Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  . . . Without a Net

  “Okay, you squared the debt, I get that,” Mateo Cruz said, phoning from the Poughkeepsie shop. Mal Rocca getting his ticket punched. Mateo calling it a step in the right direction, careful what he said on the phone. “Not so sure, sending up more cars right now with no idea who hit the carrier.”

  “Gonna be worse we do nothing and don’t deliver.”

  “’Less it happens again.”

  Thinking of what the Bent Boys would do if he didn’t deliver, Ted stood, looking from his hundred-and-eighty-degree view. Sun glinting off the water. The sound of the shower spray stopped, and Ginger stepped from the en suite, rubbing herself with the towel, giving him that smile that melted away his years.

  “No doubt, we got a leak,” Mateo said, “either your end or mine, one we’re not plugging.”

  “Not arguing that, but we got these guys waiting, the kind you don’t keep waiting.” Ted smiled back at her, taking her in. Man, that smooth skin, those curves. All woman.

  “Guess we’re fucked either way.”

  “Sending my guys down,” Ted said. “Riding shotgun and taking a new route.”

  Mateo finally agreeing, not seeing any other way, the Bent Boys wanting the guns they already paid for. Likely hit Bracey harder next time, could send somebody after Mateo, too. “So I’ll make the call,” Mateo said, meaning Conner, the New York auctioneer, instructing him what to buy. The guy arranging the guns through the Iron Pipeline, too.

  “All gonna work out, my man,” Ted said, watching Ginger grab her bag, wave to him and walk out the door.

  . . . Penny for a Pound

  “Leave ’em on,” Vick said, looking at my shoes, leading the way down the hall, photos of his ex-wives on the walls, one of them with a girl standing next to her.

  Growling aversion, Tina followed a step behind me, sniffing at my ankles. It was a plain bungalow, but Vick had told me in the Don this place was his, all paid for. I sent the dog a mental image: snap at me again and you’ll get a taste of shoe leather and a rocket ride across the back fence.

  “Vick!” Jackie yelled from beyond the screen door. “Better get out here. She’s smoking like a bitch.”

  Hurrying out the screen, Vick called over his shoulder, “Come on out and meet the guys.”

  Closing the screen on growling Tina, I stepped onto the deck.

  Telling me to grab a brew — smoke pouring from a greasy old Weber, corner of the deck — Vick jerked up the lid, a two-alarm blaze dancing out. Jumping back, he snatched long tongs, darting in and out of the licking flames, trying to rescue a half dozen patties, plunking them on a platter, saying over his shoulder, “Everybody like ’em well done?”

  “Told you to go with the lean,” Jackie said, sitting at the picnic table. “Gonna burn your place to the fucking ground, buying that cheap crap.”

  Three men sat around a folding table, grinning and looking more like thugs than investors, all big, all in tight tees, tats over biceps. All looking at me. Empty bottles of Molson’s circling a sample box of Maxx.

  “Randy, Pony, Luther,” Jackie pointed around the table, then at me. “Jeff.” Looking at me like she had shit in her mouth, she swigged her beer, hair looking as if somebody took a scythe to it and hacked off the singed spots. Jackie in a widow-maker, her jug tits sagging and misshaping the graphic of Ozzy Osbourne, a nipple stabbing at the first O in Ozzy.

  Randy rose to his feet, a tower of about two hundred and fifty pounds. Sticking out a hand, wrist tattooed with a skull surrounded by barbed wire and flames, Jackie’s name in green on the back of the hand.

  I shook the hand.

  “On account of you her hair caught fire,” he said.

  “Me?” I looked at her, then Vick, saying, “More about Vick’s lighter going off like his barbecue.”

  “But you got her distracted,” Randy said, then clapped my arm, saying, “Just funning with you, brother.”

  Pony and Luther were grinning, looking at her hair.

  Coming with the platter of charred burgers, Vick set it next to a basket of buns, flies walking between sesame seeds. He swished a hand overtop, the flies disturbed and landing on the sliced tomatoes and onion.

  Picking up a patty, Randy looked at it and tossed it back, picked up another and stuck it in a bun, offering it to me. “Here you go, bro. Burnt shit bothers you, just scrape it off.”

  Should have just taken it, but I told him I didn’t eat red meat.

  “Don’t eat meat?” He looked surprised.

  “Some, but not red.”

  “Nothing red about it,” Pony said, frowning at his own patty crusted in black, sticking it between a bun and going for the condiments.

  Luther asked, “What the fuck you eat, then?” Randy saying something about surviving in a place like the Don on just beans and veggies.

  Telling them I went with chicken, sometimes fish, I dragged a metal deck chair close to the picnic table, slung my jacket over it, saying something about beans had all kinds of protein. The jacket felt light, and I felt uneasy, the Ruger out under the seat of the Gran Fury. Didn’t think I’d need it at an investors’ meeting, before seeing these guys.

  Pointing to the garnish, Vick said, “Toss yourself a salad, you want.” Enjoying my discomfort.

  Luther and Pony grinning some more.

  “And grab a brew — you drink it, right?” Randy said, pointing over to the Igloo cooler.

  “Yeah, could use a beer.” Going to it, I fished out a dripping Export.

  Jackie doused her burger, plastic squeeze bottle farting, and smiled at me.

  Popping the tab, I took a sip, froth going over the side. Wondering about these guys, Vick going back and lining a second round of patties on the grill, the flames under control now.

  Luther was talking about the chili burgers at this joint called the Apache, saying they were the best in town. Saying he had a good mind to go over and pick up a takeout bag full.

  “That old fuck at the Apache sweats like a pig over his grill, man,” Jackie said, taking a bite, going on, “Watched the guy, got beads of sweat coming off that hook nose, rolling down and dripping on the meat. How’s the guy not notice something like that?”

  “Still beats this burned shit.” Luther swallowed a bite and shot Vick a look.

  “So, you in the Don, uh, same time as Vick?” Randy said. “Marcel putting you boys in the used-car biz.”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I said, looking at Vick, wondering how much he told these guys, adding, “We got some history.” Drinking some beer, I asked Randy what line he was in.

  “Well, towing pays the bills.” Throwing a thumb at Pony, saying they were partners. “And Luther — well, mostly we just ride.”

  “Guessing you go with the hard sell, huh?” Pony said, tapping his own lip, looking at my bruised cheek and fat lip.

  “Yeah, do whatever it takes,” I said.

  Taking a patty, Randy stuck it on a bun and blasted mustard at it, the glop squishing from the sides of the bun, then bit into it.

  “Nice ride out front. That yours?” I asked him, sipping, trying to get the attention off me.

  “Yup, vintage FXR.” Randy holding the burger away so the dripping fat and bits of condiments landed on the deck.

  “Low-end torque that baby pumps out,” Jackie said, clapping a hand on Randy’s thigh. “Harley’s the second best thing a man can put between his legs, that right, babe?” Randy mumbling, “You bet” around a bite, Jackie sending me a mayo air-kiss.

  Shoving himself up, Luther told her to play nice, saying he had to piss. Cramming the last of his burger in his mouth.

  “How about use the john this time.” Jackie nodded to the screen door. “I’m eating here.”

  Opening the screen door, Luther said something about her acting like the queen of England and stepped inside. Tina
scrambled out past him, zeroing in on me, growling and showing teeth, dancing a circle around my ankles.

  “No, you don’t.” Scooping her up and saving me from doing a jig in front of these guys, Vick clapped a hand over her muzzle, saying, “No biting Jeff. Come on now, girlie.”

  “Hey, killer.” Randy patted the dog, tearing off a piece of patty and feeding it to her. To me, he said, “Not a dog guy, huh?”

  I just sucked some beer.

  Tucking her back inside, Vick told her to behave. Tina whimpering and scratching at the screen.

  Picking up the bottle of Maxx, Randy looked at it, then at me, saying, “Want to hear it from you, Jeff, how this shit’s supposed to grow hair.”

  “My thing’s the cars. I’m just here consulting. Want the short strokes, you got to talk to Vick or . . .” Glancing at Jackie.

  The woman smiling, enjoying the unease I couldn’t hide.

  Looking at the bottle of Maxx, Randy said he wasn’t all the way convinced.

  “The shit works,” she told him, taking the bottle from him, saying the test results were off the charts, adding, “Why I want you in the game, honey.”

  “You got test results?” Randy said.

  “I say it if we didn’t?” Jackie with her hand on his thigh.

  “I put money in this,” Randy said, “it won’t be no game. Besides, you got no contract with the inventor guy?”

  “Made a verbal agreement, guy giving me his word, same thing,” she said.

  “Verbal, that’s worth shit.” Downing his beer, he looked around from me to Vick, told Vick to fetch him another one.

  “’Cept I give pretty good verbal, right?” she said to Randy, the woman working her tongue between her molars, sucking at bits of meat, patting his big leg.

  Reaching in the cooler, Vick handed Randy a dripping Ex, saying, “We hit the trade show, man, Maxx’ll be flying off the shelves, sure of that.”

  “And if it don’t?”

  “Then you get your money back,” Vick said, looking from him to me, then to her.

  “That goes without saying, amigo,” Randy said.

  Coming out the screen door, Luther zipped up his fly, fishing the last cold one from the Igloo, flicking water from his hand, reaching and sticking the last patty between the last bun. Telling Vick he was out of beer.

  “Take some Maxx home, give it a try, any of you guys,” Vick said, catching Tina, setting her on his lap, telling her to settle down, the dog growling my way.

  “We look like we need more hair?” Pony said.

  Randy looked at Jackie, the woman doing her oral hygiene, then back at me, saying, “So, these cars, you buy ’em at auction, huh, get them detailed, put them on a trailer, send them north and bank on a good exchange?”

  “Yeah, basically how it works,” I said.

  “Way I hear it, you and Vick’re going down this week,” he said, “see things running smooth. Coming back with a full load.”

  “Heard that, huh?” I glanced at Vick, got the feeling this wasn’t about these guys investing in the hair product, caught a look passing between Luther and Pony. Vick looking jumpy, asking if anybody wanted more meat.

  . . . Any Naked Eye

  The garage door hung open, the old Jag was an XJ, circa the last ice age, mostly racing green but partly rust, with cardboard under its crankcase, oil dripping like lifeblood. Vick’s Dodge sat in the driveway behind it.

  Pony and Luther pulled away in the tow truck, Randy roaring away on the Harley, Jackie on the back, hanging on. Tina scratching and whining at the door leading from the house.

  “So, what’s with giving that guy a personal guarantee?” I said, taking my jacket off, slinging it over a shoulder. “Can’t back shit like that up.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  I shrugged, the two of us looking at the junkyard Jag, its ragtop patched with fabric tape, rear quarter panel suffering terminal rust, tires worn past the treads.

  Then I said, “It was you, huh?”

  “Me what?”

  “This what you got, selling Ted out?” I flicked a finger at the tape, laid the jacket on the hood. “Gave up the time and place, cars coming across the border, and the guy throws in a car, such as it is.”

  It took a moment, then he said, “Wasn’t like that.” He hesitated, tapping the toe of his shoe against the rear tire, then said, “Five grand just for the time and place, that or they’d take a drill to my knee. Got any idea about that?”

  “Ask Ted’s driver Bucky, one that got laid up. Word is he’s going to be walking funny and with a stick from here on. Ask me, that’s on you.”

  “Look, you want, I’ll split it with you?”

  “And half the guilt comes with it.”

  “Ted’s just in it for Ted, you got to know that, right, even with your head up the man’s ass?”

  Didn’t think about it, I just threw the fist, the right sending Vick to the concrete. I stood, shaking the pain from my knuckles.

  Holding the side of his face, he looked up. “It’s like that, huh? Got the Chuvalo over your desk, makes you kinda punchy.” Pushing himself up, he threw one back, the two of us trading punches, grunting and grappling over the oil stain, Vick twisting me around and putting on a headlock. Me clutching at his arm, the other hand catching a tangle of surfer hair.

  The VW pulling up the driveway got him letting go. Both of us standing, brushing at our clothes, Vick smoothing his hair. Skinny tires crunching on the gravel. Vick straightened his shirt, putting on a welcome smile. Licking blood from my lip, I ran a hand through my own hair.

  Switching off the engine, Ricki flipped the visor down and checked herself in the vanity before putting a heel out on the gravel, skimpy shorts this time, saying, “Interrupting something, boys?”

  “Guys just being guys, you know.” Vick walked over, hugging her, Ricki turning a cheek for him to kiss.

  Saying, “Hi Jeff,” she pointed to my ripped shirt, a couple of buttons missing, then saying to Vick, “You’re not going looking like that.” His collar hung like a flap. “Gonna catch a powder, give you time to change.” Careful where she stepped, she threw a dark look my way, her heels tapping the concrete. She opened the kitchen door, and Tina charged out, growling, Vick catching her in a midair leap, saying, “No, baby, think Jeff’s had all he can handle.”

  Licking my lip, I snagged my jacket, tried not to limp, thinking if it wasn’t for the beating I had already taken at Valencia’s, I would have shown him something, saying, “Lucky she came by when she did. Best money you spent all day.”

  “Meaning what?”

  I shrugged. “And your car’s a piece of shit.” Rapping my knuckles on the fender.

  “Just needs a tune-up, like I just gave you.”

  “Ask me, thing needs recycling.” Cursing the limp, I went down the driveway, reaching for my keys.

  “You change your mind,” he called, “still work something out.”

  Opening the Gran Fury’s door, I checked up the road. Feeling a stab in my side as I got in and stuck in the ignition key and turned it on.

  . . . Like in Minsk

  A guy was dropping off an envelope, Ted wanting me to hang on to it. That’s all he said, left me a message on my machine, gave me a number for a car phone in case the guy didn’t show by noon. Didn’t leave a name. Writing the number down, I figured it had to be money for guns.

  My own check plus the twenty-five hundred sat on the Formica table, making the downstroke for the house, Penny Mansell coming by to pick it up, should have been here an hour ago. I looked at the clock, needing to get to the bank, see the assistant manager and sign the papers before they closed.

  Running my tongue along the split lip, I thought about the house. Never owned a place of my own, never got that feeling of pride people talked about. Just the dread of property taxes and mort
gage payments. The thought of either had me feeling like I was wearing that clip-on tie again, being choked. No joy in following a Lawn-Boy on Saturday mornings, rows made by the wheels going back and forth, smelling my own cut grass. Climbing a ladder and pulling handfuls of decaying leaves from the gutters, draining algae from the fountain, mortaring the pecker back on the cherub. Always fixing something. Owning a piece of the rock was resting heavy on my chest.

  Ann was over there now, head librarian Pritchard giving her the morning off, the sellers allowing Ann in to take measurements. Ann deciding between mini-blinds or drapes, paint or wallpaper. The woman in seventh heaven.

  The knock at the door felt like a jolt. Stepping to the front hall, I checked the peephole.

  Penny Mansell stood with a folder under her arm. Swinging back the door, I smiled and took the deposit check and cash and handed it to her.

  Looking it over, she tapped a finger at it, looking sour, saying, “Supposed to be certified, Jeff. Sure I said that.”

  “Yeah, just ran short of time. Figure the cash makes up for it, shows goodwill, all that. Look, Penny, I’m good for it, trust me.” Then I turned it around, saying I wanted to add a clause, wanting the sellers fixing the fountain.

  “The what?”

  “Cherub, thing on the fountain, part of it’s busted off. Want it fixed.”

  “I go back with that, you wanting to add a clause, on top of no certified funds? My broker’ll have me for lunch.”

  “Had damned company, remember? Bad timing all the way around. Look, just put it in, okay? Think I know what I’m doing.”

  “Fine. May I?” Forcing a smile, she stepped past me and took the wall phone and punched in a number, unable to reach the selling broker, hanging up and telling me, “Do what I can to stall, Jeff, but meantime, roll the cash into it, the whole thing needs to be certified.” Asking the girl on the other end of the line to put her through to Bette, the office administrator, telling me while she waited I had to get the certified funds today, handing the check and cash back. She told Bette on the other end to add the clause, dictating it over the phone, told her thanks, then she hung up. Giving me another one of her cards, she walked out toward her ragtop Benz, a black Suburban rolling across the bottom of the driveway, blocking her in, a guy in the passenger seat looking up, checking the house numbers. Two black guys dropping off Ted’s envelope. The guys I’d been hearing about on the news, Bent Boys shooting up the whole town. Maybe Ted’s way of letting me edge closer to the real business.