Dangerous Men
Page 14
Two days earlier, a man had sold Ray ten mint-condition Gibson ES-155 electric guitars at two hundred and fifty dollars apiece—all the money they’d made selling Christmas trees. He’d had pomaded hair, two gold teeth in front, and a big smile. His name was K.C. and his voice was like an ad for some Caribbean airline—it sounded good enough to eat. Ray ran into him outside Manny’s Music, where they were both admiring the window display, then made the deal without even discussing it with her, mysteriously driving them crosstown to an area of rotting piers and abandoned cars where K.C. had his station wagon parked. They took delivery of the instruments and K.C. gave them a business card, saying they should look him up next time they were in town.
It was Christine who’d insisted on taking one of the instruments down to We Buy Guitars, where they’d discovered, too late, that what they’d bought were Jap copies from the late sixties with Gibson decals pasted onto the headstocks. Value, a hundred apiece, tops.
Ray showed no emotion over the news, only nodded his head, internalizing the blow. But now he had them camped in front of the address on K.C.’s card, waiting. Christine had tried to point out that since K.C. lied about the guitars, it was more than likely the address was a fake too, but Ray wasn’t listening.
Ray never listened. He might seem to be, but in the end he did things his own way, regardless. They’d met nearly a year ago when he was still running a college bookstore in Orono, Maine, and she was working at a little import place called Stallion Motors. She needed a new Chilton’s to replace one of hers that had fallen completely apart.
“You fix cars?” he’d asked, his eyes straying to her hands which were smudged with grease.
“Cars, motorcycles, outboard motors, lawn mowers, you name it,” she said. “Bicycles too, if I have the time.” She was wearing her cowboy boots with the silver toe caps that day.
“Maybe you could come work on my truck.” He never took his eyes off hers. His shoulder-length hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a small turquoise earring in one ear. She thought he was cute, but it annoyed her to be flirted with, and she wondered if he even had a truck.
“I’m married,” she told him, which, though true, was only part of the story. The last she’d heard from her husband, he’d dropped her a postcard from Portland, Oregon, on his way to Alaska.
“What’s that got to do with your helping me out?”
“You always expect people to do things for you?”
He leaned forward. “I might just be looking for a business partner.”
“And what kind of business would that be?”
“Any kind,” he said. “Business is business.” Then he gave her his card. It said, “Ray Hunsicker, Manager,” followed by a telephone number. It didn’t say manager of what.
He really did have a truck, which he’d named Dolly after his favorite brand of ice cream. The engine needed to be almost completely rebuilt. He’d traded a set of drums he bought at an auction for her. A Step-Van, ice-cream-truck white, she had been customized somewhere along the line, though crudely. Two bubble windows set into one side, a small platform bed in back. Christine got Dolly running for him, spending weekends out at his place, a little bungalow with a stream behind it where, after she’d cleaned up, they’d sit, drink beers together, and talk.
Ray seemed to know a little something about everything. He was an avid listener to the late-night call-in shows, particularly the financial ones. He believed in reincarnation, or said he did. He talked about zero coupon bonds, and the distinction between a single malt and a blend. He could play the whole guitar part to “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” up until the solos kicked in, at which point he’d lean back, close his eyes, and just appreciate the genius of it. It had been Ray’s idea to trailer down a load of Christmas trees and sell them on the streets of Manhattan, and she had to admit, it had worked out pretty well. They’d even sold the trailer at a profit. But it was possible to get drunk on your own success, and that was what Ray had fallen victim to. He just didn’t have both feet on the ground.
She was worried. The days between Christmas and New Year’s always made her feel unsettled anyway, and last night she’d had trouble sleeping—she’d kept jolting awake to frightening images. Ray knifed by a gang of gold-toothed black men, the truck set afire with them still in it. Ray lay beside her sleeping peacefully, bundled in his sleeping bag, unconcerned. She needed to pee, but not badly enough to get up. She stayed next to him, listening to the traffic and disembodied voices that passed by, her legs crossed, nose running with the cold, and waited for morning. They were in over their heads here. Now, the appearance of the dwarf only confirmed her suspicion that they had entered a grotesque land from which they would be lucky to return.
Two-nineteen was not the address K.C. had given them, it was the house next door, and it was by far the nicer of the two brownstones, with stained-glass windows over the door and a real gas lantern out in front. Both houses had appeared to be empty, but since it was between Christmas and New Year’s, Ray pointed out, folks might be on vacation. “We’ll just hang around and wait a while,” he’d said.
For most of the afternoon she watched the dwarf and his companion moving in. The dwarf sat on the steps, giving directions in a shrill, irritated voice, smacking his small aluminum crutch against the metal railing for emphasis. He wore a parka with the hood up, so it was hard to see his face. They had a moving van, a rental with an enormous cowboy painted onto the side. It was a lot of work for one person. The black man, in sweatshirt and torn blue jeans, heaved chairs over his head, wrestled tables sideways, hoisted boxes in front of him. He paid little attention to the shouting of the dwarf.
One of the last things to go into the house was a guitar case. She kicked Ray to join her at the window. A Yamaha DX7 synthesizer followed, then a big cardboard box. “Home recording studio,” Ray said. “The little guy’s got money. That was a pretty decent guitar too, from the look of the case.”
She looked at him for any sign of recognition as to what he’d said, since it was his ignorance on the subject of guitars that had brought them here in the first place. But he had his eyes to the window.
“Honey,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll take the things to New Orleans and sell them there. We were dumb enough to buy them—someone else will be, too.”
He sat back down and fumbled for a cigarette. “Nope,” he said. “We wait for K.C.”
“You know what he’ll say. You didn’t get cheated. You paid the money, you got the merchandise.” She waved to the back of the van where the black cases lay stacked. “If we’re going south, let’s just go. We’ll sell them, I know we will.” She realized with a certain amount of disgust that she was pleading with him.
He said, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
“Ray,” she said. “At least let’s go back to the motel for the night. I need a shower, and you’re no treat to be around either.” Christmas night, after giving away the last of the trees, they’d driven through the Lincoln tunnel to New Jersey and stayed at an overpriced motel with porno movies available on cable. It wasn’t great, but at least they’d had their own bathroom. Every time Christine went into the McDonalds they’d discovered on Nostrand Avenue, she felt like a criminal.
“I just want to square things, that’s all. Then we hit the road.”
“Square things? He’ll probably put a bullet hole right through that tiny brain of yours. He’ll probably make you eat those guitars one string at a time.” She shook her head. “You are one stubborn sonofabitch,” she said. “I’m sorry I came.”
He turned and looked at her coldly. “Go on then. No one’s keeping you. Forget Mardi Gras, forget the whole damn thing. Take a bus back home and get done with it. Just so’s I don’t have to live with your whining.” He turned back to the window.
“You bastard,” she said. “Give me my money.”
“What money?”
“Half of whatever’s left. I worked for it.”
The late afternoon sun had dropped behind the rooftops and the wind was bitter. She looked left, then right, trying to choose a direction. They were equally unappealing. In the distance a huge cigarette advertisement on the side of an elevated station hung across the street, green and blue, telling her to “Taste the Difference.” Somewhere nearby a boom-box was cranked too high, its pounding bass a tired, steady raspberry. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an object lying on the steps of two-nineteen, a small alarm clock. It must have fallen from one of the boxes. She let herself in the gate, picked it up, paused for a moment, then went up and rang the bell. The black man answered the door.
She held out the clock. “It was on your steps.”
He eyed it suspiciously, then took it from her and said, “Thank you.”
From behind him a voice shouted, wanting to know who was there. It was a funny voice, Christine thought—reedy and childish.
“Just a neighbor,” he called over his shoulder.
“Tell them to come in,” said the voice. “It’s all right, come in.”
“Come in?” offered the black man.
“Well,” said Christine, “for a little while.” As she entered the house, she imagined Ray watching her every move from the freezing cargo area of the truck. With amazement, she hoped.
“I’ll get Louis,” said the man, leaving her alone in the living room, which was strewn with boxes waiting to be unpacked. The sofa was clear though, and a television had been set up. She sat down, unzipped her coat, blew on her hands to warm them, and wondered what next. A few moments later, Louis appeared, cradled in the big man’s arms. He stuck out a hand and Christine shook it. It was surprisingly strong, and though small, seemed to expand in an attempt to enclose her own.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Louis Martucci—producer and musician.”
“Christine,” she said. “From the neighborhood.”
“A pretty name,” he said. “You’ve met Dewayne. Excuse the mess—we just came from London. It’s going to take a while to settle in. Dewayne, what about some wine? There’s Beaujolais in the kitchen.” He winked at her as Dewayne set him down on the floor. “We Italians love red wine,” he said. “You’re not Italian are you?”
She said she was sorry, but she wasn’t. There followed a short, awkward silence during which she tried not to stare at him. He was so small.
“London?” she said, finally. “Why would you want to move here from London?”
Louis grinned and heaved himself a few inches forward on the floor, then tucked his legs together in front of him. “We weren’t living there—it was a promotional tour. I make rap records.”
“Really?” said Christine. Louis had an air of absolute self-confidence, and it made her tend to disbelieve him. Her image of people who made rap records involved sweat suits, high-top sneakers, sunglasses, and lots of jewelry.
Dewayne returned with two glasses of wine, handed her one and placed the other next to Louis.
“Maybe you’ve heard of us,” said Louis. “Daddy D. and Short Time?”
“Which is which?”
“We’re it. Both of us,” said Dewayne.
Louis started to laugh. “A little joke we have,” he said. “How do you like my house? Dewayne found it—he grew up around here. I was living with my parents, but we had some problems. Before we went to London I put my things in storage.”
In spite of herself, she was staring at him, trying to judge his age, which might have been anywhere between twenty and forty. He’d already lost most of his hair, and his pronounced stomach made him look pregnant.
“I’m twenty-six,” he said, guessing her thoughts. “But I started balding when I was fifteen.”
“They say bald men are sexier.” She was embarrassed as soon as she said it, but Louis was pleased. He rolled backward, laughing. He looked and sounded like a mechanical toy, she thought.
“Hey,” he said, as he sat back up, “I like you—you’re funny. I think we’re going to be friends. More wine?”
“I don’t know. I should probably be getting on.”
Louis made a mock-angry face. “I’ll be very insulted,” he said. “I’m used to getting my way.”
She sipped at her glass and considered. “All right, I guess I could stay a little while.”
“Hooray,” said Louis, spilling some from his own glass.
Dewayne touched him on the shoulder. “Bath.”
“It’s ready?” Louis asked.
“Just the way you like it.”
“How about my rubber ducky?” He winked broadly at Christine, who smiled back at him. “Please, stay around for a while, at least until I’m out of the tub. We can talk some more.”
She nodded and lifted her glass in salute as Dewayne hoisted Louis under the arms and carried him out of the room.
Christine put her feet up on the sofa and listened. From upstairs came the sound of rhythmic music playing quite loud, probably for her benefit. He was sitting in his tub, but his attention was all focused down here, with her. She lit a cigarette and thought about whether it would be rude to ask to use the bath herself.
Dewayne came back to pour her more wine. Then he just stood, watching her. She began to feel nervous.
“So,” she said. “London.”
“That’s right,” said Dewayne, his voice surprisingly soft. “But it wasn’t that much of a vacation. Louis broke his leg and his hip as well. Been three weeks in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What happened?”
“Nothing. He did it in his sleep. It happens fairly often. He has very fragile bones—no calcium in them. They never grew.”
“So, it’s really true? About the records and all?”
He looked at her curiously, as if judging her weight. “What makes you think it isn’t?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I’m just impressed, that’s all. How did you two end up together?” Dewayne’s large size was a little frightening. His hands looked like they’d been cast out of steel, and she was amazed every time he moved them.
“I answered an ad.” He stood up and stretched his arms high over his head. “I’m going to check on Louis,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
She went to the window and looked out at where the truck stood, silent and sad. The plan, pre-K.C., had been to use the tree money for New Orleans, taking time to see some of the country along the way. And after that just keep on going, maybe all the way up to the Northwest—Seattle or even Vancouver. The names had a misty, surreal quality for her—she imagined herself hiking at ten thousand feet, looking up at snowfields, across at even higher peaks. Her favorite reading material for the past year had been camping supply catalogues. She’d given her apartment key to her friend Claudia, who wanted it anyway, since her own marriage was looking more dubious by the day. There was no need for Christine to return, really. When they’d left she’d felt as if she and Ray were in one of those adventure movies, holding hands and leaping off a cliff together. She had no doubt that they’d land right in the middle of a big pile of feathers, or something equally astonishing.
The astonishment came from other quarters however. Standing on the streets of Manhattan freezing their toes off, surrounded by their own little conifer forest, Ray had let slip something about Nashville. It seemed he had a daughter there, not to mention an ex-wife. He’d never said anything before. Christine was furious.
“You dragged me on this expedition so you could go see your family for the holidays?”
“Of course not,” he’d said. “Don’t be stupid. I just want to stop in and say hi, that’s all. It’s on the way, more or less.”
“I don’t believe this.”
He kicked at on
e of the trees. “OK, forget it, we won’t go. It’s just that it’s Christmastime and it’s been a while. If I’d known you’d get this upset I would never have said anything.” With the thumb of his glove he wiped at his nose. “Jesus, if it’s going to be this cold, the least it could do is snow.”
She decided maybe she was being unreasonable after all. Sometimes you had to make compromises. That was how people got along.
“No, let’s go,” she told him. “I love kids.”
He shook his head in disgust, as if the weather had reneged on some personal contract with him. “I mean, what’s Christmas without the damn snow?”
Turning away from the window, she sat again on the sofa. What she resented about the whole thing was that the terms were no longer equal. She could even forgive him his stupidity about K.C. and the guitars. But Ray had a destination—Nashville, his daughter, his ex-wife. He hadn’t cut totally loose the way she had, and it seemed unfair. It wasn’t their trip anymore, it was his. Christine felt that now, in a sense, she was just along for the ride.
Dewayne brought Louis back out, this time dressed in a maroon sweat suit, the front unzipped to reveal a white muscle T-shirt. Everything was so tiny—children’s clothes. He was clutching a bottle in his hands.
“Let’s party,” he said.
A pizza was delivered twenty minutes later by a man with dreadlocks, wearing two winter coats, one on top of the other, whom Dewayne seemed to know, since they talked for a while in the hall. When he left, the three of them ate in front of the TV. Louis kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about himself, and Christine found that if she just faced him and nodded her head occasionally, she wasn’t required to do much at all in terms of holding up her end. She was dead tired. Dewayne was continually on the move, bringing things when Louis requested them, lifting boxes and carrying them off to other parts of the house.
Louis explained that he’d been making tapes since he was fifteen, but he’d only just sold his first record, to an independent label in England. The single was called “Chillin’,” and already the BBC was giving it airplay.