Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  His breath caught on a snore, he sputtered and stirred, eyes flickering, the snore turning to a groan.

  Tapping the black foot dangling off the end of the bed with my shoe, I said, “Come on, man, get up.”

  Rolling on his side, he pulled a pillow over his head, told me to get lost, saying he felt like crap.

  Going to the closet, I tossed my bag on the twin bed. “Let’s get some coffee, get checked out of here.” Opened the bag, getting out my change of clothes.

  “Half hour’s all I need.”

  “Get yourself some breakfast, you’ll feel better,” I said. “I’ll drive the first shift, you can lay back.” The Cimarron was supposed to be parked out front, Mateo sending one of his guys, the keys left at the front desk. Should get a call anytime, Mateo telling us where to cross.

  Folding last night’s shirt, I tucked it in the bag. Then I pressed down the packing tape over the tears in the jacket, it holding up pretty well.

  “Was something, man.” Vick gave a weak smile, trying to think of the hookers’ names. “Those two couldn’t get enough, was like my dick’s magnetic, you know . . .”

  “Think it, don’t say it, okay? Come on, man, let’s go.” I tossed yesterday’s socks in the bag.

  Swinging a leg out, Vick hooked his hockey bag with his foot, inching it to him, saying, “Was me and Archie, we’d have switched and rode all night.” Sitting up, he scanned around for his clothes. “Man, my fuckin’ head’s swimming. Getting old, uh?”

  “Old, naw, just that blood rushing to your magnet.” Going to the bathroom with my toothbrush in hand, I ran the water cold, getting a hit of mint in my mouth, brushing it around. Talking with the foam in my mouth, “And how about you put something on? You look like dried fruit.”

  “Barely see straight right now.” Vick tried wiping the night from his eyes, slouched over the side of the bed and moaned, saying, “Good idea you do the driving, least till the border.” Saying something about bringing a bag along to barf in.

  He rummaged in the hockey bag, then looked in the desk and dresser drawers. Stuffing himself in his underpants, he dropped to his knees and lifted the bedskirt, checked underneath, then under my bed. Rising up, he went to the wall and looked behind the dresser, then looked in the bathroom, saying, “Fuck is it?” Vick put a hand to his temples.

  “What?”

  “My wallet.” He checked behind the desk, then the dresser, tearing off the bedsheets, tossing the pillows at the corner of the room.

  I came from the bathroom, swatted at the mosquito I thought was gone, watched Vick pull the nightstand drawer. He went to the closet, slapping a hand along the top shelf. Pulling on his jeans, he zipped up and cinched his belt, saying, “Didn’t just walk out of here.”

  “Dumb shit falls asleep with hookers in the room. Surprise . . . ”

  “This is on you,” he said. “Fucking first man down. Leaving me on my own, the two of them.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “Fuck, just let me think,” Vick said, rubbing a hand over his brow. “I was playing with Miss Right . . .” Fingers fondling the air, recreating the scene as he spoke. “The other one was fixing CC on ice.” Looking to the minibar. “I took the bucket and went for more ice, down the hall, bent over, hoping nobody’d see me naked . . . Came back, the girls mixing drinks, and . . .”

  “And . . . Mickeyed your drink.”

  Vick sat there, nodding like I must be right, saying, “Jesus, you can’t trust nobody.”

  “Not even two hookers you find in a bar, huh? Sometimes, man, you’re too stupid to live, you know that?”

  “Yesterday it’s good work, Vick, and have a Cohiba.” Picking the Gideons from the nightstand drawer, he flung it at me, kicking the nightstand over. Dumping his hockey bag out on the bed, he searched again.

  “How much they get?” I said.

  “All of it.”

  “Money Ted gave you.”

  “Fuck.” He turned to the digital clock between the twin beds, looking worried.

  “He doesn’t need to know.”

  “Not Ted I’m worried about.”

  “Money Randy gave you?”

  He shrugged, saying, “Gonna have a bitch of a time explaining it, supposed to call him last night.”

  “Dragging me in with you . . .”

  “Fuck y—”

  My fist caught the side of his face, knocking him on the bed, Vick blocking the next one. The two of us trading blows and grappling on the bed. Him punching up, me punching down. Neither of us able to put much into it.

  The ringing phone stopped us both mid-punch, sagging bedsprings riding us to a stop.

  Looking at the phone, I dropped my fist, saying, “Got to be Mateo.”

  “Maybe the chicks.”

  “Yeah, what, like a guilty conscience? Like, ‘Here’s your wallet’?”

  Picking up the phone, he said, “Yeah?”

  I could make out Jackie’s tinny voice on the other end: “Vick, any idea how hard —”

  Vick hung up, telling me it was just some guy selling shit, didn’t know I knew it was Jackie. He got off the bed, tossing his stuff back in his hockey bag, saying, “Let’s get that breakfast.”

  The phone rang again, and I beat him to it, answering. “Yeah?”

  “Jeff?” Randy’s voice. “What the hell, hanging up on Jackie?”

  “Phone’s iffy.” I covered the receiver, mouthing to Vick, “Gonna kill you.”

  Throwing me the finger, he zipped up his bag.

  “Expecting to hear from you boys,” Randy said.

  “Not me you want to talk to,” I said.

  “Then put Vick on.”

  Vick was shaking his head, like no way.

  “He’s gone for coffee.”

  “Where you crossing, Jeff?”

  “Makes you think I’d —”

  “Don’t play me, Jeff.”

  “Not playing —”

  Vick grabbed the receiver and yelled into the phone, “Kingston, 81 to Syracuse.” Then he hung up and turned to me, held his hands out wide. “Want to hit me, go ahead. Nothing you can do’d be worse.”

  “You don’t even know —”

  Clapping his hands in the air in front of me — making me jump — he opened them, showing the squished mosquito in his palm.

  . . . Asking the Angels

  Three messages on the machine when Vick got home. A couple from Ted, another from Jackie. Taking his keys from the kitchen counter, he checked the lock on the sliding door. He topped up Tina’s bowl with Dog Chow, put the bag back in the pantry. Ignoring the chow, Tina followed after him, Vick sliding the pistol under his shirt, so he could bend and slip on his shoes, scooping her up. The dog wriggled in his arms, tail wagging, licking his face, happy he was back, doing the man’s-best-friend bit.

  Telling her she was his best girl, asking if the lady next door took good care of her, he set her down and squeezed past the metal door into the garage, careful she didn’t sneak through. Clicking on the light, he went to the Jag, running his hand along the liver-spotted rocker panel. Lighting a smoke and dragging on it, he yanked the creaking door and climbed in, looking around the interior, imaging her new, then cranking the key. Third try he got the engine coughing its fatigue, a couple more twists of the key and she sputtered to life. Pressing the pedal, he kept the revs above idle until she got used to the idea, idling on her own. Vick thinking of that oneness with the open road, a feeling only a top-down touring driver knows, like soaring with the wind in his hair.

  Faltering, the engine choked, kicked and gave up. Exhaust fumes rising to the roof beams. Coughing from the fumes, Vick pulled the hood latch and got out. Tina scratching at the other side of the kitchen door.

  “Be a good girl, Tina —”

  The garage door was pulled up from outside
.

  Vick stood looking at the three of them, the streetlamp casting them in shadow. Coming in. The door was pulled down.

  “Know I got it wrong, but hear me out . . .” Vick going for the pistol.

  . . . Getting Off

  One of those grey October mornings, the boardwalk quiet for an early Saturday. Looked like a runaway in tatters with his matted hair and turned-up collar, shuffling up from the beach, the kid checking inside a trash barrel, a gull lifting off and crying about the intrusion. The kid looked like he’d come off an all-night blast, stumbling past us and brushing sand from his denim sleeve, smelling like he’d rolled in baitfish.

  I fumbled for her hand, walking along the boards.

  “Don’t . . .” Ann snapped her hand away, saying, “Wanted to do this face to face, so there’s no mistaking. It’s over, Jeff.” She waited, a group of tourists passing us armed with Nikons, a couple of them trying to make sense of a points-of-interest brochure, the runaway giving them directions, his hand coming out for change.

  Maybe she had more to say, but the tears stopped her. Smiling as her eyes filling, she said, “All over a cement cock.”

  “There’ll be other houses, Ann.”

  The tourists turned from the homeless kid, sensed our tension and watched us.

  Turning off the boardwalk, Ann headed up toward Queen, shaking her head, saying, “Funny how I could see the flaws in the house, but not in us.” Looking at me, she said again that we were done, her arms wrapped around herself.

  Not sure why I didn’t try to stop her, playing with the idea that she was right. Watching her go, I jingled the keys in my pocket, finally turning the other way and walking back to where I’d parked the Cimarron.

  Driving along Queen, I stopped at a Tim Horton’s, sat in there drinking coffee, hating my life, pretty sure I hated Toronto, too, thinking of other places I could go, start over, change my luck. Still thinking about it when I got back to our rental. Walking through the front door with the Ruger in my hand, I was swallowed by the emptiness. Ann had cleared most of her stuff while I was in Poughkeepsie, one of the chairs, the fountain off the hutch, her clothes all gone from the closet. The phone gave a hollow ring from the kitchen. Hoping it might be her, I picked it up, saying, “Yeah?”

  “It’s Vick.” It was Jackie’s voice.

  “Know it’s you, Jackie.”

  “Christ, Jeff. I’m saying it’s Vick . . .”

  “Look, Jackie, what we got to talk about?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?” My first thought, he ducked out, leaving me in the shit he left behind.

  “He’s dead.”

  Felt like a slap.

  “Cops think he asphyxiated himself, the way it looks, I don’t know . . .”

  I stared at the phone, heard her saying, “Near as they can tell, did it last night.”

  Vick’s own words coming back, what he said on the turboprop, talking about offing himself. A call for help if ever there was one; and me, too wrapped up in my own crap to hear it.

  “Cops figure he turned on that shitbox Jag. Maybe he meant to, or couldn’t get out of there in time.” Sounded like she was crying. “Warned him about that piece of shit,” she said. “You were there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, I know you two weren’t close . . .” The sound of her blowing her nose, then talking over me as I tried to disagree, her saying, “Randy wants a word.”

  “Randy?”

  “Yeah.

  “Okay, put him on.”

  “Says to pick a time.”

  “Anything we got to say happens on the phone.”

  “Wants what’s his, Jeff.”

  “I got nothing —”

  “Two or two-thirty?”

  “Got enough to deal with without your shit, Jackie.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll put you down for two-thirty. Be at the car lot, have the door open. Save you driving all the way out here. And, Jeff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bring the Cadillac. Oh, and when you’re done with Randy, might want to think about another town.”

  “Supposed to be a threat?”

  “More of a warning. Cops are gonna find something at the car lot.” The woman sounding like she was enjoying this.

  “Find what?” When she didn’t answer, I asked, “So why you warning me?” Not sure how much she knew.

  “Not so much about the warning, Jeff, just want you to know who it was.” Then she hung up.

  I looked at the receiver, then threw it, watched it bounce around the linoleum, coming back, pulled by the coiled cord. Pulling the wine box from the cupboard, I poured the last of it into a juice glass, taking a long drink, hearing the dial tone coming from the receiver at my feet.

  Wondering how much Vick told her, thinking about him and the last couple days. The hookers robbing him that night, the two of us not hearing from Mateo in the morning. Bucky Showalter coming by the Hudson Inn, told us he got word from Mateo last night, said we were crossing at the Peace Bridge. The two of us following Bucky’s rig in the Cimarron. Both of us expecting to get hit. Making it to the AutoPark, getting the cars unloaded and parked on the lot. Last time I saw Vick.

  . . . The Rap

  Unplugging the fountain, I drained it into the trash can, thinking of the stone fountain and the gelded cherub, splashing water across the desk, some getting under the Ruger I laid within easy reach. Stupid plastic fountain. I tossed it on the trash, its plug dangling on the floor. Setting the cigar box and cutter in the cardboard box, I went back to thinking of Vick on that flight, talking about ending it, and me not seeing it as a cry for help.

  The buzz of the intercom had me jumping, my eyes on the office door. I’d locked the outer one. Got there early to grab my stuff, an hour ahead of the meet with Randy, the one I intended to avoid.

  “Hey ya, Jeff.” Randy’s voice came over the intercom, sounding easy, like we were old friends.

  “Yeah, hey Randy, came early, huh? ” I reached the Ruger.

  “So we’re clear,” he said. “I come up, and you’re holding anything but my money, not gonna go so well for you, so we understand each other.”

  “Come on up and see.” I clicked off, set the pistol on the desk, hearing his steps and watching the door open.

  Shutting the door behind him, Randy put his own pistol on the desk and sat in the spare chair.

  “Ever see him fight?” Looking at the Chuvalo behind me.

  “Everybody asking me that.”

  “Hell of a thing. Old man took me down to the Gardens, him going against Ali. Nearly took it all the way. Ask me, fucking ref raised the wrong arm after the fifteen.”

  “Life’s a bitch.”

  “So, where is it?”

  “Whatever you want, I ain’t got it. Maybe should’ve asked Vick.”

  “Gonna blame the dead guy?” Randy’s eyes were black holes, his mouth was smiling, hand close to the pistol.

  “Figured that was you, ripped off Ted’s guns, Beamsville.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up.

  “You do Vick, too?”

  “That what you think?”

  “It’s what I’m asking.”

  “Vick sold you out, gave me the where and the when, was supposed to on the Poughkeepsie run, too, but, I guess you know that.” Randy leaned on the desk, looking easy, saying, “But, don’t go thinking bad of the man, didn’t exactly give him much of an option. Same situation you’re in now.” Moving fast for a big man, he trapped my hand moving for the Ruger, pressing down as it went off, the bullet going through the wall.

  Trying to jerk it free, I saw his other fist coming, the punch toppling me over the back of the chair. Head hitting the wall. Face on the floor, I got that copper taste in my mouth. Slow getting up, I dropped back into the chair,
feeling my jaw, watching him dump the shells from the Ruger, pocketing them and tossing the pistol in the trash. His still on the desk.

  “Paid good money for the hookers, supposed to keep you busy while we took the guns, went to your man Mateo’s shop, right after you boys got done with your wining and dining. Trouble is, there were no guns, just cars up on a trailer.”

  “Talk to him, then.”

  “Tried that, had a nice talk while you two were hopping on the hookers. One thing for sure, you boys were having more fun than he was. I’ll say this about Mateo, that man sure could keep his mouth shut, nothing coming out but crying and moaning, never said a word. Even with Pony drilling a hole through one knee cap, then the other. Guy wouldn’t say shit about guns. Right to the end.”

  “They were in cells, hidden underneath.”

  “Yeah, like Beamsville, what everybody was supposed to think. Thing is, they weren’t. Ted Bracey using you two like worms on a hook.”

  I heard footsteps come up the stairs, Pony White coming in, pistol in one hand, the drill in the other, shaking his head. Guess he’d been looking around out back.

  Randy looked back at me. “Not at Vick’s, not here, not at your place.”

  “You broke in my place?”

  Randy saying, “So, where are they?”

  “Already told you —” Saw the fist coming, knocking me into the wall. A hundred telephones ringing, neon dots exploding. And I was back on the floor.

  Coming around the desk, Randy snagged my shirtfront, propped me up against the wall, getting nose to nose, saying, “Tell me no again, and you and Vick’ll be having a reunion.”

  Pony hit the trigger, spinning the drill bit, saying to Randy, “Let me give it a try.” He started to move from the door, then said, “Shit!” Getting inside the office, tucking himself against the wall, sticking his head out enough to see the entrance. “Cops.”

  Randy tightening his grip, saying, “Shhh.”

  I pointed at my throat, couldn’t breathe, Randy looking at me, then easing his grip a bit.

  Hearing the cops rattle the door, probably looking through the showroom window. Remembering what Jackie said about the cops finding something at the car lot. Maybe trying to set Randy up, too. The three of us not moving until the two cops got back in their cruiser and drove off.