Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  I knew the look. Returning the fireplace poker to the living room, I put my mug in the old Norge and grabbed a towel from the linen closet.

  Following me in, she sat on the toilet while I got the water temperature right, peeled off my clothes, dropped them in a heap on the mat.

  “Remember that place I told you about, one with the blue shutters?”

  “Over by Baby Point or someplace, yeah,” I said, stepping under the spray.

  “Been on the market a while now,” she said, louder so I could hear, calling it a fix-me-upper with potential, reminding me it had three bedrooms, a swing set in the yard.

  She was back at it, thinking about kids, filling up the bedrooms, seeing them on the swing set.

  Fresh out of the Don and feeling my age, I was having a hard time picturing myself pushing a kid on a swing. Turning up the hot water, pretty sure I read somewhere the heat killed sperm cells without affecting the urge. Before getting out, I turned it all the way to cold and tried to kill that, too.

  . . . Riding High

  Easing the thirty-six-footer from its slip, Ted tugged the Jays cap low, blocking the slant of the early sun coming across the Scarborough horizon. Bluffers Park was row after row of masts. Maneuvering his Sea Ray along the inner channel, Ted stayed to starboard of a line of scullers, kept his wake down, hearing me tell about the guys with the pruners and the Nena, how Vick walked in with the cockeyed woman, saving my ass. Said Vick suggested a gun.

  “Man’s right about that. Got to asshole-proof yourself,” Ted said, reaching into the map pocket for a Ruger, saying, “Stick it in your pocket.”

  Hefting it, I guessed the kind of time an ex-con got just for holding one.

  “Better you than them, right?”

  Grabbing the rail, I kept from doing the staggering two-step, Ted angling into the light chop coming from the south. It was my first time off terra firma, breathing in the lake air, looking at the chalk grey of the bluffs.

  “Good he came along when he did,” Ted said, then complained about Vick’s never-ending memos. “Guy can sell, don’t get me wrong, but he’s got no focus. And what’s with this hair crap?”

  “A little side action.” I shrugged.

  “Fucking embarrassing. And leaving memos around the showroom about Elvis fucking Christ. Come on, man, give me a break.”

  That got me laughing.

  “Tell you, one more fuckin’ memo, I swear, I’ll chop his fingers myself, save Mal Rocca the trouble.”

  Both of us laughing.

  “Read the one he sent last night?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Memo said he wants to put an Elvis in every trade show,” he said, shaking his head and giving more throttle, the engine rumbling and kicking like a thoroughbred — nearly pitched me into the aft seat.

  “Love it out here,” he said, “the breeze, away from the bullshit. See anything coming at you a mile away.”

  Tucking the Ruger in my jacket, liking the feel of it, eyes on a gull diving and coming up with a baitfish, shaking its head and swallowing the silver body, then flapping its wings on the water and taking off.

  “Been watching you, think you’re up for running the show, here and maybe Poughkeepsie, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  Easing on the throttle, Ted let her plane out.

  “Yeah, no doubt I’m up for it, but how about the part you haven’t been talking about?”

  “Time’s coming for that.” He looked at me, saying, “Squaring up some debts, like I told you, getting things worked out.” Reaching in his jacket again, he took an envelope and held it out.

  “What’s this?”

  “Call it walking-round money.”

  Opening it, I fingered the bills, forgetting the part he wasn’t talking about. Counting out twenty-five hundred bucks. Man, I felt like firing a round across the water.

  Throttling down, he grinned at me and waved at a sailboat coming abreast of the Sea Ray. Reaching a bottle of Pirate’s Choice from under the console, he told me there were glasses in the galley.

  Going below, I hunted through a cupboard and came back as the forty-footer slid past. Two oiled beauties laid out on towels, tan and ripe as fruit, smiling over at us. An old boy at the tiller, his white captain’s cap tipped low on his head. Money, hell, I could just about taste it. Waving at the women, them waving back.

  Ted slowed enough to fill the plastic glasses, the sun sparkling on the water, the sea breeze, a gentle lap of waves against the hull, the two of us working on that nice rum buzz. With a pistol and two grand in my pocket, just a few weeks out of hell, I was feeling more than the rum; I was feeling the hundred-and-thirty-pound monkey climbing off my back, guessing Ann’s weight. Betting she’d drop that pink housecoat and screw me silly tonight.

  . . . The Hush Hush

  Randy Hooper tossed another roll of cash on the desk, Vick’s basement office. Vick sitting in his swivel chair, Randy standing, bending and taking Vick’s dog from under the desk, the top of his head nearly touching the low ceiling.

  “Name?” Randy said.

  “What?”

  “Dog’s got a name, right?”

  “Tina.” Vick looked at the schnauzer in his hands. No Pony White this time. And no drill. Still, Vick felt uneasy, telling him what he found out, how Ted was putting Jeff Nichols in charge, giving him the spare office.

  “Why’d I give a shit about that?”

  “Maybe better to talk to him than me, is all.”

  “Already talking to you.” Randy patted the dog, waiting.

  Vick telling him there should be more cars coming from Poughkeepsie in the next couple of days. Guessing Mateo would have his guys strap Uzis under the rides, something to keep the Bent Boys from blasting up the AutoPark again.

  “Guessing’s worth shit,” Randy said, setting the dog in Vick’s lap, putting a hand on the chair, tipping it back and leaning close. “Want to know exactly when and where.”

  “Yeah, sure. Do what I can.”

  Randy patted the dog again, saying, “Maybe I better meet this Jeff.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Vick saying he’d set it up.

  “Nice meeting you, Tina.” Turning, Randy went up the stairs, left Vick sitting at his desk, cradling the schnauzer.

  . . . Point Man

  The usual midday buzz in Deli-cious. Voices rose over the clatter of dishes, the smell of cooking oil coming from the fryer. Business types washed down daily specials with dark roast, the busboy juggled a stack of dishes, angling past the waitress with her arms loaded with plates, weaving through the tables.

  We sat at the same booth by the window. The woman behind me was embalmed in eau-de-cheap, the scent twisting the taste of my corned beef, a two-inch pile of heartburn on rye. Ted was talking shop around a mouthful of clubhouse, asking how I’d fare crossing the border, on account of doing time.

  “Just got to show my driver’s license, far’s I know.” Looking out the window, I caught the same grey Econoline rolling down the street, pointed to it.

  “Guys tried to circumcise you, huh?”

  “Sending their message.”

  “Gave you the .32, right? Send your own message.”

  “Letting me know they’re still around,” I said, watching the van drive off.

  “Gonna square things with Mal Rocca next day or so, and this shit goes away.” Ted looked at his sandwich, biting at a strip of bacon hanging past the toasted bread. He told me selling cars would be slow till the workmen were out of there. He wanted me making a run down to Poughkeepsie, meet his man Mateo Cruz and get a look at the operation.

  “Yeah?”

  “Said you wanted to know the whole deal, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meantime . . .” Ted reached in his jacket and pulled out a small cardboard box, something he had
Bonnie order up before she walked out on him. A business card taped on top: the company logo and my name and the word manager under it. The address and phone number centered below that.

  “Impresses the chicks,” Ted said, smiling and biting into his sandwich.

  Rubbing a thumb across the embossed type, I said thanks, taking another glance out the window.

  “Forget those van guys,” Ted said.

  “Not that.” I told him it was time to go feed the meter, pointing to the Valiant parked across the street.

  “That’s your ride, huh?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Jeff, but rust’s got a way of unsettling the tire kickers. Need something sharp, something that leaves an impression.”

  “Guess she got old while I was inside.”

  He watched me run out to the old wreck and feed quarters in the meter, saying when I got back, “Forget waiting on the next shipment. Take one off the floor.”

  “Company car?”

  “Call it what you want. Pick one didn’t get shot up too bad. One’ll get you down to Poughkeepsie and back, looking like you’re in the game.”

  Thanking him, I tried to picture which one hadn’t been shot up too bad. Getting that feeling that things were still looking up in spite of the showroom getting shot up: office, gun, money, car. Couldn’t wait to tell Ann.

  The waitress swung by with the coffee pot, topping up our cups, asking if we wanted pie. Watching her go, Ted said he wouldn’t mind a piece of that pie, taking a card from the box, feeling in his jacket for a pen that wasn’t there. I handed him mine. Marcel’s Barber Shop stamped down the barrel, done like a red-and-white barber’s pole. The phone number in black under the logo.

  Ted smiled, seeing the pen was from Marcel’s, saying as he wrote, “Go see my man, Walter. Fix you up with a nice suit, something sharp.”

  “A suit, huh?”

  “Say you’re with me, and he sets up an account. Can pay it off like an installment plan.” Ted waving a hand like that was that, looking back out the window. “Fast lane’s coming up, my boy. Time to put some distance between you and the guys with green stuff between their teeth, know what I mean?” Clapping my shoulder as the waitress came back. She told him he had another call, pointing to the wall phone, said it sounded urgent.

  “Getting so’s a man can’t eat,” Ted said, taking his wallet and dropping another five on the table, told her he wasn’t here. The waitress taking it and giving a weak smile, moving on, looking like she wanted to clout him with the coffee pot.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he said.

  “I get my pen back?”

  Ted looked at the pen still in his hand, passed it to me, shaking his head, going for the door.

  . . . Piece of the Pie

  Had my eye on an Audi Quattro in Zermatt silver, mainly because it was German, but it had been shot up too bad in the drive-by, the engine block cracked and the oil pan bleeding, the body pocked with holes, tufts of upholstery sticking from the Kodiak leather. The Gran Fury was an ’82, an M-body Plymouth with the salon trim and a Slant-6. Nothing special about it: Baron-red paint and whitewalls the only things that kept her from looking like a cop car. Still, it beat my old Valiant, which I parked around the side next to the dumpster. Got in the Gran Fury, playing with the buttons for the AM/FM with CB and Dolby, CHUM FM playing some April Wine. “I Like To Rock” rattling through the door speakers.

  Slipping on my shades, I shifted the three-speed and rolled out, stopping for the first light along Annette, getting the feel.

  A leggy blonde of the first order crossed at the next light. High breasts and white teeth. Long legs in heels. Nothing about the Gran Fury made her look over. Still, I was feeling my days of bum deals and scratching a living were over.

  The blonde walked on, and I drove by, April Wine fading out and giving way to Boz Scaggs, singing about putting the money down and letting it roll.

  Ann stood in her usual spot, her arms wrapped around herself, leaning against the library wall, keeping out of the wind. Looking right past me.

  I tapped the horn, peeling off the shades. Everyone but Ann looking over. Pressing the button for the power window, I lowered it and called, “Hey, baby, need a lift?”

  She took a double look, saying, “Oh, my God . . .”

  I told her to get in.

  “How’d you . . .” I could see she was thinking grand theft auto, her eyes big as plates, mouth hanging open. Climbing in, she slid her hand over the buttoned-down leatherette. Pressing another button, I hoped to heat her side of the split-bench seat.

  “You lose your mind? I mean, tell me you didn’t . . .”

  “What, steal it?”

  “Was thinking lease it, but please, just tell me.”

  “Perks of the job, Ann. You wanted me to ask, I asked. Ted told me to take my pick.”

  “And this was it?”

  Easing from the curb, I let that go, checking my mirrors, telling her about the day out on Ted’s yacht, what it felt like on the lake, then, “Really thought I jacked this, huh?”

  “Maybe for a second.” Wiggling in the seat, Ann was feeling the heat. Only ever sat herself on cheap vinyl before. A smile on her face.

  Taking a business card from my pocket, I held it out between two fingers.

  “What’s this?” She looked at it.

  I pointed to where it said manager. “Stepping up, Ann, like I told you.” Letting it sink in, I reached past her, taking the envelope from the glovebox, wagging it — the pistol under the ownership manual and street map. Loved watching her mouth drop open, a bit of a strangled cry coming out.

  “Oh, my God . . .” Rubbing the bills between her fingers. Looking at me wide-eyed, like maybe it was a dream.

  “What’d I tell you, huh?”

  A hand to her chest, the other rifling the bills, Ann counted, then recounted.

  I slipped my shades back on, both hands on the wheel, the Slant-6 purring, maybe knocking a bit, but I didn’t care. This was the best day of my life.

  Leaning across the split-seat, she turned my head and kissed me, long and hard, said she was loving the heat on the seat, wiggling like a hen on a nest.

  I said maybe we should take this baby through the car wash, Ann grinning, getting my meaning, said for what she had in mind we were going to need more than two minutes.

  “What say we take a spin by Baby Point, find that place you were talking about, one with the blue shutters?”

  “Oh, come on. Just get me home,” Ann said, laughing. “Got to fix supper.”

  “Uh uhn, not tonight.” Telling her I made reservations at the Old Mill, a table for two.

  “We can’t just . . .”

  “Tonight, it’s you, me and a bottle of whatever comes with a cork.” Nodding at the cash in her hand.

  Thinking about it, she couldn’t come up with a reason not to, counting it again. “God, we’re moving up.” Putting a hand on my thigh, she half hummed, half sang what she remembered of the Jeffersons theme, getting her turn at bat, finally getting that piece of the pie.

  A couple of wrong turns before I pulled up to the Re/Max sign. The two of us taking the property in. Ann drinking in the green craftsman with blue shutters, a yard for the kids to play.

  The place looked deserted to me, the lawn overgrown, weeds in the flower beds, a sway to the roofline, a chimney in need of pointing, one of the upstairs windows boarded. The place was lot-value only, but this was Baby Point, at least close enough to call it that and smell the stinking rich.

  Tucking the envelope away, her fingers brushed the Ruger in the glovebox. Moving the map, she looked at it, saying, “What on Earth . . .”

  “Guess it’s Ted’s.” I clapped the glovebox shut.

  “And what’s he doing with it?”

  “I don’t know, the guy
’s American.”

  She frowned.

  “That or, maybe came with the car. It’s American, too, right?”

  “Funny man.”

  I pointed to the fountain, then wrote the Re/Max number on the back of one of the cards, said I’d get us a showing.

  Ann saying we could never afford it, wiggling on the leatherette. “Still, nice to dream.”

  “Told you I’ll make it happen, right?” Coaxing the Gran Fury to make a three-point turn, I headed for the Old Mill. Ann watching me, still not believing it.

  First time a valet got my door, calling me sir and taking my keys. Last time somebody got my door was when the security patrol cuffed me after the bottle I set on the roof and forgot rolled and smashed from the ride I was jacking. I tipped the valet a deuce.

  It was happening. The feel of success going through me like a current. Going around and holding Ann’s door, the two of us heading inside to the hostess desk. I told her I had reservations, gave her my name. Calling me sir, she smiled and led us to a table. The two of us taking in the vaulted ceiling, the thick beams and chandeliers.

  Yeah, I’d go see Ted’s tailor, thinking navy with pinstripes, a couple white shirts and ties, guessing I’d get used to them, learn to wrap a Windsor knot, wondering if cuffs and pleats were still in. Taking the leather-bound wine list from the waiter, I scanned it like I knew what I was doing and ordered up a bottle, guessed at those prices they all came with a cork.

  . . . The Big E

  The news anchor on the Q was going on about the city’s escalating gang violence: “Police are calling last night’s gun battle retaliation for the shooting death of Dustin Bent outside Hamilton’s Westdale Regent.” Naming the two Dreads gunned down outside a tenement last night, one cashing in en route to Etobicoke General, the second in intensive care. Saying, “Metro police are talking to witnesses and looking into leads.”

  Couldn’t find a spot on Strachan, so I parked on Wellington, leaving the pistol under the seat, getting out and scanning the street, a stench coming from the meatpacking plant past the rail yard. A transport passed, snouts and ears poking through the slats. Remembered somebody calling the place Hogtown.