“Hey, dickhead,” said Clyde.
“You took the words right out of my head.”
Clyde faked a punch to Sam’s head before he sat down and said, “Let’s order. I’m starving.”
“You notice any changes here?” asked Sam.
“Hmm. Nope.”
“Like I’m the only white guy in the restaurant? Seriously, I thought someone might come up to me and ask if they could pet my blond hair. It’s freaking weird.”
“No shit. You are. Well, isn’t this a black renaissance?”
“That too,” said Sam.
A young black woman, in a white cotton blouse and modest navy-blue A-line skirt approached the table. She was new. New was written all over her careful grooming, perfectly pressed uniform, sharpened pencil and formal greeting. Clyde was particularly kind and patient as he gave his order. Sam thought restaurant employees were in some secret society. They took care of each other. Clyde, like Maggie, always left big tips.
“Before I mess with your mind, what was going on between you and Blanche the other night?”
“Like what?” said Clyde.
“Just picked up an edge.”
“Ah, nothing. She was pissed because I signed up for some additional shifts at Angelo’s and she wanted me home to help set up for the meeting. Just the usual three-legged-race for time, space and sanity! We’re both working too many hours and as the boys get older there’s no friggin’ time to get away.”
“Sorry. Am I stealing alms?”
“No, asshole. My choice. What gives?”
“Long story. Last night I got to work a few minutes early and Zito met me at the door . . .
“ ‘Hey ass-wipe, need to talk to you,’ said Zito.
“ ‘Sure thing, Zito.’ I thought we were heading to his office on the second floor, but he took me to the Conference Room. On the table was a small viewing screen and a tape player. My knees buckled; I thought I was going to upchuck three White Castles.
“ ‘What the hell happened in this room between you and Carla?’
“ ‘Zito, I don’t know.’ Then, I spilled my guts and gave him my story—hopeful blow job, last fling, great tits then the blackout.
“Zito kept shaking his head up and down like he knew all this, like he’d seen it on the tapes. Then he said, ‘What about the bruises on Carla’s face and neck?’
“ ‘I don’t remember anything after she removed her bra.’
“ ‘You don’t remember choking her, slapping her?’
“ ‘No way, Zito. I’ve never hit anyone—man or woman. There’s no way I’d hit or choke anyone.’ I could hardly form words I was so fucking scared.
“ ‘Look, ass-wipe, I’m not messing with you. You’re in some deep shit, and I can’t help you unless you help me here.’
“ ‘Zito, I don’t remember a thing. I woke up with my pants wrapped around my ankles. My head was throbbing. Someone had cleaned the room while I was passed out cold. I swear I’d never hit a woman.’
“Zito patted me on the knee and said, ‘Maybe someone gave you a mickey. I don’t know, but I saw the tapes and I’m here to tell ya, you held her head like a goddamn vice when she was on her knees. When she tried to leave, you grabbed her by the throat and held her over the table. I’ve seen some rough sex in my life, sicko porno flicks and all that, but this was hard to watch. You’re lucky you didn’t kill her. Carla’s attorney called the next day and we looked at the tapes. After talking with our lawyers, we decided we couldn’t afford the bad press. What with the beer company joint venture and all. So we settled yesterday. It cost us a shitload of money. Her attorney said he gave us the only copies of photos they took of her bruises, which we all know is bullshit. The deal is you don’t even think about contacting her. Got that ass-wipe?’
“ ‘In spades.’
“ ‘Now pretty boy, we need to find a way to get you the hell away from Sheer Juice, but within reach if things go south. You’ve got an interview with Jingo Motors next week. Some piss ant title like Employee Who-Haw for hiring or training, I forget. So, get your resume shined up and make sure you get this job. Capisce?’
“ ‘Sure Zito.’
“Late that night, one of the processing guys, Henry, pulled me off to the side and said he needed to talk. I followed him to the loading dock so he could have a smoke. He told me the new chemical they’re putting in the juice to extend shelf life is poison. Might even cause cancer. I treated it like a loyalty test and said it was time to give up his freakin’ Dick Tracey comic books. I told him the preservatives are safe.”
“So Clyde, my best friend and partner in crime, I’m sitting here wondering if I can trust you. That’s how mind-fucked I am. If you’re part of this cartel, this conspiracy, you know I’m bought. If you’re not part of this cartel or conspiracy, you know I’m bought.”
“Sad day for us, my friend, but I get it. What you said is between us. What you decide I’ll honor. But hear me say this, I am and will always be your friend.”
Sam looked at Clyde, then looked somewhere beyond Clyde’s view and shook his head ‘no.’ Clyde turned around to look. Nothing. No one.
“Hey Sam, you want to talk this through? Get my take?” said Clyde.
“Yeah, sure. I’m a mess. Didn’t sleep.”
“First question, did you see the tape?”
“Nope. Last thing I wanted to do was watch that tape.”
“How do you know this isn’t one big setup? What if they paid Carla to seduce you after they drugged you up?”
“Go on,” said Sam.
“If I wanted to buy your loyalty, I’d think of what’s important to you. Number one, Maggie; number two, reputation; number three, job. This is a tripleheader, my friend.”
“What about the Henry thing?”
“Well, if Henry was a set up, they might think you’ve been nosing around. They know you’re an activist and you wouldn’t let something like that go. That might be a close second in importance to you. But, if this dude was not set up, he wanted to send you information because he knows you’re an activist and smart and ready to move on after your MBA.” Clyde paused for a moment then asked, “Did Zito show you the photos?”
“Nope.”
“If I wanted to scare the shit out of you I’d show you the tape or photos, especially the photos. Security tapes tend to be fuzzy and hard to read, but the photos would have sealed your loyalty. Why not show you? Maybe they don’t have photos. Maybe Carla was part of the plot to secure your loyalty and she’s off on a two-week cruise to the Bahamas.”
“Here’s something I don’t think I told you. When I came to, I felt myself to see if I’d come. Nothing. No stickiness, scent, nothing. I may not know my head from a hole in the ground, but there’s no way I’d force myself on a woman. Carla showed up at the end of the party, locked the door and unbuckled my belt. I might be an asshole, but I’m not a brute.”
“So think about it. Here’s Carla freaked out of her mind because you’re beating the shit out of her, raping her and she cleans you up and cleans the room before she leaves. I don’t think so. I think they want you by the short hairs and the best way to keep you in the circle is to keep you scared.”
“You’re right. There’s no way Carla would hang around to clean up if that’s what happened. I’m a total nimrod. I missed it.”
“Fear makes us nuts. I know. I’ve been there.”
“In this situation?”
“You are a nimrod. No. Not in this exact situation. But I know how fear can make us nuts. You need to find some way to tamp down the fear and pay attention. My guess is they didn’t spend this much time and energy for a short-term relationship. They think they’ve bought you. You think you’re bought. For that matter, I think you’re bought. I don’t know how you unwrap this but you need to look at this long-term. Years. You play it out and don’t let them know what you know. Be the nimrod.”
“Christ, Clyde, sorry I said I didn’t trust you. Other than Maggie, you’re my on
ly friend and no way in hell can I tell Maggie about this. You’re it.”
“Tervo, listen up. You’ve got to treat everyone you meet like kryptonite. That means everyone, asshole. You can’t afford another Carla. And, remember, I can’t have your back unless you ask for help. Capisce?”
12
Evolution
You say you want a revolution—well, you know—we all want to change the world. You tell me that it’s evolution—well, you know—we all want to change the world.
—The Beatles, lyrics from Revolution.
AUGUST 1968—“Hey, Mag, let’s boogie shoo before we miss the revolution. By the time we get through customs and drive two-hundred-fifty-some miles, the French might have planted their flag in Quebec and headed to Toronto.” Dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans, a white undershirt, his second-string brown loafers and aviator sunglasses, Sam stood by the raised hood of the Corvair’s front trunk sipping coffee, waiting for Maggie to wrangle Aunt Jo’s blue Samsonite. Maggie insisted on taking the largest piece for their ten-day trip. When Sam reminded Maggie about the tiny old stairways in pensiones and suggested she take two smaller suitcases, Maggie said, “No problem, Tervo, I’ll handle it myself.”
“Coming!” yelled Maggie as she shoved the clunky suitcase across the tattered linoleum floor. Once she made it to the side door, she had to push the suitcase through first, then down two narrow wood steps, before she could step out and close the door. Maggie’s hair, wet from the shower, was in a ponytail filled with brush rollers. The rest of her looked like she stepped off the cover of this month’s Glamour Magazine—a new pink and orange striped sundress with orange espadrilles, tanned skin, Hot Pink lipstick and matching nail polish.
Sam whistled and said, “Hot damn. It was worth the wait!”
“Merci ma chère. I’m so freaked I can hardly stand it. I’ve wanted this trip for so long it’s hard to breathe. What if we can’t find Jacques or he won’t see us?”
“Oh, Maggie, it’s a moon shot. If he doesn’t see us, well that tells us something. We can dig through the libraries, look for friends, neighbors who remember your family.”
“I know. I know. But I have to see him, to look him in the eyes and see what’s there. From the untrimmed edges of my patchwork soul, I know they disappeared to protect Issie and me. During the Cold War every radical and most liberals were labeled communists. L’Empereur was exposing corruption, crushing the establishment. My parents knew they were dancing on the edge of a cauldron. Sam, I know this sounds like a childhood fantasy, but every molecule in my body tells me they’re not dead.”
“Maggie, we have ten days. The last time I had ten days to focus on any one thing was when I was, what six, banging my knees, learning to ride a two-wheeler. We’ll find some leads or the leads will find us.”
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
Sam looked at Maggie and thought, unbelievable. This drop-dead beautiful, smart, funny woman loves me then said, “Maggie, of course. How could you not?”
Maggie laughed and said, “Tervo, you are one insufferable, egotistical Yooper. It’s a good thing you’ve got the looks to pull it off.”
Luggage, books, magazines, a wicker picnic basket and blanket filled every spare inch of the Corvair. On beautiful summer days like this, Maggie missed the Triumph’s ragtop. But, after a bitter winter, with several recharges to its fading battery, two flat tires and a few fender benders, she and Sam sold the Triumph while it was worth some money. Cha-ching! Another eight hundred dollars added to their savings account.
Maggie switched on the radio to The Beatle’s newest record, Revolution. It had already become a favorite. . . . But when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out. . . .
After singing their way through Windsor’s traffic and smog, the road opened to miles and miles of countryside. The green pastures and farmlands might have been scenery in France or Brazil or America. Yet, here they were in Canada, Maggie’s first home. Tears began to spill down her cheeks, chin, neck, then pooled in her collarbones. She let them flow and experienced, maybe for the first time, the sensation of Canada as her birthplace—her first destination on this beautiful, crazy planet.
“Hey, babe, you okay?” said Sam as he pulled to the side of the road, turned off the car and looked at her. Prisms of light pierced Maggie’s eyes, hair and tears. The picks in her brush rollers created some sort of dizzying crown of thorns. Maggie smiled then Sam smiled as they wrapped their arms around each other. In the silence of that simple embrace, Maggie and Sam met one another in a way neither would ever talk about or attempt to describe.
“How about here? We’re only an hour from Toronto and about to run out of pasture,” said Sam.
“I guess. I’m not sure we should be climbing fences.”
“Mag, you of all people? Really? I thought you were hell bent on finding rules to break.”
“You’re right, what was I thinking? Okay, let’s bend and break some rules.”
“I’ve got some rule-breaking ideas,” teased Sam as he slid the car on the gravel shoulder and brought it to a sharp stop at the ragged edge of a drainage ditch hidden by weeds.
Maggie whispered, “holy crap, Sam. Don’t move. The right front tire is teetering on the edge of a pit at least five feet wide and five feet deep.”
Without responding, Sam eased the steering wheel to the right, put the car in reverse and slowly lifted his foot off the clutch as he backed a few inches. Straightening the wheels, he shifted to first gear and barely touched the gas pedal as he crept forward then gently turned left toward the highway. Once he felt the traction of pavement, Sam said, mostly to himself, “Must be a tractor path somewhere down the road.” Although he had a reputation for tacking through turbulent winds, Maggie knew to look for that ever-so-slight tightness in Sam’s temples when he grits his teeth. It was her cue to back off and trust his compass.
A mile down the road they saw two well-worn tire tracks angled across the ditch and pulled in. A simple metal gate closed off vehicle traffic but offered an easy climb to the pasture. Maggie grabbed the blanket and Sam picked up the picnic basket.
Up close, the pasture was a carnival funhouse of mud puddles and moguls. What they thought was shining wheat turned out to be thistle. Driven by hunger and an irrational determination to find the perfect spot, Sam charged ahead. Now more than fifty yards away, Maggie saw him turn and run back, yelling for Maggie to get to the car. In the distance a bull was gaining ground. By the time they reached the car they were covered in black silt, their bare legs thrashed by thistle. Both were too winded to laugh but they couldn’t help themselves. Choking, coughing and chortling, they chased away any romantic notions about pastures and picnics.
When they threw the blanket across the tractor path in front of the car, the bull snorted, stomped his feet and shook his horns from the other side of the gate. “El toro!” laughed Maggie as she made a few moves with her corner of the blanket.
Lunch turned out to be a repeat of the un-pastoral-pasture story. Ice stored in plastic bags had melted and leaked into the wax-papered tuna salad sandwiches. Dill pickles had marinated the already too sour apple slices. Paper napkins, left over from the wedding party, were sopping wet. After they hoovered a small bag of potato chips, Maggie and Sam clicked their Coke cans together in a toast.
“Here’s to being chased by a bull; it has a certain Hemingway-esque feel to it,” laughed Maggie.
Sam took Maggie’s Coke from her hand and placed it beside his on a nearby rock. Stretching out on the blanket, Sam pulled Maggie on top of him. Reaching under her skirt, he hooked his thumb through the crotch of her cotton panties and shimmied them down. The air, sun and risk of being seen had a slow-motion effect—like listening to a 78-rpm record played at 33 rpm. Time was unreliable. Aware of the sun’s heat, Maggie’s weight and the tension of his muscles, Sam began to sit up. The smell of the bull mingled with his own sweat as he eased himself out from under Maggie. On her st
omach, she seemed listless, sleepy as Sam lifted her up on one knee then the other. He stripped off his shirt and wiped his face and the back of his neck as he watched a light breeze play with the hem of Maggie’s sundress. Time passed, time stood still. On his knees, Sam lifted the back of her dress. Head back, the bull snorted, pounded his right hoof in the ground then bellowed as he slammed his horns against the metal fence again and again.
It was after four when Maggie and Sam found the pensione they set up through AAA Travel. Only a few blocks from downtown Toronto, the Yorkville neighborhood had been pegged Hippie Haven. The two-story, bay-and-gable house was surrounded by private homes that had been converted to pensiones or small businesses—attorneys, photographers, accountants, stationary stores, tobacco stores, head shops—a neighborhood in transition. A small sign at the driveway said: Parking for Maple Leaf Guests Only. Other than this, there was no other sign identifying the house as a pensione.
A small pebble path led from the driveway to a side entrance with a note: Mr. and Mrs. Tervo please come in and give me a holler. Thank you, Marc DeVille, Proprietor.
Maggie and Sam entered a vibrant old kitchen. The ceiling was ten feet high. Cupboards and open shelving held at least three sets of dishes, serving platters and bowls, food, birdseed, table linens and dozens of cookbooks. Pots and pans hung from racks over two well-worn cook tops. A huge butcher-block table, holding bowls of fresh fruit, nuts, tea bags and small jelly jars anchored the room. In an adjoining sunroom there were three tables seating four each. The look, feel and color palate was familiar—Aunt Jo’s kitchen on steroids.
“Bonjour, Monsieur DeVille,” called Maggie.
“Bonjour, Madame Tervo. Is that you?” replied a voice from another room in the house.
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 10