Going, Going, Gone

by Jack Womack

  ‘What’s the protocol in this situation?’ she asked. ‘Draw straws?’

  ‘Flip coins,’ I said. ‘Look, haste wastes. We’ll chat anon, bet on it. I swear.’

  ‘You’re so sexigismal.’ She whinnied a king-size horselaugh. ‘Fill me in later. Don’t need the liner notes but I got to see the cover.’

  I clicked off and cradled.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I told my house guests. Chlojo popped her contacts out and gave me a look that could fry eggs.

  ‘Forgotten, forgiven,’ Eulie said, shrugging. ‘We’ve quantified theoreticals. Cease and rebag, Chlo.’

  Big baby slung the satchel over her arm and dropped in the boxes like she was scooting along on cotton detail. Eulie slid the rod and her card back into her bag and pressed the top shut. ‘You’re rolling?’ I asked.

  A pause. ‘Leaving, yes. We’ve questions still, but have basics.’

  ‘Will you let me in on why these two have such a heavy jones for me?’ I asked. ‘This is my castle, after all, I’d like to know who keeps hopping over the moat.’

  ‘You’ve nexused,’ Chlojo said, stonepussed.

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘You’re centring the phenomenon,’ Eulie said. ‘Unexplainable, presently.’ ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘We’ll visit again. Possibly without notice. Acceptable?’

  ‘We can work something out,’ I said, sidling in closer so she could better appreciate my own charms. Maybe it was only Chlojo’s wicked muggles in action but the notion stuck in my head that I’d never met any kitten with her kind of purr. It wasn’t just the white boots; the pink ray shone on her with a vengeance and I was rocking with a steady roll. I was willing to cut her some slack even if she was one of Bennett’s. ‘When?’

  ‘Depends on circumstance,’ she said. ‘Walter, I’m questioning. How do you work?’

  ‘Whenever I need to but I don’t make it a steady habit,’ I said. ‘Long as you keep your time in to a minimum the boys in the boat might keep you on the line but they’ll never haul you in.’

  ‘No, I’m confusing you,’ she said. ‘What is your job?’

  Mighty peculiar line of inquiry if Bennett’s goal was to find out something he didn’t already know. Granted, he might not have filled her in on what my gig was even if she’d asked. ‘Freelance work,’ I said. ‘For the government, mainly. Acts of chemical interference in the national interest.’

  She stared at me. ‘That’s necessaried?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I said. ‘In return I get considerable leeway when it comes to how I spend my free time. Listen, there’s something I got to ask.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s say you’re Greek, maybe Sicilian. Just for the sake of saying it.’

  ‘AO,’ she said, frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘But Chlojo here owns up to being half Jamaican. How does she get by without constantly getting run down by the bloodboys?’

  ‘Uncomprehended,’ Chlojo said. ‘Bloodboys?’

  Eulie smiled like she’d finally gotten the punchline. ‘Chlo,’ Eulie said. ‘Recollect preparatory briefings. Foreseeable dissimilitude.’

  Chlo nodded. Neither of them answered my question. ‘Walter, would you favour us?’ Eulie asked.

  ‘Love to,’ I said. Couldn’t beat these two when it came to keeping mum. If they weren’t Bennett’s gals that was probably a plus. Truthfully I was getting to the stage where I’d start going not just out of the way for Eulie, but completely off the map. ‘How so?’

  ‘Would you demonstrate a record?’

  ‘You mean you want me to play one?’ Both of them gave me the go-ahead. ‘Got any favourites?’

  ‘Nada,’ Eulie said. ‘You select.’

  Strolling casually to the wall I pondered the choices. Chick Webb or Charlie Christian? Barbecue Bob or Blind Lemon? Maybe put on the mountain boys to get a different kind of missing? Grayson and Whitter or Tom Karnes, in that case? Or go lightheaded and pick Ted Weems and his Orchestra? ‘Nagasaki’ as done by Billy Costello, the guy who did the voice of Popeye? Inspiration hit me and I slid out one of my faves. The gals circled me like buzzards, eyes wide, while I performed the rituals. After laying the disc on the papered plate I positioned the needle and let Geeshie Wiley spin.

  If I die, if I die,

  In the German War,

  Pleeeeeeaaase take my body

  Send it back to m’ mother’n’law

  Geeshie, like a lot of us, still had a certain freedom of movement back at the end of the twenties, on into Depression days. Geeshie was one of those angels who dropped down at the hotel where the music man was staying long enough to cut a few platters before sailing back into the sky. Left a better taste in your mouth to picture it that way, at least. In any event Geeshie disappeared on her own long before the bloodboys could take care of it for her. I had both her records, all four sides. Found one in the Seattle Salvation Army. Twenty years later found this one, the best, Last Kind Word Blues, in a junk shop on Allen Street. After that, no more Geeshie. No more of any of them, only their records, and those marvellous labels: Grey Gull, Electradisk, Puretone, Resona, Columbia, Melotone, Radiex, American Odeon. My people preserved – sweet, black, and shiny.

  During the third instrumental break Eulie spoke. ‘It’s familiared, I’ve heard.’

  The Mississippi River,

  it’s deep and it’s wide

  IIIIIIII can stand right here,

  See my face on the other side.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked when the song ended.

  ‘Geeshie Wiley,’ I said, lifting the disc up, reclothing and reshelving it with all the respect Geeshie deserved. ‘Where’d you hear it? Wasn’t ever on a comp, far as I know.’

  ‘These are all like that?’ she asked, gesturing at my wall of sound.

  ‘Most aren’t that good. Some are. A few better but not many.’

  They started toward the kitchen. Eulie looked better to me then than she had all night, if only because she was getting ready to take off. Call me an idiot, it wouldn’t be a new experience. These mantraps may have been hazardous as hungry tigers or Southern cops but she’d put enough of a hex on me that I was no longer fretting over it, at least not too much. ‘We kind of got off on the wrong foot. You sure you got to rush off?’

  ‘Presently,’ she said. ‘We’ll return.’

  ‘What about your phone number?’

  I was really digging that goofball baffled look that her face took on so often. ‘It’s unlisted,’ she said, after a second. ‘I’ll contact.’

  ‘Got you.’ Hadn’t gotten her yet, but if I had any say in the matter I would.

  ‘Walter, make note of when they return. Record how often you see them and where, and when.’

  ‘When they return?’ I asked. ‘Not if?’

  ‘When,’ she repeated. ‘We’ll be touching, Walter.’

  ‘In touch,’ Chlojo muttered.

  I mean we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Either way sounds good to me,’ I said, and before I could say anything else they were out the door. ‘Either or. Whatever.’

  Even though I hotfooted it, by the time I got to the windows in the front they’d already disappeared. Hated to see such sweet delights hit the bricks, but if there wasn’t pain in life the pleasure wouldn’t count for shit. In lieu of carnal life I lay down on my sofa, feeling the imprints they’d left, and reached into my stash to roll up a nightcap. All the lamps still worked so I supposed the lightshow hadn’t DCed the AC. Sad to say, the phone was also still working. After letting it go four or five rings I took a long drag and decided to see who was so persistent at that time of night.

  ‘Been thinking about our offer?’ Bennett, naturally. Privacy wasn’t a concept he took much stock in.

  ‘Don’t be a worrywart, my brother. Wears away the stone.’

  ‘No worries here, Walter,’ he said. ‘Any worries on your end?’

  ‘Can’t say there are –’ Taking another draw, I realized I hadn
’t ascertained the provenance of Chlojo’s supernatural produce. Hoped Bennett’s phone call was merely one of the aftereffects.

  ‘There will be,’ he said, trying to do Bogart, failing miserably. ‘You can’t imagine. I can.’

  ‘You got a licence to use that imagination?’ I asked. ‘By the way, what’d you send those cookies over to see me for?’

  Silence. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Bennett, you’ll get no Oscars playing the coy miss,’ I said. ‘There’s no fooling a fooler, my brother.’

  He sighed. Nothing I tried seemed to prompt him to hang up. ‘The hell with you. Do what we ask or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘What is it again I’m supposed to be doing? Refresh my memory. I get distracted when roller derby queens put the strongarm on me.’

  ‘You’re incoherent, you idiot.’ No doubt about it, those babies weren’t his. That lifted my happy heart a little higher. ‘Get back on the wagon before it’s too late. Remember what we talked about this morning? In Washington?’ Another pause on his end. ‘You remember being in Washington?’

  ‘Haven’t blacked it out yet but I’m trying,’ I said. ‘Bennett, I told you and Martin and those two nightcrawlers, I’m not having anything to do with the Potato Famine and I mean it. Bug off.’

  He hung up. I laid the receiver in the cradle and panned the room. My two ghosts hadn’t wasted any time; they’d come back for an encore now that the crowd had thinned out.

  Help, he said, or at least I heard it being said. Remembered he’d kept the lid on while the girls were here but could be their gizmos put the quietus on him. Seemed like I was going to have to get used to these two moochers, but as long as their being around brought back the livelier pair, I could handle that. I’d started to take a final toke on the nubbin when he came up with a fresh line.

  Walter, he said. Help.

  THREE

  Having old see-through tuning in on my nom de guerre and trying to make with the small talk like he’d cornered me at a party made me come down with one bad case of chicken pox, accent on the bird. Didn’t think it’d set a good precedent if I started letting ghosts get the upper hand, so after the first time he called for Philip Morris I went all tastee freeze on him, suspecting that if I made any kind of move he’d really start with the chitchat. Seemed to me the only way to play this was by going easy on the shuck and jive; tried pulling a maitre’d act instead, acting like he was trying to crash the list.

  ‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

  Walter.

  ‘Must be some confusion. I’m one of the Smith boys.’

  Help.

  ‘Kind of losing my patience here,’ I said, the challenges of ethereal plane communication seriously messing with my head. ‘Who are you? You got a name? A handle? What’d your mom call you?’

  Now he threw the Silent Sam treatment on me. Seemed to be giving me the beady eye but it was hard to say for sure. I tried tiptoeing a little to the left to see if his look followed but it didn’t, he stared straight on like I was still there. I trotted behind him, and then popped up on the right. Not a glimmer of recognition in the boy.

  Walter.

  It came clear to me that even though he knew I was there and even had a grip on my monicker, the advantage was mine when it came to who knew where the other was hanging out. I leaned in a little closer to him but didn’t notice anything I ever read about in the ghost stories – where he dangled wasn’t colder than anywhere else in the place. I wasn’t feeling any vibes that I didn’t ordinarily feel; not a hair on my neck was even thinking about rising. Now that I had him under the microscope I saw he wasn’t giving me the beady eye; what I couldn’t see for sure was if he had eyes. Where they should have been there were just two black tunnels in his head that went somewhere you knew you wouldn’t want to go. His comrade in arms still lay there in his arms, staying noncommittal. I imagined if she’d known, she’d have been just as happy to be out of it.

  Help me.

  ‘My brother, you got me at a disadvantage,’ I said. ‘If I’m going to scratch your back, you ought to least pretend to scratch mine.’

  It was pretty obvious though that he wasn’t in any shape to scratch anything. Giving up on the old college try I left him behind and walked into the kitchen, feeling the call of the gut – realized I hadn’t chowed since I was on the train to NY. Before I opened the icebox I took a peek to my rear but they’d not left the front room. Nothing like breakfast at midnight; I turned on the radio and turned in WNEW while fixing myself Adam and Eve on a raft. Nightbird was clearly in a heavy Zombies mood but I could deal with it. As I put away the snacks I let my mind wander, not that it wasn’t always a challenge to keep it leashed. Thought about those girls, especially peewee. Chlojo had those rococo qualities, but she was a moody miss and besides I never felt much at ease with ladies who looked like they’d as soon bust your lip as kiss it. Now that I’d had a chance to see both close up, Eulie was the one I’d –

  Walter.

  Train of thought skidded off the tracks again. He lounged in the doorway, striking the usual pose. Got bored in the front room, I supposed, and came to see what was doing out here. I offered them eggs, but they weren’t buying. Just when I thought they were going to do their hang-dog act all night they started fading from the floor up, as if somebody was taking an eraser to him. Ten, fifteen seconds – no more – and they vamoosed.

  Now I don’t spend much rehearsal time on the Big Book but at least I know the lines. The BB tells us after you catch the last bus to tomorrowland you have to make a pit stop at demiurge central before they let you up on the high ground. The archons and fiends of this world know they can’t keep you there forever, so they make you miserable as they can while they got the chance – it’s their metier. I’d always had doubts about this theory, not being as much a believing man as my father was, but I had to admit once I got a gander at my ghosts I was willing to buy it. Judging from the looks of those two I wondered if the demiurges hadn’t figured out a way to hold onto passers-through indefinitely.

  ‘Hello, out there,’ I hollered. Nothing. Decided to taper off on my theological meanderings, and went to dump my dish in the sink. I noticed something on the counter, near the breadbox. Bless her heart. Chlojo left me a present; a forest-green bud about the size of a shooter waited for me, probably the one she’d done me in with earlier. I slid my paw into a kitchen mitt before plucking that june bug. Considering how scent alone produced a DMT-like rocket launch I could only imagine how high I’d fly if I actually touched the bud; dropping it into a baggie I smiled, knowing I’d never have to smoke it to go sailing – perma-pot! you couldn’t beat it with a stick. Before snapping the bag shut I couldn’t resist taking one quick huff. When I came to, next morning, I saw two empty boxes of Betty Crocker cake mix and a used batter bowl, but no evidence that I’d baked.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘tell me tell me tell me –’

  Trish beseeched me all that day, wanting the dirt on how my evening went. Finally the little voyeur wore me out and I hoisted the white flag.

  ‘Uncle,’ I said. ‘Where you want to touch knees?’

  ‘I’m in a mood for high life. Enough rolling in the gutter. Let’s do the Plaza.’

  No use trying to put the quietus on this lunacy; once Trish put desire into word there was no turning back. ‘Swell,’ I said. ‘Not in the Fancy Dan rooms, though. So much starch in those shirts, makes me itch.’

  ‘All right, we’ll lurk on the shadier side. 59th Street’s more your speed anyway.’

  ‘Damn straight. Trader Vic’s?’ I suggested, getting a big-league jones for a pupu platter – that had to be an aftereffect.

  ‘So tiki tacky,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we take in the Free Movement of Musical Air?’

  ‘For real?’ I asked. ‘All right. Sold American.’

  ‘You better be ready to tell me the once-upon-a-time.’

  ‘Nine sharp,’ I said, staring at that bagged
bud lying on the counter. ‘Don’t go in the drunk tank before I make the scene. I’m bringing a surprise that won’t mix with gin.’

  ‘Everything mixes with gin,’ she said. ‘Toodles, noodles.’

  In the Northeast, the Plaza’s Theremin Room was the last of the Mohicans. There were still joints like it in LA and Frisco, and the one in Seattle in the Olympic was still there as far as I knew. They were the bee’s knees back in the twenties and early thirties; then they found out the gizmos were bad, bad news anywhere within a two-mile radius of Teslas. Thirty-block blackouts if the frequencies harmonized right and never mind the gas ruptures. Back in the big sky country they’d always favoured hydroelectric, so it wasn’t as much of a problem; out west they claimed never using Teslas helped keep people out of tumour town but that was probably nothing more than xylocaine, something to ease the pain but not quite succeeding.

  That night I headed uptown and once the witching hour struck I made my walk-on. Spotted Fabs at the bar, savouring a bilious toddy, a grasshopper by all indications. As I strutted over to her I glommed the stage. In the pit a rhythmiconist plinked out a series of overtones and five thereminists stood in front of diamond-shaped speakers, fluttering their fingers over their boxes’ tone bars to evoke the countermelody. Two hepkittens in black leotards pranced atop the metal soundstage, shimmying away at some mean rain dance. Every move they took made additional notes warble by way of the oscillators picking up on the air currents, and the more they wiggled the more elaborate came the arpeggios and glissandos.

  ‘Good to see you in one piece,’ Trish said, and we enjoyed a mutual standing massage. ‘Thought those rangerettes’d grind you up and spit you out.’

  ‘I’m too chewy,’ I said, and signalled the barman to dredge up a high head. ‘What are –’

  ‘Look who I bumped into on the way over,’ she said. I looked; wasn’t much taken with the sight. Trish had thousands of best friends, housed in every penthouse and gutter in New York, native-born and Euro, but not many hit the spot with me. Sometime earlier I’d met this one – Biff? Boff? whatever mater pegged him back in Beantown – and already knew he didn’t come close to the mark. A Bennett without portfolio, somewhat more chiselled, with that lean Aryan look. Had that Art Moderne bone structure that makes the owners imagine the God of this world always has them in mind for bigger, better things. Didn’t mean I owed them my lunch money, though that always seemed to be what these pussywillows assumed.