Strange Trades

by Paul Di Filippo

  Shenda pressed a finger into his brow.

  “Ouch!”

  “No, I didn’t think so. Thurman, you are normal. Maybe a struggling kind of normal, but who isn’t? No, you’ve let your spirit get a kink in it, Thurman. You’ve been dealt a lousy hand, but you’re still supposed to play it. Instead, you’re down a well of apathy without a bucket to piss in! You need to get out and around, my friend.”

  The word “friend” was like a life raft. “I—what could I do?”

  “How about a job?”

  “A job? What kind of job could I possibly handle?”

  “There’s a job for everyone. Wait right here.”

  Shenda got up and walked to the counter, where she retrieved her bag. She strode briskly back, dropped down, and removed her appointment book from within the satchel. A single business card shot out under its own volition onto the tabletop. Shenda picked it up and read it.

  “Perfect! Go to this address today. This very afternoon, do you hear me? Tell Vance I sent you and said for him to put you to work.”

  Shenda stood then, extended her hand. “Welcome to the Karuna family, Thurman.”

  Thurman found himself standing somehow without reliance on his cane. He took Shenda’s hand. Her grip was a pleasant pain.

  When she was halfway across the room, Thurman impulsively called out, “Shenda Moore!”

  She stopped and whirled. “Yes!”

  “I like your toenails!”

  Shenda eyed Thurman with new interest. Coyly angling one foot like a model, she said, “Me too!”

  And then she was out of the Koffeehouse, force of nature dissolving in a burst of laffs.

  Thurman sank back down gratefully into his seat, feeling his face flushing. He was almost glad she was gone.

  Now that he had gotten some small fraction of his crazy wish fulfilled, however unpredictably, he wasn’t sure how much of Shenda Moore’s intense company he could take!

  Someone else was now standing by his table.

  Fuquan Fletcher was smiling. But the smile was not pleasant, nor meant to be.

  “Big man. Likes the lady’s toenails! Gonna let the world know it!”

  “Fuquan, what’s your problem?”

  “You my problem, man, you try to move in on Shenda Moore. That girl is mine! She got her nose open for me!”

  “Is that so? You sure she feels that way?”

  “Sure? I’ll show you sure, man!” The irate coffee roaster jabbed a finger into Thurman’s chest.

  This was the second time Thurman had been poked in the space of a few minutes. Unlike the first educational prodding, this poke made him mad. So—after he did not respond with immediate belligerence, causing Fuquan to laugh coarsely and turn to leave—Thurman felt completely justified in using his cane to hook one of the Black man’s ankles and pull his foot out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

  Fuquan was up and heading with bunched fists for a risen shaky Thurman when Buddy and Nello and Verity intervened, referee baristas holding the opponents apart.

  “Hey, c’mon, guys, who started this?”

  Neither antagonist said anything. After a tense moment, Fuquan brushed himself off and stalked into the back.

  Gathering up his pills and accoutrements, feeling that his life was becoming more interesting by the second, Thurman departed the Karuna.

  Outside, he studied the business card.

  KUSTOM KARS AND KANVASES

  VANCE VON JOLLY, ARTIST IN RESIDENCE

  “HOUSE OF THE WINGED HEART”

  1616 ROTHFINK BOULEVARD

  Thurman checked his wallet. Not a lot of green. But hey—he had a job now!

  In the cab, Thurman speculated on what he would find at the end of the ride.

  Disembarking, he discovered the wan products of his imagination to be a pale shadow of reality.

  He stood facing an old garage: four cinderblock bays flanked by an office space. The entire nondescript structure, however, had been studded with brightly colored glazed ceramic objects in bas-relief, executed in a zippy cartoon style. Animals, trees, people, cars, toys, musical notes.

  Above the office door was the biggest piece of pottery, big as a sofa: an anatomically correct heart sprouting white-feathered angel wings.

  Thurman entered the cluttered office. No one home. He moved into the bays.

  The first three were occupied by exotic cars: hotrods in various stages of being gaudily decorated. The last bay was filled with easels and wall-leaning stacks of canvases, also in various stages of completion. The paintings exhibited the same daffy sensibility as the outdoor ceramics. A beat-up workbench held brushes, tubes of color, tins of thinner and crusty rags. A tatty couch with mussed blankets, a metal-topped kitchen table and a small refrigerator seemed to hint at regular overnight human occupancy.

  A toilet flushed. Through an opening door—whose frosted glass bore the calligraphic legend inspiration: ten cents—walked a very pale muscular man with a trendy arrangement of dark facial hair offset by a thinning on top. One earlobe, his left, was studded with segments of a severed silver snake, like the colonial DONT TREAD ON ME. He was concentrating on tucking his paint-splattered green mechanic’s shirt into his Swiss Army-surplus wool pants, and so did not immediately notice Thurman. Lacking sleeves, his abbreviated shirt revealed several tattoos, including a winged heart.

  “Er, Vance?”

  The guy stopped and looked up with neither welcome nor discouragement. “Who’re you?”

  Thurman, growing more and more doubtful, volunteered his name. Then: “I was sent by Shenda Moore. She said you’d have a regular job for me…?”

  “You know kandy-flake? Or striping? I could use some help striping. How about bodywork? Can you do bodywork?”

  “Well, I’m good with tools, and I picked up a lot of special skills in the Army.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, basically I was a demolition expert. But I can learn new things quick.”

  Vance von Jolly had gotten his shirt stuck in the zipper of his pants, and was now struggling mightily to restore his apparel to its proper functioning. Thurman wondered if he should offer to help.

  “Jesus! That Shenda! She drives me nuts! All right, I suppose you can start by washing brushes. Any thumb-fingered idiot can wash brushes.”

  Thurman was hurt. “Wait just a minute now—”

  “Oh, did I mention I can’t work with anyone who gets pissed off at my dumb mouth?”

  “No. Unless that was the warning just now.”

  Unable to free his shirt from the toothy tangle, Vance ceased struggling and moved to the workbench. Buttoning his waistband, he found an alligator clip and pinched shut the upper open portion of his fly. The clip projected outward like a small groin antenna.

  “It was. Okay, let’s start by showing you where everything is.”

  Thurman had one question. “Vance—will I be working with a lot of chemicals? I’ve had some bad luck with chemicals in the past.”

  Vance seemed to see Thurman and his condition for the first time. He shook his head ruefully. “Man, someone really fucked you up, didn’t they?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  The painter moved to Thurman’s side, hanging an arm over his shoulder. A complex odor of sweat, garlic and solvents wafted off the man.

  “Thurman, my pal, I want to let you in on a little secret. The Army made you handle the chemicals of death! But here we work with the chemicals of life!”

  “What’s the difference? Chemicals are chemicals, aren’t they?”

  Vance von Jolly merely tapped a finger against his head and winked.

  8.

  “Let the Dogs Vote!”

  Sun like a fusion-powered pomegranate in a pristine blueberry sky. Whipped cream clouds. Breezes holding kites and balloons aloft and trying to tug high women’s skirts and slither up men’s pants legs. Acres of open lawn green as celery, with shaded patches the color of new money. Shouts and
squeals of running playing wild children. Over-the-top, can’t-stand-myself canine pack yelping. Bee-buzz adult chatter: gossip, business, philosophy and seduction. Teenage odd-stressed argot in the perpetual search for cool. Pointillistic laughter. Competing music from half a dozen boomboxes, holding the sonic fort until the Beagle Boys finished their cable-laying, equipment-stacking preparations underway ’neath a Sgt. Pepper bandstand. Smell of mesquite burning down to perfect grilling coals, and aromatic dope leaves combusting.

  Just another partially organized, partially spontaneous monthly shareholders’ meeting of Karuna, Inc.

  Shenda thought back to a poetry class.

  Rip those boardroom doors from their jambs, rip the executive jambs from the walls, then rip down the corporate walls!

  You go, Walt!

  Amidst and amongst the several hundred people and several score dogs assembled in Morley Adams Park, Shenda circulated happily, Dame Kind with her flock.

  Mama! These festivities always made her high!

  Every face smiled to see her, every adult hand juggled drinks or spatulas or books or tapes or purses or babies in order to clasp hers. Children hurled themselves at her as if she were some natural feature of the landscape placed here for their rightful pleasure: a tree, a mountain, a beach. Shenda caught them up, whirled them and set them down. Fur and tongue and tail foamed around her like breakers, then raced away.

  A splash of lemon yellow, a flash of jello wattles: Bullfinch scampered to keep up with his fleeter cousins.

  This was what Shenda lived for. Not all the petty details of running her brainchild, the squabbling altruistic quasi-corporation known as Karuna, Inc. Certainly not all the hourly, daily, weekly headaches and stress. They all faded like phantoms in the sunshine of this assemblage. Here, under her watchful, beneficent gaze, she could gauge the actual good she had accomplished, count all the people she had helped and observe how that help had spread—was continually spreading—outward in circles of big- heart, wide-mind action.

  Shenda really wanted nothing else. (A man, a mate, hell—a date? Well, perhaps.…) This gathering was her total and complete yardstick of satisfaction.

  This very day would have been perfect, in fact, if not for one matter.

  Zingo, that cell-u-licious horsepiss.

  The actual owner of Maraplan Importing—this brashly illegitimate distributor new to their city—had visited the Karuna Koffeehouse several times since that day Verity had told his men unequivocally to fuck off. At last managing to snare Shenda, he had delivered one final classic performance of intimidation and blustering. Ignorantly self-assured, crudely sly and warthog- aggressive, he refused to take Shenda’s “Blow me!” reply-in-kind for an answer.

  “Little lady,” said Faro Mealey in their ultimate interview, rasping a simian hand across his chin stubble, “you are not being very smart.”

  Shenda was a little scared at this confrontation. But stronger emotions were a sense of the scene’s absurdity, and utter infuriation at the nerve of this guy!

  “On the contrary, Mister Mealey. It’s you who’s acting like a juvenile dumbshit schoolyard thug! You come in here and practically order me to drop my old distributor and replace him with you. Then you tell me that I’ll have to take just as many cases of that poisonous antifreeze you call soda as you decide is good for me. Moreover, I’m not the only business you’re trying to pull this scam on. You’ve been to some of my friends, as well as dozens of unrelated concerns throughout the city. Does the word ‘shakedown’ hold any meaning for you, Mister Mealey? Do you know what would happen to you if I went to the cops?”

  Mealey unsealed a sporadically gold-capped grin. “Not a fucking thing, babe, I assure you.”

  Shenda looked the man up and down. Clad like a cheap racetrack tout, Faro Mealey seemed an unlikely type to actually command the clout he now boasted of. Still, Shenda probed for more information.

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna come bail your ass out? The International Brotherhood of Slimeballs?”

  “Very funny. I like broads with a sense of humor. They’re always good in bed. No, my business has some important backers. Let’s just say that the makers of Zingo take a big interest in insuring their product gets top placement in the marketplace. Now, why doncha think about my proposition for a few days? I should warn you that our terms in the future might not be so generous.”

  “Mister Mealey, you can take a fucking Zingo enema. Now, get the hell out of here!”

  Over the next few days, Shenda had done a little financial-pages, web-searching, library-stack sleuthing, following a not-too-shadowy paper trail.

  The company that perpetrated Zingo was owned by another. And that one was owned by yet another. But beyond that level, the path seemed to lead conclusively to something called Isoterm. Who or what motivated them, Shenda had been unable yet to learn.

  A Nerf football hit Shenda in the side of the head.

  “Sorry!” called out little Tara Vadeboncoeur, her face a mix of horrified chagrin and stifled delight.

  “No malo, chica! That’s what I get for daydreaming in a rowdy crowd!” Shenda lofted the ball back, and moved on.

  She stopped and talked with Joe Ramos of Kan-do Konstruction for a while. His firm planned to bid on part of the new West-side highway job. Shenda gave him a rundown on what she had picked up on his likely competitors through the grapevine. After a gleeful handshake, she left Ramos crunching numbers on a calculator.

  Mona Condeluccio staggered by under the weight of two aluminum pans, each as big as an unfolded Monopoly board and deep as a footbath. Shenda quickly relieved her of one, and peeked beneath the foil lid.

  “Mmm-mm! Potato salad!”

  “And this one’s macaroni. I got six more in the truck!”

  Mona ran Kozmic Katering. She was providing about half the food for today’s bash, partially in lieu of her tithe. The rest was all deliciously homemade. Oh, except for the donuts from Krishna Murphy’s Krispy Kreme franchise.

  Following Mona toward the picnic tables, Shenda said, “Louie Kablooie, I wish the business part of the day was over already!”

  After a few spectacular failures, Shenda had mandated that Karuna, Inc., finish discussing all its outstanding business matters prior to falling like wolves and vultures and savages on the food and alcoholic beverages. Otherwise, not a hell of a lot got done. And also, while Shenda didn’t mind being heckled, she found that the intellectual quality of the catcalls and witticisms was higher when the audience was sober.

  The women deposited their burdens on the groaning buffet. Shenda grabbed the first teenager to fall within her reach. “You, Haley Sweets! What you thinking, standing there like a goofball statue when there’s work to be done? Help Mona! Right now!”

  Haley Sweets—acne like strawberry fields—gazed at Shenda with besotted puppy love. He gulped, sending a hypertrophied Adam’s apple yo-yoing, said without satire, “Yes sir!” —then trotted obediently off.

  Shenda laughed silently. Boy—we got to find you a woman!

  And then she saw Thurman Swan.

  Thurman sat on a folding plastic-basketweave lawn chair, his cane hung from the armrest. If his seat had been a gold throne in a Byzantine palace, his enjoyment would obviously not have been increased one iota.

  On either side of him stood the gorgeously decorative SinSin Bang and Pepsi Scattergood, owner-beauticians of Kwik Kuts. SinSin was half-Vietnamese, half-Chinese, one of the few good things to come out of the last border war between those two countries. Pepsi was a Nordic-Anglo mix who—Shenda had always privately observed to herself—resembled no one so much as that infamous comix icon, Cherry Poptart.

  The two women were fussing inordinately over Thurman. All they lacked for their role of houris were giant palm fronds to fan him with.

  “Can I get you some more juice, Thurman?”

  “Would you like another cushion, Thurman?”

  “Is that sun too much for you?”

  “Have some potato chips, T
hurman! They’re fresh!”

  A burst of jealousy ignited like a Roman candle in Shenda’s chest. What did those two think they were doing!

  Ever since Shenda had told Pepsi and SinSin that Thurman had admired her pedicure— Shenda’s footwork their handiwork—they had taken a silly fancy to him.

  “You know how rare it is for a man to notice something like that, Shenda?”

  “And then to say it out loud in a public place!”

  “Wow!”

  Additionally, Thurman’s sickly condition had sent their unfulfilled maternal nursing instincts into overdrive.

  It was all very innocent and probably good for them all.

  But somehow, today, it made Shenda’s blood percolate!

  Shenda marched over.

  When Thurman spotted her, he got guiltily to his feet.

  “Un, hi, Shen—”

  Shenda cut off the feeble greeting. “You, Swan—come with me!”

  “I’ll be right back—”

  “No, you won’t! Hurry up!”

  Shenda stalked off, leaving Thurman to stump after her.

  When they were some distance away, Shenda stopped under the semiconcealing foliage of a willow. Fronds whispered at her passage. Thurman caught up and leaned gratefully against the trunk, out of breath.

  “Do you know what those two are?” demanded Shenda. Without waiting for an answer, she spat, “They’re lovers! Lesbians! Lipstick lesbians!”

  Thurman looked puzzled. “So what? I can’t be friends with them? It’s not like I want babies or anything.”

  Shenda’s ire deflated. She lowered her head and pinched her brow. “Oh my god, what am I saying? They’re my friends too. I don’t care they’re lesbians. I never even thought twice about it before! I swear it! That’s not me!”

  Thurman moved next to Shenda. Cane in his right hand, he took her left in his. He didn’t press any advantage that her confusion provided, but simply said, “Don’t worry about it, Shenda. You must have a lot on your mind.”

  Shenda felt immense gratitude for the sympathy. The same tactical pause she employed not to prejudge others, she now used to forgive herself. “I do, I do! In fact—” she consulted her watch “—I’ve got a meeting to call to order that’s already late!”