by Jeff Johnson
“My good friend, so wonderful to see you. We will have lunch next week. For now, can we settle, just for the moment, at sixty-forty, and you’ll work your magic to find the furniture and the strippers?” He held his hand out. He wasn’t going to pay for a chair, a shot glass, even a single napkin. And he’d never walk through the door, either.
“Say fifty-five-forty-five in my favor, I hire the Mexicans you have out there to clean it out on my dime, you provide the truck they need to haul stuff in and out. I stay cold cash all the way through, and the photo shoot is on.”
“For now that is OK. For now.” Meaning he needed an opening to bring my percentage down. “Let me think and we can work out the details. Good to see you, my man!”
The Armenian guided me out the side door into the first bay. There he snapped his fingers at the Mexicans and told them to put a clean transmission box in the trunk of the cab. They had to use some twine to secure it, so we watched them work. I patted the Armenian on the back when they were done and shook the rain off my suit bag.
“Exciting times,” I said.
“I still cannot believe they pay to strip,” he said, almost to himself. “It is darkness, brightening the future.”
The cab driver was a standard Portland hipster. He was happy that he’d hadn’t had to get out to help the super-efficient Mexicans. In fact, the huge box seemed to be the best thing that had happened to him all afternoon.
“So what’s in there?” he asked immediately.
“Nothing yet,” I replied. “We’re having a benefit at Dante’s in a few weeks for that punk band in Russia who got arrested for mouthing off. Everyone is going to put shit in it. You know, CDs, old guitars, hair gel, that kind of stuff. Then we’re mailing it. Solidarity, yo.”
“Right on, right on.” He had no intention of attending the hypothetical event, but the idea tickled him. “Where to?”
“Punk dignitary headquarters is some shit hole down the road called the Bismarck.”
“Ambulance central these days,” he said, taking a left out of the parking lot.
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied. “I almost never get out this way.”
I dug my phone out and dialed Mikey. He picked up on the third ring.
“I fucking love this place,” he answered. “It’s so craptacular I feel like I’m in a comic book.”
“I’m on my way. Need anything?”
“Nah. I picked up a twelve-pack and a pizza on the way here. I got the room at the edge of the parking lot, just like you said. My van is right outside. The lot’s empty except for a mattress. Nigel got those pills, too. Wanted me to tell you. He might come over later and bring me a cake. Might have been kidding about the cake, I don’t know.”
“Good. See you in a sec.”
The driver turned up the radio when I snapped the phone closed and we listened to two Creedence songs, which I considered a pleasant omen. When we were across the street from the Bismarck I told him to pull around to the parking lot in back. He nodded and reached under his seat, pulled out a shrinkwrapped CD, and handed it back to me.
“For the box,” he said. “My alt country band.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll put it in.”
We pulled around the back and I paid and tipped him five bucks. Other than Mikey’s van and the stray mattress, the lot was still empty.
“Need help with the box?” he asked.
“Nah. I’ll drag it.” I didn’t want him to know the room number.
I got out and pulled the box out. Even empty, it still weighed more than thirty pounds. I lit a cigarette and watched the cab pull away, then tossed my suit bag on top of the box and pulled it over between Mikey’s van and the motel. Then I went to the first door and knocked. Mikey opened it and glanced both ways.
“Leave the door open and help me real quick.” He nodded and followed me around the corner. I nodded at the box. Mikey didn’t like the looks of it.
“In the room with this, double time,” I said. He reluctantly grabbed one of the handles and I took the other one. We got it into the room and I closed the door, then peeked through the blinds. No one had been watching.
“What do we need this for?” He sat down on the bed and picked up his beer. The TV was on. Perry Mason.
“I have to mail something big,” I replied. “Long story.” I took my phone out. There was most of a twelve-pack getting warm on top of the scarred dresser. I pulled one loose and popped the top.
“No ice,” Mikey said. I shrugged and took a sip, then dug Gomez’s number out and dialed. Delia had prepped him, but only a little.
“Hola,” Gomez answered.
“Hola vato. Darby.” I sat down on the box.
“Delia just told me you were alive! What the fuck, esse?”
I could tell he was glad to hear from me. Gomez was a hard dude, but it was in his voice.
“Long, long-ass story man. All kinds of shit going down. How’s the bar?”
“Totally fucked, hombre. Dmitri’s gone crazy, your place is sort of dangling off the side of mine, the power is down, no phone. My door is gone. All my shit is still in there, but I can’t even get it out. I don’t have no place to put it anyway.”
“You working at your brother’s?”
“Me and Flaco, yeah.”
“Good. Your brother’s place is what I’m calling about. I need to rent the whole thing out tomorrow. Private party, about three hours. I’m bringing the waiters. You and Flaco are the cooks. No one else and you get a grand to split between you, plus another five bills for your brother, and I’ll give you a free month’s rent when the Lucky and the Rocket reopen.”
“What?”
“All this goes through, starting tomorrow I’m your new landlord. Rent stays the same, I fix the holes and shit like that while the Lucky is getting redone. The mini mart is our new parking lot. Deal?”
“Dmitri is selling?”
“Tomorrow. Want in as a buyer? We could split it.”
“I’m fucking broke man! Fuck … OK. Tomorrow. I can do that. Fifteen and a free month, plus the new door and some other shit. Windows, the booths in back, my fucking—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven a.m.,” I interrupted. “You can give me the list after we all get back in there. Don’t be late, and no one but you and Flaco.”
“We’re the kitchen anyways. Flaco is on the dish machine. Fucking pissed off, too. I got this.”
“Right on, right on. One last thing, hombre. You remember you told me you found a mummified mouse under your front porch and you saved it for me? For my collection of weirdo sketch crap?”
“Yeah. I think it’s in a baggie in my garage. Why?”
“Can you bring it?”
“Yeah, but …” He trailed off.
“Mañana.”
“Si.”
And that was that.
“You should, like, sell cars if this doesn’t work out,” Mikey said, laying back. “Boy got game. Did you see a remote anywhere?”
I looked around while I dialed another cab. Hopefully it wouldn’t be the same guy. “Nope. Maybe ask the desk.”
“Guy’s sleeping. When I asked about the ice he almost cried. I don’t think they let him go home too much, poor little bastard.”
We bullshitted about nothing until my cab arrived a few minutes later. While we did, I stripped and put my new suit on. It fit, with my belt. The shoes even looked sharp, though I could tell they were going to be hell on my feet. I transferred the contents of my pockets and adjusted my cuffs in the scratched-to-hell mirror. I looked like a loan shark or a midrange pool hustler.
“Not too shabby, boss,” Mikey observed. “Where’d you get that thing? A Chinese grocery store?”
“Fuck you.” I put the tie in my outside pocket. Neither of us knew how to tie one. Then I stowed the fat check and Suzanne’s birthday pendant, which I had traded the Armenian for a fictional photo shoot without him even knowing it. “I’m on a roll, Mikey boy.”
“R
ight on, man.” Mikey saluted with his beer. My phone rang and I checked the number. My cab had arrived. The time on my phone when I closed it was just after six. Everything was ready except for Dmitri.
I got to “mitri’s izza” at little after six thirty. By then I’d worked myself into a truly foul mood without even trying. The cab driver was silent the entire way. A brooding, scarred guy wearing the latest in Asian gangster fashion and headed from the Bismarck Motel to the epicenter of decay in Old Town wasn’t his ideal when it came to gab.
“You know how to tie a tie?” I asked out of the blue. His nervous eyes flicked to the rearview.
“Nope.”
“Fuck.” We stopped and I paid with my disgusting money and slammed the door. I couldn’t help it. I stormed up to the door of “mitri’s izza” and kicked the metal lock with my heel as hard as I could. For some reason the door was unlocked, so the door flew open and banged against the wall.
“Dmitri!” I roared.
Dmitri peeked out from the kitchen, eyes wide. The lights were off and the place was cold and filthy. It smelled thickly of pee, stale cigarettes, lingering whore, and wet dog.
“Darby?” His voice was soft and trembling. I locked the door behind me.
“Why was the door unlocked? Get out here, now. If you’re holding a gun I’m going to rip your hands off.”
Dmitri slunk out with his hands up. He looked terrible. He was wearing the same gray parka and green pants, but it was all dirtier. His hair was so greasy it was actually lying down for a change, which was an unlikely improvement.
“The giant hooker was here,” he whispered. “The very big one. She let herself out. I don’t have any money, if that’s what you came for.”
“Sit the fuck down,” I instructed. He did, instantly. “I’m here to make you money, not take any, so you’re going to do every fucking thing I say, understand?”
“No,” he whined. His lower lip quivered. His eyes teared up.
“The Russian guy, he’s contacted you, right?”
Dmitri nodded. “Yes. The papers have been drawn up. I’m selling the Lucky and the bar for three hundred thousand. I’m sorry, Darby.” He started crying.
“Shut up,” I said. “You have to pay a ton on taxes, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he managed. “I inherited everything. In the end I’ll be lucky—I mean fortunate, to walk away with these clothes and one more blow job.” He broke down again. I sat across from him, careful not to touch the table.
“Listen to me, fool.” He kept crying, so I reached out and slapped him once, hard. He went from despair back to stark terror before the ringing echo faded.
“This fucking Russian is paying cash or I’ll kill him,” I said. “Total fucking corpse, and you’re going along with it. Understand?”
“How—why—is that—”
“Just shut up,” I said. I took out my cigarettes and lit one. It was time to calm down.
“OK,” I began. “Here’s how this is going to go down. You”—I stabbed my cigarette at him—“are going to call them in a few minutes. You want two large, cash, fifties and hundreds, and then you’ll sign and walk. If they want this place, too, and you know they do, you tell them the same deal next month after you’re sure it worked out the first time, and then you’ll be gone for good. You got that?”
“I can’t sell both buildings,” he pleaded. “The blown-up one is dead to me, but this place is all I have left! If I—”
“You’re keeping this dump,” I said. “You aren’t going to sell it. Only the Lucky and the bar. Cash. Then you can fix this place up with a little help, which I’ll arrange. Say yes, Dmitri.”
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Why would you help me, Darby? You don’t even like me.”
I took my cell phone out and checked the time. Not good. I showed it to him. “You have their number?”
“Oh yes,” he replied. “A very huge man gave it to me.”
“Call it,” I instructed. He took his phone out. His hands were shaking.
“What do I say?” He was pleading again.
“Two hundred thou, cash, tomorrow, same deal in one month for this place, then you blow town forever. They have that kind of cash lying around, I know, because it’s how they paid the bomber. Public place, Romero’s on Alberta, noon tomorrow. Make the call.”
“So much to remember. Romero’s on Alberta, noon tomorrow …” He finished dialing and put the phone to his greasy ear, on the verge of a heart attack.
Someone answered, a sharp, one word bark. Oleg himself.
“It is I, Dmitri,” Dmitri said in a quavering voice. Another bark.
“No more waiting. No more games. I will sell tomorrow. At noon, in a public place for my safety. Romero’s on Alberta. Two hundred thousand in cash. Cash. If I live I will sell my other building in one month the same way, the same price. I must get this over with or I die. My heart is old and poisoned. My bowels, my hands, my eyes—”
Bark.
“Yes, yes,” Dmitri continued, eyes on me now, some new horror dawning on him. “But cash. Two hundred thousand. A bargain. If you do not try to kill me or rob me, the second will be the same. I can go to someplace small and safe. A beach, with—”
Barking.
Dmitri hung up. “I’m going to vomit.”
“Hold it down. What did he say?”
“He seemed relieved,” Dmitri said. “Even happy, in a greedy, awful way. I hate this man, Darby. I hate him twice as much as I’ve ever hated anything.”
“Then you’ll love what happens next,” I said.
“We should drink together,” Dmitri declared. “For the first time, as friends.”
I dialed the number for a cab. That deep in Old Town it would only take a minute.
“Don’t get all mushy on me,” I said while the number rang. “Do you know how to tie a tie?”
“Of course I do! What kind of idiot do you think I am?” He scurried into the kitchen and came back with a mostly empty bottle of vodka and two wax paper cups. While he poured I put my blue tie under my collar and then looked at him, helpless.
“Here,” he said. He reached out and pulled at the tie, then got to work on it. This close up, I noticed an impressive yellow crust in both his eyes. He sat back and looked, then made a final adjustment. Tying my tie seemed to have calmed him. “There.”
I felt the knot and then raised my drink. He saluted me with a shy smile.
“Thank you, Darby Holland.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, old man,” I replied. “This goes to shit and we both die.” The vodka tasted dusty. Dmitri shook his head sadly when he downed his, and then said one of the most truthful things that ever came out of his mouth.
“If being any kind of hero falls all the way down to men like you, then we have already lost.”
I didn’t want to think about that as I got in the cab. But I knew what I felt about it, and I wasn’t smiling.
My cab pulled up in front of Brasserie Montmare with five minutes to spare, and as I dug out my roll I realized I’d been fueled all day by one vision—my ridiculous fantasy of watching Suzanne walk in. Maybe the Armenian was right and my mind had cracked, and Delia was correct about my rampant pussification. Bullshitting Dessel into believing I was hopelessly distracted by a woman wasn’t any kind of fiction at all.
I didn’t care. I told the driver to keep the change, stepped out into the rain, and got into character. I swaggered a little as I walked in, just in case she’d beat me there, but I also wanted to set the tone in my head. The maître d’ looked up from his podium and smiled. I adjusted my tie and shot my cuffs.
“Holland, table for two,” I said in my best James Bond. He consulted his book and picked up two gilded menus.
“This way.”
I strolled behind him, as sinister as possible. The place had an old European feel to it, with lots of wood, brass, and glass. Half the tables were full, and a jazz band was bubbling away on a stage somewhere around the corner. He led me
to an empty two top and my heart soared.
“A drink while you wait?” he asked as I sat down.
“Martini,” I replied. “Smoky.”
He nodded and set the menus down, said something to the bartender as he passed. I looked the other diners over. Yuppies mostly, dressed with a universal touch of artsy. I took my present out and gently shook it. Clunky. I briefly prayed that there wasn’t a beetle horrifically embedded in the design, or tiny albino skulls or anything like that, but mostly I kept my eyes on the door.
At five past eight, Suzanne came in. She looked like a million clean bucks. Her shoes were black stilettos, with heels so high she was mincing on her toes. Her black dress was sleeveless and came to the middle of her thighs. She had a white lace shawl draped over her shoulders and a tiny white patent leather clutch purse. Her short hair was glossy and curled, and she was even wearing a touch of makeup, which I didn’t know she could do.
The maître d’ took a step back as she approached him. Suzanne was two and a half heads taller than him, but she didn’t slump even a fraction or deign to bow her head. She was positively regal when she addressed him. He giggled something and they started my way. She trailed far back, sashaying a little, just for me, I knew. Every head in the room turned and tracked her. The bartender paused midpour.
I stood up, music thundering in my head. The maître d’ vanished. I looked up into that tall, tall woman’s smile and I almost couldn’t breathe.
“You just made a dream come true, baby,” I said. I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s do this more often.”
She leaned down and gave me a kiss as long as she was tall. When we were done, I pulled her chair out and she sat. Conversation around us resumed.
“What’s this?” she asked, picking up the box. I dropped into a casual slouch across from her.
“Birthday present. It … well, see, I hope you like it because I sort of traded in the longest possible series of events to get it, and I have to confess, at the end of it all, I have still not seen what’s in that box.”