by Grant Mccrea
He shrugged an apologetic shrug at us, and scampered over to give Juan a wallpaper-hanging lesson.
We left. I suggested that we drop into a local pub for a quick pint of Guinness. Clear the perfume from our heads.
I suppose, Dorita said, Mr. White Swallow could have called the twins when he went into his office, asked them whether they wanted to have been there that night.
Possible. He certainly seems to think highly of them.
Or wants us to think he does.
Yes. Well. I don’t know what we expected to find out, to tell you the truth. But anyway, it’s one more fact to add to the list.
What’s that?
That we don’t know if they could have been near Jules’s place.
That’s a hell of a fact.
Best I could come up with.
Anyway, you’re right, Dorita said. He wasn’t exactly unequivocal about it.
Or forthcoming.
Nor.
Nor. If you insist. I mean, the cops talked to Igor, but Igor didn’t tell his boss what they talked to him about?
And anyway, they’re twins, remember? Couldn’t one of them have been gone for a while? Without anybody noticing?
Sure. The Patty Duke Show.
Right.
Dorita began humming the theme song.
Well, I said. Another theory for the pile. But there’s a small piece missing before we can give that one any credence.
What’s that?
I’ve only met one of them. I don’t know that they’re identical. Or even similar.
Ah. Good point.
For all I know, Raul’s got a handlebar mustache.
Or some other hideous deformity.
49.
I stopped by the house on my way to the Wolf’s Lair. To see Kelly. Get the report on Melissa.
Steiglitz had seen her that morning. The prognosis was poor.
There was nothing new about that. Every relapse after the first one made the ultimate chance of recovery worse. It had long been approaching zero.
They were sending Melissa home. There was no point in her staying at the clinic. They needed the bed for more promising cases. Steiglitz had repeated to Kelly the advice we’d heard before. She’s got to hit bottom. She touches another drink, throw her out on the street.
I knew I wasn’t going to do that. No matter what. I just didn’t have it in me.
I didn’t want to be there when she got back. But I hated to leave Kelly alone in the house. I talked her into calling up Peter, asking him over. Usually she didn’t take much convincing, but on this night she seemed determined to wallow in it. Fear. Disappointment. It took me half an hour and a threat to call Peter myself, but she finally gave in.
I decided to wait til he got there. To make sure.
He barged loudly into the house without knocking, as usual. He’d dyed his hair in purple and gold streaks. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I’m like a superhero, but without powers or motivation.’
I’m writing a book, he announced. It’s called ‘Quentin Tarantino Is God.’ It’s all about how Quentin Tarantino is God.
I laughed.
Kelly laughed.
I loved the sound of it.
I knew I’d done the right thing.
They decided to watch episodes of Family Guy on DVD. More laughter. Maximally therapeutic. I was even tempted to stay. Watch Family Guy with them. Kelly loved it when I did that. I always laughed so hard. It was infectious. It made everything seem even funnier.
But I just couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with Melissa. Yes, it was heinous, I agreed with myself. To leave it to a child. But really, Kelly was more an adult than this old man. She reminded me of that, from time to time. When she caught me smoking. When I yelled at Melissa. Lost my temper.
I needed my Wolf’s Lair too. I needed a Scotch, real bad.
That clinched it.
I bade Kelly and Peter good evening. I added the usual useless imprecations about bedtime, and not eating in the basement.
I wanted everything to seem normal.
The Wolf’s Lair didn’t feel normal, though. Not its usual inviting self. I looked around. The bar was still mahogany. The rail was still brass. Thom was still smiling and warm. The regulars were scattered about in their usual poses. But it didn’t feel right. The stool felt hard, uncomfortable. The Scotch tasted watery. My stomach hurt.
It felt like I wasn’t in control of anything anymore.
I knew the ‘anymore’ part was illusory. I’d never been in control of anything. Certainly not Melissa. Or her Monster. Especially her Monster. Though I may have fooled myself otherwise, once. For a short time. Maybe.
My professional life had always been, would always be, in the hands of others. Even if I quit, or got quit by Warwick, I still wouldn’t be in control. Even if I opened my own shop. I’d always be at the mercy of the market. Of clients.
On top of that chilling realization, I knew that Kelly was getting to the age where, no matter how much she loved her dad – and I had no doubts on that score – she was becoming her own, independent person. I couldn’t really tell her what to do anymore. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t right. I could no longer think of her as an extension of myself. A thing I’d probably done to a fault, in the past. Contributed to her reclusive tendencies.
Damn, it was hard being a parent.
Hal was at his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, he said.
Hey.
Did you ever get a chance to play in Jake’s game?
I did. Twice, actually.
How was it?
It was all right. Interesting bunch of characters.
How’d you do?
The first time, I was down all night. Won the big hand at the end. Got back in the black. Next time, I was ahead all night.
Good.
Yes. I like it better that way.
Hal laughed.
I went back to my Scotch.
Hey, said Hal.
Hey.
Did you check out that thing I told you?
What thing?
The thing with his eyes.
I looked at him, raised my eyebrows.
How he looks at you like you’re not there.
No. I didn’t notice that.
Hal went back to his beer.
Hal, I said.
Rick.
You’re deeply weird.
I am?
Yes, Hal. You are.
Well, I guess I am.
Two Scotches and the Times crossword puzzle later, Jake came in, brushing snow off his shoulders. He was wearing a plastic raincoat. I hoped it had a lining.
Hey, Rick, he said.
Hey, Jake, I replied, looking at his eyes for signs of vacancy.
They looked pretty normal.
He sat down beside me.
You’ve got a head start on me, he said.
I guess I do, I agreed.
Give me a double, he said to Thom. Got to catch up with Rick here.
Thom laughed, poured him a double. We talked a little poker talk.
The World Series of Poker had been on TV. We talked about our favorite players. There was a whole culture of hold’em. Books, magazines, Internet chat rooms, websites. I recognized some names. The old guard. Amarillo Slim. Everyone’s heard of him. TJ Cloutier, former football player. Tough, solid, fearsome. I knew Ken Smith. He’d been a strong chess player, too. Smith had died a couple of years ago. Now there was a bunch of guys I’d never heard of. Phil Hellmuth. Arrogant, petulant, brilliant with a big stack of chips. Phil Ivey, young, imperturbable. You never knew what he had. And all the rest. Johnny Chan, Men Nguyen (say ‘Wynn’). A multicultural panoply of fearless card mavens.
About four double Scotches in, Jake asked how Melissa was.
I paused. I remembered the ache in my gut. The poker talk had taken my mind off my problems. I wasn’t too pleased to have Jake break the spell.
It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know.
She’s fine, I said.
There must have been something insincere about how I said it. Jake gave me a quizzical look.
Let’s go smoke a joint, he said.
A joint? I laughed. I don’t know. Last time it weirded me out. I’m very sensitive to it, for some reason.
C’mon. Take a chance.
Jesus. I don’t know.
Come on. Just a toke or two.
All right. If you insist.
I’d never been very good at resisting peer pressure.
We went out back. We smoked a joint. My mind started looping in circles. Everything I said repeated itself in my head. I was a walking echo machine.
I needed a few more Scotches. To calm it down.
I started babbling. Baring my soul to my buddy Jake. At the point when you start throwing your arms indiscriminately around the shoulders of people you barely know. Sharing your darkest secrets. The alarm system shut down.
I told Jake what had happened with Melissa. How depressed I was. How much I loved my daughter, and worried about her.
Maybe it was the novelty of the guy thing. Whatever.
She’s in treatment? he asked.
Kelly? No.
No. Melissa.
In a manner of speaking.
I told him about Steiglitz. His pessimistic prognosis.
At least you have your work, he said to the back of the bar.
Hah, I said. Not a consolation.
I told him about Warwick. Probation. Stress. Anxiety. Fear of failure. Loathing of my colleagues. Most of them, anyway. I didn’t mention Dorita. Some things were sacred.
I knew I was out of control. Drunk. Stoned. But whatever. It felt good to share it with someone. He seemed to be listening, if only with one ear.
You seem preoccupied, I said.
He turned to me. His eyes were vague. He was looking through me. I glanced at Hal, down the bar. He was writing something on a napkin.
I’ve had my issues too, Jake said.
Haven’t we all, I said. Listen, I don’t mean to bore you with all this stuff. We all have problems. I shouldn’t complain. My daughter’s wonderful. I’m a successful lawyer. Don’t listen to my whining. I’ve got all my arms and legs. Hell, I’m not even missing a digit. The world is full of people worse off than me.
No, no, he said. I didn’t mean it that way.
I suddenly saw how sad a person he was. I felt a wash of sympathy. He was my buddy. My soulmate. We understood each other.
I guess that’s why I became an actor, he said.
Right, I said, pretending to know what he meant.
So I could live in an imaginary world, he amplified. The real world was so fucked up. Is so fucked up.
You said it.
My father was a creep.
I didn’t say anything. He was gearing up to tell the whole story.
We all need a confessor.
His father was a drunk, he told me. A mean drunk. He beat Jake’s mother. He broke Jake’s leg when Jake was eight. Kicked him. Because Jake had skipped school. Jake’s sister was older. Didn’t want anything to do with the family. Jake thought he knew why. His father had abused her. Snuck into her room late at night. Unspeakable things.
Dark, said Jake, it’s all darkness.
There were tears in his eyes.
50.
We weaved down the block. I thought I’d lost my keys. I checked every pocket twice. Jake giggled. The third time round, I found them. In the first pocket I’d checked. Jake giggled some more. It took me five tries to get the key in the lock. When I finally succeeded, I looked around. To see if my new best friend wanted to come in for a nightcap.
He wasn’t there.
I was puzzled.
The dope, I mused. It slows down time. I’d probably been fiddling with the keys for ten minutes. He’d wandered off.
I shrugged.
I opened the door as quietly as I could.
I stumbled. I hung on to the banister. I kept myself upright.
Melissa sat up on the couch.
Who’s there? she said.
Sorry, I said, it’s me.
Come here, she said.
I staggered to the couch, fell down into the cushions.
She opened her arms.
My God, I thought, what’s happening?
I kept falling.
51.
I woke. I was naked on the bed. It was the middle of the night. Someone was hammering a rusty spike into my right temple. Someone was boiling vinegar and dirt in my stomach. A small deceased rodent was rotting in the back of my throat. I went into the bathroom. I felt like throwing up. I held it back. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw.
I went back to bed. I tried to sleep. It didn’t work. I tried to read. Something about Zeno’s paradox. How you can never get from A to B. Because you always have to get halfway first, then half of that. And halfway to there. And on into infinity.
I closed my eyes again. The room slowly revolved. The blackness came.
As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of Steiglitz.
He entered my dreams.
He’s in the park. Kelly is there. She’s young. She’s a small child.
He’s playing with my daughter.
She looks afraid.
52.
I went downstairs.
Melissa was sprawled on the couch. She was on her back. Her mouth was open. She was snoring. A line of saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I stood and stared.
I went back upstairs. I took a shower. I made it hot. Very hot. Maybe I was scalding myself. It felt a bit like that, through the gray metal fog. Perhaps I’d end up red and peeling, in monstrous pain. I took some comfort in the thought.
I walked dripping from the shower. I threw myself naked on the bed. I closed my eyes. I tried to reconstruct the night before. I remembered Jake. Our conversation. That I’d said too much. His revelations. His sadness. Our awkward stumble down the street. His vanishing. Where had he gone? I didn’t trust my memory. Melissa, beckoning me. And then? I wasn’t sure. Could it have been? That she’d have welcomed me like that?
She was bent over the coffee table, face down, legs apart. I was holding her hips, lifting her in the air. I was strong. I was hard. I pulled her up. I dragged her across the room. She moaned. She wanted more. Take me hard, she said. Show me who’s a man. I propped her up against the mirror. I took her. Took her hard and long. I was taking out the misery of years. She wanted it. She begged for more. Hurt me, she said, tears and mascara streaking the mirror.
I threw her down. I left her there. It felt right.
Had that been me?
I didn’t know.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
I shook my head. Get a grip, I told myself.
I tossed on some clothes. I didn’t take the trouble to look for something clean.
I dragged myself downstairs. She was still there. On the sofa. Her mouth hung open.
I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to see.
53.
I sat in my expensive ergonomic chair. I looked at the phone. It beckoned me. I was receptive to its charms. This was curious. I usually shunned it. I picked it up. I made some phone calls.
I knew from decades on this planet, and hundreds of hours on Sheila’s black leather couch, that when I worked like this, picked up the phone, made calls, it meant the weight was lifting. The serotonins were uptaking, or being inhibited from uptaking, or re-uptaking. Whatever it was they did when they did it right. I didn’t know why. I never did. It was random. But I wasn’t going to complain.
The twins. There was something about them. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I tracked down a guy I knew. A guy who knew a guy who knew the twins. Set up a meet. Hound Dog Bar and Grill. Downtown and dirty. Perfect.
My source was Sammy Quantrill. Former FBI. Made a living tracking stuff down. Maybe a few other things on the side.
Things you didn’t want to ask about. Came in handy to know a guy like that. I’d used him before. He didn’t come cheap. But he was usually worth it. The guy he knew was Joey. A club guy. Owned a piece of one or two. Did a little enforcing. Only when needed.
Sammy and Joey were at the bar when I came in.
Sammy and Joey, I thought. They could start a vaudeville act.
Hey Sammy, I said instead. Good to see you.
Sure, he said. Rick, this is Joey.
Pleased to meet you, Joey, I said, extending a hand.
The same I’m sure, said Joey, with a heavy dose of Brooklyn irony. His hand enveloped mine. I admired the pinky ring, the heavy gold bracelet.
I hear you know something about these twins, I said. Ramon and Raul FitzGibbon.
Sure. I know some stuff.
So what you got?
I don’t know a whole lot direct. But I heard stuff. They got some rich daddy. Brought them over from the slums, Mexico City or somewhere, adopted them. They got some classy spread near the Park that Daddy bought them. Some penthouse thing with a huge deck on the roof. Private elevator. Servants. The works. Right next to the Museum.
They do anything for a living?
Joey snorted.
They try, he said. They’re party boys. But Daddy keeps pushing them. Get a job. Do something. Pisses him off. He came from nowhere. Worked his way up. Thinks they should too. He’s a controlling son of a bitch.
Never would have guessed, I said. So what do they do?
They think they’re some kind of designers now.
They ever do any real work? I asked.
One of them set up shop for a while as some kind of investment guy, I heard. Thought he could be a Wall Street type. A smooth operator. Got some old farts to pony up some cash. Got creamed. Lost all the old ladies’ dough. Daddy bailed him out before the lawsuits got started.
Was that Ramon or Raul?
I don’t know. Probably Raul. Ramon’s too stupid to fake it.
What do you know about Ramon?
Ramon I know from around. Got a vicious gun habit. He collects them. Lugers from World War II. M1s. Uzis. Whatever. Worth a shit-pile, the collection. Thinks he’s some kind of a cowboy. Took some survival course down in South Carolina somewhere, off in the hills. Thinks he’s a tough guy now. Started up some security outfit. Far as I know, Daddy’s his only client, though. Everybody else knows he’s too stupid to spit and shit at the same time.