Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Randy still with a grab on my collar, lifting me up, saying, “Dumb fuck, shooting your gun.”

  “Maybe ask your girlfriend, see who called.”

  “Saying what, Jackie called?” Shaking his head, tightening his mouth, he swung the tattooed fist, skull and flames and barbed wire with Jackie’s name.

  I landed in the chair, saw my feet flip up, the chair bucking back. I stayed down, Randy considering his fist, looking at the poster, saying something to Chuvalo I didn’t hear.

  Taking my cigar box, Pony flipped it open. The two of them helping themselves, puffing a pair of Cubans to life. Tucking away his pistol, Randy told Pony to go ahead. Pony coming around the desk with the drill.

  My jaw felt numb, me saying, “I’ll get your guns.”

  Randy putting up a hand, stopping Pony. The two of them talking low, then Randy leaning down, saying, “You got till tomorrow. I got to tell you what happens, you jerk me around, try to split —”

  “Yeah, get that reunion with Vick.”

  “So we understand each other.” He told me to show up at the tow yard, gave me till noon, said they’d be watching. The two of them heading out the door, Pony giving me stink eye, not getting to drill my knee. Randy whistling a tune from some TV show, from back when I was a kid, the one with Opie in it. I tried to pull myself up, but then came the blackness.

  . . . Getting in Deep

  The welt had spread across the side of my face. The puffy eye promised hues of yellow going to eggplant. A spear of pain when I sniffed up blood dripping from my nose. Flecks of it on the Cimarron’s seat.

  Pulling into the driveway, I knocked over the trash cans, looked around before shutting it off. The hedge had been taken down to stubs. I guessed Tibor got tired of waiting and took his chainsaw to it. Didn’t much give a shit about it anymore. Didn’t give a shit about the crushed trash can under the front wheel either.

  The house sat dark and empty. The door was closed, but it wasn’t locked. Going inside, I switched on lights. I lifted the poker from the fireplace, a nice heft to it. Knowing it was going to hurt, I swung it and cleared the Yupik dolls from the mantel, pieces of Yupik flying around the room. Felt good through the pain.

  Putting a hand on the wall, I fought the spins, then made it down the hall, switching on more lights, ready to swing the poker at anything coming at me. Rocca’s guys, the Bent Boys, Randy and his assholes, didn’t matter. Nobody was putting a hand on me again.

  Back in the kitchen, I hit rewind on the answering machine, looking for a box of wine in the pantry, the new messages playing, the first one was Ann’s brother-in-law Dennis, saying he’d thought it over, not going to invest, told me he was sorry to hear about Ann leaving, told me not to be a stranger, Debra bitching and Dennis Jr. screaming in the background.

  Second message was from Ted. “Jeff, what the hell? Where are you? Call me soon as you get this.” Followed by a beep and another message from Ted. “Call me, goddamn it.”

  I dialed the number, voice mail picking up at the other end. Hanging up, I slid down the wall, dropping the poker next to me.

  Maybe a good thing Randy took my Ruger from me. Thinking of Vick talking about the best way to off himself.

  The phone rang and I pushed myself up the wall, picked it up and just listened.

  “Jeff?” Ted’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck, leave me hanging like that,” he said.

  “Just got in. Not going to believe —”

  “I’m going bat-shit crazy here.”

  “Hold on, you hear about Vick?”

  “Fuck Vick. I need you to get over here, now.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You son of a bitch. They just found one of the guns, behind the fucking Coke machine, right in the fucking showroom.” Yelling about the cops showing at his place with a search warrant, yelling some more how an Uzi got behind the pop machine.

  I tried to tell him what Jackie had said, but he wasn’t listening.

  “Who’s got my Caddy, you or Vick?”

  “I’m trying to tell you about Vick —”

  “He got it?”

  “Vick’s gone.”

  “With the car?”

  “He’s dead, you asshole.”

  Silence.

  “What?”

  Pain forced me to slide back down and sit on the floor. I tried to explain it, what Jackie had told me about Vick. “Cops think he might’ve offed himself.”

  “Cops everywhere, Jesus. You talk to them?”

  “Not since the showroom got shot up.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe too much for him, Vick cranking that heap to life and gassing himself.”

  “What’s wrong with that guy?”

  “Well, he’s dead, for one.”

  “Jesus,” Ted said, then, “Well, maybe it’s best.”

  “How’s dead best?”

  “The memos, the hair shows. Elvis fucking Christ. Don’t know what he was like on the inside, but on the outside, that guy was . . . All I know, it was him, hiding the fucking gun behind the Coke machine. Just . . . how’d he get it?”

  “Know what, Ted, you’re all heart. How about you go fuck yourself.”

  Could hear him puffing, then he said, “Look, okay, I’m sorry the guy’s dead, really. Jesus, who needs that. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. He leave a memo, a note, something like that?”

  “According to Jackie, cops are calling it asphyxiation, for now anyway, all I know.”

  “Bad timing all the way around. Look, I’m not going to make the funeral. Got to take off, a while anyway. Get Bonnie to send an arrangement, something nice, befitting.”

  “She quit, remember?”

  “Yeah, shit,” he said, sounding like he was coming undone. “Everything going to hell. Can’t get a hold of Mateo either. He call you?”

  “Didn’t call, didn’t show up. Your man Bucky swung by, told us we were taking the Peace Bridge, said he got the word from Mateo, nobody calling to say different. Made it across —”

  “Alright, alright . . .” Ted stopping me, saying Bucky told him the same thing. “Till I know what’s what, time to keep a low profile, keep them from slapping on an ankle tether, so, I’m asking again, where’s the Caddy?”

  “Right in the driveway.”

  I started to tell him what Jackie said, about planting something at the showroom, I heard banging over the line, sounded like someone was rapping at his door.

  Ted saying, “Shit.” Sounded like he laid the phone down.

  Feeling the walls close in, fighting the pain and dizziness, thinking if Jackie called the cops, they’d be coming around here, too, ex-cons always at the top of the suspect list.

  . . . The Three Count

  “Hang on.” Setting the phone down, Ted cat-stepped to the door, hoping it was Ginger, the service sending her over early. Checking the peephole, he froze. Three men stood outside, one in a suit, uniformed cops like bookends to either side of him.

  The one in the suit knocked again, Ted standing still, his breath catching.

  Reaching in his jacket, the middle one took his badge and tapped it against the peephole, saying, “We see your shadow, Mr. Bracey.”

  If it wasn’t Vick, could be Marcel gave him up, maybe Mateo, one of these assholes cutting a deal. Maybe Jeff.

  “Go easier if you open it.” The one in the suit nodded at the other two. Drawing his sidearm, he took a step back and said, “Gonna count to three . . .”

  Ted was backing across the room, no place to run.

  “Ted?” Jeff’s voice called through the phone. “Ted, Ted.”

  . . . Between Jobs Again

  Just the photos left on the mantel, the wedding photo of the two of us in better days, fading Kodak color. I set it down, stepped on a bit of Yupik doll, hop-stepped in pain, then took t
he photo of Ann’s family and tossed in the fireplace, the glass cracking. Sinking my weight into the sofa cushion, I stared at the TV that wasn’t on, caught my reflection on the screen, imagining my own eulogy: Jeff Nichols — blindsided by life — never saw it coming.

  Seeing the indents on the old rug where Ann’s chair had stood, I thought, man, I could use a drink. Reaching the remote, I clicked on a M*A*S*H rerun, Klinger telling Radar how he was getting out. Clicking again, I got Mike Tyson saying no to drugs, then an Uncola commercial.

  A sound from out back had me clicking the mute and reaching for the poker. Somebody coming for me, maybe the cops. I edged to the sidelight, peeking out at the night through the pebbled glass. Tibor’s ratty dog rummaged around my garbage cans. No lights on next door, no Firebird on my boulevard lawn, just the stumps from the cedar hedge, looked like a line of broken teeth.

  Going to the cupboard, I found a box of Ritz and slid off the back door’s chain. Fumbling the switch for the back porch light, nothing out there but the dog. Dumping crackers on the stoop, I watched the dog come sniffing and licking, crunching up the crackers, keeping one eye on me. Closing the door, I slid the chain back on, and it hit me.

  Why Ted wanted the Cimarron. Randy wanting it, too.

  Grabbing the keys and the poker, I went out the front, backed the car off the trash can, then rolled to the garage, switching spots with my old Valiant. With my vision impaired, I scraped the Cimarron, taking off the passenger-side mirror on the doorframe. I rolled it in, Tibor’s dog watching me.

  Closing the garage door, I jacked up the Caddy’s back end, shoved a cinder block under the frame, then cranked up the other side. Grabbing my trouble light, I slid underneath. No sign that Mateo’s guys had added cells. Remembering Marcel Banks saying how they opened on hydraulics, the cars rigged so you had to put your foot on the brake and turn the key at the same time, flip a switch under a fake bottom on the console. Sliding from under the chassis, I opened the driver’s door and tried the sequence, finding the switch, hearing the clunk of metal from underneath.

  . . . Hooped

  The fence boards stood high enough to block the yard from the street. Turning the Cimarron into the gravel lot, I pulled up in front of the craggy office, looked like a construction trailer with the wheels knocked off, faded paint blistering and peeling from the siding. There was the same Harley I’d seen at Vick’s, flames painted on its gas tank, leaned on its kickstand, parked next to another bike, this one chopped, painted flat black. Old tires hung from spikes at what looked like an old tool shed, license plates from all over were nailed to the boards like trophies.

  The orange tow truck rolled in, hauling a junker Ford into the impound lot, rolling behind the office, stirring up dust. A sign on the door of the trailer: Hooper Towing Yard — Salvage, Recovery and Repo. If your car’s out back, you’re hooped.

  Everyone’s a comedian.

  Leaving her running, I opened the door, put my leg out. Randy came from the trailer, one of my Cohibas in his mouth, saying it was his last one. Smiling, he took the steps, inspecting the facial he’d given me, looking at his tattooed fist, saying, “Ain’t lost my touch.”

  “Yeah, your mama’d be proud.”

  “Bent it just like your man Chuvalo’s.” He pointed at my own nose. “Next guy’s liable to think twice before taking a swing.”

  Looking at the banged-up front end and missing mirror on the Caddy, Randy said, “And somebody kicked the shit out of your ride too, huh?”

  “The whackos are out there, let me tell you.”

  “And seems you got a knack for pissing them off,” Randy said, reaching in for a fistful of my shirt.

  “I took the guns out.” I clutched the wheel.

  He looked at me, then let go, saying, “Make it good.”

  “Got six, but we don’t do it here.”

  “Telling me how it is, huh?”

  “Yeah, and they’re a grand apiece.”

  He started smiling, saying, “Really pushing the luck, uh?”

  “Earned something. You want ’em or not?”

  “Being able to walk’s something.” He tapped the roof and backed off, said yeah, he was interested.

  I caught Pony looking out the office window, picking up a clipboard and looking back at my car.

  Randy saying, “What’s your plan?”

  “Going to the funeral?”

  “Yeah, me and the man had some history.”

  “Bring the cash.”

  He thought about it, then nodded, and I shut the door and slung an arm over the seat and backed out of there, stirring some dust.

  In my rearview I saw Pony step out next to Randy, holding up his clipboard, pointing a finger at it, showing it to Randy. The two of them laughing, looking as I rolled out.

  . . . Rock of Ages

  Rhinestone-studded leather, Archie the Elvis walked his Vegas swagger between the rows of plots, glitzing like it was the City of Lights. Hair greased and combed back. His collar up, a string tie around his neck. Snakeskin boots and dark shades. The mother I had seen at Marcel’s barbershop had her arm hooked through Ed’s, no sign of the kids. Archie looking like he might break out in song, “Don’t Cry Daddy” or something fitting the occasion, something Vick would have liked.

  The turnout was decent and had me wondering how many would attend my own funeral. Something that could happen, if things didn’t work out. No family to speak of, Ann gone from my life now. Vick, too. No brotherhood with any of the guys back in the Don. Just a priest and some guy hired to lean on a shovel. I pictured myself laid out in a box in my ripped suit. Guess it wouldn’t much matter if I was dead.

  Randy looked over and I nodded. The way Pony had come out of that trailer, pointing to the clipboard. I guessed a repo list was attached, the feds quick to seize anything with Ted Bracey’s name attached, the AutoPark and every car on the lot, searching for more guns.

  If my plan worked, I’d be blowing town with more money than I’d ever had. Before I headed for the funeral, I wrote a note for Penny Mansell to get the money the broker was holding in trust back to Ann, giving her Debra and Dennis’s address in Montreal. I faxed it to her office.

  Vick’s Auntie Jean had delivered the eulogy back at the Tabernacle of Faith, not a dry eye in the place, the woman reflecting how she raised Vick from a tender age, touching on his life’s highlights, saying he was a well-mannered boy, full of hope and joy, getting the grades, volunteering at the pet shelter, played forward for the peewee hockey team, set a goal-scoring record, recounting his Boy Scout badges, how she watched him slug his first homer for the Junior Jays. Now she stood crying, rocking Tina the schnauzer in her arms, the dog with a black ascot instead of a collar.

  The two bereaved women standing opposite had to be the ex-wives, one shorter, with child-bearing hips and Latino looks. Both looking good in black. A girl of maybe thirteen stood to the right of the taller one, mirroring her father’s features, likely a daughter Vick had never talked about. Ricki stood next to them, looking sad, modestly dressed in black.

  Leaning close to Jackie, Randy spoke in hushed tones, the woman nodding, both of them glancing my way.

  Accenting a solemn look, the priest came along a path in his white vestments, took his place at the head of the casket, handing Ricki a basket of white carnations, patting her arm, consoling her, one flower intended for each of the mourners to lay on the casket as it was lowered. Clearing his throat to get all heads bowing, he delivered the last rites.

  I got flashes of talking to Vick in the yard at the Don, running into him again at Marcel’s, the flight to Poughkeepsie, the hookers that night, the two of us driving back. So many things that could have turned out different. If I had listened to Ann and got myself a nine-to-five, maybe I could have adjusted to suburban life. Maybe Vick would still be alive, spinning his circles and doing cardboard furniture deals, turning film
tanks into breeding pools for trout, hiring guys dressed like Elvis and sending his memos. Don’t know why, but I started smiling.

  Just as quick, I sobered, thinking Ann would meet a new man, a nine-to-fiver. Thoughts of her climbing into a strange bed gave me a shiver, her having some other man’s baby. Picturing a birthday cake with a single candle, the nine-to-fiver’s mouth helping to blow out the candle. Getting called Daddy. Blinking away tears, I bowed my head, tried clinging to the priest’s words, something about rewards in the Hereafter. Souls of the righteous in the hands of God, no torment ever touching them, forever at peace.

  Finally, turning my bruised eyes up to the rolling clouds, I spotted the orange tow truck pulling through the cemetery gates about a hundred yards off. First thought, it was Randy’s ride home. The guy having no class, going to a funeral with cockeyed Jackie in his orange tow truck. I caught Randy nudging her, the woman grinning my way some more. Something was up.

  “And so, let us consider Victor’s dash, the line bridging the date of his arrival to the date of departure,” the priest went on, saying the dash represented how our dear Victor spent his time on Earth.

  The clamor of the tow truck’s hydraulic stinger arm carried past the line of parked cars, heard above the priest’s words about a man’s wealth, working in the Lord’s service, cherishing thy brethren, offering a kindness and a helping hand. The priest asking those gathered to put value in our own dash and to think about that and make the most of our time here on Earth.

  The assembled saying, “Amen.”

  The driver was Pony, working the controls, the stinger arm extending, the wheel cradles sliding in place.