Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Leading us from the garage, Mateo said he’d called ahead for a table at a place called the Dutchess, the three of us sitting over Heineken and Bols, me gaining my appetite back. Following drinks with a thick pea soup with sausage, with a name I couldn’t pronounce, Vick going for a stew called hachée, the three of us downing a couple bottles of cabernet. After we wolfed down dinner, the waiter came with apple pie, best I ever had.

  Between sips of after-dinner drinks, Vick said again he didn’t like not knowing where we were crossing.

  “Know when you need to know,” Mateo said again. “Main thing’s to get through.” Waving for the waiter, he ordered another round, saying, “May as well kick back, boys, take it easy.” Talking some more folklore about this ghost that rolled its flaming head down a set of stairs, a story that had spooked the locals for decades. Pointing up the street, where it was supposed to happen. Mateo saying we were sitting maybe fifty miles from Sleepy Hollow, asked if we knew about the headless horseman.

  “Read about it when I was like twelve.” Vick shrugged, sinking the contents of his glass, saying, “How about we forget the ghost stories, man, no offense, but you got any women in this town?”

  Mateo saying it was a quiet family place, the reason they picked it for the detail shop.

  “Least the vino’s decent,” Vick said, looking around for the waiter.

  “You’re drinking pear brandy,” Mateo said, looking over at me, shaking his head, laughing. I shrugged. All I knew, it beat the hell out of the stuff that came in a box with a spigot.

  “The Hudson’s known for its fruit brandies and cordials.”

  “Yeah, but, no women,” Vick said.

  After a couple more rounds, we followed him to a place a few doors up called the Horseman’s Hollow, a few married couples slow-dancing on a flagstone floor to some Juice Newton number coming from a Wurlitzer. Sitting out back in Adirondack chairs overlooking the Hudson, we let more drinks slide down. Manicured lawn with a hedgerow out back, the sun dropping beyond the distant trees, putting everything in silhouette. The gathering dusk brought an owl’s hoot above the chorus of crickets. A light breeze blew from the north.

  Mateo ordered a final round, and I handed out the Cubans I had in the top pocket of my jacket, snuck them across.

  Thanking me for the smoke, Mateo said he was hoping things were going to roll smooth this trip. Told us the driver, Bucky, had a sawed-off pump and a couple handguns for us.

  “Hell of a thing, the cars getting jacked like that,” Vick said.

  “Yeah, sometimes the shit rolls sideways,” Mateo said, “but all that’s in the rearview. Debt’s been squared. We got customers waiting, plus we got you boys riding shotgun, make sure it gets there.”

  A waiter in white came out with a tray, setting it down, pouring strong coffee into china cups, passing them around. I didn’t remember anybody ordering it.

  Puffing on his cigar, Mateo paid the check, said he’d drop off the Caddy, that he’d call our room in the morning before the truck headed out.

  “And let us know where we’re crossing,” Vick said.

  . . . Flying High, Moaning Low

  Just gone midnight, the two of us staggered into the lobby of the Hudson Inn. A drowsy-looking desk clerk roused to our echoing footsteps on the travertine, the two of us laughing about something. Vick tugged my sleeve, pulled me past the elevators, making for the Trafalgar Bar. Vick still going on about Ted and Mateo not showing any trust.

  “On account you been selling them out.”

  “Like I had a choice,” he said.

  “You always got a choice, man.”

  “Would have quit, you know it, thrown in with Jackie fresh out of the Don if Randy hadn’t been in the picture.”

  “Guy’s bad news, that’s for sure.”

  “You got no idea, man.” Talking through the booze fog, Vick told me about the time Randy rained a shitstorm on this dude named Brother Louie. “Guy ran this shop called Domingo’s or something in Kensington Market. You know the place?”

  “Kensington, yeah, sure.”

  “Story goes Randy stops by to collect on a poker debt or some shit Brother Louie’d been ducking him on. Anyway, one thing leads to another, and Louie says he won’t pay on account of Randy cheating. Cheating. Fuck. ’Course Randy takes a swipe at him, and Louie sets his Portu-guys on him.”

  “Portu-guys, huh?”

  “Yeah, bunch of them beating on Randy and tossing him out back, dumping him on a crate of rotting food. Cabbage, think it was.”

  The booze had me laughing, trying to picture it.

  “So he scrapes himself up, goes and gets Pony and Luther and some chains off the tow truck. Beats Brother Louie and his guys bloody, falling or running. Randy collects his dough, then sets a match to Domingo’s. Burned it to the ground, cabbage and all.”

  “Like I said, the guy’s bad news.” I was looking at the dim lights of the bar, the walls painted dark, an old bartender in a striped shirt, polishing glasses. The only customers, a couple of women perched on bar stools, feigning conversation over watered drinks — both heavy on the makeup and light on the dress. Thinking about what Mateo said about there being nothing but families in town.

  Base nature drew Vick to the bar. Not thinking about anything but the women smiling our way.

  “I got to hand it to you . . .” I hooked his sleeve, trying to slow him down, saying I liked the way he played it with Mateo.

  He was past hearing me, sizing up the women. Dark-haired, dark skinned, both putting out the signals. One with an hourglass build, the other taller, with hawkish looks, showing a beguiling nature.

  “Bracey give you an expense account, credit card, something like that?” he said.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Vick scraped back his chair, sat and lapped up that flesh, tanned and oiled. Perfume reaching our table.

  “Got a couple more Cohibas up in the room,” I said. “What say we grab a couple bottles, some ice, and head up? Got a big day coming.”

  “And pass this up? You going gay on me? All that time in the joint?” Vick wagged for the bartender, calling, “Cervezas, por favor.”

  The bartender giving him a look.

  “Know we’re in New York, right?” I said.

  Vick called to him again, ordered a couple Buds in English, saying to me things were looking up on all fronts.

  I glanced over at the bartender, silver hair with a big sweeping mustache, wiping a glass with his apron, going to a cooler, reaching in and pulling up a couple of bottles, the man’s eyes held the look of someone who could rhyme off about a hundred places he’d rather be. Cracking them open, he shuffled over, setting them on the table.

  “And whatever the ladies are having,” Vick said to him, smiling and angling his chair toward the women. “Beunas noches, ladies.” The lights behind the bar put them in silhouette, their features looking hard.

  “From Canada, eh?” the tall one said, turning and leaning, cleavage jiggling.

  Smiling at her, Vick sucked down half his beer.

  Ann was the one who walked out, I said to myself, watching the women swivel toward us, the raised bar stools leaving little to the imagination. Breasts pushed up, rifts of pleasure, oiled legs under short skirts, letting our eyes go where they wanted. That part was free.

  Tipping back the rest of his beer, Vick cupped a hand to his mouth and squelched a burp, flipping that mental coin. Leaning close, saying to me, he’d go for the tall one first, calling the other one Ample.

  “Gonna pass, but you go ahead,” I said.

  “What, you want the other one?”

  “Take ’em both, Ample, too, if you want.”

  “A man’s got needs, even you, am I right?”

  “Not tonight.”

  I guessed if it wasn’t for all the booze, he’d last about
minute with either one. Vick sitting there with the numb grin of a drunken fool, the tall one zeroing in on him. Ample swiveled to me. I put up a hand, stopping her. She looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was arrogant or impotent or just too plastered.

  Vick was telling them we were with a car outfit, calling us execs here on business, turning to me and asking, in what he thought was a low voice, if I was packing.

  “Like a gun?”

  “No, protection, man.” Vick leaned close, saying he only brought a couple rubbers, packing light this trip.

  The bartender came and set a second round on the table.

  “Ask me, they probably got that covered,” I said, watching the bartender set a couple more watered glasses on the bar in front of the women. The first ones still untouched.

  Taking Vick’s twenty, the bartender left, the look on his face saying this was the same old bullshit prelude to debauchery. Something he’d probably seen far too many times.

  Sipping, Vick held his wallet low and checked his cash, both women eyeing him, the tall one saying half and half was a hundred.

  “Half and half, huh?” Vick pulling out five twenties. “Was thinking more like double double.”

  “Each,” she said.

  Vick looking confused.

  “Put that away,” I told him. “Gonna get us busted?”

  “By who?” He glanced around, saying to me, “Calm the fuck down, man. Place is empty. You wanna blow this for me?”

  “Really think you got to work that hard here, huh?” I said.

  “Just a little consideration, okay, all I ask. All that time locked up in that hellhole, I’m making up for it. Let’s go double double.” Vick counted out more twenties, the tall one leaning close, letting him make a deposit in the bank of cleavage. Letting him touch a finger to the smooth skin, Vick slipping in half the bills, repeating the process with the one he called Ample, saying to me, “Ask me, you need this more than me.”

  Probably right. I started on the second Bud, the beer near room temperature, giving it an off taste.

  “Last time was . . .” Vick thinking out loud. “Night of Ted’s party. Same time you were getting your ass kicked.”

  Smiling at Ample, I looked around the empty bar, part of me thinking what the hell, the other half thinking of Ann.

  Downing his beer, Vick was out of his chair, tapping a cigarette from a pack, flaring a wooden match on his thumbnail, offering the pack around.

  Taking a smoke, the tall one let Vick light her up, one hand holding back her hair, the other cupped over his, lips in an O. Blowing out his match, she thanked him, putting a hand to his chest, feeling his beating heart, looking at him like the rest of the money in his wallet was already hers, saying to him, “Double double, huh?”

  “You betcha.” Hooking his arm in hers, Vick guided her for the elevator, saying Archie was sure missing out on some good times.

  Yeah, just what we needed, a greasy Elvis in flip-flops, singing lines from the Big E’s songs.

  Coming and sitting next to me, Ample pursed her lips and leaned near my ear, guiding my hand to her thigh, guessing she knew what that did to a man. Then leading me out of the bar and over to the elevator.

  Vick had both hands on the tall one, using his elbow to press the elevator button.

  Taking my hand back, I pointed to my ring finger, saying something about the old ball and chain.

  Ample tapped a plastic nail against her own wedding band, shrugging, saying what did it matter. Taking my hand with the one with the ring on it, she set it back on her thigh, higher this time.

  Still jamming his elbow at the elevator button, Vick worked his hands like he was kneading dough, told the tall woman his name, asking hers.

  “Miss Right,” she said, pointing over to Ample, saying, “and Miss Right Now.”

  Leaning close, Miss Right Now wet her lips, saying to me, “Your wife, she do this?” Leaning close, letting her tongue work my ear like she was sucking petrol up a hose. Had me up on my toes, feeling that through the booze fog. Original sin staring me in the face.

  The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. Fingers pressing into Miss Right’s flesh, Vick said to me, “Here’s to too much bed and not enough sleep.” Downing his Bud, he rolled the bottle on the elevator floor and was first on, pulling Miss Right in.

  “Maybe I’ll be there in a while,” I said and pushed Miss Right Now in. The woman looking surprised as I stood there and watched it close, my morals winning over the booze, the three of them staring back at me.

  . . . Turf

  They had some words, Randy pissed on account of the missing Uzi. One of the three dozen Pony had stashed under the trailer at the towing yard was gone. Pony bitching how could it be his fault, no idea how somebody got in the yard last night with the three shepherd dogs running loose in the compound.

  Randy got out of the passenger side, no time for that now, looking along the rail yards west of Union Station, a line of CN boxcars, the tower in the distance. Remembering his old man calling this place the hump yards. Pony checked his Colt and stuck it in a pocket, seeing the Lincoln pull up facing them, its headlights off. Getting from behind the wheel, he kept his eyes on the two Dreads stepping out, windows tinted all the way around. No way to tell if there were more inside. He kept a hand in his pocket.

  Going around back of the tow truck, Randy held his hands in plain view, no point getting shot, these guys looking twitchy. The Dreads left both doors hanging open, the engine running, walking slow to the tow truck, both looking around. Nobody smiling, nobody talking, keeping to the business. The taller one with a satchel loose at his side.

  Lifting the Uzi from behind the tool box, Randy walked to the front and passed it over, the Dread with the satchel taking it, looking it over.

  “What you asking?”

  “Same as I said on the phone,” Randy said. “Two Gs a pop.”

  The Dread snorted, saying, “Thought I heard that part wrong,” then to the other one, “Man’s got to be dreaming.”

  “Got three dozen just like it. Dream come true, I go and sell to the Bents. Boys be happy to pay what I’m asking, then go pointing them at you. Some might say we’re not asking enough.”

  The Dreads looked at each other, the one handling the Uzi shrugged, saying, “Go high as a grand. Not the only guy in town selling.” Tapping a hand against the satchel. “Cash. And we do it now, tonight.”

  Nobody saw the Suburban, with its lights off, rolling to a stop out front of the factory with the twin chimneys on top, the TD billboard on the roof. Three men climbing out, leaving the doors open, keeping low and fanning out, moving their way.

  Randy, Pony and the Dreads stood facing each other, the Dread with the satchel saying he might go as high as twelve bills. “Get the coil on the spot, if you got ’em with you?”

  The first bullet caught him high and spun him. Surprised look on his face, mouth flopping open. Raising the Uzi, he pressed the trigger on an empty clip. Tossing it aside, he jackrabbit-jumped along the tracks, grabbing his pistol and firing at the Suburban.

  Diving for gravel, Randy and Pony crawled over the tracks to the tow truck, bullets whizzing overhead, punching into the truck’s body. The second Dread was yelling and firing, making his way for the Lincoln. A burst of auto-fire taking him down. Muzzle flash showing from the Bent Boys’ guns.

  Getting in and jabbing the key in the ignition, Randy shoved the stick, more bullets tearing into the truck, pinging off the boom. Felt like somebody had kicked a nest of yellow jackets. Angry buzzing, lead pinging against the metal. Pony got in the other side, keeping low as Randy backed the hell out of there, swinging the rig around and driving off.

  “Not your best fuckin’ idea, man,” Pony said to him, one hand on the dash, the other against the door, raising his head enough to look out the rear window, see if they were being chased.

/>   •

  Jerrel Bent stepped over the crisscrossing tracks, looked around to make sure there were no witnesses, straightened his suit jacket. Blue Eyes to his right, Dirty Leg going to the Dread lying closest to the Lincoln, the man writhing on the ground, moaning and bleeding from the back.

  Tapping a foot at the satchel, pointing his pistol at the back of the man’s head, Dirty Leg said something before firing a couple of rounds, picking up the Uzi, and checking the satchel, smiling at the cash inside. Blue Eyes going and checking the other man, coming back.

  Turning back to the Suburban, Jerrel said he wasn’t liking the way Randy Hooper did his double-dealing, said he took it personal.

  . . . A Tango of Limbs

  The room was fusty from the night’s sex and booze. I hung the do not disturb sign on the knob and shut the door, feeling the lines across my ass and back from spending the night on the lawn chair out by the pool. The only part of me that wasn’t embossed was where the lump of my wallet spared me. Insect bites on both arms. Froze out there in the early morning damp, couldn’t sleep on account of it, that and the thoughts of Ann leaving me. The only thing blanketing me was my suit jacket, that and the numbing hangover.

  Sure wasn’t the first thing I needed to see, Vick spread-eagled on the one bed, the bottoms of his feet black, the man laid out like a naked sacrifice, mouth open wide enough to drop a baseball into. Could see his fillings. Snoring on the inhale and exhale. The weasel at rest in its kinky-haired nest. I swatted at a mosquito, tried to nail it before it stuck its proboscis in me. God knows the toxic load the little beast held.

  Looked like the hookers had plied their trade and split, the two of them not in the room. I swatted the air as I shuffled for the window, fighting the fuzziness, pulling the rod and the drape, the vista of the Hudson Valley a blur past the condensation on the inside of the glass. Working the latch, I yanked the window open.

  “Rise and shine, Romeo.” I tried not to look at Vick’s slack weasel, my stomach feeling queasy enough.