by Jeff Johnson
Neither of us said anything. I listened to Empire of Shit howling in the background. There was no trace of tension left in them.
“What now?” she asked finally.
“I dunno,” I replied. “Drop off this van. Send Mikey home for the last time. Then I guess I’ll go get my car and pick up my tail again, take Suzanne out to dinner. Ethiopian.”
“Jarra’s?”
“Yep.”
“You dog. Whippin’ out the big guns.”
“I am. Then a romantic stroll for enquiring minds to puzzle over, after that back to my place. I’d say I have a fifty-fifty chance of doing a little time in county in the next day or so.”
“Seems likely. How you think your new squeeze is going to react to that?”
“Bad, if she finds out. But you can never tell.”
“Huh. When all the smoke clears, you should adopt a policy of moderate honesty. In a couple of weeks, maybe. If she can’t handle the bad then she shouldn’t get the good.”
“I know.”
“Every time with you, man. I’m just saying. A chick who runs screaming at the first sign of trouble is definitely not for you. And a chick like that almost always rips you off on the way out the door. It’s part of your personal pattern with women. As soon as the walking kind of woman walks, all your shit goes up for grabs.”
“Bitches,” I growled.
“You pick ’em, not me. Maybe this one is different. But being honest is the best way to find out before you get in too deep and she has the keys to your house.”
“You don’t like Suzanne, do you?”
“Why would I? My Darby, my brave, crazy, lovely Darby, has a woman he has to hide a part of himself from. So no, I don’t. It’s nothing personal. She seemed nice when I met her.”
“You’re just as fucked in the head as I am, Delia.”
“That’s just it,” she snapped. “We’re not fucked in the head at all. We just won.” She hung up.
I sat there and smoked for a minute. I’d been thinking too much, which was an unusual thought to have. To stave off any more of it, I turned on the radio and surfed the airwaves for some Doobie Brothers. No dice, so I settled on mariachi music. They might have been singing about lost love or suicide, train wrecks or chlorine spills, but since I’d never know, the stuff always sounded a little cheerful to me. When I finally pulled into the parking lot of the Bismarck, I cranked it and cut the engine. When he got in to drive home, the deafening blast of Juarez would be his going away present.
Mikey opened the door as soon as I knocked. He was wearing his jacket and holding his backpack. I handed him his keys and pushed past him.
“Room’s paid up for two more days,” he said. “I had to show ’em my driver’s license when I checked in, but they didn’t write anything down. Still …” He glanced at Cheddar Box.
“He’s not going to die, Mike,” I said. He didn’t seem relieved.
“It’s just you sometimes … Fuck it.”
I patted his wide shoulder and he jumped a little.
“We worked together a long time, Mikey. I’d go down before I hung you out to dry.”
He finally looked up. That made sense to him.
“I guess I know that.”
“I still want some flash for the new shop,” I said. He smiled weakly, but it was still a smile.
“Sell you some, half off.”
I nodded and we shook hands. Mikey was going to hate me for the secrets I’d put into his head, but not just yet. A minute after the door closed behind him, I heard the distant blast of the Mexican music I’d been listening for. For whatever reason, he didn’t turn it off. The van idled for a moment and then the music slowly dopplered away.
I sat down next to Cheddar Box and lit a cigarette. He seemed to be resting easily. After a minute, I leaned over and patted him down. It took longer than I thought. Getting his wallet out was especially difficult.
Cheddar Box was loaded with an incredible variety of shit. His wallet was remarkably thin, with five hundred-dollar bills, an ATM card, and a driver’s license. His name was Santiago Espinoza. Forty-seven years old. He lived in the hood. Other than the black scanning device he had pointed at Dmitri, he had a small gun that looked expensive (but I didn’t really know), a pocket knife that looked like a surgical implement, an iPhone, Tic Tacs, dental floss, ear plugs, a condom, fingernail clippers, and a guitar pick. The last item was the most interesting. Santiago Espinoza was a musician.
I put everything back, then looked around the room for a piece of paper and a pen. I found a ballpoint on the dresser but no paper, so I dug around in my pockets and came up with the receipt from the coffee stand that morning. On the back I wrote in block letters “Please do not kill me until we have a chance to talk.” I didn’t want to sign my name for any number of reasons, so instead I signed it “Another fan of Julia.” I put it in the same pocket as his iPhone.
Mikey had left the room key on the dresser, so I put my cigarette out, picked it up, and went out, locking the door behind me. Then I ambled down to the office. The temperature had dropped another few degrees and the rain had almost stopped. I could see my breath.
The clerk was a zitty little guy with his sneakers up on the desk, watching TV and grazing his way through a box of Oreos. He glanced up without much interest when I came in.
“Twenty an hour,” he said. “Sixty for the whole day, but no going in and out with hoes or slinging dope. Cash is king.”
“I’m looking for an old hippie with a missing front tooth. Probably came in with a hard Mexican dude.”
The kid looked back at the TV. I dug a stained twenty out of my pocket and held it up. He leaned out and snatched it.
“Room eleven. Keep it down.”
As I walked over to Dmitri’s room, I wondered what loud thing the clerk imagined I might be planning. It turned out Dmitri was staying right next to Ralston’s old room. I knocked.
“Come in,” Dmitri called.
I opened the door on a pleasant surprise. Dmitri was reclined on the bed, propped up with pillows, eating tamales with a plastic fork and just getting started on a bottle of cheap white wine.
“My friend!” he cried as I closed the door behind me, “I cannot go clothes shopping today. It feels like snow and Baywatch is on. Can you find me a peaceful hooker for later?”
“Maybe.” I sat down on the chair by the dresser. “The room OK?”
“Oh yes.” He ate like I did. It made me wonder when the last time anything solid had hit his stomach.
“Dmitri, I need a favor.”
“Of course you do,” he said. “Everyone everywhere always needs a favor, and today I’m feeling … what do you want?”
“That huge guy from the restaurant? Guy who scanned you?”
Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. He stopped chewing.
“He’s sleeping one off in the last room down. I just need to know when he leaves.”
“No,” Dmitri said flatly. “If I see him from here, then yes, I’ll call you. But that man is extremely dangerous, and I am not. So I won’t go knocking, and now I won’t even leave this room until I’m sure he’s gone. So now I need the favor instead of you. Since you’ve trapped me here, I need my hooker worse than ever. She can go look from time to time, but I might also need to send her out for supplies. The news says snow is coming. I might need soup, or sterno. I don’t have any socks right now. This wine won’t last until dark.”
I called a cab and told them where I was. I was on the verge of slapping him again.
“If I see any lookers on the way out I’ll send them your way,” I said, rising. I zipped up my coat. Dmitri nodded and started eating again.
“Get me an older one. One that might want to settle in for the afternoon. It’s cold out there, so it shouldn’t be hard. Even you could do it. I wonder—” He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I wonder what ever happened to Monique. She disappeared a little while ago.”
“I heard she came into some money.
Split town.” It was true, but I still felt bad saying it.
“She was from Alabama, you know. She had an aunt who used to send her letters sometimes. I still have them at my pizza restaurant. For some reason she couldn’t take them home to wherever she lived.”
I thought about that while the inside of my jacket warmed up. I thought about how she must have wanted to save those letters pretty bad to hide them with Dmitri. I also thought about how she hadn’t taken those precious pages with her, so maybe she really had gone home.
“See ya,” I said. Dmitri was already absorbed in the TV again. He didn’t even notice when I closed the door.
The clerk was watching TV, too, as I walked past. I lit a cigarette under the awning in front of the motel and watched the rainy street. Traffic was medium-thick and slow. A high-speed hooker motored past, a scrawny teen in a mini and a LA Lakers coat, all meth and desperation and ruined hair spray. I kept smoking. A few minutes later, two guys a short step above hobo went into room four with a six-pack and a pizza. Just before my cab got there, Dmitri’s dream whore staggered around the corner and ducked under the awning next to me.
“Bum a smoke?” she rasped.
She was somewhere between twenty and seventy, with frizzy, bright purple hair, clown-level makeup, a threadbare oversize men’s tweed jacket over a spinach-green halter top, super high cutoff jeans, and ragged fishnets. Her shoes were by far her favorite item: carefully cleaned pink plastic gardening togs.
“Here you go,” I said, shaking one loose. The dirty nails matched her hair. She fired the smoke with a wooden match.
“Rain reminds me of parts of Colorado,” she croaked.
“That where you’re from?” I asked, watching the street again.
“Aw hell no.”
We smoked.
“You lookin’?” she asked finally. I peered over at her. “I ain’t exactly no model from a magazine, but you get what you’re payin’ for, see what I mean.” She squinted at me. “What th’ hell happened up on yer face? You were my man, I’d cream that up. Hold you down and cold cream it. That’s what I’d do.”
“Is that right.”
“Yep.” She smiled and clacked her dentures. “Ain’t a tooth in my head, mister. Tween that an cold cream, I gots me some magic.”
I had to smile back. My cab finally pulled up across the street and the blinker turned on.
“Old hippie dude in room eleven,” I said. “He told me if I saw something especially sweet to send it on back. You fit the bill.”
“My luck’s a-changin’,” she said, tottering off. “’Bout fuckin’ time.”
“So you have championship eater status here?” Suzanne asked. Jarra’s Ethiopian was on the slow side that night. It was a husband and wife operation. She cooked solo and he ran the front. Their kids hung out with a scattering of toys by the cash register.
“I do,” I said proudly. “Don’t even try to gain these people’s admiration tonight. It took me years. Thousands of dollars.”
Suzanne eyed the kitchen. “After my rock class I swam for two hours. I could eat two of whatever they bring.”
“Overly bold,” I cautioned. “And you have to save room for dessert. Either we make peach cobbler back at my place or we make peach cobbler with blueberries back at my place. Your choice.”
“Hmm.” She smiled at me and put her hand out. I took it.
I’d had the cab drop me off five blocks from my car. I didn’t want anyone who might have been waiting to ask the driver and find out where I’d come from. I’d walked over with my head down against the weather, which had grown blustery and ominous as the sun set. My car had a ticket on it, which I’d thrown in the street to see if it might elicit a reaction. It didn’t. Still, I felt something, even if I couldn’t spot it. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed unlikely that Dessel and his cronies would follow me there and not bother to pick me up again. I’d done my best to confuse them in the last twenty-four hours, but nothing I’d done was terribly out of character, either. It helped to be the erratic sort.
Suzanne and I chatted and held each other’s eyes and hands. The place slowly filled up around us and finally the food came.
“Sorry for the delay,” the owner said, sitting our plates down. “My wife was making the bread. Darby, for your usual, the spicy lentils and greens, and for your very beautiful companion, the chicken.”
The lentils were in a red slurry that covered half the big plate, steaming and radioactively spiced with unknown agents, bracketed with a kidney-shaped pile of minced collared greens, curried potatoes, lemon salad, and cottage cheese as a burn salve. Suzanne’s was much the same, with half of a chicken rising from the center.
“Miss, I must tell you,” the owner continued, beaming with great charisma, “Darby is very much an eater of great concentration, so please, if you become lonely, feel free to walk around and study our paintings and photographs. Enjoy so very much.”
Suzanne tore off a piece of sponge bread that was used in lieu of a fork and leveled her gaze at me. I did the same.
“Ready?” she asked, poised. I knew I was supposed to say “set,” but I cheated and dove in.
About three quarters of the way through we both slowed down. There was no sense in racing. She was beating me and we both knew it. There was still no talking until we were both done. Suzanne finished two mouthfuls in the lead, dropped her destroyed paper napkin on the pile of clean chicken bones, and pushed her plate back, dazed. When I finally did the same the owner appeared. He’d evidently been watching. He bowed and put a mint next to Suzanne’s water glass.
“It is all we have in the way of a ribbon,” he said somberly.
“I’m ready for the main course,” Suzanne said, smiling up at him. Then she turned to me. “Unless you want to smoke a cigarette first.”
We sat around for a few minutes, letting our abdomens adjust. Suzanne sipped her wine. I nursed my beer. I knew she wanted to ask about my day. I hadn’t volunteered any information so far and before dinner she had talked about hers in great detail.
“You’re not going to tell me anything about what you did today, are you?” She swirled the last of the wine at the bottom of her glass and then gave me another one of those looks that only women can give—slightly sad, expectant but already disappointed, and suffused with disbelief.
“If I did, you would publicly freak out. Even saying that is too much.”
She leaned forward suddenly.
“I already told you I don’t like being kept in the dark,” she said firmly. “There has to be something you can share.”
“I don’t like keeping you in the dark. I thought we already went over this.”
“At least tell me something,” she insisted, exasperated. “You have to have done at least one thing worth mentioning.”
I thought about it. She was right. Delia was right. There were no easy answers. I resolved to follow my gut, but it was barely whispering for a change.
“Well,” I began, “all right. I bought my old tattoo shop and the bar next to it. Not the bar itself. Just the roof and the walls and the floor. Also, I was either tricked into or tricked someone into a situation involving my owning part of a strip club yesterday, so I sort of cemented that deal. That might not pan out, but if it does I’ll end up with around 20 percent. Hard to say. Helped my old landlord out, even though a case could be made that I did it for purely selfish reasons. Shit like that.”
“You bought a building?”
“A blown-up one, but yes.”
“Wow.” She laughed, eyes wide. “That’s, that’s big news!”
“People do it every day. I have a bank account and everything.”
“Well.” She laughed again and then studied my face, still amazed. “Good! Great! Why aren’t we celebrating?”
“I guess we are. I was sort of holding back for a few days until everything settles down.”
“Huh.” Suzanne had something else to ask, I could tell. Her mood had swung all the way bac
k into the positive zone, but something was still eating her.
“This morning when you left? I was in the kitchen eating pancakes naked? I thought you were going to walk down the side of the house and I wanted to watch you because you looked so hot. I saw you tear across the yard and go over the fence. Then the next fence. Then I lost sight of you for a second and you tore right up the side of the next fence and over that one, too. Then I couldn’t see any more because your neighbor’s house got in the way. I dropped my pancake in the sink.” She sat back, highly amused, her eyes mapping my every expression. “Darby, exactly what the hell were you doing.” It wasn’t a question.
I had to admit, that must have been funny.
“Well. There’s a division of the police I have an ongoing thing with. They glommed onto me over this little thing I had with some employee who stole some art from me a while back. Anyway, these guys specialize in interstate crime. And what can I say? They fucking love me.”
I tried to frame my thoughts in a way she would understand that wasn’t insultingly bare of facts. It took a minute, but Suzanne was patient.
“I make the perfect bait,” I said eventually. “Because of my job and the people I come into contact with, all the way down to who I am and what I believe in. I don’t know. I tend to take less shit than the average person.” I touched my face. “I have the scars to prove it, and those are just the ones on the outside. So when, metaphorically, some yard bully slaps me in the face with his dick, I metaphorically shank him in the eye if I can. And a lot of the time I can. It just takes me a little bit, mostly because I have a roundabout way of doing things. The system, and I hate that term by the way, but the system is usually in favor of the dick swinger, very seldom the anomalous rebel shanker. And once you’re branded as that kind of troublemaker, the brand never comes off. So for the last little while I’ve been climbing out of the stomach of the latest predator who made the mistake of eating me, and the RONC would have preferred it if I had quietly curled up and allowed myself to be digested so they could get a big, juicy, high-profile conviction. Since I didn’t, and they suspected I wouldn’t, they’ve been trying to pin some kind of bucking-the-natural-order violation on me. I’m sure they have a fancy name for it. Disgusting, isn’t it?”