Fuck, Wiley thought, that's the problem with digging yourself into three holes. Climb out of one and there's always another to fall into.
Smith dropped Spew off at his grandma's house.
"Tell Grandma Eddie Haskell said 'Hi,' " he told Spew as he clambered out of the car.
"Who the fuck's Eddie Haskell?"
Smith pulled away from the curb without answering. He started to drive home. He was tired and needed sleep. Whatever needed to be said to Papa could wait until tomorrow. As he drove, though, he thought better of it. He and Spew had already fucked up twice. Papa would want to know right away. Hell, he'd sleep better after telling him.
He turned around and headed out to the highway that skirted the north side of town. He drove along the highway, past the Old Navy and the Linens 'n Things and the other icons of American retail life, and pulled into the parking lot of The Happy Beaver.
It looked like a New England boathouse. Walking in, you almost expected to see that salty character from "Jaws," instead of tits and ass. In its previous life, it was a seafood restaurant. That always amused Smith, for reasons that seemed to escape people he mentioned it to.
He walked in and nodded to the bouncer with the tattoos on the side of his shaved head. The guy was a huge Pittsburgh Steelers fan – so huge he changed his name to Santonio Roethlisberger Polamanu after the Super Bowl and had the team logo inked on his head, complete with the stripe bisecting his skull. Every time he saw him, Smith tried to work up the courage to tell him that the Steelers have the logo on only one side of their helmets. No matter. He just marveled at the commitment. He wondered whether he'd ever be that passionate about anything.
The investment bankers were on stage, performing a weird and complicated routine involving a huge blue tarp. It took Smith a moment to realize they were paying homage to the Troubled Assets Relief Program, the federal bailout of the investment houses in which they used to toil. Very clever, although it seemed to be lost among the strip club's patrons, who booed when the tarp covered up their tits, which happened all too often for their taste.
Smith stopped at the bar and asked Soshi, "Is he in?"
Soshi nodded toward Papa's office.
Smith walked back to the office, past the dancers' dressing room. As he walked by, he looked in and saw a redhead, hunched over the makeup table, reading a big book with a highlighter clenched in her teeth.
He watched her for a moment. She was beautiful. He was always partial to redheads. She sensed someone was there and she looked up from her book, turning her head toward Smith. They locked eyes for a moment.
Smith felt something. And it wasn't the usual thing he felt for the strippers. He had slept with some of the strippers. The investment bankers, for instance. But it wasn't that special. The investment bankers would bang anybody with a pulse and an erect penis.
He was staring for what should have been an uncomfortably long time. Instead, he didn't feel uncomfortable at all.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she said.
Suddenly, he felt as if he were back in seventh grade and trying to screw up the courage to talk to the pretty red haired girl in his homeroom. The stripper had pale brown eyes and freckles. He loved freckles. She smiled crookedly at him. He loved crooked smiles.
At first, Kathy was annoyed by this clown staring at her. He was average looking. Very average. Almost nondescript. Except his eyes. There was something about his eyes, not quite a sadness, more like a depth, like they had seen things they didn't want to see. Maybe she was reading too much into his eyes. Maybe the guy was just tired.
"I'm Ed."
"Kathy."
"Hi."
"You said that."
He stood in the doorway, awkwardly. He put his hands in his pockets and then took them out again. Then, scratched the back of his neck. His mind kept telling his hands to stop it, but they weren't listening.
Finally, he said, "I have to go. See you. Later. I mean, see you later? Will I see you later?"
"I'll be here."
"Good."
He looked away quickly and walked down the hall to Papa's office. He felt himself blushing. God, he felt like an idiot.
He walked into Papa's office, sat on the couch and told Papa, "It's done."
Chapter Eight
Spew banged through the front door and yelled, "Grandma, I'm home."
The house smelled like mothballs and peanut butter cookies. His grandma toddled out of the kitchen and said, "Bill! Where were you? I was looking all over for you."
Bill was Shane's dad, who'd been dead for almost 18 years, killed during the first Iraq war. Shane told people his dad was a war hero. In fact, he wasn't. He died from eating some bad goat.
"Grandma, it's me, Shane."
"Bill come on in here and have some cookies."
Shane thought he'd play along. It was the least he could do. Grandma raised him. He loved the old woman and when she got confused like this, it hurt.
"OK, mom." Grandma put a plate of cookies on the table and went to the refrigerator to get some milk.
"Bill?"
"Yes, mom?"
"Have you seen Buster?"
Nunn pulled the RV as far into his driveway as he could without driving into the crater. He woke Traci and helped her into the house.
The place wasn't too badly damaged. It still smelled of smoke, but it was livable. He helped Traci into bed and went to the kitchen to get a drink. He found a bottle of Evan Walker in the cupboard above the refrigerator and poured himself a glass, sipping it as he stood over the sink looking into the backyard, thinking.
First, his car blew up in the driveway. Then, his garage was blown to bits. And then, the retired dentist's RV exploded on the interstate outside of Memphis.
That was his RV that was supposed to explode on the Interstate.
Who knew he was in Memphis?
Who knew where, exactly he was in Memphis?
Who knew he was driving an RV?
Who told him it would be a good idea to take an RV?
Papa.
He looked at his glass, poured some more bourbon into it and said, "Fuck."
When Smith emerged from Papa's office, he stopped at the door to the dressing room and peeked in to see whether Kathy was there. She was. He stood in the doorway and stared at her as she read her big book, a goofy grin on his face. She sensed he was there and closed her book.
"Well?" Kathy asked as she studied her admirer. He was a good looking man, she thought. He was probably a good fifteen years older than her, but that was OK. Like a lot of women who lost their fathers at a tender age, she had a bit of a thing for older men, a daddy complex.
"Hi," Smith said.
"Hi."
"Do you eat?"
God, Smith thought, what a fucking idiot.
"I mean, have you had dinner yet?"
"No."
He was asking her out. Jesus, she thought, that's the last thing I need right now.
"I was thinking we could get something, you know, if you'd like."
He was blushing, Kathy thought.
"Ed, right? Shit, you're Ed Smith," she said.
"Um, yeah."
Kathy really needed to talk to him, but this wasn't the place.
"I'd love to have dinner with you, but I have one more set. Give me about half an hour?"
Smith waited for her outside The Happy Beaver. He opted for the parking lot, thinking it would be improper to be gaping at the investment bankers performing an all-nude tribute to hedge funds before seeing Kathy.
He sat in his car for half an hour, listening to the UFO guy on the radio. He didn't believe any of this shit, but once you started listening, you couldn't stop. Tonight, the guy was talking about how Bigfoot being revealed as a hoax was in itself a hoax and that the investigators who found out it was a hoax were also pulling off an elaborate hoax.
"Wheels inside wheels," the UFO guy said. "Wheels inside wheels. Nobody knows anything about anything. We're all bl
ind men in the kingdom of the sighted."
Smith was trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean when Kathy appeared at the door and tapped on the window.
"I'll follow you, OK?" she said. "Where would you like to go?
What are you hungry for?"
"I have a better idea," Smith said. "How about I stop at the grocery store on the way and meet you at my place? I'll cook."
He gave her his address.
Kathy looked at him with suspicion. She didn't know this guy. She didn't know if it was safe to go to his place. He could be some kind of serial killer. But she had to take a chance. She had to warn him.
"OK, see you there."
As she climbed into her compact car, she thought she was making a huge mistake. But he seemed nice enough. He didn't seem like a serial killer, she thought. Driving out of the parking lot, it occurred to her that they said the same thing about Ted Bundy.
She was still mulling that when she pulled to the curb in front of the address Smith had given her. It was a nondescript townhouse on a side street in the city. In this city, they were called row houses.
This is nuts, she thought. She started the car and thought about driving away. She didn't. She was moderately attracted to him. And if things get out of hand, she thought, I'll break his fucking arm.
A few minutes later, Smith pulled up and got out of the car carrying a bag of groceries.
"Hi," he said.
"You keep saying that."
"Sorry."
He led her to the door and let her in.
Kathy was stunned. The row house had been gutted and rehabbed. The living room ceiling was two stories high and a loft overlooked the space. Three of the walls were lined with tall bookcases, filled with books. There were also several stacks of books on the coffee table. "This is some place for someone who works for that asshole," Kathy said.
"It's not that big a deal. Bought it from the city for a dollar. Some kind of urban renewal deal. Did the work myself."
"You read all of these books?"
"Most of them."
He walked to the kitchen in the back. Kathy looked at the books on the table. Umberto Eco. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. "The Conquest of New Spain" by Bernal Diaz del Castillo. She picked that one up and read the back cover. A first person account of Cortez's conquest of the Aztecs?
She walked over to the bookshelves. Swift. Twain. Updike. Voltaire. Jesus Christ, she thought, they're in alphabetical order.
"Something to drink?" Smith called from the kitchen.
"Sure. What do you have?"
"I have the usual stuff. Wine? I have a few nice pinot grigios."
Pinot grigio? Kathy was terribly confused. He seemed like a beer-and-a-shot kind of guy. White wine?
"That'll be fine."
Kathy walked into the kitchen as Smith was pulling a bottle of wine from a well stocked under-counter wine cooler. She'd never seen a kitchen like this, at least outside the Food Network – granite counters, stainless appliances, an espresso machine that looked complicated enough to launch intercontinental ballistic missiles.
That's it, Kathy thought. This guy has to be gay.
"I hope you like ahi. The fish guy said it was fresh."
Jesus, Kathy thought, he's seriously gay.
"You wouldn't happen to have a cat, would you?" she asked.
"He's around here somewhere. He hides when company comes over. His name is Mingus, like the musician."
Mingus? Kathy thought.
Smith punched a few buttons on a Bose mini stereo on the counter. Music filled the kitchen, horns slipping around a loping bass.
"This is Mingus with Eric Dolphy in Paris," Smith said. "Johnny Coles, Clifford Jordan…"
He was suddenly embarrassed by his geekiness.
"It's a classic," he said.
She sat at the counter and sipped her wine and watched while Smith fired up the stovetop grill and set to work. In a few minutes, he was serving two plates of grilled ahi with a mango habañero salsa and grilled asparagus drizzled with a balsamic and roasted garlic vinaigrette.
Kathy took one look at her plate and thought, Clay Aiken, marching in the parade wearing a thong gay. She leveled her gaze on Smith and blurted out, "Who the fuck are you?"
"Just a guy. Just a guy."
Wiley sat at the edge of the stage at The Happy Beaver with Fat Sam, watching the sociologist twirling on the pole.
"You know her?" he asked Fat Sam.
Fat Sam stared at him with half-closed eyes. He looked like a mutant frog. "Introduce me?" Fat Sam continued to stare.
"You know, get me laid?"
Fat Sam didn't blink.
Wiley waved his hand in front of Fat Sam's face. Fat Sam didn't react. Wiley sipped his beer. On stage, the sociologist lost her grip on the pole and fell, writhing in a manner she believed was sensual but others may have interpreted to mean she was in severe pain.
"That's a hell of an act," Wiley said.
Fat Sam was stoic.
"So how was your day?"
Fat Sam didn't move. He was a sculpture carved from lard.
"It was a joke. OK, not a very funny one. But still. I mean, look, I'm here checking out this chick on stage and trying to get somewhere and you're not being any help. You know what I mean, Cochise? Ever see that movie? Nicholson. He was great in it. And that big Indian. Nicholson called the big Indian Cochise. Everybody thought the Indian was a mute because he didn't talk. He could talk. He just didn't have anything to say. Know what I'm saying? It was a pretty fucking cool movie. I'm surprised you've never seen it."
Fat Sam didn't move a muscle.
"Jesus, do I have to check your pulse? You can jump in here any time. How about those Steelers? Speaking of the Steelers, what's the deal with that shaved head asshole at the door and that shit on his head? Is that a butterfly tattoo on her ass? Did your mother drink a lot when she was pregnant?"
Fat Sam was starting to get annoyed. But he didn't let on.
Wiley drained his beer and turned to Fat Sam.
"OK, seriously, what's that old fuck want? What does he have in mind? What am I going to have to do?"
Finally, Fat Sam smiled.
Kathy told Smith everything – her drunk father and sedated mother and having to take the job at the strip club because she needed the money for law school and couldn't get any waitress gigs after the restaurant owners blacklisted her for breaking some asshole's arm who fully deserved to have his arm broken.
Smith asked, "You really are a law student?"
"Yep. Two more semesters, I'll be a lawyer."
"I'm impressed."
"Don't be. There are only 50 gazillion lawyers in the United States. I'll just be one more."
"Well, you'll be great."
Jesus, he thought, I'm doing Eddie Haskell again.
"What about you?" Kathy asked.
"I'm just a bag man. Started working for Papa when I was practically a kid. It was good money and it was easy. I guess I started doing it and liked the money and never had to do anything too objectionable. I'm starting to rethink that part of it. I don't know. I just don't know what else to do."
"And the books? And this kitchen and this dinner? I don't know too many people in your line of work, but I'm guessing they aren't the most literate bunch. And I'm guessing they don't know how to cook like this."
"I like to read and I like good food. It's pretty simple."
"What's your favorite book?"
It was a test. Kathy figured she'd trip him up with this one. He'd probably say something to impress her – like "The Great Gatsby" – but wouldn't know shit about the book.
"The Great Gatsby."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. It reveals the vapidity and shallowness of the American experience and how difficult it is to escape our past because, even in America, you might be able to reinvent yourself, try to become someone else, but the past is always there to bite you on the ass, so to speak. The last line says it, 'So we bea
t on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.'"
Kathy was staring at him, wide-eyed.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just . . . I'm . . . um …"
"Surprised?"
"You could say that. How did someone like you get into …"
"A business like this?"
"Yeah."
"What do you want me to say? That I did crappy in school and got kicked out of my parents' house for smoking weed and wound up running with the wrong crowd and then got in deep shit with Papa and before I knew it, I was pretty much stuck."
"That what happened?"
"Not really. But it was a good story."
They finished dinner and a third glass of wine.
"Well, it's late," Smith said. They walked to the living room, pausing by the door. Smith started to open the door. Kathy pushed it shut. She took his hand. "What's upstairs?
Some time later, they lay in Smith's bed, tangled in the sheets. Smith was just starting to regain feeling in his toes when Kathy said, "That was fun. Let's do it again."
Even later, they were still in Smith's bed. Hank Williams played softly on the stereo.
"Hank Williams?" Kathy asked.
"Yep."
"OK, first jazz and now Hank?"
"What can I say? I have eclectic taste."
They laid back in bed and listened to the music. Smith had retrieved another bottle of wine from the cooler and they were passing it back and forth.
Kathy broke the silence.
"I think there's something I should tell you."
Oh, shit, Smith thought.
"What? You're married?"
"God no! Jesus. It's nothing like that."
"You used to be a man?"
"Knock it off, OK?"
"No, really."
"Asshole."
She pinched his tricep. Hard. Smith squealed.
"Maybe I should be asking whether you used to be a woman."
"OK, what do you need to tell me?"
"Did you know that you're an officer in Papa's new nonprofit corporation and that he has a shitload of insurance on you?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Smith asked, sitting up.
"Let's get dressed. We have to talk."
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