Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it leaves more margin, see?”

  “Maybe,” she said. Then she told me about this place she’d seen for sale, a fix-me-upper over by Baby Point, place with blue shutters. Saw the feature sheet pasted in the window of the Re/Max office over by the strip mall.

  I listened to her tell about it, smiling and saying, “Yeah, maybe down the road.”

  Sighing, she pulled away and went about snugging elastics around sacks of sugar and flour, putting them in the cupboard. Looking at me, saying she wasn’t getting any younger, then she said, “Oh, and Deb called, says to say hello.”

  “Great.”

  “Her birthday last week.”

  “Yeah, forty again?”

  “Funny man. Oh, speaking of cars, Dennis surprised her with new wheels. Parked it in the driveway with a big bow on it. Gonna send me a picture.”

  Guess she needed to take a poke, waiting eighteen months while her clock was ticking. Ann having to rip the cord on the old Toro, dealing with the looks from the neighbors who somehow found out I was doing time. Her sister, Deb Ryan, offering to put a dish on the roof of our rental dump, send money for pay-TV, let Ann tune in the 20 Minute Workout and get Superchannel while she waited for me to get my release. I hated the thought of taking handouts, especially from her sister.

  “Dennis just wants her in something safe,” she said.

  “Uh huh, what’s safe?”

  “Red Beemer, the little cute one, you know . . .”

  “Uh huh.” Stole one once, an old 2002, not a bad ride. Shoving my glass under the spigot, I worked it with my thumb, refilling the glass, feeling the wine now, leaning back in the chair, saying, “Dennis getting into grand theft auto now, huh?”

  “Takes one to know one,” she said, then, “Anyway, I’m happy for her, she deserves it.”

  I should have left it alone, but I said, “The guy hawks chemical fertilizer, and Deb runs a tacky knickknack in a strip mall. How much can they make?”

  “Well, enough for a red Beemer.”

  I shook my head, grinning. “Nothing worse than new money.”

  “No money.” She grinned back.

  Waving a finger at her, I said, “Don’t go using your mother’s face on me, okay?”

  Splashing wine in her own glass, she said she was sorry she mentioned it, but didn’t look it. Catching her hand, I swung her into my lap, careful not to spill any wine, saying, “You’re a true ball buster, you know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it.” She kissed me, saying, “Red Beemer’s gonna look good in front of their new place.” Smirking and grinding her hips in my lap, saying, “Oh, and Dennis booked them on a cruise, the two of them going to Alaska.” Arcing her back, she let me get my hand under her top.

  “One of them polluters of the seas, huh?” I said, sliding my hand around her back, under the strap, trying to work those two bastard hooks. “What’s next, a pair of side-by-side plots, some fancy-ass cemetery?”

  Ann laughed, pushing my hand away. Getting up, doing her herself back up.

  “Least what we got’s ours,” I said, reaching my glass.

  “Right.” She took the tray from the oven, the cookies nice and brown, setting them on the stovetop. Then she picked up the wooden spoon like a microphone and spoke to it, “Oh, was that the door?” Turning her head, she waited till I looked down the hall, saying, “Why, it’s Robin Leach. Oh, do come in, Robin. Yes, allow our houseman to take your coat, and oh, a tour, sure . . . why, where do we start?”

  I refilled my glass, shaking my head and watching her.

  Ann talking to the spoon. “Yes, let’s film the leaky garage first, shall we?” Making a Vanna White hand gesture. “Why yes, that’s our import parked in its own juices. Just fabulous, isn’t it? A Valiant, yes, from the Stone Age, all bought and paid for.”

  Had me shaking my head, Ann looking around, saying, “And yes, Robin, that is a real fireplace, but we don’t use it much, not since it blew soot all over our priceless antiques. The two of us living in the lack of luxury, don’t you know.”

  Picking at the Formica again, I was laughing and looking at her, feeling the wine, saying, “Yeah, well, least what we got, we own.”

  “Oh, God, Jesus, they’re gonna laugh when they get a load of this place.” She looked around and refilled her glass, stopped herself, and poured her glass into mine.

  I looked at her, getting that sinking feeling, saying, “When who sees this place?”

  She rolled her eyes, saying, “Stopping in on their way back to Montreal.”

  “Deb? Dennis?”

  “Hmm hmm.”

  “And I’m hearing about it now?” I kicked at the table leg.

  “It’s just for a couple of days, Jeff.” She went back to slapping more golf ball lumps of dough on another sheet. Ann not caring what they looked like now.

  “That woman . . .” I shook my head, thinking of her sister here for a few days.

  “She’s blood . . . and Mother’s getting on . . .”

  “Mother? Oh, for fuck’s . . .” Felt the current shoot through me, my foot kicking out again, the box of wine nearly tumbling. I jumped up and caught it.

  “You know, I had friends before you came along, mister. Now nobody even calls anymore, and all I got’s family . . . such as it is.” Tossing the scoop in the sink, she glared at me. “Think you should see somebody, some kind of doctor, you know, maybe get a script.”

  “Naw, maybe I shouldn’t see somebody — like Debra, Mother and . . .” I slapped a hand to my forehead.

  “Spread the love, Jeff.” Folding her arms in that way she had. The wall phone rang and she jumped, then reached for it, saying, “Hello?”

  I heard the telemarketer speak his lines. “Hello, ma’am. How are we this fine evening?”

  “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me you got just what I need, right?” Pulling the cord tight, she came over and slapped my fingers from the chipped Formica again.

  “If there’s a better time for me to call, ma’am?” the tinny voice said.

  “It just gets worse,” Ann said, telling him to hold on, letting the receiver dangle to the floor. Taking the batch of cookies from the tray, she piled them into a tin that read Home Sweet Home. Pressing on the lid, she stomped from the room.

  I watched the phone cord coil around the receiver, reminded me of a snake.

  The tinny voice repeating hello.

  Followed by dial tone.

  Drinking the wine, I went back to thinking of the Don, the grey-and-blue cubicles where they did the search-and-process. Took my personal belongings and shoved them in the blue bag, putting the numbered tag on it. Handing me the orange jumpsuit. I remembered that first whiff of morning scent. The sight of the hands hanging out between the blue cell bars. Books and bibles stuck between the bars like they were shelves. Guys giving each other the stink eye. That fucker Ruby grinning as he told me not to flush the lidless head at night on account of the noise. Thinking about the groups: the blacks in what they called Motown, the young offenders in Kiddy Corner, the long-timers in Pen Range. The high walls of the exercise yard that kept anybody on the outside from pitching anything to the guys in the yard. No doubt the place was hell. Drinking my wine, I compared it to doing time with Deb, Dennis and Mother. Couldn’t decide which was worse.

  . . . Making It Right

  The girl the escort service sent over was Sinn-amon, looking up at him, not believing this old guy was reaching for the phone again. Second time he’d done it. Kneeling in front of him, leaning back and folding her arms.

  Ted Bracey spoke into the phone, “Hey, Robbie, sorry my man, must’ve got disconnected. You were saying . . .”

  “Fuck you, I quit.”

  “Come on, Robbie, you and me, we got history, my man. Can’t just walk out. Say what it is, and I set it r
ight.”

  “Fuckers did it with garden snips. Any idea of the pain?”

  “Said I’m sorry, Robbie. Bet it’s a bitch, no doubt, but, hey, you think I can call you back? Right in the middle of something.”

  Sinn-amon looked at him in his La-Z-Boy. Couldn’t believe this guy. Whoever was on the line was screaming about paying what he owed.

  “Said I’ll make it right,” Ted said, holding the phone away from his ear, telling her he’d only be a sec.

  “How you gonna make it right?” Robbie said, the phone booth up the block from Toronto Western. “Fuckers dropped me in front of a vet. Fucking place was closed. Had to wave down a cab and get over here. Bleeding all over the guy’s seat the whole way. Could’ve died, and the fucker charges me five bucks for a bullshit cleaning fee.”

  “What’d you tell them, the medics?”

  “Said I got careless trimming my prize zinnias, the nurse writing on the chart thought I’d been drinking.”

  “Good man. You did right.” Mal Rocca had sicced his dogs on Ted, the old shylock warning him about missing payments. Going after his guys now, sending his message. Ted smiled at the girl — forgot the name she was using — mouthed again he’d just be one more sec.

  “I’m fucking disfigured, Ted,” Robbie said, “holding up my hand, looking at the space where my finger should be. Goddamned popping pain killers like Tic Tacs.”

  “Which one they get?” Ted said.

  “What?”

  “Finger, which one?”

  “Fuck’s it matter?” Robbie was yelling again. “Finger’s a finger.”

  “Like I said, Robbie, I’ll make it right.” Ted winking at the girl. Mouthing, “Big tip.”

  “How you gonna do that, Ted?”

  “For starters, we get you protection . . .”

  “What, gloves, mitts?”

  “A gun, Robbie. Get you packing like a man. Somebody pulls shit on you —”

  “I sell used fucking cars, do your books, for that I need a gun?”

  “Looks like, yeah, plus you need your fingers for counting, right?”

  “I’m holding one up now, a finger, Ted, you wanna guess which —”

  Grabbing the phone from Ted, Sinn-amon hung it up, saying, “I know you paid me, mister, but you want this or not, ’cause if you don’t . . .”

  “Sorry, baby.” Ted rested his hands on her head, ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close and leaned back in the La-Z-Boy. Next time he called the escort service, he’d ask for his usual, Ginger, the one they’d been sending over for the last year. That girl understood him. He figured she must be on vacation.

  •

  Dial tone. Robbie looked at the phone. Reaching his good hand in a pocket, he took the pill bottle, popped the lid with his thumb and downed a couple more Percodan. Didn’t matter about the side effects or what it said on the label. Stepping to the curb, he waved his bandaged hand at another yellow cab. Robbie needed that drink, looking at his watch, happy hour at Captain Jack’s was long over.

  . . . Could Be Big

  Taking the last plate from the dishwasher, Ann checked it for chips and toweled it dry, doing what the old machine couldn’t, the landlord refusing to upgrade the defunct Norge, saying they didn’t make them like that anymore. Closing the cupboard door, she hung the towel on the knob. Sitting across from me, she flicked my hand from the chipped Formica again, saying she knew I could do better.

  “What’s better?”

  “A real job, you know, a place where you go, nine to five, five days a week, get a paycheck.”

  “Haven’t even met with the man, and you’re at me.”

  “How we supposed to get by on what I make? Don’t want me borrowing from Deb or Mother, right?”

  “Look, Vick’s been doing alright. Only been there a month or so, and he’s making decent sales . . .”

  “Since he got out?”

  I was wishing I never told her how we met, the transfer from the court building to Broadview and Gerrard. The two of us talking in back of the wagon on the way to the east wing. Both of us looking up at old Father Time in front of the Don as we were led inside.

  “Nobody’s saying you got to put Don Jail on your résumé, Jeff. Maybe bend the truth a bit. Nobody checks.”

  Sitting in the two barber chairs that day at Marcel’s the day I got released, Vick looked at me, popped his eyebrows the way he did, and said, “Holy shit, brother, they let you out, huh?” Offering his hand.

  Taking a little off the top, Marcel laid it out for me. Ted Bracey ran the AutoPark, a front for running guns up from the States. The man was in need of a couple guys posing as car salesmen, the last guy not working out. Since Vick got onboard, Ted was playing it cautious, not saying much about the smuggling yet, feeling Vick out.

  According to Marcel, the cars had cells welded under the chassis, the cells packed with guns. Others had pistols in vacuum-sealed bags hidden in the gas tanks. Bracey was looking for another guy like Vick who could stand some heat, sell some cars while they were at it.

  “Can’t afford any more of your pipe dreams and shortcuts,” Ann said.

  “We got to do this dance, Ann? Look, you’re worried, I get that, really. You want, we take in another homestay, at least till I get this on track.”

  “Easy for you, sitting in your cell. I’ll never forget walking in on that last kid pulling his . . . aww . . .” Ann cringed, the last homestay student didn’t last a week. Ann still seeing the kid’s belly shake as he pumped his fist, sitting on the bed. The sheets she’d just picked up at Honest Ed’s.

  “Okay, so that was one time.”

  “More than plenty, believe me. Seeing something like that . . . just be glad I still . . .” She waved it off, saying, “And where you suppose it . . . uh, God, my baby’s not crawling through that.”

  There it was again, Ann having thoughts of a baby. The woman’s clock was ticking like a bomb, louder as she closed in on forty. Barely back in the world, I was trying to put my life together. In a year, I’d be hitting fifty, sure wasn’t the time for drooling dependents. Could barely take care of myself. Picking up the glass, I swallowed some more wine, saying, “Just gonna talk to this guy, hear him out. That’s it.” Saying it louder, like it was final.

  Marcel had said Ted Bracey was in tight with the Bent Boys up in Rexdale, the gang in the middle of a turf war with the Dreads. Ready and willing to pay cash for all the firepower Bracey could get. Marcel saying there was money to be made. Big money.

  . . . The Silent Type

  Sitting on his deck with the cedar hedge at his back, Vick DuMont tapped his fingers on the arm of the metal chair. He tried for cool, not letting his eyes go to the portable drill on the picnic table.

  Randy Hooper stood close, letting his size get his point across, his hair hanging in front of his face, strands sticking together like he’d been sweating. Pony White leaned against the shakes of the post-war-era house and looked on. Frown lines deep as scars on either side of his mouth.

  Randy saying, “Two ways we can go.” Sitting on the bench of the picnic table, leaning close to Vick, Randy reached in a pocket and took a banded roll of cash, holding it up. Looked like a grand in hundreds. Tossing it, he caught it, saying to Pony, “Why they got to go the hard way all the time?”

  “Beats me.”

  Setting the cash on the table, Randy picked up the drill, Boar Gun printed on the side, big battery pack on the bottom. Pressing the trigger, he spun the bit, looked like he admired it, saying, “One way’s money, Vick, other way’s pain.”

  “Okay, said I’ll find out what I can.”

  “Expect your call, then,” Randy said, spinning the bit and gouging into the top of the table, saying, “You do, you get another roll like this one. You don’t . . .” He drilled deeper.

  “Said I would, right?” Vick wiped at his fo
rehead. Looking at the hole, he threw in that Ted Bracey had a trailer load of cars coming across the Peace Bridge, told them about the hidden cells welded underneath, opened on hydraulics. How you had to tap your foot on the brake and turn the key at the same time, flip a switch under a fake bottom on the console for the cells to open. Each packed with a couple of Uzis.

  “Already know all that, the reason we’re talking. What I want to know’s when and where,” Randy said, tapping the drill bit against the roll of cash, then tapping it against the side of Vick’s knee. “Whichever one you want, your choice.”

  “All I know, swear,” Vick said.

  “But you’ll find out more,” Randy tapped the trigger, let the bit spin, catching the edge of Vick’s pants.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Eyes on the bit, Vick bobbed his head and moved his leg away.

  Randy got up, taking the drill, going and opening the screen. Vick’s schnauzer rushed out, Randy giving it a pat, then walking through the house, boots thudding on the hardwood.

  Standing there, looking at the roll of bills, Pony said, “We got this place, kind of a warehouse sitting empty, out by the nuke plant. Locals moved the fuck away after the bullshit over in Chernobyl. You hear about it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Vick nodded.

  “Nobody wants a CANDU reactor in the hood. Place getting all deserted.” Pony pointed at the gouge in the table. “We got to start drilling more holes, nobody’s gonna hear the screaming, not out there. You get me?” Pony left him sitting there, going through the house. Vick on the metal chair, hugging his dog.

  . . . Bounce

  Checking the paperwork, the dot number, the Canada Customs inspector looked at the bill of lading and manifest. Bucky Showalter watched him do the secondary, walking axle to axle with the mirror on the stick, checking under the Peterbilt. Eyeballing the half dozen cars chained up the trailer, all American and full-sized: the Gran Fury, a Granada, a 98, a T-Bird and a couple of Crown Vics. Sitting easy behind the wheel, he peeled off his shades, rubbing the miles from his eyelids. Waiting.