Where’s Stevie?”
“Home, I guess. Was he supposed to come?”
“No. No, not necessarily,” she said. “Michael only gave me the message that you’d be here at nine; I thought Stevie would come, too, like on Monday. I’m just so glad to have a real person to talk to.” She looked me in the eyes with her baby browns and stretched her lips, sending the corners of her mouth towards heaven. Her already sumptuous cheeks inflated like a time-lapse of red velvet cupcakes rising.
I smiled in return. “Bored out of your skull, huh? Could be a long stay, so you should find a way to make the best of it. What about aerobics, the Jane Fonda Workout? Or read some of the classics like On the Road or Rumblefish?” She folded her arms and slanted her head to the side. “Hey, I know,” I said. “Zen meditation, or Tai Chi or something like that, to calm you down.”
“Luke, dear, what the fudge are you tripping on? I don’t need any of that crap. I need to figure out what to do next. I’m just so cut off from what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. I didn’t hear a peep from those losers: not at work, not at home, not anywhere. Either they think we really don’t know where you are, or they’re waiting for us to slip up. Hope it’s the first hypothesis, but I highly doubt it. Besides, they started in on some of the others in the office, interrogating them like the Gestapo. Who knows? Maybe they’ll back off.”
“Really? Who?”
“Everyone,” I said and took my place on the sofa. “At least the office staff. Sally said they asked about you, and especially the money.”
“Me and the money, huh? Honestly, those butt brains won’t get shit out of the others, so you’re probably stuck being their only hope. They’ll either wait to strike like you said or don’t have a frickin’ clue and are wasting time trying to figure out what to do. I’d bet they don’t have a clue after seeing what stooges they are so far.”
“We don’t know what to do either,” I said. “Look what a waste our brainstorm session with Stevie was. It was more like a brain-drizzle.”
“Not the exact details. We have a strategy. Set them up and have them caught in the act, by the police, like we talked about.”
“Easier said than done. What act and how do we get them caught?”
“Luke, baby, those are details that you, Stevie and the boys, and even that worthless PI need to help me figure out. You’re all my eyes and ears and parts of my brain. I’m like in this luxury prison fiddling with my knob all day. You’re on the outside and know what’s going on. I need input, information, ideas. Anything you see or hear, I need to know.”
“Like I said, on Monday, we came up with squat. Stevie was even more worthless than me. Except for the others in the office getting questioned, nothing happened. What else can I say?”
Amy walked over to the couch and sat down beside me. Her golden smile seemed to be tattooed to her face. “Nothing happened yet, but it sure will, and you need to be ready for the unexpected, at all times.” Her tone was lecturing. “And whatever happens, never ever give it away that you know where I am, even under torture. Play dumb, like you are sometimes.”
“When am I dumb? Stevie’s dumb sometimes, not me.”
“He’s not dumb. Just very…we’ll call it deep. And you are dumb, absolutely stupid sometimes. Like when you’re jealous.”
“When am I jealous?”
“You don’t think I saw the look on your face when you showed the picture of me and Stevie sucking face. It was so obvious, Luke. I kissed
you too, you know. No tongue but still a wet one. You don’t usually French kiss your best friend.” She paused, gaping at me as if I did something wrong. “Oh, you didn’t realize that you’re my best friend? Maybe I’m not yours but you’re mine. Ever notice I don’t have many other friends and certainly no girlfriends? Every time I started hanging out with other girls, they all turned out to be bitches with a capital B, envious bitches at that. They all tried to score my boyfriends behind my back or did something conniving. So, I kicked them to the curb, every one of them. My guys weren’t interested in those hoe-bags anyway.” She sniffed in a big huff of air and tried not to appear snobbish. “Now I’m not saying that all girls are bitches or hoes. I’m just a guy’s girl. Kind of like a grownup tomboy who’s not a lesbo. The guys I date, they don’t count for me as normal friends. I can’t dick around with them like I do with you. And I can’t get that close and personal with them like I can with you, only down and dirty. They’re like objects. I don’t want to leave myself open by spilling my guts, you know. I want to be able to make a break on my terms, when I want, without ending up like a whiny, broken hearted fool. With you it’s different. I can be close and tell you all sorts of evil shit I’m hiding in the darkest corners of my soul if I want, knowing that you’re not going to use it against me. I usually don’t bother you with that muck, but I feel I could. If that’s not a best friend, then I don’t know what is. And I need to hold onto that feeling. How else am I going to get through this crazy mess I started?”
I didn’t want to deny my jealously because she was right. I was jealous, very jealous. And I still kind of am even though we clarified the kiss.
“Amy, you’re one of my closest friends in the whole world,” I said. “And you can talk to me about anything, anything at all, and I won’t judge or turn on you. I’m sure you didn’t get me involved in this thing or tell me about your father, cousin, the money, and everything else if you didn’t trust me 100%.” I stood up and walked about the room, mentally preparing my confession. Finally, I turned back to her and spoke out. “But I’m still a guy, Amy, and guys have egos and only think about sex, drugs and rock and roll. Well, in my case, sex and rock and roll. Well, actually, rock and roll’s way at the top of my list. Theoretically, sex too, if I had time for it and could get girls that I like to like me. Then again, it isn’t even about the sex. When it comes down to it, it’s about the relationship and at some point, having a family. You know, a wife and little kids who make you realize that life doesn’t only suck. But I’m short and fugly, and you’re tall and pornstar quality and girls like you are kind of unreachable for me. I guess I feel that fate kicked me in the balls and left me fighting for scraps.”
“Christ,” she said. “What are you even talking about? First of all, you’re not fugly. With that Rick Springfield doo of yours and those baby blues, you’re definitely a hunk. Maybe a mini-hunk since you’re bordering on midgetry, still hunkish though. Even better, you’re a frickin’ rock star, Lukey-Dukey. When you’re up on that stage, you own us all, including all the cute little girlies who want to jump into bed with you after every show. I’m positive they’re not thinking about how big you are.”
“Maybe, but once the night’s over and I’m left lying in bed by myself, I think about whether any of these hypothetical chicks would be interested in being with me for the long haul or whether I want to be with these groupie types in the first place.”
“I’m sure some of these hussies are dumb sluts who only want to sleep with the front man and then start chasing after the next one. I’m also sure that some of them would be interested in more than only a quick hump and have more to offer if you’d give them a chance. Hell, if I’m turned on by some dude, I’ll jump into bed with him on the first date. But I’m certainly not going to be turned on by some ignorant muscle man who’s a simple moron even if he is hotter than the afterburn of a Habanero.”
“You’re probably right,” I said and sank even lower thinking about how meaningless it all seemed. “You can tell yourself lots of things, but it’s damn hard to change the way you feel. Something in me is afraid that I’m going to miss the boat spending all this time on my pipe dream of becoming a rock star, and I’ll end up being alone while everyone else I know is happily married with kids, a dog and an in-ground pool.”
“Don’t you listen? You’re already a rock star, a poor rock star but one just the same.”
“Poor is right,” I said. “Just trying to keep up and don’t have a million like you.”
“That’s blood money and will somehow get back to those it belonged to, so don’t even think about it. Besides, are you going to rate your success based on how many millions you have? How many hotel rooms you smash up? Or if you can afford to snort an ounce of coke out of some groupie whore’s ass crack? Look at you. You’re invincible when you’re on stage, like the world belongs to you.”
Her demeanor kept shifting from a hard scold to soft praise. “Second of all, there are tons of bands out there that don’t have a fighting chance of making anything of themselves in the music business. But you guys, you have the talent, the sound and that sexy kind of mojo thing going on to make it big time. Clubs want to book you because you draw in the crowds, who drink lots of alcohol. Record companies want to sign with you because they think they can get rich selling your music. Concert promoters get excited when they see you and have you play at major music festivals. This business is all about placing a bet and hoping to get the next Duran Duran or U2 so they can make boatloads of moolah. And everyone wants a piece of you already. If that’s not a good sign, I don’t know what is.”
“I realize all that, and it’s irrational, but I…I don’t want to end up alone like I was as a kid. I can’t…can’t help it…” I teetered off at the end of the sentence. Without any warning, a tidal wave of sorrow walloped me, and I plummeted into a grave state, as if a pit of broken yesterdays had sunk in beneath my feet, and I collapsed right through, reaching no bottom. My own past, conveniently bottled up tight until now, seemed to have oozed into my consciousness from out of nowhere without me realizing it or having the wherewithal to shove it back down. I stared into nothingness, looking for a way to dig myself out, until Amy broke the silence.
“Luke. Hello, Luke. What’s gotten into you? Why’d you clam up like that?”
“What? Oh. Um…don’t know. This whole thing about your family and your father’s, um…drowning.”
“Murder,” she said.
“Murder,” I said, lacking the emotional charge she replied with. “It, well, made me think about my own mother and father.”
Amy gasped and reached for her heart. “Your parents? I’d never heard you talk about them. Probably too busy with myself and my own shit to ask. Tell me.”
“It’s not as dramatic as a murder, but I lost them when I was eight, a car crash. Nobody’s fault really, just an accident. You see, we were all in my father’s Italian two-seater convertible driving down Grove Street, the street we lived on, going too fast as always when the top was down. It felt so free having wind gusts blow fresh air into our snouts at higher speeds. Anyway, we were coming up to a stop sign, and my father was goofing around, looking at me in the rear-view mirror, trying to make me laugh. I was on a bumper seat set in the middle that my father rigged up from an old Harley. A car stopped in front of us, and when my father looked up, it was too late. He was about to smash into it. Out of panic, he swerved and slammed into a telephone pole instead. Just like that, in a split second, everything was over. My parents were killed almost immediately. They weren’t buckled up, while I was equipped with a double harness fit over my head, the kind they have on a whirling carnival ride. My father broke his neck, and my mother vaulted through the air and smashed her head against the pavement, scrambling her brain. Physically I wasn’t that bad, some cuts and scrapes and a minor case of whiplash, but I was in shock for weeks.” The building pressure behind my nose forced me to break, yet I co
uldn’t release. I sucked in a lungful of air and continued. “Eventually, Grandfather Moore came to get me out of the psycho ward at Butler Mental Hospital. Doctors thought it’d be best if I recovered in a familiar atmosphere. My nice grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Sully, lived in Georgia; my dad’s parents were the only family close by who could have taken me in.
“Personally, I don’t remember a thing right after the crash. I only heard details of what happened years later. An old friend of my father’s, some drunk, told me all down at The Corner one night. I quizzed him for hours until last call.” Outwardly I remained aloof, detached, as if I talked about a newspaper story I read. But inside, I felt a swell of a thousand conflicting feelings at once, slowly filling every crevice but finding no way out.
“My God, that’s awful.” Amy put her right hand on top of mine.
I tensed up and a solitary tear snuck out of my right duct. Then my inner crust cracked open, and like any liquid, unstoppable once it finds its way, all these old feelings spotted an outlet.
Amy looked at me as if she understood everything and started petting my hair with her left hand, grabbing clumps of strands, pulling gently until she reached the end, and then she’d repeat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I can so relate to what you must have gone through.” She wrapped both arms around my head pulling me into her chest, very motherly, like with Stevie after she slammed him with the chair. She continued stoking my hair in blobs while humming a familiar melody. “Oh Luke, I’m here for you.”
It was as if my heart burst open and, huddled within Amy’s bosom, I balled my eyes out. Stevie and his dad were the only ones who knew my story, and I hadn’t talked about it for a long time, and never ever with anyone else. It was the best cry I had in my life, and once it began, it wouldn’t stop. The release drained me to my innermost fiber yet was liberating, as if a sense of guilt and self-abolishment from the path to true happiness had been lifted from my psyche, and I felt part of something bigger than my own tiny being strapped down by my insignificant personal problems.