Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Jeez, yeah.” I hadn’t thought of that, but it sent a chill. Told him I owed him one.

  “Last thing you need’s another sentence, am I right? Last one was eighteen months, and they let you out. This one . . .” He shook his head.

  “Getting off lucky.”

  “You said it.”

  The front door opened, and Ann called from the porch, saying she had Penny on the line, wanting me to take it.

  Leaving him standing by the car, I laid the cigar on the fender and went down the hall to the office, closing the door, picking up the phone on the combo fax machine, saying, “Hey, Penny, what’s up?”

  “Seller’s agent called. They got another offer coming in,” Penny saying it was cash and clean, with no clauses, adding, “Time to make your move, Jeff. Put it on paper.”

  “Shit.” I thought a moment, saying, “You got to buy me some time. Haven’t got to the bank yet.”

  “Not going to work, Jeff.”

  “Family reunion’s taking all my time. Woman’s got me running around like a caterer.” Ann sending me after cheese, Cornish hens and other groceries. Stopping for a case of beer and a box of wine.

  “Got to be on paper, Jeff. The way it works.”

  “Okay, how about you come over first thing Monday.”

  “For real, Jeff.”

  “Just draw it up, and I’ll sign it.” I needed to call the bank first thing Monday, scrape together the cash I had stashed. Get Ted to write me a puffed-up letter of projected earnings.

  “Do what I can, but be better if we go in over asking, show some good faith,” she said.

  “How’s that negotiating?”

  “With multiple offers, Jeff, it’s how we play it.”

  “So, okay, make it conditional on financing or something.”

  “At this point, best if we go in clean, but, it’s up to you. I’m just advising here.”

  “Okay, fine, go an extra . . . uh . . . twenty-five hundred.”

  “Uh uhn.”

  “Make it five then.”

  “Ten’d be better, Jeff.”

  “Better for who?”

  “We could keep looking, sure something’ll turn —”

  “Fine, go ten.”

  She said it would be best if she wrote it up and swung by in an hour.

  “Can’t, told you we got damn company. Got to be Monday.”

  “Hate to see you lose it, time being of the essence . . .”

  “Just work some magic, Penny. It’s what you do, right?”

  “More like asking for a miracle, but okay, look, I’ll make the call, see what I can do. Meantime, you know any prayers . . .”

  Setting the receiver down, I grabbed a couple more cold ones and went out through the garage, avoiding the questioning look from Ann, taking my cigar off the hood, having to relight it.

  “Something wrong?” Dennis said, taking the beer can.

  “Naw, all good.” I watched a pair of oncoming headlights climbing the hill, thinking with my luck it was the two mutts in the grey van. Opening the door again, I reached for the Ruger under the ownership papers in the glovebox.

  A pickup drove past, the neighbor from up the block, Mike’s Yardworks written down the side, a couple of Lawn-Boys sticking out the back.

  I guess Dennis saw the pistol, saying, “Got a neighbor from hell?”

  “Naw, we just take Block Watch serious around here.” I slapped the glovebox shut and popped the tab on my can, saying, “Cheers, man.”

  . . . Bent Boys

  The Love Boat’s neon sign flashed all girls, all day, all night. All day in red, all night in blue. Best T&A to go with your roast-beef buffet. All you can eat — five bucks. Tuck a few more bucks in a G-string and you got a girl in your lap, wiping the gravy from your chin.

  Jerrel Bent didn’t care about any of that. He walked around the place, into the alley out back. He slipped on the gloves, allowing Errol “Blue Eyes” and James “Dirty Leg” time to go in the front door, show themselves by the buffet. Two of the Dreads were known to frequent a ringside table, the two likely responsible for putting the hit on his brother. Jerrel betting they’d make for the exit sign when they saw his boys step to the buffet. “Heartache Tonight” was throbbing through the PA inside.

  Getting a nose full of urine and excrement, Jerrel held his pistol down along his side, waiting in the dark. The back-door light cast long shadows. Jerrel stood opposite, by the graffiti-covered wall, looking at the storm door with its torn screen hanging loose. The door itself looked reinforced, likely fitted with a couple of extra deadbolts. Just that kind of neighborhood.

  Jerrel got set. This was for Dustin, his older brother, gunned down out front of the Westdale Regent, a five-star in downtown Steeltown. Word was, the doorman had been tipped, standing there and holding the door and putting on a smile. Dustin taking the steps with a blonde on his arm. Waiting for the valet to bring his Lincoln Town Car around front. Jerrel’s guys finding out it was a hot jacked-up Toronado that pulled up out front, the tinted window rolling down, two guys inside, one with his hands on the wheel, the passenger shoving a .45 out the window. Dustin going down with three slugs in the chest, the girl and the valet killed, too. Jerrel sent Blue Eyes and Dirty Leg to take care of the doorman before his brother was even in the ground. Put a bounty on the shooters in the Toronado.

  Hearing the bolt thrown back, Jerrel raised the barrel, and the two men stepped in front of him, one looking inside over his shoulder.

  The first shot killed Emmett Grange, one of the higher-ups of the Dreads, the man who likely gave the order. The second man spun and got his hand in his jacket. Then froze, staring at Jerrel behind the gun barrel.

  “You know me?” Jerrel said.

  The guy bobbed his head, looking scared, hand still in the jacket, saying he had nothing to do with what went down at the Regent. He jerked a pistol from inside the jacket, and Jerrel shot him. Felt good doing it. Dirty Leg coming out and closing the door behind him, stepping over the bodies, not bothering to look down. Blue Eyes had gone to get the car.

  Jerrel tossed the pistol on the bodies, and the two of them walked from the alley.

  . . . Hard and Fast

  Walking into Ted’s office, I looked at him and sat next to Vick.

  Vick said to him, “So, what’s up?”

  “Got the dark roast.” Ted pointed to the takeout tray from next door.

  Grabbing one, Vick twisted his neck and checked out the Sun on the desk, the headline about a loan shark gunned down in his living room, naming Malcolm Rocca and a known associate, also killed.

  “Mean your money troubles over, huh?” Vick said, tearing into a packet of Sweet’N Low. The photo of a first responder shrouding the body with a sheet, out in front of Rocca’s house.

  “Man makes enemies, that line of work,” Ted said, nodding at me to take a coffee, saying, “Want the two of you making a run to Poughkeepsie.”

  “Getting down to it, huh?” Vick said, flipped to page three, looking at the sunshine girl, saying, “Not bad, give her a seven, maybe seven and a half.”

  Grabbing the paper, Ted tossed it in his trash can, saying, “We be serious here?”

  Vick sat.

  Sipping coffee, Ted told us about his transport getting hit last week, three dozen guns ripped off, the Bent Brothers pissed off about no delivery.

  “So, it was the Bents shot up the place?” Vick said.

  “Looks like.”

  “Jeff gets a car, an office, and I get lead flying by, sitting duck by the window.” Shaking his head, Ted said to me, “You believe this guy?”

  “So far I just been selling cars,” Vick said.

  “And not doing too bad at it, making some money, right?” Reaching in a drawer, Ted slid an envelope across the desk, said it was the same as he gave me.

&
nbsp; Peeking inside, Vick smiled and said, “Okay, now we’re talking.” Thumbing the bills, he counted them. Blowing a stream of smoke, he tapped his cigarette over the trash can, saying, “Guess we’re getting to it now, huh? The real deal.” Making the envelope disappear.

  “Nobody hiring cons these days, you boys both forgetting that?” Ted said, clicked the intercom like he forgot Bonnie wasn’t there. Then, reaching in his drawer, he took out a gold pen, tapping it on the desk.

  “But it’s what makes us right for going down there, playing escort on the way back, right?” Vick said.

  “This hair crap, want you knocking that shit off,” Ted said to him, kept tapping the pen. “Distracting you, embarrassing me.”

  “That’s on the side. Got nothing to say about it.” Looking at me, Vick said, “Jump in anytime.”

  I shrugged, saying to Ted, “These Bent Boys get their guns, then they’ll back off, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s the deal, back to being happy customers,” Ted said, looking from me to Vick. “You two go down, bring the cars back, have things running smooth. Each get another envelope.” Ted finished his paper cup and tossed it at the trash. “Anything else you need to know?”

  “I’m good,” Vick said, dropping his butt in his cup, tossing it in the trash, looking to me, saying, “Strategy meeting’s Friday at two. One with Randy’s set for Saturday, same time.” Winking at Ted, he said thanks for the cash and walked out.

  “What meeting?” Ted said, back to tapping the pen.

  “Wants me consulting on his hair thing. Got a guy he wants me to meet, guy might invest,” I said, smiling. “A chance to make use of those prison reform courses I took.”

  Ted not smiling, face turning red.

  “Probably not gonna go,” I said.

  “Yeah, you are. Want you to keep an eye on him.”

  “The guy’s just spinning, like you said.”

  “Look . . .” Ted dropped his elbows on his desk, saying, “Somebody knew the when and where and hit the carrier. Knew right where to find the guns . . .”

  “What, think it was Vick ratted?”

  He snapped the pen in half, looked at it starting to drip ink on his fingers and tossed it at the trash.

  We sat quiet, Ted pulling a bottle from his bottom drawer, reached a couple glasses next to the Sony, poured and slid one to me, downed his in a gulp, refilled his glass. Finishing my coffee, finally I said, “Was thinking of a guy for this, a legit investor. But maybe with the turn of events . . .” I glanced at the Sun in the trash, the headline about Mal Rocca getting killed, saying, “Guessing you don’t need it no more.”

  He looked at me. “Cash investor?”

  “Kind of like a brother-in-law, thought I might be able to swing him.”

  Taking a tissue from the drawer, Ted rubbed the ink from his fingers, saying, “This brother-in-law, he got the kind of dough we’d be talking?”

  “Why else we be talking?” Giving him some attitude, I downed my drink, decided now wasn’t the time to bring up a finder’s fee.

  After a moment, he smiled, poured another round, reaching a couple of Cohibas from a box in his top drawer and handed me one, getting his cutter and silver lighter, his initials on the lid.

  The two of us lighting up.

  Ted saying, “Prison reform courses, huh?”

  . . . To the Maxx

  Tobacco haze hung like a canopy, Vick was drinking from an oversized mug, Maxx printed on its glazed side. Sitting across from him, Jackie Delano sported a sweater with a line of Westies crossing her gut. Her mouth working on Doublemint, not up and down, but on a diagonal. Kind of like this alpaca I saw once on Wild Kingdom. Perched on a metal stool, me in my new suit I’d just picked up from Walter the tailor, I said to Vick, “No cardboard desk and chair, huh?”

  “Desks went up in the fire, and the chairs all got sold out at this outdoor Molson festival. Remember the Five Man Electrical Band, long-haired freaky-people number? Anyway, did this revival tour, put on hell of a show. Printed their song lyrics on the chairs and got them laminated, went like shit through a goose.”

  Sticking a cigarette in her mouth, Jackie flicked Vick’s desk lighter — a big lucite cube done to look like a big casino die — the flame whooshing up, the woman snapping her head back. “Jesus fucking . . .” Dropping the lighter, tossing the charred smoke in the ashtray. “The fuck’s with you and fire?”

  “Sorry, meant to . . .” Taking it, Vick tapped the lighter on his desk, testing the wheel with his thumb, adjusting it and flicking the flame, handing it back. “There. Flint thing gets stuck sometimes.”

  Pulling a fresh one from the pack, she stuck it in her mouth. Me, I fanned the air, thinking my suit would smell like shit.

  “Not gonna start up, are you?” she said, pushing a smile, saying, “Ted let you drive one off the lot, huh?” Followed by a kissy sound.

  Grinning, Vick said to her, “Randy tell you I scored his Jag?”

  “That old shitbox?”

  “Okay, needs a bit of work, but she’s a classic, you ask me.”

  “Thing needs sand tossed on it, is what.” She spoke with the unlit smoke bobbing between her lips, shaking her head, looking over my suit, sour look on her face.

  “Anyway, he’s towing her over Monday,” Vick said.

  Reaching in her satchel, she fumbled a stack of pages, tapped them on the desk, spilling half on the floor. “Ah, shit.”

  Vick bent and scooped pages off the floor. Pulling up the knees of my trousers, I reached for a couple under the desk. The snap of teeth had me jerking back, yelping. Vick’s schnauzer snarled and leaped for a better hold. Had me up and dancing the two-step, flicking a leg, the dog snapping its jaws, getting mostly air.

  Coming around the desk, Vick caught the dog by the collar, him laughing, saying, “Whoa there, girlie. Let go of Jeff. Come on now.”

  Head-shaking like she was saying no, the dog kept her jaws locked on my fine Egyptian-cotton cuff, snarling and spitting.

  Coaxing the dog to let go, Vick made baby talk, “That’s a good girl.”

  “Good, what the hell’s good?” I was checking my pants, punctured and slobbered. “Fuckin’ tailor-made.” Drawing a tissue from the box on the desk, I wiped at it, hoping Walter could do something about the holes.

  “Not into dogs, huh, Jeff?” Jackie said, enjoying this.

  “Not ones that bite me, no.”

  “Ought to know better than stick your hand in a strange dog’s face.”

  “Didn’t know he even had one.”

  She went about straightening and sorting, spreading pages on the desk, slipping on her glasses, asking me, “Need a Band-Aid or something ’fore I go on?”

  “Tetanus shot might be nice.” Sitting back on the stool, I blotted at my pant leg.

  “Anyway, was about to say our potential’s bigger than I realized.” Still grinning as she read from a page, “Sixty million hair-loss sufferers and three hundred thousand salons. Means we’re gonna sell a shitload at the Hairdressers’ Show.”

  “That’s your stat, a shitload?” I said.

  “What I call plain English.”

  “Hey, come on, guys,” Vick said, getting the dog to settle back under his desk, trying to lighten things, asking her, “Any response from the Jays?”

  “Still waiting.”

  “The Blue Jays?” I asked.

  “Got a problem with them, too?” Jackie said, the cigarette bobbing.

  “Just, pro athletes get big bucks.”

  “Except when me and the GM’s old lady are like this.” Holding up two nicotine-stained fingers. “Been doing her half-updo since . . . like forever.”

  “Gonna offer them shares,” Vick said, “same as our Elvis.”

  “Giving Archie shares?” I said.

  Ignoring me, Jackie saying to Vick
, “Oh, I might have us hooked up with an outfit doing high-tech follicle testing. See if they’re willing to go fifty/fifty on the booth.” Sticking a fresh cigarette in her mouth, she turned to me, saying, “You know, Jeff, getting kind of tired of your high-and-mighty and tailor-made. You don’t want to do this, nobody’s holding a gun to your head . . . yet.”

  I started to say I was here paying Vick a courtesy, Tina picking the moment for a second lunge. Leaning forward for the desk lighter, Vick flicked it for Jackie, trying to block Tina with his shoe. He shifted the lighter, and the flame singed Jackie’s hair as she leaned in and puffed.

  Jumping back, she lost the cigarette, throwing wild slaps at her head, smelling her hair on fire, yelling, “Hair . . . fuck . . . fire!”

  Flicking a foot at the dog, I grabbed a handful of her pages and swatted at Jackie’s head, knocking the cigarette away. Fast thinking.

  Not thinking, Vick tossed his coffee, coming around and catching hold of Tina.

  Hair matted to her head, Jackie slung herself back in the chair and sputtered coffee. Not saying a word, she sat dripping, eyes burning holes, and began cleaning her glasses on the Westies sweater, her hair looking like doused brushfire.

  Checking for tooth marks on my fine cotton, I glanced at her, the woman tossing her coffee-soaked pages in the trash bin, getting up without a word and clomping up the stairs.

  “That woman’s got issues,” I said.

  “That may be,” he said, straightening the lighter on the desk, “but trust me, Maxx is gonna take off. Issues or not.”

  . . . The Blue Plate

  Fastening his belt, Ted smiled at the girl the escort service had sent to the condo at Harbour Square. Didn’t matter her real name wasn’t Ginger. Tall, young and with a waist he could almost get his hands around. The two of them had talked over drinks first, Ginger smiling perfect teeth at him. Bright and charming. Made him forget he was just a john. Forgetting about his troubles with Liz, his wife.