Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Faded red swirls, the white long ago turned to yellow, the barber pole spun in its bug-filled acrylic cylinder, a relic from the sixties. The signboard declared the place was Marcel’s. Haircuts five bucks, any style you want.

  Vick was sitting close to the door with a dog-eared Cosmopolitan, one leg crossing the other, looking up as I came in. Next to him sat Archie Roehall, looking like a morning-after Elvis, one who was suffering from a rhinestoned night. Eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Hair and sideburns in need of a lube and comb. Flip-flops on his feet, toenails in need of a trim. No sequined splendor about this guy. Just an Elvis they could afford, like Vick said.

  A woman sat across from them, looked to be taking her mid-forties on the chin, glancing over with an obvious devotion for the King. Her youngest sat next to her, the kid about six; his forefinger was excavating a nostril, had it jammed up to the first knuckle. The pop-bottle lenses were crooked on account of the boring, gave the kid an owlish look which he aimed at me.

  Peeling off the shades, I stepped to Vick, nodding over at Marcel, the man with one of those trimmers in his fat hand, buzzing away at the older kid’s head. The one with the pop-bottle eyes kept the finger twisting in his nose, looking at me.

  “You remember Archie?” Vick said.

  I said sure I did.

  Getting up, he recaptured a flip-flop with his toes, offering a damp palm at the end of a loose wrist, clearing his throat, looked like he was looking for a place to spit.

  We talked some small change for a minute, this guy looking a long way from the guy I knew in the orange jumpsuit. “You looking good, Jeff.”

  “Yeah, you too. Different, I mean . . . Elvis, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s a living, you know.” Running a hand along a sideburn.

  “Man’s being modest,” Vick said, getting up and slinging an arm around his man’s shoulder — maybe he was holding him up — looking at me, saying, “Archie’s gonna blow the roof off the trade show.”

  “That right, huh?”

  “In case we got a doubter here, Arch, how about you give him a taste?”

  “What, here?” Archie looking around, Marcel looking over, kept working on the kid’s hair, the mother saying she wished Archie would, clasping her hands together.

  “What the hell.” Taking a breath and steadying himself, Archie gave a pelvic shake and dished up some a cappella Oh baby, let me be your teddy bear.

  The mother gasped, and I had to admit the guy was pretty good; Marcel kept on buzzing hair, looking sour.

  “Hey, come on now, give us a bit more than that,” Vick said. The mother nodding, hands still together.

  “How about you, Jeff, you got a favorite?” Archie said.

  “I don’t know . . . ‘Devil in Disguise,’ maybe ‘Return to Sender,’ both pretty good.”

  Archie was hitting his stride now, winked at the mother, saying, “How about you, doll?”

  She practically whinnied, put fingers to her throat, just a whisper coming out, “Love Me Tender.” Singing about some love, tender and sweet, Archie did the old tune justice, tipping his chin down, rocking his hips, hit her with a baritone low G, the magazine slipping from her fingers.

  The older boy saying, “Mom?”

  Flicking her hand at him, she straightened, said she was just fine.

  Smiling at me, Vick said, “Hell man, we’re gonna make a killing. Ought to hear this cat do his Aloha set.”

  “Thought we were going with the Vegas?” Archie looked at him, serious.

  “Hey, you’re the King, right?” Vick said, grinning, shooting him a play elbow. Saying to me, “You got to get in on this, man.”

  “Why you called me down here, to say hi, hear Archie singing?” No offense to Archie, I said, but I was getting tired of the flip-flop show.

  “Got something else.” Vick walked me to the door, saying, “Got this other guy I want you to meet.” Telling me Randy Hooper was ripe to drop some money on the hair deal, and Vick wanted to know how I’d handle something like that. Help him out for old times’ sake.

  Thinking we could have done it over the phone, I turned to the pop-bottle kid, the kid’s finger still doing the nostril twist. Staring at me.

  “Tell you what, how about you swing by for a barbie?” Vick said.

  “Barbie?”

  “Barbecue.”

  “The hair thing, huh?”

  “Little this, little that, but don’t overthink it, man,” Vick said, “but so you know, Marcel’s on his second case of the stuff, less than a month.”

  I looked at Marcel, the old man shrugging, finished buzzing the older kid’s head.

  “Just pop over, hear Randy out,” Vick said. “Tell you, man, after the trade show, this thing’s going through the top. Promise you that.”

  Pulling the cloth away like an artistic reveal, Marcel brushed hair from the kid’s shoulders, the kid leaping from the chair and bolting over to his mother and punching his brother on the arm. Coke-bottle eyes lashed back with a Nike, the mother getting between them, swiping at the finger in the nose, dragging the younger kid to Marcel’s chair. The kid hooking a foot around the side table stacked with magazines, not making it easy.

  Marcel took the reprieve, the mother needing a couple of minutes of strong-arming to get the kid into the chair. My guess, this happened every time they came in.

  “Need a trim?” Marcel said to me, saying he heard the showroom got shot to shit.

  “Yeah, you should see it.” Ran a hand over my head and said I was fine.

  “You want to bail on the AutoPark, I understand. No sweat finding you something else.”

  “Guess I’ll hang in, see how it plays out,” I said.

  “No shit,” Vick said, “Ted giving you an office, making you the man.” Marcel and I looking at him, Vick waving it off, saying to Marcel, “Tell him what you said about Maxx.”

  “Said it smells,” Marcel said, giving him an annoyed look.

  “That’s the smell of money, my friend,” Vick said, play-punching Marcel’s arm. “The shit works, you’ll see.”

  Looking like he wanted to counterpunch, Marcel looked at Archie, asked him, “How about you, you want a trim?” Getting a no, he turned back to me, saying, “Like I said, you want out, give me a call.” Then he went back for his barber’s chair.

  The pop-bottle kid caught some leverage, the mother locking on something looking like a judo move. Marcel catching the kid from falling, slinging him back into the chair, draping the cloth around his neck, snugging it, maybe it looked a little too tight.

  “Shooting an infomercial later,” Vick said to me. “Want to tag along, Jackie’ll be there. Meet Truman, our video guy. Grab a couple brew.”

  I told him I had shit to do, reaching the doorknob, thinking I just wasted half the morning, looking back at Marcel pinning the kid in the chair. Thinking life’s gonna kick that kid to the curb.

  Looking up and down Wellington, I figured since I was down this end of town, I’d swing over to Spadina and drop in on Ted’s tailor, get measured up for a suit. Start looking the part, get away from the guys with green shit in their teeth.

  . . . Dressing to the Right

  Price-bound shopping and overstocks, ends-of-lines and closing sales. All of that was in my past. I was feeling like a winner, my arm being raised by Walter the tailor.

  Taking in my build, Walter eyeballed one shoulder then the other. The furrow across his forehead deepened. Old and grey with a stoop, Walter took his work serious. Calling me Ted Bracey’s man, Walter wondered what happened to the last one working at the AutoPark, the one named Robbie. Never came back for his extra pants, grey in a nice tweed.

  “Man wasn’t cut out for it,” I said, told him he quit.

  He dropped my arm and gave a sigh, picking up his chart.

  “Something wrong?”

 
; “God makes mistakes and Walter fixes.” He wrote something.

  The bell over the door chimed and the two guys from the van walked in, Egg and Bundy. Had me looking for a back way out, my windbreaker hanging on the rack, in easy reach, the Ruger in the pocket.

  A beat-to-hell Expos ball cap on his head, Bundy wasn’t looking the type to walk into a tailor shop, smiling and coming up the center aisle. Egg stayed at the front by a table of bolts, looking at the fabric.

  Saying he’d be right with them, Walter told me he wanted to add a little padding, even up the shoulders.

  “Whatever you think,” I said, then to Bundy, “You mutts not getting the message, huh?”

  Bundy said, “Don’t like the way we left things hanging.”

  I nodded, telling Walter we were done for now, reaching for my windbreaker.

  Slinging the tape over his shoulder, Walter went to his counter, muttering something, picking up the ringing phone by the cash, answering and holding it out to me, rolling his eyes, saying, “It’s for you.”

  With the windbreaker under an arm, I took the phone from him, kept my eyes on Bundy and said, “Yeah?”

  Checking his notes, Walter ran the tape from my waistband, asking which way I dressed.

  “How’s Saturday, say around two?” Vick said on the phone.

  “Gonna waste more of my time, huh?”

  Walter finding the answer by hand.

  “Hey, hey,” I twisted away. “Fuck’s next, a cavity search?”

  Walter jotting a note on his chart.

  “You’re on speaker by the way,” Vick said.

  “Look, Vick, kinda busy . . .”

  “Like he’s doing us a favor,” Jackie’s voice, sounding from across the room.

  “Who’s that, Jackie?”

  “Of course, it’s me,” the woman sounding annoyed.

  Said I’d try to make it, and I hung up and started for the door.

  Blocking the exit, Egg put his hands wide to stop me. I showed the butt of the pistol and told him to give me the keys to his van, keeping one eye on Bundy.

  Looking at the pistol, Egg thought about his chances, then fumbled in his pocket.

  Taking his keys, I went out the door, the bell chiming. I was halfway across Spadina when they stepped out behind me. Bundy and Egg stood watching as I walked to the Gran Fury. Walter threw the lock and turned the sign in the window from open to closed.

  Tossing Egg’s keys at a sewer grate, I heard them splash below. Giving a salute, I got in and pulled away, knowing I just swatted the hive.

  . . . Common Ground

  Whatever the hell was coating my tongue looked like curd, as yellow as Jackie’s teeth. My head throbbed, part of the usual morning fuzz. Drinking wine like I was making up for lost time. Looking at my reflection, I told myself to ease up on the stuff. Washing my hands, I stuck them under the blow-dryer. Closing the men’s room door, I walked between a couple of Chevys on the showroom floor. Vick was working a pair of college kids standing next to the one with the stripes and wide Firestones. A crew was installing the new plate-glass windows, their truck parked out front, glass racks down both sides. Going up to my office, I shut the door, taking the Ruger from under my jacket and tossing it in the drawer behind the Cohibas.

  Leaning back in the chair, I tried to get my mind off the two guys dogging me and onto the place with the blue shutters. Doing that Zen breathing Ann tried to teach me, taking in the calming bubbling of the desk fountain. None of it working, my mind swung to sex, that part of my life doing alright, then I was thinking about money. Still had seventy-five hundred from my grand theft auto days, money stashed behind the heat register in the spare room, money Ann didn’t know about. Had more stashed in an old can of Behr’s stain, back of the garage. That plus the twenty-five hundred Ted handed me, I’d be close to the downstroke on the house. Staring at the fountain, I got to thinking the guns had to be hidden on the cars being detailed. Way I figured it, they were taken out up here, probably at Ted’s Quickie Wash.

  The tap at the door had me jumping, Vick coming in, tossing paperwork on the desk, parking himself in the spare chair. “Got these kids thinking they got me a nickel under sticker.”

  “Yeah.” I spun the papers around and had a look, Ted wanting me to sign off on all the deals from here on.

  “Gonna tell them I got another guy chomping at the bit, get the little shits outbidding themselves.”

  Stroking out the price, I asked what he wanted and scribbled in the new number, initialing it, saying, “They go for it, toss in the free wash for a year bit.”

  “Screw ’em, these guys are rubes. Lucky I let them drive off with a full tank.”

  “You’re all heart.” I slid the papers back.

  “So when’s Ted gonna give us the full picture, you figure?” he said.

  I gave a shrug.

  Picking up the papers, he said he had another couple coming back for a second kick at the Country Squire of their dreams, the bullet holes all patched up and new woodgrain vinyl down the sides. Vick pointed above my head at the Chuvalo poster, asking, “You ever see the champ fight?”

  “Everybody’s asking me that.”

  “Saw him a couple times, hell of a chin. Fought Ali twice.”

  “Yeah, heard that. He win?”

  “Not the point,” Vick said, then asked, “So, when we getting more cars coming? Way I’m going, gonna sell out.”

  “Ted’s auction guy picked up like a dozen more. Being detailed now.”

  Vick pulled out his smokes, found his box of wooden matches, saying, “Let me know when, huh?” Taking my pen, he scratched out the counter price I wrote, scribbled in a new number, took the paperwork and turned for the door. Lighting up, saying, “Rubes are gonna pay for my night out.”

  “Yeah, with Jackie?”

  “You kidding? Had a thing back in the day, but the woman’s not really my kind.”

  “What kind’s that?”

  “Kind with Randy, guy you’re gonna meet Saturday.” Vick winked and tossed the match in the Zen fountain, leaving the door open, taking the steps. I could hear him telling the guys waiting he had good news.

  . . . What If?

  The Re/Max sign had fallen over on the lawn. A Mercedes sedan sat in the driveway. I rolled the Gran Fury to the curb.

  Switching off the news, Ann said she was getting tired of these gang wars, wondering what was happening to this town, used to be a safe place to raise kids, then, “Oh, so excited I nearly forgot,” telling me Ted’s wife, Liz, called this morning, inviting us to Ted’s sixtieth.

  “Liz, huh?”

  “What she said.”

  “And you’re telling me now?”

  “On account of the excitement.” She said it was going to be at some new place over on Dupont, couldn’t think of the name right then. “Anyway, I wrote it down. Let me enjoy this, will you?”

  I shut off the engine, both of us taking the place in for the second time, Ann pointing out the potential, the flower boxes, room on the porch for a rocker. Still looked pretty run-down to me. Getting out, the best thing I could come up with, there weren’t any Tibors in this price range.

  Penny Mansell, the realtor, stood on the stoop, casting her realtor’s eye down on us. Betting she made us for low-income types with a modest car, barely qualifying.

  Hooking Ann’s arm, I walked her up the drive, taking in the choke weed spilling from flower boxes, ivy clinging to the stucco. Water in the stone fountain looking green and milky with algae. A cherub with its pecker snapped off standing over it. Don’t know why, but I started thinking about where it could be, the pecker. Maybe it got tossed in a shed out back, or was lying in the basement. Then wondering if it could be reattached — just didn’t look right like that. What kind of a message did it send?

  “Jeff?” Ann nudging me up the front s
teps, Penny Mansell waiting with a smile and moist handshake, sprayed dye job and red lipstick across her mouth. Working the lockbox hooked on the wrought-iron rail, she made small talk, getting the key and shouldering open the door, asking if we had kids. Ann saying that was a work in progress. Penny throwing in it was a great neighborhood for families, a fenced yard, a school a block away, walking distance to the IGA. Telling us the owners had just reduced the asking price, getting lots of calls now. “Not much in this price range, not around here.”

  Stepping into the front hall, Penny’s heels clicked on creaking floorboards. She went in search of light switches. Ann was turning around, drinking it in, mentally placing the furniture. I went around checking for wood-rot, noting a tea-stained watermark on the ceiling.

  Shoving up one of the casement windows, Penny asked, “So, you folks been looking long?”

  “Kicked a few tires,” I said and went to the other window, pushing at it, banging the sash with my palm.

  “You a handy guy, Jeff?”

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  Leaning past me, Penny flipped the casement latch, sliding up the window, doing it with a smile. “There we go.” Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen, said she had to make a call, leaving us to look around.

  Ann stood beaming, never seen her look like that, asking what I thought.

  “Well, needs work, but —”

  “Just a coat of paint, freshen it right up.” Taking my hand, she squeezed, went to the built-in cabinets, saying there was room for a nice set of china, china we didn’t have. And space for the Feng Shui fountain on top.

  I went, kneeled down and fiddled with the fireplace damper, got a pile of soot coming down. Clapping it from my hands.

  Calling from the kitchen, Penny said there was room for an extra bedroom in the basement. Then went back to her call.