Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Stepping to the closet, I tucked the Ruger in the belt behind my back and went to the welcome mat. The passenger stepped out, a leather jacket, twin earrings and shades, walking up the drive, nodding to Penny as she passed, the driver rolling the Suburban back, letting her back out. Don’t know why, but I jotted their plate number on the back of Penny’s card, tucked it away.

  “You Bracey’s man, uh?” Errol “Blue Eyes” Ealy coming to the stoop, an easy way about him. He reached inside his jacket, my own hand going around my back.

  “Easy, my man. Just bringing you some lettuce. Sure your man Bracey gave you word, uh?” He handed me a thick envelope. James “Dirty Leg” Freeze pulled to the bottom of the driveway, got out and came up, looking at me, saying to his buddy, “This white boy look like he gonna jump.”

  “Hey!” Tibor Kovach tossed down his rake and shoved his way through the hedge, cutting across the lawn. Both men turning and reaching inside their jackets.

  “Not a good time, Tibor,” I said, flapping the envelope against my open palm.

  Tibor saying he wanted these boys to cut it nice and short, pointing to the cedars out front.

  They looked at each other, Dirty Leg saying to him, “Boys? We look like the hired help, uh? Two brothers dressed sharp and stepping from a ride worth more than your house. And you guessing us yardies got the Lawn-Boy in back of the truck, uh?”

  “Just say when you do it?” Tibor said, not hearing him, pointing at the unruly hedge.

  “You keep talking, it’s gonna be coming right up,” Dirty Leg said.

  “Got to be done,” Tibor said, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other.

  “Maybe we let you gents work it out,” Blue Eyes said, nodding at Dirty Leg, turning to go, saying to me, “We be in touch. Give you an estimate.”

  “No.” Tibor pointed at me, saying, “He pays.” Stuck out a big palm, pressing it against Dirty Leg’s chest, blocked him from leaving.

  Backing a step, looking at him, Dirty Leg said, “I got to ask you to step aside, maybe we not gonna be friends.”

  Brow crinkling, Tibor took hold of Dirty Leg’s hand, turning it palm up, saying, “Not hands of man who works. Woman’s hands.”

  “You believe this shit?” Dirty Leg said to Blue Eyes, yanking his hand back, pointing a finger, saying to Tibor, “Best you go rake up your leaves, before you be lying under them.”

  Sure wasn’t expecting Tibor to take a swing — the way they handled things in Minsk — catching Dirty Leg solid, knocking him flat. Blue Eyes jumping at me, keeping me from getting my pistol. Going for his own.

  Dirty Leg was slow pushing himself up, throwing his own fist. Shuffling back, then in again, Tibor used his size and countered with a roundhouse, knocking Dirty Leg back down.

  Jamming my Ruger under Blue Eyes’ chin, I said, “So we’re clear, man’s got nothing to do with me.” I felt his own barrel in my gut. Him saying to me, “Still, we dancing now, uh, white bread?”

  I eased up, pointed the gun away, then he did, too, both of us looking to the street, putting our pistols away. The hedge blocking most of the scene from the neighbors.

  Tibor yanked Dirty Leg up, saying to him, “Now, you boys take care of hedge, and give good price.”

  Blue Eyes stepping in, keeping Dirty Leg from pulling his pistol.

  I said to Blue Eyes, “Ought to try living next door to him.”

  “You want, I can plug him one,” Dirty Leg said, shaking Blue Eyes off.

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” I said.

  “Man’s in need of some kind of help.” Blue Eyes shrugged, hooked Dirty Leg by the sleeve, turning his man back toward the Suburban, Dirty Leg calling over his shoulder to Tibor, “Next time, we do it for real.”

  Waving him off, Tibor gave me a sour look, then turned and crossed the lawn, muttering in Belarusian.

  Waiting till they drove off, I looked at the sealed envelope in my hand, then over at Tibor getting back to raking his leaves. No doubt about him needing some kind of help.

  . . . Dance in the End Zone

  Thighs pounding like pistons, Ted worked the StairMaster, feeling the burn. Had me meet him at the Residents Club, Harbour Square, bring him the envelope of cash, told me to bring my sweats. Looking at me stepping on the next machine, he checked around, made sure nobody was within earshot. Told me Mateo Cruz had his crew prepping the cars, the ones just bought at auction, shipping them from Poughkeepsie. Welding the cells in place, packing them with Uzis. Pistols in sealed bags in the gas tanks.

  “Yeah, so where they crossing?”

  “You’ll know when you get down there.”

  “One bit at a time, huh?”

  “Yeah. And take Vick along, want the two of you riding shotgun, both keeping an eye.”

  “Want to run it by me, what went wrong last time?”

  “Shit that can’t go wrong again.” Giving me the short strokes of what went down at the Beamsville scales, Bucky Showalter getting jumped. “Reason I want both of you going.” He stepped off the machine, wiping a towel at the sweat. “Gonna fill the showroom by end of the week. Everybody getting what they want.” Slinging the towel around his neck, saying, “Let’s grab a schwitz. Make you feel like a million.”

  Following him to the lockers, peeling off my sweats and undershirt, tossing them in the gym bag, wrapping myself in a towel, I stepped in the sauna. Hit by a wall of heat and steam, I took the bottom bench, Ted going to the top, saying, “Toss some water, will you?”

  Reaching the bucket, I poured, the water hissing on the stones. Not liking the way this was going, being kept in the dark, knowing he was holding back.

  “Toss some more,” Ted said, leaning back, breathing deep, telling me again there’d be another envelope for each of us when we got back.

  If we got back.

  . . . Feet in the Fire

  Randy Hooper and Pony White stepped from the rig, Hooper Towing in white serifs in black outline down the orange sides. A black Suburban sat parked by a meter, its windows tinted. Donning the work gloves, wearing coveralls, name on the pocket, Pony White hauled the chain off the back, taking his time, checking out the big Chevy’s front end. Standing up on the curb, Randy lit a smoke. Waiting.

  First to see the two Bent Boys coming from X Dales, crossing Carlingview. The strip club open at noon, another peeler pub slopping up an all-you-can-eat buffet. Dirty Leg and Blue Eyes looking around as they stepped into the street, dodging the daytime traffic.

  “Don’t even think about it, my man,” Blue Eyes said, stepping close to Pony, arms loose at his sides. Pony holding the chain in both hands.

  “District contract,” Randy said, leaning on the meter, pointing to its red flag.

  “You kidding, right?”

  “City takes a dim view. Don’t feed the meter, you get towed. How it works.”

  “So you just hook up a man’s ride while he’s standing here, uh?” Blue Eyes smiling.

  “The good news, you get her back when you pay the fine.”

  “Somebody gonna be paying, that part’s sure enough,” Blue Eyes said.

  Randy grinned. “I wanted to hook up your ride, would’ve done it while you were in catching your daytime titty.” Stepping to the back of the tow truck, he lifted an oily tarp, just enough so they could see what was under it.

  Blue Eyes and Dirty Leg glancing at the Uzi, then at each other.

  Blue Eyes saying, “Gonna try and sell us something we already paid for, huh?” Still easy, still smiling.

  “Ask me, you boys are having trouble getting deliveries.”

  “Way it looks, uh? And we deal with you, then you see an end to our troubles, I right?”

  “You got it.” Randy wrapped the Uzi, offering it to Blue Eyes.

  “And how much we be paying for what’s already ours?” Blue Eyes looking around, then
taking the gun.

  “What’s yours is yours. Just want to show you there’s a better way.”

  “You got the floor, my man.”

  “Give me a number, I call you here tonight, name a place where we hand them over.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Blue Eyes giving him a number, Randy turned and got in the passenger side. Tossing the chain in the back, Pony smiled at Dirty Leg, backed to the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel, starting up the tow truck. Blue Eyes and Dirty Leg watching them drive off, then looking at each other.

  Blue Eyes saying, “Lot of crazy fuckers in this town.”

  Dirty Leg nodding.

  . . . Big Bad Money

  “If it wasn’t for the house . . .” Ann had let her words hang, got out and slammed the Gran Fury’s door, walking into the library for her shift. Pissed on account I didn’t tell her about the showroom getting shot up, skirted around the fight at Valencia’s and was sketchy about where the rest of the cash for the house had come from. I told her I didn’t want her worried, sweating the details, but she wasn’t buying it.

  Sitting under the Chuvalo, I replaced the cord on the phone with the new one I picked up at Canadian Tire, plugged it in and listened for dial tone.

  Vick came up the steps. Shutting the door, he sat in the spare chair, taking out a pack of smokes, tapping one out, saying, “Been thinking, maybe we ought to bail.”

  “How you mean, bail?”

  “Got to know we’re being played, right? The man hands us some money, tells us to take a ride, not telling us what’s what, where we’re going.”

  “Just being careful.”

  “Figuring us for two ex-cons too dumb to know better.” He fished in a pocket for his matches. “Ask me, we’re being played from both ends.”

  “Both ends?”

  Vick shrugged, stuck the smoke in his mouth, found a match and lit up. Another guy not talking.

  “We bail, then what? Work the hair thing?”

  “Least nobody’ll be shooting at us.” Vick puffed, blowing a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

  “Something you’re not saying?”

  “Saying I’m sick of living on maybes and Arby’s, same as you. Desperation’s been jerking my chain, money trouble messing my head. You got no fucking idea.”

  “Really think I been riding high?” I said.

  Quiet in the room, just the gurgle of the fountain. Vick tossing in another wooden match.

  “Do what you want, but I’m making this run,” I said.

  He puffed, flicking ashes in my fountain, looking unsure.

  . . . Shit Befalls Us

  Recent rains washed the sky smogless, a brilliant blue past the CN Tower, rush hour on the Gardiner easing. I reached the shades off the dash, the meeting at the downtown Commerce branch had gone better than expected. With the seller taking back a small second, the assistant manager said he could approve the first, telling me it would take a day or two to get it all approved. Ted’s letter of employment, with fudged projected earnings, and the cash I’d scraped together making the difference. I knew guys in the Don that waded through deeper shit than this every day. Kept telling myself that, but my hands were sweating on the wheel, and I had that feeling like I was being choked again.

  Ann was off to the paint store, getting more paint chips and signing out wallpaper books, looking for the perfect bunny border, wanted me to like it, too.

  Traffic was light past the Exhibition grounds, and I was thinking about this ride to Poughkeepsie. I guess I drifted into the next lane, the blaring horn making me jerk back into my lane. Looking over at the grey van — Bundy and Egg in the next lane. Bundy smiling and showing the pruners, Egg swerving and crowding my lane. Stupid cross bobbing from the mirror.

  Pulling to the right, I tromped on the brakes, heard the screeching just as a Taurus plowed my rear end, shoving me against the guardrail, scraping the side. More honking and crunching metal, cars behind me swerving in a crazy sheet-metal ballet, the Taurus flipped on its side, instant four-lane pileup, plugging up the Gardiner. Stepping on the gas got me clear.

  The grey van pulled a length ahead, Bundy rolling down his window.

  I steered around a pickup ahead. Less traffic as I reached under my seat for the Ruger. Rolling down the window, I aimed with my left hand, seeing the hole Ted shot in their door, thinking I’d add a couple of my own.

  A bottle with a burning rag stuffed in the top came out their passenger window, and I swerved right, dropping the pistol, scraping the guardrail again, losing the right mirror, the cocktail bursting on the tarmac as I flew past.

  Taking the clear passing lane, Egg got around a junk man’s truck. GOT JUNK lettered large and yellow across the tailgate, the bed heaped with the guts from a house demo. The old man behind the wheel banged on his horn, fighting for control.

  I tried passing on the right, Egg cutting in front of the junk man, making him swerve my way, his rusted tailgate dropping down. An avalanche of debris rained across the lanes, junk smashing and bouncing and rolling. The old man swerved, lath flying off the back, chunks of drywall, shingles, strapping.

  Boards bounced off my grill, tires crunching over shit. Dropping back, I missed a set of louvers. A toilet basin exploded, copper pipe bounced like pasta across the lanes. With a quick heel-toe, I did a slalom move. Debris flying up and slapping the windshield.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Flooring the Gran Fury past the junk truck, looking through the spidered windshield, I saw the Jameson exit up ahead. The grey van cutting across the lanes, forcing me to jerk right again, my rocker striking more guardrail, metal crumpling. GOT JUNK plowed into their side and sent the grey van rolling onto its roof.

  Fighting the drag, I oversteered and lost control and spun one-eighty, my shades flipping from my face. Screeching and slamming against the rail.

  GOT JUNK skidded to a stop. Upside down in the van, Bundy tried kicking at the windshield. Egg not moving.

  No cars came from behind me, must have been a hell of a pileup. That and GOT JUNK’s load. Heart pounding, I cranked the key and got the engine to cough to life. Turning the Gran Fury around, I heard the sound of distant sirens. Working the column shift, I rolled down the ramp, a scraping sound coming from underneath. Hoping nobody got my plate, knowing I had to dump the car, call it in stolen. Taking the Jameson exit, across Queen and up Roncesvalles, a couple kids pointing at my ride, dragging the sparking bumper.

  . . . Ripple

  The clerk had the AM set to CHUM, Springsteen filling the liquor store, the twang of the Boss rising over the sirens out on the expressway. Taking a box of burgundy from a rack, going to the cash, I set it on the counter, my whole body still shaking.

  Looking me over, the clerk seemed to have his doubts about selling booze to a crazy. Looked at me like he figured I was well over twenty-one and probably already had a mother; top of that, there was no telltale smell and no slurred words. And then there was the golden rule of liquor-store clerks: avoid any kind of shit that could lead to getting shot. He took my twenty and made the necessary change. Wishing me a good day, he waited on the next customer in line. All with a smile.

  I heard another siren en route to the Gardiner pileup. Setting the wine box on top of the pay phone at the corner of the strip of stores, I took out a handful of change, fished out a quarter, called to let Ted know the Gran Fury wasn’t going to make the ride to Poughkeepsie, waiting for him to pick up. Battered and beaten, I had left it parked down a side street, bleeding out antifreeze.

  . . . Two-Time Losers

  Standing at the window of his condo, Ted Bracey felt the sun coming through the glass, but there was an autumn cool about it. Still boats out on the lake, though; Ted thinking he’d take out the Sea Ray. Reaching for the phone, he answered, appraising Ginger wiggling into her panties. Man, t
hat body. Back in the day, he would have taken the receiver off the hook and done her a couple more times. This girl half his age, giving him all the push-back he could handle. Ted hoping to be around long enough to ask for her again. Ginger making him forget the quicksand of shit he stood at the brink of. Maybe next time, he’d take her out in the boat.

  It was Jeff calling from a pay phone, an edge to his voice.

  Ted saying, “What’s up?”

  •

  I explained the situation. “Fuckers bounced me into the guardrail, more than once.”

  “Sure it was the same guys?” Ted said, like he didn’t believe these guys were back for more after he’d put a round through their door.

  “No way I’ll make Poughkeepsie in that.” I steadied the box of wine on top of the phone box, wanting to tap it.

  He told me to leave the car. “Get your ass in a cab and pay cash, leave a tip big enough so the guy forgets your face.” Said he’d take care of calling it in stolen.

  •

  Ted watched Ginger wiggle into her skirt, snap on her bra, slip on her heels, button her blouse. Blowing him a kiss, she caught her bag by the strap. Flipping her red hair, she said, “See you around, Teddy,” letting herself out.

  That hair. That skin. Ted thinking there were no lips, no legs, nothing like that in any House of Corrections, not on this God’s green Earth. No matter what you paid for it.