Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Place’ll be as big as Deb’s,” Ann said, watching me clap my hands.

  Calling to Penny, I asked why it’s been empty so long.

  “Estate sale. One son wants to sell. Other one . . . well, grew up here . . . guess it’s hard to let go of.” Then she went back to her call.

  “We’d never qualify,” Ann whispered.

  Not sure why, but I said I’d take care of it with the bank. Looking for somewhere to wipe my hands.

  “What’re you going to do, mortgage at gunpoint?”

  “Gonna make it happen, Ann, that’s what.”

  Coming back from the kitchen, Penny said the sellers would take back a second, noting my blackened hands, telling me the sink in the kitchen should be working.

  After I washed up and finger-flicked my hands dry, we went up the groaning staircase and took in the bedrooms, the bathroom with a stained tub. Ann loving the his-and-her closets, doing that Vanna White thing with her hands, pointing things out, saying we could be happy here. I had to admit, in spite of the work it needed, the place had potential. Her look telling me if Penny hadn’t been there, she would have pulled me down on the creaking hardwood and christened the place, right then and there, getting herself in that family way. Looking out the window, Penny pointed out the rusting swing set in the yard.

  . . . Moving Money

  A nice view of the lake from the living room, leaded glass window. Leaning back on the overstuffed sofa, a fern on either side, Mal Rocca folded his thick arms, looking at Ted Bracey over his glasses. His hired muscle, Cully, stood by the brick fireplace, a big guy in a tight T-shirt, looking at Ted like here was another douchebag about to plead for more time. Cully looking like he was half bored, half enjoying this.

  Putting a foot up on his knee, a two-tone brogue with no sock, Mal considered him, saying, “Better not be playing me.” Calling him Teddy.

  “You made your point, Mal. And like I told you, something came up. Anyway, got it right here.”

  “Extra points, too?”

  “All of it.” Tapping his fingers on the briefcase, Ted nodded and set it on the glass coffee table, careful not to scrape the polished surface. Flipping the latches, he turned it enough to show the stacks of hundreds inside. Cully craned his thick neck close for a look and grunted. Taking a double fistful of stacks, Ted set them on the glass, reached for more and fired a shot through the case. The first bullet took Cully in the hip and sent him reeling. Catching himself on the mantel, he wailed. Pulling out the suppressed Ruger, Ted fired again, putting one through Cully’s chest, the man thrown down, blood splattering the fireplace. Then he turned to Mal. Mal with his brogues on the carpet now, bug-eyed, hands up in surrender.

  “See, not playing at all, Mal,” Ted said as he fired, caught Mal in the side of the throat. Mal knocking the planter next to him over. Clapping a hand to his neck, Mal tipped to the floor, mouth open, gagging sound coming out. “Here’s your extra points, asshole.” Ted emptied the clip in Mal’s gut. Dropping the Ruger back in the case, shoving the stacks back on top, Ted latched it and walked out of there, cool as you please, the side of the case with the bullet hole turned toward his leg. He walked to where he parked on the next street, one below Queen, smelling alewives from down on the beach, thinking the city ought to do something about that.

  . . . A Bigger Gun

  Creases like craters on Mother Hibbit’s forehead, grey threading through her hair, the woman calling it frosty. Ann’s sister, Debra Ryan, on the other hand, was doing a commendable job mocking Old Man Time. I bet on a face-lift and a good bit of augmentation under the sweater, not the first things about her that ever struck me as false, never getting past her detestable nature. Giving out ritual hugs that barely touched, I made the smiles look real, remembered my promise to Ann to play nice.

  Trudging up the stoop, Dennis puffed like the twin Vuittons were packed with cinder blocks, the cabbie backing down the drive of our rental dump, frowning at what I bet was the lousy tip he just got. Setting the bags down, two totes sliding from his shoulders, Dennis pecked Ann’s cheek. Giving me a surprised look, like maybe I just teleported in, shaking my hand as he glanced around, saying, “So, this is it, huh?”

  “Afraid so,” Ann said.

  Dennis Jr. raced up the steps, looking more like Debra than Dennis, exploding past the adult legs, flying a toy plane. Hooked left into the living room, not letting the mismatched furniture restrict his movement, getting good height as he bounced across the sofa cushions, the kid right at home, making rat-a-tat-tat sounds, blond hair flying.

  “He’s gotten so . . . big,” Ann said, trading smiles with me, her eyes pleading.

  “He’ll land in a few minutes,” Debra said, looking from Ann to me. “Kid’s been cooped all day, needs to let loose, you know how it is.”

  “Should’ve seen you at his age,” Mother Hibbit said, the woman crossing herself and Debra rolling her eyes.

  “Well, come on in . . . just leave the luggage.” Ann hooked Dennis’s arm, ushering him into the living room, delegating me to take care of the drinks.

  “Black tea with a pinch of lemon will do me fine,” Debra said, without looking at me.

  Mother asking for a dry martini, three olives, not two, on account of it being bad luck to go with two. Dennis calling for a bourbon neat. I went in the kitchen. It was burgundy from a box or Rolling Rock, eighteen cans for the price of twelve; that, or they could all go get stuffed. Telling myself to play nice.

  Filling a wine glass and grabbing a cold one, I set the glass in front of Mother, handing Dennis the can of beer. Then I stood by the kitchen threshold, waiting for the kettle to whistle.

  “Hear you’re working now, Jeff,” Debra said, batting her eyes like something had fallen into them.

  “That’s right.” I smiled, watching Dennis Jr. fly his plane for the stairs. Reminding myself if I could take jail, I could take three days of this, watching Debra pass Ann a gift bag. Ann looking inside, feigning delight.

  “Just a little something from Alaska,” Debra said.

  “Oh my.” Ann pulled out a pair of dolls on plastic stands, fit in the palm of her hand, crafted with the artistic skill of a twitching junkie.

  “They’re Yupik dolls,” Debra said, “made by Yupik Eskimos.”

  Ann smiled, looking at me like she was hoping for rescue.

  “Legend says they bring fertility and fish,” Debra said.

  “Come in handy around here,” I said.

  The kettle called, and I went about fixing Debra’s tea, dunking a bag, wishing Tetley came in hemlock. Bringing in the mug, I set it down and watched Ann position the dolls on the mantel, next to the family photo: Debra, Ann, Mother Hibbit, an assortment of aunts and uncles I never met, some gone to their maker now, all of them looking grim as a lynch mob.

  Debra swung the conversation to their cruise, Ann picking up the spilled cushions, punching them back into shape and setting them back on the chairs and sofa.

  “Well, you can’t go wrong with the navigator suite on the Seven Seas,” Debra said. “Six stars, with the highest service-ratio. Was just dreamy, Annie, let me tell you. You two just have to go.”

  Tuning the woman out, I considered getting Dennis alone, sell him on the AutoPark, get him investing in the deal, betting Ted would cut a fat finder’s fee for bringing in some legit cash. Mother Hibbit held up her empty glass, telling me to hit her again.

  Nothing I’d like more. Smiling, I took the glass from the liver-spotted hand and headed back to the kitchen.

  “May as well make it a double, dear, save you going back and forth.” The old woman turned to Ann, saying, “Oh, Dennis took us out sightseeing. But, oh, the flies in Juneau chewed on me like I was a dish; but, uh, what was that fish we saw, Dennis dear, the big one?”

  “A humpback, Mother,” Dennis said, “and whale, not a fish.”

  “Huh, wel
l, I stand corrected,” Mother said, turning back to Ann. “Oh, and the scenery, dear, . . . oh, just so much of it. Nature all around.”

  Draining my Rolling Rock, I heard Dennis toss around some facts about humpbacks. Filling burgundy up to the lipstick smear on the rim, I brought the glass back in and set it in front of her, sure I heard something fall over down in the basement.

  “Where’s the kid?” I said.

  Debra turned to me, ignoring the question, saying, “Second thought, be a dear, Jeff, fix us a bevvie, too.” Holding up the mug, the untouched tea with the tag dangling. “Think I’ll go White Russian . . . mmm . . . yes, that would be heaven.”

  Ann smiled at me. I nodded and turned back for the kitchen. Unclenching my fists, I was thinking I didn’t have whatever the hell went into a White Russian, Debra calling to me, telling me to go light on the cream.

  Dashing the mug in the sink, I took another wine glass and tapped the spigot. Dennis Jr. flew up the stairs and past me, stamping his feet down the hall, going for our bedroom.

  Dennis came up from behind me, looked around like he was assessing, saying, “Whose Gran Fury in the driveway?”

  “My driveway, right, Dennis?”

  “Yeah, ’course, just . . .” Dennis saying he caught this bit on 60 Minutes, that guy Morley talking about Chrysler and its plague of production problems, transmissions slipping from park to reverse, killing people.

  “Think that was Ford, going from park to reverse,” I said.

  “Thought old Morley said Chrysler, but maybe you’re right. Domestic, at any rate.” Dennis held up his Rolling Rock, said, “Well, here’s to luck, then.” The two of us clinking cans, Dennis sipping his beer, saying, “So, things are really looking up, huh?”

  “Yeah, fact, speaking of which, I been meaning to give you a heads up . . .” Looking around like somebody might be listening in.

  Dennis saying he appreciated the heads up, drinking his beer as I laid out the car deal. Told him I’d let him sit with it, as I went and set Debra’s wine glass in front of her, the woman going on about their next cruise, Riviera I think she said. Taking Mother’s empty glass, I went back in the kitchen, selling the car deal, mentally adding the finder’s fee to the money I had stashed behind the heat register and the can of stain, plus the twenty-five hundred Ted gave me.

  . . . Watching for Cloves

  Water gurgled in the Feng Shui fountain on the dining room hutch. I was telling Dennis how the AutoPark bought up cars at stateside auctions and had them detailed in Poughkeepsie, then chained them on a trailer and hauled them north.

  Ann told Mother Hibbit to watch for cloves in the cabbage, Debra chastising the kid, telling Junior not to eat like a little beast, wiping a napkin at his shirt, informing him that food slop wasn’t a look.

  Mother was saying she never put cloves in her cabbage, hated biting into the little devils, calling it Rotkohl, mispronouncing it. Debra saying she just splashed balsamic on hers, fried it with shallots.

  “None for me, thanks,” Dennis said to Ann. “Cabbage’ll do me in. ’Specially on top of this.” Jiggling his can of beer.

  Debra said maybe Dennis should lay off the sauce, then turned to Dennis Jr., saying, “What happens when Daddy laps beer when he eats?”

  Dennis Jr. doing a mouth-fart, laughing himself silly, nearly tipping from his chair.

  Mother Hibbit did an open-mouthed gawk, saying, “Good heavens, Denny, the things your mother teaches you.”

  More mouth-farts coming from the kid, Debra saying that was enough, putting on the stern, telling the kid, “Eat your supper now, dear, and close your mouth.” The kid saying how could he eat if his mouth was closed.

  Tossing in his own parenting skills, Dennis told the kid to just do it, told him it tasted just like chicken.

  Looking at the Cornish hen on his plate, the kid started blubbering about killing baby chickens.

  “No, no, it’s not a baby chicken. Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Debra scowled at Dennis, then went in like a surgeon, slicing up the meat on the kid’s plate, saying, “Don’t listen to your father. Chicken’s chicken, now just eat up like a good boy.”

  Wiping the tears, Dennis Jr. said, “Baby chickens make me . . .” Mouth-farting, he was laughing himself silly.

  Jumping in, Debra caught him from tipping backwards off the chair. I thought of the coiled rope out in the garage, the four or five Rolling Rocks allowing me to smile.

  Debra reminded the kid this was his auntie’s meal table, telling him to sit still and watch out for the cloves.

  “What’s a cloves?”

  Plowing the serving spoon through the cabbage, Debra found one, showing it to him, saying, “Looks like this.”

  “Yuck.”

  Getting up for another Rolling Rock, I watched the kid straining cabbage through his teeth. His way of checking for cloves. Self-castration had to top spawning something like that. I thought of the owl-eyed kid at Marcel’s barbershop, fighting his mother, not wanting his hair cut. No way I was signing up for fatherhood, not at fifty years of age. Dennis Jr. was showing a mouthful of the purple glop when I came back with the beer, one for me, one for Dennis.

  “Oh, he’s such a pistol,” Mother Hibbit said to me, sliding me her empty glass.

  I was thinking I’d be happy to get mine, the Ruger out in the glovebox.

  Sliding off his chair, the kid declared he had to pee and skipped from the room.

  “He okay on his own?” I said.

  “Oh, sure, he’s fine,” Debra said. “So, Jeff, top of hawking used cars, Ann mentioned you’ve been out looking at houses. Getting in the hunt, are we?”

  “Yeah, guess one place caught our eye.” I popped the tab on the can and took a swallow of beer, glancing at Ann.

  “You got a collective eye, too, huh?” Dennis said, the two of us clinking cans. Dennis grinning, catching Debra’s icy stare.

  “Yeah, be a nice-sized place by the time we add the extra bedroom. Tony address down by the Humber,” I said, subduing a belch, mentioned the place had a stone fountain.

  “What’s with you and fountains, anyway?” Dennis pointed his Rolling Rock at the one on the hutch.

  I said it was a Zen thing.

  “Well, it’s nice you found a little place,” Debra said. “It’s good to dream.” Then she was telling Ann about this decorator, guy called Vicente, saying, “Got him busy redoing our place. Turquoise with mauve tones, a southwestern motif. New oak trim. So lucky he could squeeze me in, the man’s so in demand.” Saying there was talk of a feature in House Beautiful.

  Belching Rolling Rock and cabbage, I bet there were no Yupik dolls on the woman’s mantel. Featured in House Beautiful, big fucking deal, and I might have said something if the toilet hadn’t flushed from down the hall, followed by a loud thump, followed by Dennis Jr. wailing for help.

  The first to jump up, I dashed out, followed by Dennis, the two of us rushing down the hall, hearing overflowing water, a lot of water.

  . . . Blue Shutters

  Unlocking the passenger door, I reached in the glovebox, taking out the cigar box and offering one to Dennis, saying, “Hope the swelling goes down.”

  “Ah yeah, the kid’s a good healer,” he said, taking one, adding, “Think he’d know not to flush something like that down a toilet.” Holding the cigar up to the coach light, moths flitting around, he said, “Good stogie, huh?”

  “The kind Churchill smoked.” Snipping and priming mine, reaching in and pressing in the car lighter, waiting and lighting us up.

  “Times I wonder what goes through the kid’s mind.” Sticking the cigar in his mouth, Dennis puffed, saying, “Cubans still illegal?”

  “In the States maybe, not here,” I said. “Top of that, we’re burning the evidence, right?”

  He puffed and grinned, taking in the Gran Fury, saying again, “Good to see things
’re looking up for you.”

  “Waded through enough shit in my time, as you know. I bet you heard most of it, the family pipeline, huh?” I puffed, knowing Debra never missed a chance to take a jab at me, saying I heard he was selling his outfit, trying to swing the conversation back around to investing in the AutoPark.

  “Some chemical bigwig’s been in touch, wants a couple of my patents,” he said. “Talking an all-or-nothing type of deal. Got my lawyer looking it over. Feel like I’m bogged in legalese.”

  The clamor of header pipes and a bass thump had me turning. Rolling up in his borscht-colored Firebird, Dmitri Kovach parked on my boulevard, fat slicks on the new-mowed grass. Shutting her off, he got out and flicked a wave, maybe with the middle finger up, I couldn’t tell.

  I said to Dennis, “So you sell it off, then what, guess you two’ll be swinging on the golf course, huh?”

  “More like taking swings at each other.”

  “Come on, Deb’s so easygoing.” I was going for sincere, watching Tibor’s kid walk next door, saying, “Ask me, you two’ll be living the life. Laughing all the way to the bank.”

  “That woman laughs, it’s on account of whatever she’s on.”

  “Meds, Deb? You kidding?”

  “Elavil for her, Ritalin for the kid.” He blew a smoke ring at a moth getting too close, saying, “Fuck knows what Mother Hibbit’s on.”

  “Never have guessed,” I said. “Well, Mother Hibbit, maybe.”

  Both of us grinning, puffing the Cubans, each with a can of Rolling Rock. Could hear Debra cackle at something from inside the living room.

  Telling me he’d think over the car deal, Dennis said, “Oh, and a word to the wise . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Biggest regret of my life was adding the damned room in the basement of the old place. Mother coming to help out back when Deb was due. Settled in and still no sign of her ever leaving. Moved when we moved. The new place is even bigger.” Running a hand through his receding hair, he said, “I were you, leave it cold and fucking dank, my man. Make a friend of mold. Know what I’m saying?”