by Chuck Hogan
I am a fifty you want in your pocket.
The swell and sway of displacement as he mounted the empty stool to her right. Sitting open-legged, aggressive, waiting for her to look his way. His words swam to her.
“Seemed like we were having a bit of a staring contest over there.”
“Yeah?” said Krista, the word a soft bubble escaping from her mouth. She could tell immediately he wasn’t Town. She didn’t trust his face. A sea horse with barracuda eyes.
“I think I was winning,” he said.
She nodded. “I think you were.”
“This your song?”
It took a while for the music to reach her. “It’s mine. All mine.”
“Kind of sad, no?”
She finished her drink in front of him. “Only if you let it be.”
Like he was studying her. A little creepy, but she hung in there. The bourbon dose reached her gills and in rushed more equalizing water.
“One night at a bar,” he said, leaning closer, “this guy was going around to ladies telling them he was judging a Hugging Contest, and would they like to enter. And most of the time, believe it or not, they fell for it, and he would hold them and rub their backs, all smarmy and shit. I finally got so sick of watching this guy that I took him outside. I told him I was judging a Face-Punching Contest.”
Krista smiled, drifting. “Anyone tried that shit on me, I’d do the punching myself.”
He toasted her with his Bud, draining it, returning it empty on the bar. “Oh, by the way,” he said. “I’m here tonight judging a Fucking Contest.”
Water rushing around them, the undertow of the late hour washing bodies from the bar, Krista smiling, licking her lips. Okay, sport. “Why don’t you buy me a drink.”
He produced a twenty from his pocket and laid it Jackson-up on top of the bar.
Here I am, she thought. Here I float.
He ordered two of what she was having and hopefully didn’t catch the knowing wink Splashy gave her. The guy talked and he was all right. Cute guy, just not her type. Her type was Duggy. He was another in a long line of not-Duggys.
Something about kids, did he say? “I have a daughter.”
It was an excuse for him to look her over again. “That you gave birth to?” he said. “Yourself?”
“Twenty-one months ago.”
Only thing that bothered her was him not checking her hands for rings. What, like there’s no way I could catch a husband?
Early on, he had said his name. She had missed it because it wasn’t Doug. He had nice, strong hands. The nice, strong hands ordered two more drinks.
He said something about the price of real estate in the Town. “I own,” she told him.
“You own your own condo?”
“My own house,” she said, his disbelief both annoying and flattering. “A triple. Left to me by my mother.”
“Wow. Just you?”
“That’s right.” It was easy, as well as nice, to pretend she had no brother.
“I have to ask. A woman with her own house. Sitting here with an ass making the rest of the barstools crazy with envy. What are you doing down here alone on a weeknight?”
She nodded Indian-like, like she had the answer but wasn’t telling. “Getting wet,” she said, dancing her drink on the waves. “Drifting with the tide.”
He toasted her. “Bon voyage.”
“You live in the yard, huh?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Always. What you doing down here? Slumming?”
“That’s right.”
“Looking for an easy pickup? A tasty little slice of Town pie?”
“Mostly just trying to do my job.”
“Your job? Oh, right. I forgot. The Fucking Contest.”
“Basically correct. I work for the FBI.”
She threw back her head, laughing, starting to like him more now. “That was the first good giggle I’ve had in a month.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re awright. Doesn’t mean I’m going home with you or anything. Don’t think I’m looking to do you on your balcony, cooing over the view.”
“I don’t have a balcony.”
“No? That’s too bad.”
“I’m in a shitty sublet, and out on my ass in like six weeks. A toast, Krista. Let’s drink to balconyless me.”
“Fair enough.” She figured she must have told him her name when—
“I don’t see your brother around tonight.”
“My brother?” Who is this guy? “You know Jem?”
“We bump into each other now and then.”
Thought he wasn’t Town. “I had a higher opinion of you.”
“You and Doug MacRay used to run around, right?”
Now she stared. “How you know Duggy?”
“We sorta work together.”
“Ah,” she says, feeling tested. “Demolition.”
A smirk in this guy’s eyes. “Nooo.”
Things changing now. Water temperature falling a few degrees. She tightened up, a reflex around people she didn’t know.
The guy pulled out one, two, three, four, five more twenties, stacking them on the bar. “You a pretty decent judge of size?”
“Depends,” she said. “Size of what?”
He held up a single twenty. “How big would you say this is?”
“If this is a bar game, I’m not much of a—”
“How long? Six inches? In your estimation. Over or under?”
She squinted. “Under.”
“Wrong. Six point one four inches exactly. Now the width.”
“You’re turning into kind of a weird guy.”
“The girth. Some claim it’s more important. Give a guess.”
She just looked at him.
“Two point six one inches. I know everything there is to know about money. Thickness of a bill? Point oh oh four three inches. Not much to excite you there. Weight? About one gram. That makes a twenty almost worth its weight in, say, dust.”
Staring at him now. Him staring at her. The water stopped dead.
“So how’s it work?” he said. “Bartender takes a call, gives you an address? You pick up a package at Point A, deliver it to Point B, and for that the Florist pays you a C? That right? Easy as A-B-C?”
Water starting to drain, the stopper pulled and that sucking sound going.
“You’re thinking about walking out on me,” he said. “See, it’s not that simple, though. I start waving this gold badge around”—he opened it on the bar next to the twenties, briefly—“lots of questions then, for you. So here’s how we’ll do. I’ll buy you another drink, and you and I will repair to the back of the room there, a table away from everyone, have a little talk.”
The door was near, but it was a long walk up those crooked rubber steps, and she didn’t have her land legs yet. Don’t be stupid here. “I don’t want another drink.”
He took her hand, gripping it, leaning in close. Smiling his government eyes. “Fine. We’ll do this right here, nice and intimate. Like lovers.” He pressed the five crumpled twenties into her hand like a wad of trash. “I’m paying you a C-note right now, to deliver a package to me. And that package is information.”
No need to bother looking around to see who might overhear them because all she was going to tell this asshole was to go fuck himself. “I don’t know—”
“You don’t know anything, sure. I understand. Only one problem with that. I know that you do know things, okay? A-B-C. That’s as simple as one two three. You and me.”
So cold once the water runs out. When the dry air attacks you like your conscience. She looked for Splashy’s help, but he was gone.
“I’m really not an asshole, all right?” the guy said, his hand squeezing her hand holding the cash. His humid cologne. “Lucky for you, I’m not the kind of cop who’s going to come down hard, threaten you with losing your daughter, talking foster homes and all that dreadful, dreadful shit. Not me.”
Her mind was
shivering.
“And I don’t even care about your messengering for Fergie. Drug dealing, racketeering, criminal conspiracy—you’re just a cog in that machine. A go-between. But a good broom sweeps clean, and I’m riding a good broom here. A dynamite fucking broom. I’m not asking you to wear a wire. I’m not looking to use you like that, endanger you, no. I’m going totally positive on this. How many cars you own, Krista?”
“What?” His face was close enough to spit at. “None.”
“Seven. You own seven vehicles. You didn’t pay for any of them, but they’re all registered in your name. Doug MacRay and your brother did that, to shield their assets. Ever seen Doug’s Corvette, his green machine? You like that ride? That car is yours, Krista. Legally. He had you sign some papers for him once, go to the registry, right? Something happens to Doug—that car cannot be attached to any penalties he might have to pay, any restitution for, oh, let’s just say, bank robbing. And I bet you don’t even know where he garages it.”
Say nothing. Show nothing.
“And here you are messengering dust for scratch money. Scratch money. For your daughter, right? Of course. But living like this? Do you have any idea how much money they pulled down on that movie theater thing? Every cent of it untraceable. Immediately spendable.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Talking about, sure. You’re loyal, of course you’re loyal. It’s family. But listen. They are all going down. It’s going to happen, and soon—that’s a fact. That’s what I’m here to tell you. Now you seem like a practical girl, resourceful. You must have considered this day would come. They go down—what happens to you? You don’t want to be the one left behind. The cars are in your name—that’s good and fine, that’s safe. But hold on. Your house. Now I happen to know that your brother’s name is on it too, you share it. And we will take that away, his half of your house. And if you don’t get practical and resourceful with me here, the fact is that you could be going up for aiding and abetting—and this is above and beyond any drug charges—in which case we take everything, and you will move into a new home, called MCI Framingham. Your little girl?” Frawley shook his head. “But that’s worst-case scenario. That’s if. And I don’t even like to talk about if. Not when there’s so many things actually going in your favor. Primarily, this house of yours that we need to save. You know how much a stand-alone on Pearl Street is worth in today’s market? A ready-to-renovate triple-decker in Charlestown? You’re sitting on a small fortune—all legit—and yet, here you are, waiting for a call to deal dust, flirting with strangers for drinks. The sale of that house would set you and your daughter up pretty good. But for that, we need a working arrangement, you and I. I need a good reason to protect your asset.”
Only the stink remains, once the water is gone. Musty emptiness. “Bullshit, trying to scare me. I want a lawyer.”
“Good, do that. Get one. Because all this is about protecting yourself. No—not even yourself. Your daughter. Think, Krista.”
“You leave her out.”
“I can’t, and neither can you. They’ve been shafting you for years. Keeping you on this leash—and why? To hold you down. Keep you dependent, like a junkie for their goodwill. Keep you close. The right thing would have been to pay you generously for all the secrets you so faithfully keep.” He ducked low to see up into her eyes. “And look, your brother? Hey. He’s not even the one I’m really after.”
“No?”
He picked up on the thing in her eyes. He watched her and absorbed it. “Unless, that is, you want me to be.”
Duggy. He was after Duggy.
“This MacRay,” the FBI man went on. “How long you put up with him?”
Hearing his name out of the G’s mouth was like hearing that Duggy was dead, and her heart fell.
“The hoops he made you jump through? And if I heard about it, you know everybody in Town knows.”
Elbow on the bar, she grabbed a handful of her own hair, twisting it.
“This sad song,” he said, thumbing back at the jukebox. “You gonna listen to this over and over again, the rest of your life?”
Go right home and tell Duggy about this guy. Straight to his door. He would be so grateful.
“One more question. You were with him how long?”
Krista’s nose was almost touching the bar. “All my life.”
“Let me ask you this. In all those years you were together—how many diamond necklaces he buy you from Tiffany?”
All the water out of the air now, the dry world dripping loud. “What are you talking about, diamond necklaces?”
The FBI man said, “Answer my question, then I’ll answer yours.”
40
MAC’S LETTER
June 1996
Little Partner,
What a shock you just got. Finding this with my riteing and the Walpole return adress in your mailbox. Wish I could of seen your face. Whats the old crook up to now? Im not riteing to ask you anything. You no thats not my style. I never ask for anything from anyone in my life. What I wanted I took and what I needed done I did myself. I no your the same Duggy.
I do’nt rite much and I no I never rote you before. Hard to get you out here tho and after last time I felt like we were’nt done. Whenever it comes time to see you theres so much to say that it never all gets said. So much saved up in my mind. Then your gone and I got another year to puzzle you over.
When I get out theres no way I can make up for the things I owe you. Your a man you understand this. Misstakes take 2x as long to fix as they do to make. Thats why you never look back. OK you look back but never go back Duggy. You keep going on.
About your mothers house. I met your mother at the Monumint in November of 63. Kennedy had just died—shot in the head—and the town was in morning and Coffy and me and the rest of us were sick of moping so we went out to find trouble. We were kicking around the steps there and this little gide comes out—this little tour gide with copper red hair—she was younger but she bitched us out like somebodys mother. A little pint glass with a black band on her school uniform giving us all kinds of shit till she started crying her eyes out for Kennedy. We had our fun but next day I came back alone. I listened to her school speech to the torists and she saw me. Her name tag was Pam. I came back 6 days in a row before I got a smile. I do’nt no what she saw in me. I did’nt no what I wanted exept to take her out. 1 nite she snuck away from her frends and came bowling.
We had to get marryed Duggy. Her parents new I was Bottom Of The Hill. A Slope Kid and they never liked me but they never gave up on her ether. They gave us the downpayment for the house on Sackville when you came along. But I always payed the moregage. The house was mine.
What I promised her on that day we bowled was that Id never make her cry again and I broke that promise a thousand times. She did things because she was angry at me. I was away a lot and she left you at her mothers to much. The $$ I gave her for food she took down to the corner. I scared off all her hippy friends, but from then on she just did these things alone.
I am not telling you this because I am a prick. I am telling you this because I am not a prick.
She did’nt do it on purpose. The thing of the time in the 60s was to push bowndrys and walk on the moon and free your mind. Her mind just got to free. You were asleep in front of the tv when I came home and found her in the bathroom and the needle. I got you to the naybors 1st thing. When you woke up in the morning and started asking for her what coud I say? What do you tell a 6 year old kid? Your mother went away. Shes gone. I do’nt think shes coming back.
You wanted to go out looking for her so we looked. Her parents had a private funeral and insted I took you out walking the nayborhood looking for her until you cried so hard you coud’nt walk. You saw a tv show about a missing dog and wanted to put up posters on telephone polls so we put up posters. You wanted the light on over the front door for her so I change that bulb every month. You woud’nt sleep if you coud’nt see the light from your
bed.
I said she went away and so who else in Town would say other wise. My truth was truer than truth. But what I did’nt plan for was that she would become this bigger than life thing and I would go from Daddy to no one. A lot of you you made yourself. I give you that. I always see her in you. But I did what I could. I teached you the things I new.
Bottom line is I will be out soon. Then it will be the 2 of us again. You had trouble with Gem but patch it up. Loyalty is what we need now. You cant buy that.
Maybe you always new about her or gessed or never wanted to ask. If you do’nt want to talk about this again I would not mind.
This is the longest letter Ive ever ritten.
By the way. Old Uncle G came to see me. But I did’nt see him.
Do’nt no how to end this Duggy. Do’nt even no if Ill mail it.
Mac.
PS. Your mother never came back, Duggy. I am.
41
BIRTHDAY
DOUG ROLLED DOWN A lane of tidy homes, checking addresses, coming up on a line of parked cars and an inflatable castle in a driveway. The bladder castle jerked and jiggled like a stomach full of screaming, indigestible kids. Doug slowed at the silver mailbox festooned with birthday balloons. The house number matched.
He pulled over at the end of the row of cars and stood out of the Caprice. The house was a gray Cape, kids chasing each other around the front yard with squirt guns, parents chatting in the driveway. Doug was about to get back in his car when he saw Frank G. step away from a small group near the castle’s generator and wave him up. Frank wore a collared, short-sleeved shirt, long shorts, and Converse flats, walking down the driveway to meet him. “You found it.”
Doug pulled off his shades, looking at the party. “Frank, man—you should have told me.”
“You said you needed a few minutes, right? C’mon.”
Frank walked him past the screaming castle toward an open garage full of chairs and folding tables of food. Twin girls in matching pink eyeglasses sat hip to hip on the front lawn, eating melting blocks of ice cream cake, and three plastic paratroopers came swaying down to earth out of a bedroom window, followed by a balsa wood airplane in a tailspin. Then a kid with his arm in a blue cast came racing past, nailing them each in the gut with water out of a tiny green pistol, taunting, “Ha-ha, Uncle Frank!”