Lucky Supreme

by Jeff Johnson

  There was no kind of hidden map in the wobbly lines, the third-rate shading, no meaning in the color schemes. The randomness of the lettering didn’t spell anything. Norton could barely write. I turned them all upside down and unfocused my eyes a little. Nothing, just a different kind of Z list. I frowned, then studied them all sideways.

  It was an hour before dawn when I put them all back into the case and crashed into the bed. Nothing. Not even a clue. But every detail of the flash was successfully uploaded into my memory, so there was no telling what might emerge in my dreams. As I drifted off my thoughts flicked back to the machine gun death of the Panamanian President. A rape case. Machine guns at the racetrack. Handing over the canal. Railroads. Flags. Lots of flags. It was like the pieces of Dong-ju’s brown puzzle, where nothing fit together easily, and there was no way some two-bit con man with a lame trick bag could have done anything more spectacular in 1955 Panama than dying of a mosquito bite in prison. None that I could imagine, anyway. It had to be some kind of seemingly ignorant investment scheme that would somehow pan out, and the only reason I couldn’t see it was that I was too jaded, too ignorant, too pissed off. Who knew what rich people were thinking when they stared at all those numbers. My last thought as I fell asleep was that maybe dreaming wasn’t a great idea after all.

  The flight back to Portland amazingly left on time, the pleasant people at Hertz didn’t give me any shit about smoking in their car, and I scored an awesome extra-small Shuckins Taxidermy T-shirt for Delia on the drive in. She called twice, both times I couldn’t pick up, but she didn’t leave a message either time, which I interpreted as a good sign. The tenor of the week was changing. Even my hangover had a soft, fuzzy quality. My dreamscape had revealed nothing about my far-ranging research and examination, but it was all still sitting in the front row of the all the stuff in the back of my mind. It made me feel curiously well equipped.

  I slept for most of the flight and took a cab home. It was raining in a serious way when I arrived and I didn’t want the Norton flash to get any more water-stained than it already was. Even with the fancy new facing and riding in the expensive new case, the pieces were still vulnerable, plus it was too damned cold to stand around waiting for a train. Fall was approaching dead center.

  The cab pulled up in front of my dark house, and I paid the driver and hauled my stuff up the slippery stairs. Buttons was waiting by the door, his thick red fur soaking wet, purring and ready for snack time. He was the only cat I’d ever met who didn’t in the least mind being wet, though his next move would be to go and lie down on my pillow. I slapped his soggy back and let him in.

  The house was warm and quiet. The heater was on and the place smelled like lavender and furniture polish. There was a note from Delia on the dining room table.

  “Since you didn’t call, you’re either dead or you got your stuff back. You’re out of whiskey and mayo. —D.”

  I turned on a few lights and called down to the shop. Dwight answered.

  “What’s rockin’?” I asked.

  “Oh dude,” he said with a partly suppressed giggle. “Is this the first time you called since you left?”

  “I’ve been gone for about thirty hours,” I replied with a sinking feeling. “What happened?”

  “There was a fight in front of the Rooster Rocket last night. Some hipster kid got two of his teeth knocked out. And get this: Delia went out and found one of the teeth in the gutter. She autoclaved it and used the tools in the back soldering station to make a fuckin’ earring. She was wearing it this morning when she came in to check supplies.”

  “Barfo.” I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. Nothing caught my eye. She had left the empty mayo jar on the top rack, upside down as a reminder.

  “Oh yeah, dude, it’s nasty. You can tell it’s a real human tooth too, like roots and all.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I leave for one fucking day. Any sign of Dmitri?”

  “No, but Gomez came by an hour ago, drunk as shit. He left a message, here … let’s see. Come or call by ASAP. Kinda sorta doesn’t make sense, but you get it.”

  “Great.” I lit a cigarette and opened the front door. Gomez had apparently gotten day drunk enough to lose my cell phone number. It was a good thing I’d taken a nap on the plane. Gomez was the kind of drinker who never went deep by accident. “I’ll be down in a few. I gotta rinse the airport off.”

  I took a quick shower and put on clean clothes. Then I slipped a couple of steel balls into my bomber jacket and drove down to the shop.

  Monique was on the corner, staring with a raptor’s gaze at the passing cars, making sucking faces at them. I waved at her but she ignored me. Dwight’s red pickup was parked out front, but there was no sign of Delia’s Falcon. I waved at him and then ducked into Gomez’s. Flaco was in his cubby and looked like he wanted to say something, but I brushed past him. I’d save him for on the way out.

  Gomez was sitting alone at his own bar, still drinking in the morose pose of the lost, staring down into a tumbler. Cherry was behind the stick unloading a box of assorted bottles. Her look when she met my eye was grim.

  “What’s up?” I asked, settling on the bar stool next to him. He raised his shaggy head and stared at me. His face was puffy and red and his thick mestizo hair was wild from repeatedly running his hands through it. His eyes were past hard and slightly out of focus, like he was looking at someone he wanted to kill who was standing right behind me. I held up a finger at Cherry, summoning the drink I knew I’d need.

  “Building inspector was waiting for me when I got here,” Gomez said quietly. “He looked around for a long time, vato. Took lots of notes. Pictures with his little camera. I kept him away from the worst of it, but he will return.”

  “Shit. He say anything? Leave a note or a notice or whatever?”

  Cherry set my drink down and quickly backed away.

  “You got to calm that mad Greek fucker down,” Gomez said forcefully. A little fleck of his spit hit me right under the eye. Gomez didn’t notice. I held up my hands.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarled. “Off in California, fucking around? This is a crisis! Out landlord, our landlord! Your landlord! He’s a lunatic!”

  “I know, I know,” I replied calmly. “I was away on that business I told you about, but it looks like it’s done for now. At least I won’t be going south again anytime soon. What did this inspector say?”

  Gomez shook his head. “Nothing, but that is very bad.” His swollen eyes were slow to focus. I’d known Gomez for fifteen years and I’d never seen him like that. “Darby, for years we have kept this building together ourselves. YouTube videos and those how-to books you got at the Salvation Army. There is smoke coming out of my fuse box on some nights. The plumbing looks like a puzzle and there’s duct tape involved. You have to talk to Dmitri. He has to finally do something right. We did not deal with his shit for all these years just to have it end like this. He listens to you, God knows why.”

  I nodded. Another inspector would be coming my way soon. Disaster. I thought about the calls I’d missed from Delia and my scrotum tightened.

  “Later,” I said. “I’m on this like a motherfucker. And have Cherry get you a cab before she has to mop you up, homie.”

  “Fuck that,” he replied thickly. “I own this fucking booze. I say who drinks in cabs, not you.”

  I gave Cherry the throat cut motion and she shrugged helplessly, apologizing with her face. As soon as I was outside, I took my phone out and dialed Delia.

  “People were taking pictures of the building, Darby,” Flaco said, leaning out his window. “Where were you? Delia tried to call you. Dmitri tried to tell me my horoscope but he has lost the power of speech. Gomez is drinking. Delia has a new tooth. I—”

  Delia picked up on the third ring. I kept walking.

  “Bad news,” she said shortly. “Some dorks in business suits came in right after we opened yesterday. S’why I called. They smelled like talcum powder an
d Old Spice.”

  “You could actually smell them? Through the cloud of your personal birthday cake explosion?”

  “I’m immune to my own fragrance, dumbass. You are too, apparently. Anyway, they wandered around in the lobby for a while like penguins in the Sahara and then one of them took out a little digital camera and started snapping pictures.”

  “Shit. The old flash? No possible way.”

  “Nope. The floor, and a few choice shots of the ceiling and the heater vents.”

  “Inspectors. They got Gomez too.”

  “Big Mike was there, the grumpy piece of shit, so we took the camera away and described how it was illegal to take pictures in the shop without the permission of the owner because of the art content. Mike deleted the shots and gave them their camera back, but dudeboy, they were super not happy.”

  “Christ.” My forehead felt sweaty. “What were they driving?”

  “A white Prius. No writing on the doors. When I went out to spy on their ride they were taking pictures of Flaco.”

  “He just told me. Apparently Gomez let them in and they really went through the place with a fine tooth comb. He steered them away from the flagrant violations, but he won’t be able to pull that off a second time.”

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  “Well, he’s as drunk as he can get and still talk, in his own bar. Cherry might eighty-six him.”

  “Fuck.” She sighed. “Welcome home, I guess. I almost don’t want to ask, but did you get the Norton flash back?”

  “I did. Some … something is seriously wrong with this whole picture. Dude claims it was some kind of investment thing. He told me all that shit about Dutch tulips. He’s interested in using the Norton flash as an investment tool. Transmute shit into gold dust.”

  “Clever,” she said. “And the cop trap? The ambush in the middle of nowhere?”

  “He says he called the cops because he thought I might be an associate of Bling’s, who he’s come to realize was a scumbag.”

  “Unfortunately all true. He’s good.”

  “He sure is. He claims the ambush was for the same reason. The Russian guy was supposed to follow me far enough to make sure I was gone for good, then turn around.”

  “Thin.”

  “Thin but plausible if the Russian was the kind of guy whose range of employment skills are restricted to grunting, wandering around in the rain calling the same number over and over, and doing a crappy job following someone.”

  “What about the pro wrestler with the knife?”

  “Didn’t come up, actually. It was weird, but the whole time I got the feeling that he was trying to read my mind, like everything I said spoke volumes. If my theory about the meat spaz being a kind of messenger from a third player was true, I didn’t want him to know. If you were right that the guy was sent to distract the feds, which seems more and more likely, then I super don’t want him to know that it probably worked.”

  “Hmm. I see your point. So you think there’s even a remote possibility that this guy is on the up and up?”

  “In no way do I think that. He whipped out some coke and these two really strange stick women. The whole thing was mental. His driver slash lackey says I hawked my soul when I took the flash back, so we’ll see. But yes, I have it, so next bummer up for the time being.”

  “A therapy session with Dmitri.”

  “You know it. No way out.”

  “I’m shaking my head right now. I’m so proud of you for not completely losing it. So, maybe the motivational speaker angle, touch of nostalgia to distract him from—”

  “I’m going to beat him with a garden hose.”

  I looked up at the Rooster Rocket sign and blinked. Then I looked some more and blinked again. I wanted to tell her about my sketchbook for some reason. About the boat. I wanted to be sitting in that park again, maybe with Delia and Obi, doing nothing more troubling than sketching a BBQ we were going to build.

  “Darby,” she called.

  “Right,” I said, snapping out of it. “We’re all so paranoid about the art on the walls. I mean, being saved by paranoia happens just often enough to us to make it seem productive. Miserable, isn’t it? Tell the boys to watch for official haircuts and cameras of any kind, even cell phones. I gotta figure out how to … well, shit. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Me and the girls are going out for sushi, then we’ll probably go to Indierobo and do some dick watching. Why?”

  I blew out a breath. “I dunno. I have shit to do, but I still owe you that story.”

  “Well I’ll be.” She tittered. “Darby Holland, are you asking me out on a …”

  “A date?”

  “A date. Yes.”

  I thought about it. I didn’t think I was. But then I didn’t know.

  “Well,” I began, “I’m pretty sure I’m not. But it’s possible that the evening will have date-like qualities. Booze, maybe a snack, the whole story time. But that in itself is not necessarily the kind of thing—I mean, given our history. Well, let’s put it this way, if you’re wondering if it will involve, you know, the—”

  She hung up.

  I hung up, too. Then I took a deep breath and went over to Flaco’s window. He was staring at me with a tight, pissy expression.

  “What?” I asked. He shook his head in disgust.

  “You have all the whores in Old Town looking for something. The Negros are closer and pick-picking, looking for a big man’s wallet, for a score big enough to buy a boat. Gomez is drunk and Dmitri is crazy, crazy, crazy. And you ask what. You tell me, Lucky Boy. You’re right in the center, so you should know.”

  “Flaco, do you have something important to tell me? Or are you just another one of these problems you’re telling me about?”

  Flaco shrugged and stared back out at the rain.

  An hour later and half drunk, I walked through the rain down to “mitri’s izza.” It seemed a little more inviting in a downpour. At least the windows looked cleaner, and thus the interior had the remote possibility of being different than last time. Dmitri was slumped at the counter as usual, this time wearing his only coat, a greasy down hiking parka circa 1979. He looked up in alarm at the sound of the door chime.

  “Lucky boy,” he croaked in a dead voice.

  “Dmitri!” I shouted. “What the hell have you done, and why is it so damn cold in here?”

  He shrugged. “City shut off my heat, and the heat upstairs, too. Nothing’s up to code.” He looked out the windows, his mouth twisted down at the concept of safety standards.

  “Did you do something to make them fuck with us? Like go down to City Hall and start accusing people of oh, I dunno, maybe being Soviet agents or Armenians? Gomez got a visit this morning.” I crossed my arms. “The Lucky did too. They took pictures of the inside of the Rooster Rocket, Dmitri. Of all the shit you let wear down and all the dumb shit we did to fix it.”

  Dmitri shrugged indifferently and a petulance slowly came across his face. He didn’t like any interruption in his pitiful wallowing.

  “So what happens now?” I continued. “The city shuts your buildings down because you never kept them up and the Lucky has to move? Do you have any idea what that’s going to do to me, Dmitri? To Gomez? After twenty fucking years I have to start from scratch?” I was yelling. “Are you going to at least try to fix this?”

  Normally, Dmitri would have screamed back at me and possibly kicked over several tables, but he just stared at me, his mouth slightly open, revealing his stained lower teeth.

  “You backed the wrong horse, tattoo boy,” he said eventually. He cocked his head to the side. “Are you okay?”

  “Fuck no,” I spat. I took a deep breath and sank down into one of the sticky chairs. “I got problems, Dmitri, not the least of which is you. You’re a slumlord, but you’re so pathetic about it I can’t seem to hate you the way I should. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  “Tell me,” he prompted in a soft voice. He looked old in the gray light and
he knew it. Dmitri’s attempt at a paternal change of the subject. For whatever reason, I obliged him.

  “Some fucking goon might be after me for God knows what at this point, a pure psycho with bad taste, way too much money, and nothing better to do. Gomez got lamped by the city and so did you, so heads are getting ready to roll. I’m next, and rat-mind Wally left me a cherry legacy of super half-assed shit I can’t even begin to fix in time. And you’ve finally gone … whatever this is.”

  “Ah, whatever. Such a feminine word. You sound like a woman when you complain.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Dmitri shrugged again. There was no getting a rise out of him when he was this far gone.

  “Listen, man,” I said firmly, reverting back to therapist. I sat up and lamely held my hands out, sculpting the air between us, trying to convey everything with genuine sincerity. “We can get through this. I’ll help you, but we’re not going to just give up. Understand?”

  “The sharks are circling, Darby. Learn how to walk on water. Then you can carry me.”

  He turned away and I watched him stare out at the rain with a hangdog expression for a moment. Nothing I could say was going to make any difference. Dmitri wasn’t depressed or confused. He was defeated. I threw up my hands. He didn’t say anything as I walked out and headed back to the shop.

  Dwight took one look at my face and wordlessly went back to tinkering with his tattoo machine. I don’t know what my expression was, but a defeated Dmitri was too much to bear at the moment. It shook my faith in the concept of crazy, for one thing. I went straight into the back and crashed down into the chair at my desk. When I felt a little more centered, I opened the top drawer and took out Agent Dessel’s card. I dialed and he answered on the second ring.