Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “How about a draw?”

  “Funny,” Ted said. “Oh, one perk, the Quickie Wash . . .” Ted pointed west, could see part of the sign from here, saying it was his, too. Told me I could get a wash anytime I wanted, saying he liked his guys to roll around in clean cars, giving the right impression.

  “Commission and a clean car, that’s it, huh?”

  “Any man worth his salt works for a cut, Jeff. Salary’s for wimps. Sees a blower or grinder coming through that door, doesn’t matter, a good salesman sees each one as an up, a sale in the making.”

  “Just, my old lady, she hears there’s no regular pay . . .”

  Ted stopped at the glass door and gave me a look. “You want to run it by the missus, that’s fine by me. A man’s got to appease the home front. Think I don’t know? Trust me, man, I know.”

  I guessed he was letting my wheels of commerce cycle into motion. No ex-con was going to pass this up. Tugging open the door, he let me walk ahead. I guessed Ann had been waiting outside the library at Christie Pits about a half hour now.

  Taking a couple of messages from Bonnie at reception, he introduced me as he looked at them and tossed them one by one in the wastebasket, wondering aloud what was taking Bucky. Going up the steps to his office, sitting behind the desk, he said, “I been in the trenches a long time, Jeff, and when something like this takes off . . .” He glanced at the ceiling, then took out some forms he wanted me to sign. Folding his hands behind his head, he said, “Play it right, Jeff, you might get a shot at running things.”

  “Running things, huh?”

  “Another part I’m not talking about. Be either you or Vick, the right man runs the show, the whole show . . .”

  The phone rang, line one flashing, Ted waiting for Bonnie to buzz him, saying it was Bucky.

  “Got to take this,” Ted said, offering me his hand, waiting till I went for the door. Pressing the button, saying, “Bucky, my man . . .”

  Heard the rush of air and saw the color drain from his face as I closed the door.

  . . . The Twilight Reeling

  The bricks of the library did little to shelter her from the slant of the rain. Pritchard, the head librarian, didn’t like the staff hanging around inside after their shift, the old crow calling it loitering. Huddled in her jacket, Ann hugged the paper shopping bag close. Didn’t need to tell me she was shivering, the slow burn over me being late the only thing keeping her warm. Her shoes looked soaked, her toes likely squelching water.

  I swung the old Valiant Limited to the curb, catching the reflection in a window, my passenger-side headlight flickering like it had a tic. Took care not to splash water up at her.

  Yanking the door, she got in and set the bag on the floor, saying, “I got popsicle toes.” The bag starting to tear from being soaked, a tomato can poking through the bottom.

  “Sorry, running a bit late.”

  “Forty-seven minutes.”

  I stopped myself from pointing to the red rocket stop just down the block.

  “You couldn’t call?”

  “Middle of a job interview?” Flicking the heater on, I said, “Couldn’t be helped, Ann, you know that . . . but, I got good news.”

  She rubbed her wrinkled fingers in front of the vent. I checked the rearview; some guy in an Olds wagon the size of a rhino, with the woodgrain down the sides, tromped his pedal and cut me off, beating the light at Dufferin.

  “Gonna ask how did it go?”

  “Hear you better when my teeth stop rattling.”

  “Said I’m sorry.”

  “Some homeless guy comes by, asks if I’m okay. Had a spare Hefty bag in his shopping cart. Told me to just cut holes for my head and arms.”

  I smacked my horn at some delivery van that wouldn’t yield, making my way up to St. Clair, pointing out the AutoPark as we passed.

  “Okay, so tell,” she said.

  “Well, me and Ted, we hit it off.”

  “The one from the barber shop?”

  “That’s Vick. Ted owns the place, guy I went to see.”

  “And he offered you the job?”

  “That and maybe a chance to run things.” Seeing the neon sign coming up on the right, I put on my signal and turned into the Quickie Car Wash.

  “Now what?”

  “Getting a wash.”

  “Know it’s raining, right?”

  “One of the perks. Ted owns this place, too. Get a wash anytime I want.” Rolling down my window halfway, I eyed the pock-faced attendant shuffling up. Feigning sobriety, the kid said, “Welcome to Quickie W-Wash, s-sir.” Tongue tripping on the consonants. “R-running a s-special today.” Pockmark steadying himself against my lime-green door, scraggly wet hair and eyes like bloodshot pools, saying, “Comes with hot w-wax, s-sir.”

  Looking up at the menu board, I said, “Yeah, let’s go with that.”

  “Th-that’ll be . . . uh, call it f-f-five even.” Pockmark looking across at Ann, trying for a wink.

  “Signs says three eight-five.” I pointed at the board.

  “Yeah, then you got your t-taxes and s-shit . . .”

  “Oh, supposed to tell you I’m working at the AutoPark.”

  “Wha?”

  “Working for Ted Bracey.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Guy that signs your check.”

  “S-small world, uh?” Pockmark holding out his hand.

  Looking at his dirty upturned hand, I thought, fuck it. I wasn’t going to sweat the small stuff. Not anymore. Pulling the lone five from my wallet, I let him take it.

  Stepping back, Pockmark looked over the Valiant, the rusted-through front quarter panel, telling me Quickie Wash wasn’t r-responsible for any d-damage. He went about unscrewing the aerial and handed it to me. Going to the front of the car, he waved me forward, guiding me onto the tracks.

  Rolling up the window, I felt the track grab the tires, being guided along, saying to Ann, “Hey remember that time, you and me, at that car wash by the airport.” Did it the one time at the Malton Kleen ’n Shine, back when we started going out. The boarded-up Seaway Restaurant across the street.

  “Back when Patsy Cline made the charts, still wore a two-piece back then.”

  “Call me sentimental.”

  “Heard the part about my freezing toes, right?”

  “Maybe warm you up.” I took off the clip-on tie, tossed it in back.

  Her grinning, me too, liking that look in her eye.

  “Come on, Jeff, here, really?”

  I unclipped my seat belt and fumbled with hers. “Make up for the conjugal visits you missed.”

  “Always made me feel dirty, like somebody was —”

  “Just kidding, Ann,” I said. “Come on, only got a couple minutes.”

  Pockmark got back in his booth, getting out of the rain.

  Stopping my hand, she looked in my eyes, then hit her door lock. She wriggled her hips down in the seat, fingers flipping at her buttons, lifting hips and pressing her jeans past her knees, thumbs inside the elastic of her undies, wiggling them down. Water spraying at the chassis.

  I got a knee over the console, the emergency brake handle poking my thigh. She pressed a leg against the door handle, arching her back, telling me to hurry up.

  It was that first time all over, first place that wasn’t a bed. The old Valiant shuddered along the tracks, water jetting against its grill, hood and windshield. I got in position, my belt catching on the brake handle.

  Pressing up, she said, “Rest’s up to you.”

  The fronds swished and slapped the windshield, back and forth like tentacles.

  “Bet Deb and Dennis never did something crazy like this.” Shaking the belt loose, I banged my head on the rearview.

  Ann’s knee knocked the glovebox open, her elbow popping the door lock,
the two of us nearly tumbling out. Water and soap gushing, the fronds slapping at us.

  Ann yelling, “Ow,” as I shut the door on her hair, having to open and re-shut it.

  Laughing, she pushed me away. It was over.

  Getting over in my seat, I looked out the windshield as the fronds stopped, the dryer coming on. Both of us arching and zipping up.

  “Rain check?” she said.

  “You bet.”

  The two of us laughing.

  Straightening her clothes, she said, “Okay, so, what about this job?”

  The Valiant was tugged along, the hot wax spraying the rockers and grill.

  “Well . . . can tell you we’re moving up.”

  “Yeah, how far?”

  “Right up there.”

  “Come on, how much?”

  Looking out the window, seeing the exit coming, I tried to sell it.

  . . . The Shilly Shally

  “You fucking me?” A trace of Kingston in the voice, Jerrel Bent set his forearms on Ted’s desk, the bull shoulders under the tailored pinstripes, doctor bird tie pin, his deep-set eyes burning, like this white boy was talking shit to him. Shaved head and a broad nose.

  Easing back in the leather, Ted glanced at the black muscle filling the door, neither of them big, but both looking serious. Ted betting there were pistols under the jackets. James “Dirty Leg” Freeze with a goatee and the stone killer look, and Errol “Blue Eyes” Ealy. Lighter skinned, leaning on the door frame, looking easy. Ted could make out the Suburban outside the showroom doors.

  “You’ll get your guns.” Ted tried again, telling Jerrel how the trailer got jacked at the Beamsville scales. Assholes posing as inspectors jumped his man Bucky, must have known about the guns. “Fuckers cleaned us out.”

  “Not us, you.” Jerrel stabbing a big finger at the air, big square ring with a diamond in the middle.

  “And I’ll make it right.”

  “No doubt about that,” Jerrel said.

  “I find out who did it —”

  Jerrel put up his hand, didn’t want to hear it.

  “You’ll get your guns, got my word.”

  “I’m gonna have more than your word if you don’t get them.” Jerrel thumped his fist, the sound like a pail of cement dropping on the desk. Getting up, he walked out. Blue Eyes and Dirty Leg following, looking over at Vick as they crossed the showroom floor, Blue Eyes making a finger gun, giving him a smile and dropping his thumb like a hammer.

  Closing the drawer on his Saturday night special, Vick watched until the Suburban pulled away. His wink telling Bonnie everything was alright. Heard Ted barking for more coffee.

  . . . Money Honey

  “I told you . . .” Ann’s eyes lost the laughter, flashed electric.

  The dryer overhead had just switched off, its roar dying down, the Valiant shaking off the conveyer, the passenger-side headlight blinking on and off, reflecting in the exit sign.

  “And I told you I’d see him, hear him out. Go from there.” I drew back, shrugged like that was that.

  “I thought we’d talk first.”

  “Was an on-the-spot thing, Ann.”

  “On-the-spot, huh?” And she let a wild one fly, her slap blocked by the mirror. Clutching her hand, she cried out, growled in pain.

  “Jeez, take it easy.” Straightening the mirror, I looked at her, the veins in her temples throbbing.

  “Take it easy. Pipe dreams and promises, Jeff. That’s the best you got.” Spittle at the edge of her mouth. Shaking the sting from her hand, she pressed her fingers between her thighs. “You’re a piece of work, you know it?”

  “Maybe we’ll talk when you calm down.” I rolled for the exit, thinking if she swung at me again, she’d be walking home, rain or no rain, this librarian going postal, needing a Quaalude or something stronger.

  Snapping on her lap belt, she did her Zen breathing, sniffing through her nose, puffing through her mouth. The funk of Swift’s mixed with that of Canada Packers, the fat of Hogtown lingering in the face of gentrification.

  Glaring at me, she said, “How about we flip, see who’s gonna blow the landlord this month.” More sniffing and puffing. Using an incisor like a file, she trimmed the broken nail hanging from her finger, one she just painted with the new color, watermelon.

  “Take it easy,” I repeated. Ann spitting a bit of nail at me.

  No point talking to her when she was like this, Ann needing a couple glasses of burgundy to settle. Pulling from the car wash, I merged eastbound without looking first.

  The Civic in the outside lane screeched its brakes, the car jerking, the driver leaning on the horn, letting it blare.

  Cranking down her window, fast as she could turn the handle, Ann clicked off her lap belt and pulled herself halfway out of the window, twisting onto the roof and yelling, “One toot, lady. All you effing need. You got it?”

  Eyes bugging behind corrective lenses, the elderly Civic driver turned her wheel. Gunning a U-turn in heavy traffic, crossing double lines and streetcar tracks, the old woman nearly clipped a Suburban with tint all the way around. The bray of horns and screeching rubber enveloped the block, and the old woman wouldn’t make the seniors’ center this day. The lunatics were out here, and she was heading home to tell her hubby the second seal had been broken and the red horse had ridden forth.

  A young couple behind their stroller stopped and stared in disbelief. Ann climbed back in, asking what they were looking at, rolling up the window, leaving the couple with enough suppertime talk for many a night to come: the erosion of social grace and the type of world they had delivered a child into.

  The Quickie Wash attendant watched from the booth, firing up a roach and puffing smoke.

  The grey van pulled up next to me, the passenger and driver looking over, a Maltese cross dangling from their rearview. I looked back at the two guys, knowing that look.

  “We agreed, no commission,” Ann said, buckling up again.

  “You agreed. Look, I got the job, Ann. Ask me, you ought to be smiling.” Glaring ahead, I could feel the two guys in the van still looking over. Flicking on the radio, I got Bro Jake doing the Champ on the Q.

  “So, like, I’m supposed to be happy?” Ann not leaving it alone, switching the radio off.

  “Not gonna land some Ivy League job, Ann. I stay on the straight and narrow, I gotta take what I can get.”

  “What, jobs for victims?” Filing the broken nail with her tooth, she didn’t notice the two guys in the van. It pulled ahead and turned left at the next side street.

  “Give it a chance, Ann, you’ll see. It’s a good career move.”

  “Good move?” She stomped her foot, her shoe squishing water, her arms locking across her chest, keeping herself from taking another swipe at me, saying, “The only move you’re gonna see’s when I start packing.”

  . . . All the Bells and Whistles

  “Set your dogs on me, Mal. Hacking my guy’s finger, the ones that feed my family. How you want me to be, happy?” Ted Bracey was talking into the phone, knowing he needed to buy time with Mal Rocca, the loan shark who put up the cash for the dealership, getting serious about collecting it back. Ted with no idea who hit his car-carrier at the Beamsville scales. Somebody knowing how to get the guns from the hidden cells. Bucky Showalter was laid up in West Lincoln with a dozen stitches across his skull.

  “Just letting you know where we stand,” Mal Rocca said, “what happens you try to screw with me.”

  “Nobody’s screwing with nobody. The points you’re charging . . . man, talk about screwing.”

  “Another thing,” Mal said, “I’m tacking on two more.”

  “Points? You fucking kidding me?”

  “You got till end of the week, show me something.” Then he hung up.

  Looking at the receiver, Ted gritted his teeth and squeezed
its neck, then smacked it into the cradle, banged it till a piece of Bakelite flew off.

  Sitting there, he thought things through till Bonnie buzzed up, telling him there was a Mateo Cruz on two. Unclenching his jaw, Ted stabbed at the button.

  Mateo said, “The fuck’s going on?” Said he just heard from Bucky.

  “That fuck Rocca’s tacking on two points.”

  The line went dead.

  Hammering the receiver down, Ted swept the phone off the desk. Taking his Ruger from the drawer, he pointed at the phone, the damned thing beeping, letting him know it wasn’t hung up right. For a second, he felt like shoving the barrel against his own tonsils. Finally dropping it back in the drawer, he reached for the phone, told it to shut up and hung it up, then reached the bottle in his drawer and buzzed Bonnie back, told her, “Coffee.”

  The next call was to the escort service, Ted trying to remember the redhead’s name, needing something to calm his mind.

  . . . Friction City

  Slinging the grocery bag on the counter, the soggy paper tearing open, Ann walked from the kitchen, said she was going to run a bath, the hot water bound to do her good. Leaving me to unpack. A can of Libby’s rolled and dropped to the floor.

  Picking up the dented can, I said I could fix her a tea. I looked down at my toe poking through the sock.

  “Need something stronger,” she called.

  “Wine?” Reaching the box of burgundy, I shook it, thinking who puts a box back with only a few drops in it. Remembering it was me.

  “Just surprise me the way you do.”