Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

“And so, in closing, dear friends, I invite you to place a flower . . .” The priest calling this a final gesture of love, ending with, “May you rest in peace, dear Victor. Amen.”

  The mourners turned and started lining at Ricki’s basket, each taking one and laying a flower on Vick’s casket. Taking my place in line, I looked back at the tow truck. Tossing my flower, I was saying, “So long, Vick.”

  Working the hydraulics, Pony closed the brackets and cradled the whitewalls. Lifting the tow boom, he raised the front of the car.

  Coming up beside me, tossing his flower on the casket, Randy took hold of my arm. “Case you’re slow putting things together,” Randy said, “I got what I came for.” Nodding at the tow truck, the Cimarron in back, saying, “And don’t go worrying about a ride, you’re coming with me.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You’re fucked, either way.”

  I figured on that part, knowing he wasn’t going to pay me, or let me walk away. Soon as he had his guns . . .

  “Hey, fuck!” I jerked from his grip

  Randy caught off guard as I shot off like a sprinter, yelling some more, “Nothing’s goddamned sacred — hey, hey, you asshole, that’s my car!”

  Thunderstruck, the priest stumble-stepped and crossed himself. Heads turning my way, Vick’s Auntie Jean gasping, the ex-wives clutching each other, Ricki dropping the basket, a hand to her bosom. Randy and Jackie watching me do the potter’s-field sprint, dodging between headstones, jumping a plaque.

  Tearing across the grounds, adrenaline coursing my veins, I wove in and out, leaping another plaque, doing it in spite of the pain in my body. The soft earth of a newly turned grave tugged off my shoe. Stumbling on, I caught my balance on a stone and kept going.

  It must’ve been the last straw for Tina, I didn’t know it then, the schnauzer springing free from Auntie Jean’s embrace and racing after me.

  Running on, I startled a kneeling couple clearing weeds and replacing flowers for beloved Mother, paying their respects.

  “Hey, cocksucker, yeah, you!” I yelled it, a stitch ripped at my side like an ice pick, God’s vengeance, me having a meltdown in this place of rest. It slowed me, but I kept on.

  Looking over as I ran at him, Pony appeared surprised, then he grinned, his look saying he could swat me like a bug. Maybe he figured he got what he was after, thinking the guns were on board the Caddy, and I’d been beaten down as much as any man needed to be. Swinging into the driver’s seat, he slapped the door shut and put her in gear, smiling like he was doing me a favor. Rolling out with the Cimarron in tow.

  Catching myself on a headstone, I gasped down air, watching the tow truck roll through the cemetery gates. Not wanting to be anywhere near these guys when they found out the guns weren’t there.

  Being out of shape had me buckling over and vomiting on the words In loving memory. The other thing I hadn’t counted on cleared the last row of headstones, Tina bearing down, snarling and leaping past the last plot. Bent over, I turned just as she jumped like a dog on a guy-wire, her jaws open and snapping. Man, those schnauzers can bite.

  . . . Canaries

  “Where’d you park?” Conway Forbes swung back his front door, cue-ball head looking polished. Crimson bathrobe half open, a medallion on a chain hanging down, white socks inside sandals, a defiance to anybody’s fashion sense.

  I pointed to my old Valiant between two land boats across the street, the back seat and trunk crammed with everything I owned, three Uzis in the trunk, as many under the junk on the back seat.

  After the cemetery, I’d flagged a cab to where I’d parked the Valiant at a mall near the house and called Randy from a pay phone, asked how the hell he was doing, told him what he figured was in the Caddy was going to cost him fifteen hundred a piece now, plus ten for the cab ride. I gave him the number of the pay phone, was telling him I’d give him ten minutes to decide. He told me to get fucked, and I said it was worth a shot, that I’d call the Bent Boys, see how much they’d give me, then I hung up. The phone rang in seconds, Randy saying fine, fifteen hundred. I named a spot up past Kleinburg, told him to leave his psycho friends at home, knowing he wouldn’t, then hung up. Taking out the piece of paper, the number Ted had given me for Jerrel Bent’s guys, the two guys in the black Suburban.

  The way I timed it, I guessed I had time to stop in here, at Conway’s, en route. Don’t know why, but somehow I figured I was paying respect to Vick.

  Looking out at the Valiant, I said to Conway, “Yeah, the old girl’s been leaking oil. Didn’t want to get any on your driveway.”

  Thanking me, Conway asked me to take off my shoes on account of his new wall-to-wall, then he ushered me in, saying, “Guess you two met, huh?”

  Robbie Boyd stuck his head around the corner of the hall, his hand still taped up. Smiling, he offered me his good hand, telling Conway I was the one who asked him to pop over.

  “Tough racket, huh, the car biz?” Conway said, looking from Robbie’s bandaged hand to my bruised face.

  “You got no idea,” I said, limping into his converted living room, “but all that’s in the rearview now.” When I grinned I felt my lip split again, mopping my tongue over it. Pulling out the wrinkled pamphlet, I said, “Vick was going on how you got people singing. And I knew Robbie was looking for something new. Vick calling this man a marketing whiz.” If Jackie Delano could get away with it, why not Robbie.

  Robbie tried not looking surprised, Conway looking at him appraising.

  “Guess it was Vick’s last big idea, bringing Robbie in as a kind of marketing whiz.”

  “That Vick had a nose for this stuff, uh?” Conway said.

  “Sure did.”

  Robbie and I smiling at each other.

  Conway smiled, too, holding his hand up Vanna White–style — same way Ann used to — showing us the front room converted into a sound studio, the place where he recorded and taught anyone to sing like a canary. Pointing out the mixing desk, an impossible tangle of cords out the back, Conway saying, “Got forty channels, three thousand watts and a thirty-band equalizer.”

  Setting a hand on the Baldwin, I eased weight off my chewed leg, Robbie putting his back against the wall. Conway showing off the line of electrics hanging from pegs: Les Paul, Strat, Tele, a twelve-string Rickenbacker. I nodded. At another time I would have been thinking how much I could hawk this stuff for.

  Conway went on about a Flying V up in the bedroom, and a Gretsch like Chet played, case anybody wanted to see more, asking, “Either of you boys shred?”

  Robbie held up the hand with the missing finger, and I told Conway no, taking in the rest of the room. Looked like egg cartons nailed on the walls and ceiling. A PA system, a bunch of speakers, a Twin Reverb, a Mesa Boogie, a tube Marshall.

  Conway told us about meeting Vick at the trade show, asked if we heard about his cardboard chairs, retelling how he sold out at the Five Man Electrical Band show. I grinned at Robbie, didn’t say Vick made the real money from the fire he set afterwards.

  “May God rest his soul,” Conway said, looking down at his white socks in sandals, crossing himself and adding the man had been plucked in his prime.

  Robbie and I saying, “Amen.”

  “Shame he didn’t see the hair thing through,” Conway said. “Know it’s going to be big.”

  “Amen to big,” Robbie said. “That’s Vick for you, a man ahead of his time.”

  “A head of his time, I like that,” Conway said, nodding at Robbie like he was impressed. “A head of his time.” Thanking me for setting this up, he said Robbie might just be the man he needed. Clapping his hands, saying, “What say I show you gents my stuff?” He put an arm around Robbie. “Let’s give it a try.”

  “All you’ll get from me’s croaking,” Robbie said, “marketing’s more my thing.”

  Conway wasn’t listening, saying, “First we loosen the
pipes.”

  “My folks used to coax me,” I said. “Got me singing when I was a kid, mostly for company. Everybody standing around the booze cabinet, one with the console stereo, speakers on the sides, turntable on top. Put me front and center. Guess I was the source of amusement at martini hour, around the time of Lawrence Welk and that Mitch guy with the bouncing balls. Drunken relatives laughing and going, ‘Hey, Artie, ease up on the olives, and by the way, your kid sings like crap.’ Guess that stuff struck a nerve, stayed with me.” Not sure why I told them.

  “We can fix that,” Conway said. “Fact, anyone can breathe, can sing.”

  Robbie wiped his wrapped hand at his eyes, and I knew it was time to go.

  Conway was all the way into it now, saying, “We all possess the urge to sing, brother, a primal thing that frees the soul.” Bending from the waist, scratching inside his white sock, he said he practically guaranteed it, telling Robbie he’d have him singing in no time, but in time. Then he sang the scales, raising the flat of his hand from low to high, holding each note for a couple of measures, urging Robbie to give it a try.

  Hesitating, Robbie gave it a shot, missing every note.

  Conway put a hand on Robbie’s forehead, his fingers splayed spider-like, saying to him, “Just a bit flat on your la las.”

  Checking the Timex again, I edged for the door, putting my shoes on. “Well, fellas, best of luck. Glad it’s working out. Do it for Vick, huh?”

  Telling me to hold on, Conway rushed to a rack and took a cassette and handed it to me, saying, “Sing with me, brother, anytime you want. And thank you for hooking us up, and do call, you change your mind, can join the team anytime you want.”

  Thanking him, I said I was heading out of town and wouldn’t be back, nodding to Robbie, wishing him luck.

  Conrad was back beside him, slinging an arm around Robbie like he might bolt for the door, saying, “How about we try some Burt.” And before Robbie could answer, Conway said, “And don’t be afraid to set it to dance.” Singing a line about what you get when you fall in love, he did a ballet leap that landed him in front of the Baldwin, saying to me as I did up the laces, “Got some folks coming by, booked the studio for a tribute to Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. Hope to have Robbie singing along.”

  “Bet you will,” I said, standing and giving a final nod to Robbie. Turning for the door, I saw figures moving through the ribbed sidelight, coming up the walk. Swallowed the panic. Patted the pocket for the piece that was out under the seat of the Valiant. All the guns out there.

  Conway saying as the doorbell chimed, “Should be here any — ahh.” Then he angled past me and swung back the door, saying, “Hari hari.” Ushering in a half dozen Hare Krishnas, white noses, shaved heads with sikhas, wearing saffron dhotis and saris, some holding instruments: mridangas, karatalas and tambourines. Squeezing past the second coming — the Age of Aquarius — I crossed the street to the Valiant, getting in and hoping she’d fire up, boxes and bags of my belongings stuffed in the back.

  Cranking the ignition, I coaxed her to life and drove on. Finding a strip mall with a pay phone next to a place called the Donut Hole, the smell of pastry wafting from the place getting me hungry. The smell from the laundromat next door bringing my stomach back to Earth. Looking around, I dug a quarter from my pocket, found the piece of paper with the number Ted had given me and made the call. Maybe the last one I’d ever make. Pretty sure it was the one called Blue Eyes who answered, and I said, “Got a delivery from Ted.”

  It took a second, then he said, “Say again?”

  I repeated it, then he said, “You the one with the crazy neighbor, uh?”

  “Yeah, the guy’s Russian, just like the stuff from Ted, it’s Russian, too. You want them or not?”

  “How many we talking?”

  “Six.”

  “If you screwing with me —”

  I told him when and where and how much, then I asked if he wanted more than just the six.

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Bring five more Gs, and I’ll point you right to it.” And before he could say anything else, I told him he had a half hour, and I hung up.

  . . . The Promised Land

  The spongy feel of the brakes and the cough coming from the pipe had me thinking I’d be jacking a fresh ride before I got anywhere near the Big Nickel — if I lived that long. Jacking rides, right back to it, maybe the only thing I was ever any good at. But I wasn’t going back to it, that or any of the old ways that never panned out. This was me starting over, going for broke and moving forward.

  Passing through Rexdale, I slid Conway’s cassette in the player, the man singing the same Bacharach number. Humming along as I neared Kleinburg. Doing it to keep me calm, I started singing along, the words to the song I remembered.

  The single headlight in the rearview reminded me again of the old Sing Along with Mitch show. Back when I was a kid with only a handful of channels on the round dial. The bouncing ball turned into a second, then a third. I was singing along, faking half the words.

  Bada da da bada da da — kissing girls — bad da and getting pneumonia.

  The bouncing balls were headlights, getting bigger in the rearview. I let them come, the sound of the motorcycles rising over the two of us singing — never falling in love again.

  . . . Blowing Out

  The old car blew foul exhaust through Kleinburg. Checking my watch, I tried to remember these roads — my life depending on it — hanging a right as the Harleys gained. Randy Hooper on the vintage FXR, switching to the passing lane and pulling alongside, motioning for me to pull over.

  Rolling down my window, I pointed up ahead.

  He went to pass, and I swerved to keep him back. The smack of metal on metal. Pony was swinging a bike chain at my rear bumper, trying to wrap it and rope the Valiant like a steer. Swerving into the oncoming lane, I shot up on the next county road, feeling the thunk of the chain on the bumper.

  Going wide to the opposite shoulder, Randy easily blew past me. Luther rolling up on my passenger side, the three of them boxing me in. Just a little more time. Cranking the wheel, I let Luther know I wasn’t playing. If they wanted the Uzis, they’d have to get dirty.

  A pistol showed in Randy’s tattooed hand, the man trying to get a bead. Luther was kicking at my passenger door, his bike swerving in and out, and Pony kept swinging the chain, getting it wrapped around the bumper. Nobody else on the side road.

  Trying to push away the feeling of doom.

  Grinning in the passenger window, Luther laid a boot at the door. Cranking a hard right, I forced him onto the gravel shoulder, the man fighting for control, cursing and leveling a gonna-kill-your-ass look.

  Turning on his seat, Randy put a round through the rad, and I mashed my gas pedal, not enough power to ram him. The whole box was rattling.

  A yellow sign marked the curve ahead, King Vaughan coming up. I gripped the wheel in both hands.

  Twisted on his seat, Randy fired again, the windshield bursting in, Luther was kicking, and Pony was yanking. Nothing to do but hold on and steer. Conway Forbes still singing on the tape deck.

  Catching the glimmer in the rearview as we hit the curve, sure it was the black Suburban, I yelled out and ripped the parking brake up from the floor, the ass end of the Valiant sweeping around, another window smashing. Shoving the handle down, I slammed on the gas, sideswiping Randy, sending the Harley into the oncoming lane. Losing control, he dumped the bike.

  Hammering the brakes, I felt Pony smack into the rear end, losing sight of him as he went down. The Valiant slid on the gravel, forcing Luther’s bike into the ditch on the right. Pony went tumbling past, his bike cartwheeling in the lane, then flipping end over end and bounding over the fence rail and into the field on the opposite side.

  Sending up a cloud of dust, I plowed nose first into the bank, thrown into the steering wheel, my head sma
cking the windshield.

  Half blind, I grabbed for an Uzi on the back seat, under the junk that had slid around. Shouldering open the door, I scrambling out, smelling spilled fuel. I hobbled around the back, seeing Pony’s bloody finger attached to the chain wrapped around my bumper. Luther was getting to his feet behind me, blood matting his hair, drawing his pistol.

  I tried to make a grove of trees, a horse trailer parked past a gate, the black earth of a field that had been plowed over. Fire flicked from under the Valiant’s crumpled hood.

  The stabbing pain had me thinking I’d been shot. Going for the gate, I did a half turn, saw Pony laid out like a speed bump on the tarmac, his arms and legs splayed. Same time the Suburban rounded the bend, coming too fast to do anything but vault over him, the undercarriage snagging leather and dragging the man. Rear wheels hopping and spitting Pony out the back. Losing control, the big Chevy was swept off the road, slamming the back of the Valiant, the Bent Boys bouncing around inside.

  Ducking behind an oak, I checked the Uzi, the clip empty. Randy White rose up and tossed away his lid and crossed the lane, bending for Pony’s pistol. Luther forgetting about me and going down the passenger side of the Suburban. The windows rolled down and gun barrels were shoved out. Randy put a round through the driver’s side, likely killing Dirty Leg. He kept on shooting. Luther firing from the other side. Jerrel and Blue Eyes spilled out the passenger side, both rolling into the ditch, returning fire. Everybody shooting. Conway singing from the shot-out windows of the burning Valiant, the flames spreading through the interior.

  The shooting stopped, and Randy stood over Jerrel Bent, both of them bleeding, pointing pistols at each other. Both men saying something, both looking toward me, then firing at each other, point blank. Randy staggered back and fired again, making sure. Then he looked my way.

  Conway singing about Love Sweet Love. I lifted the Uzi, holding it up.

  Reaching in his pocket, Randy pulled out the stub of a Cuban, stuck it in his mouth, flicked a lighter and dragged on it, then he sank to his knees and slumped to the ground. Nobody else moving. Smoke rose from under the Valiant’s hood, flames licking up the interior, still Conway was singing.