Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland

by Lara Reznik

  “Or else what?”

  She shrugs. “You could both be on the unemployment line.”

  I sit up in my new ergonomic chair, appalled at her bluntness. “I don’t like threats.”

  “Now you sound like the stupid chick you were in Bridgeport.”

  I decide to take a different tactic with her. “It’s wonderful to see how well your life has turned out, Ivy. Married to a congressman. Who would have thought?”

  “That I’d end up here?” Her eagle eyes probe my face. “What were we thinking?”

  “Crazy seventies.” I say.

  She lights a cigarette. “Drugs, sex, and rock and roll, right on.”

  “This is a nonsmoking building,” I say.

  She waves the cigarette. “So.”

  Now that’s the Ivy I remember. “What made you turn your life around?”

  She blows out multiple rings of smoke. “William, of course.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “After you all took off out west, I moved to New Haven.”

  “I’m not buying the Yale bullshit,” I say.

  She chuckles and sits down in one of the new Scandinavian chairs. The price tag still dangles from the arm. “I took a job waiting tables at a pizza joint. William was attending Yale. He came in every night for a calzone. One thing led to another. We moved back to his home in Dallas. Been married thirty-three years.”

  I smile. “Rich Ivy league guy marries a hippie waitress. Sounds like a movie.”

  “What can I say? He fell in love with my Texas-sized boobs.”

  “Guess he was homesick for the Lone Star state.”

  We both laugh. I’m starting to feel more comfortable with her. She asks me questions about my own life.

  I pull out my iPhone and show her a picture of the boys and then ask if she has kids of her own. Before the words leave my mouth, I realize how tasteless they are. Terabytes of time have not erased Doc telling me that Ivy’s botched abortion had ruined her chances of ever having children.

  Her eyes look misty. “William never really wanted any.”

  I’ve finally disarmed her and feel ashamed. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She takes a minute to compose herself. “Have you been in touch with them?”

  “Them?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. Ben and Chris.”

  Has she really not spoken with them in all these years? I distinctly remember she had gone to her grandmother’s funeral the night of Joey’s disappearance. “No, how ‘bout you?”

  “If you ever see either of them, please give them this.” She pulls out a business card from her purse and hands it to me.

  For a brief second, I speculate that our shared past bonds us in some way. Should I tell her I’m meeting with Chris in an hour? Saw Ben in New York at Denise’s funeral? I think better of it. “Will do.”

  She crinkles her eyes. “How did Ben ever sweet talk you into bringing that suitcase back from New Mexico?” (POINT)

  The sickening feeling of doom fills my chest. Does she know what’s going on?

  “Why do you think I refused to go?” she scoffs.

  From the shadows of the past I recall the reason. “You were still recovering from the bloody trip to Boston.” (SET)

  Ivy stands, grabs the letter opener from my desk, and points it at me. “If you ever mention that again, Laila, I’ll kill you.” She throws the letter opener into my new Scandinavian desk marring the oak’s patina, then struts from the office without looking back. (MATCH - Goes to Ms. Foreman)

  LATER, ON THE DRIVE to my lunch with Chris, I decide that Ivy is aware that he’s here. Who am I kidding? Maybe she knows all about Joey’s disappearance. I accidentally swerve the car into the curb, diverted by a more disturbing realization. In the seventies, Chris and Ben had played me for an idiot. Now they’re picking up where they left off. If I’m honest with myself, I was flattered last night when Ben told me he’d always loved me. To think I responded that a part of me always loved him, too. The icing on the cake of lies that sent Eduardo packing.

  And Chris. Would he sell me down the river to get himself off the hook? Did he fill my head with lies all those years ago because he knew I’d slept with his best friend? Both men are masters of deceit. I’m enraged at the unconscionable way they put everything in my life in serious danger. Back then, and again now. And worst of all, I’m infuriated at myself for allowing them to do it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Blood of Christ

  New Mexico, 1970

  After abandoning Peaches at the Texaco and stopping to call her sister, Rojo turned onto I-25 and we headed north toward Santa Fe. Sheets of snow descended on the windshield. The swishing sound of the wipers filled the car as we sat in silence. Rojo was no longer the least bit appealing to me. What type of guy deserts his pregnant girlfriend at a gas station?

  He pulled a vial from the console, took two red capsules, and offered one to me, which I declined.

  “How come Ben sent you?” he said. “You just don’t seem the type.”

  “Type for what?”

  “Jesus. If I have to tell you why you’re here, Angel will freak.”

  I smiled for the first time since I’d landed in the land of weird. “I’m picking up a frickin’ suitcase. I get it.”

  Rojo sighed. “Whew. Thought you might be a virgin or something.”

  Oh my God. Did Ben and Chris tell him about my history? Did they sit around at night with Ivy joking about the Guyland Girl who screwed them both? I managed to keep my composure. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times.”

  Rojo chuckled. We exited into Santa Fe with its flat-roofed, earth-colored buildings. The landscape soon transformed into red cliffs and sandstone canyons. Later, as we got closer to Taos we began climbing into the majestic snowcapped mountains. I was awed by the stunning landscape, but terrified we might skid off the edge of the road and tumble down thousands of feet to the abyss below. The car skidded on ice patches and I held onto the seat making small talk with Rojo. “What do they call this mountain range?”

  “They’re the Sangre de Cristo,” Rojo said. “Blood of Christ.”

  I imagined a catchy headline in Newsday, the Long Island paper:

  JEWISH GIRL FROM LONG ISLAND DIES IN CAR CRASH IN NEW MEXICO’s BLOOD OF CHRIST MOUNTAINS.

  After numerous turns off the main highway in Taos, we fishtailed down a side road to an isolated mud-brick home. A woman wearing silk pajamas and clown-white makeup answered the door smoking a cigar. She led us into the living room where a guy dressed in a Kimono greeted Rojo from a leather couch. Were there any normal people in this place two thousand miles away from every person, place, and thing I knew? My definition of normal no longer had parameters.

  Rather than introduce me, Rojo grabbed my hand and led me to a small bedroom. I clenched my jaw, ready to set him straight if he came on to me. But all he said was to try and get some sleep.

  I slept for what felt like hours in the darkened room. When I awoke, the familiar sound of the Doors on the stereo sifted in from the living room. Between the redeye flight and the drive through the mountains, I’d lost all sense of time. Yellow light filtered through a small window. Was it late afternoon or early morning? I had no idea.

  I removed the dress and pumps that Ben had purchased and changed into the white peasant blouse and maxi skirt I’d packed. When I put the white wool dress on a chair, I noticed a pattern of tiny red spots on the back of it. Was it blood? I went to the bathroom and discovered that yes, I’d gotten my period. Thank you, God. While the dress was ruined, I was happier than I’d been since I’d left Connecticut.

  Rojo and the strange couple from earlier sat in the living room drinking tequila. The guy in the kimono poured me a shot. As I gagged on the brown liquid, I made a mental note not to get too drunk. The tequila left me warm and tipsy and I gazed out the large picture window. The sun sat atop the mountains coloring the horizon in shades of gold, burnt-orange, a
nd red. The skies of New Mexico were a major contrast to the grey smog of Bridgeport. Unlike poor Peaches, I was not pregnant. For a brief moment, I felt blissful.

  Then someone yelled, “Jesus, goddamn it, ow, shit!”

  I followed the others to the kitchen where a burly guy with a thick beard was splayed on the ground after tripping over an obtrusive extension cord that ran across the brick floor connecting the refrigerator to an outlet. He held his ankle wincing in pain.

  At first, I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. And then through the beard I realized who sat before me. “Oh my God, Joey. What are you doing here?”

  He covered his face with his hands then tried to stand, but he fell back down. “Shit on a stick. Laila?”

  Rojo’s face turned the color of the red chili strung along the wall. “You two know each other?

  Joey tried to stand again and yelped like a wounded puppy.

  Rojo’s eyes wandered from Joey to me. “I asked you a question. How are you two acquainted?”

  Joey gave me a zip-your-lips sign.

  The signal didn’t miss Rojo’s bloodshot eyes. “Who the hell you think you are, fat-face? Angel’s gonna kick your ass.”

  His tone frightened me. He sounded like thug from a TV cop show. “Joey’s my roommate’s boyfriend,” I said.

  Rojo’s raised an eyebrow. “No shit?”

  I batted my eyelashes at Rojo. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

  Joey winced through clenched teeth. “Fuck, no. I’ll be fine.” He turned to Rojo. “Can you give me a Quaalude and take me home?”

  “What the fuck you doing here anyways? Angel gave you strict orders to stay away.”

  “It’s lonely in that shithole you put me up in,” Joey said.

  Rojo rubbed the back of his neck. “Angel doesn’t like when people don’t obey his orders.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, this hurts,” Joey said.

  I turned to Rojo. “Please, can we at least call a doctor?”

  “Okay,” Rojo said. “We’ll drive to Ranchos. I got a friend there who used to be a medic in Nam.”

  Joey bit his lower lip. “I’m good, man. Just get me a bag of ice.”

  “She’s right, suck-face.” Rojo said. “Your foot may be broken. If you don’t get it looked at, you could end up a cripple.”

  Propped up by Rojo and me, Joey staggered out to the truck. Once again, I was at the mercy of Rojo racing down the mountain on iced roads. I clutched the seat while Joey cried out several times in pain.

  A few minutes later, we slid into the driveway of a small pink stucco house. I held Joey’s arm as we stumbled up the icy path to the front porch. The front door opened and an emaciated dude stood behind the mesh of an old screen door. Rojo explained the purpose of our visit.

  The skinny guy unlatched the lock and welcomed us into his house.

  Rojo introduced us to his friend, whose jaw looked lopsided, like it’d been broken and never set. No surprise he went by the name Jaws. A sleeve of tattoos covered his arms.

  The stench of cat pee and trash made me gag. Indian bedspreads covered the windows and a dozen or so pairs of cat eyes glowed in the dark room. Rojo whispered something in his ear and headed to the door. “I’ll be back in an hour. Got business to take care of.”

  Jaws cleared off old newspapers, beer cans, and a kitten or two from the green corduroy couch and told Joey to take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable, dude, and let me have a lookie.” His voice was surprisingly soft spoken.

  Joey cried out when he touched his ankle.

  Jaws handed him a prescription bottle. “Take a couple of these.” He carefully felt around Joey’s swollen leg. “Don’t think it’s broke. Just a bad sprain.” He wrapped Joey’s ankle with an ace bandage, then opened a closet and pulled out a pair of crutches. “You can have these. Haven’t needed them since Nam.”

  Joey tried out the crutches and thanked Jaws for his help.

  The strange guy ambled to the door and pulled a parka and a ski cap off a peg on the wall. “I’m meeting my lady friend in a few minutes. You guys can hang out here until Rojo gets back.”

  Joey and I sat together on the couch. I drew in my breath then exhaled. “Okay, so how the hell did you end up here?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same question,” he said.

  “Come on, Joey. You first.”

  He shrugged. “All righty then. A few weeks ago that guy Chris from the demonstration said I could make a shit-load of money flying to San Francisco with his buddy Ben.”

  “Oh my God. You’re the U.B. student who disappeared with the suitcase?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “Well then, what happened to the suitcase?”

  “Have you met Angel yet?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I said.

  He bit his lip. “Angel’s not who he appears to be. He may look like a hippie with his long ponytail and the peace sign he wears on a chain, but he’s no love child. He’s part of some big-shot family in Arizona.”

  “Family. Like in the mob?”

  He slapped my knee. “Laila, you’re not in Long Island no more.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “I called my Uncle Donnie. He owns a pool hall in Jersey City and is well connected.”

  “So what happened with you and Ben?”

  “We flew to San Francisco to pick up a delivery from Angel. He met us at the airport with his girlfriend Peaches.”

  “Little pregnant Peaches?”

  “Yep, that’s the one. Anyway, we spent the night at Angel’s Victorian mansion. Next day he hands us this brown valise and we head back to the airport in a taxi. On the drive, Ben tells me we need to pretend we’re not together when we get on the plane. He wants me to wait for him to check in and reach the gate before I get in line.”

  Clever, Ben. All the risk is Joey’s.

  “When we get to the airport, I do like he says, and hang out until he’s through the gate. Then I get in line to get my boarding pass and check in the suitcase. I’m standing there, minding my own business when two guys tell me to come with them. And, they ain’t asking. One of ‘em says he’s got a gun under his jacket pointed at my balls. I nearly shit my pants.”

  I interjected. “So you were busted?”

  He shook his head. “Like you, I assumed they were narcs carting my ass off to jail. They take me out to the parking lot to this black van. The door glides open and this huge guy Paulie is sitting with a fucking 9mm in his hand. He holds it to my head and says that Angel wants me to drive the suitcase to New Mexico.”

  “Who’s Paulie?”

  “He’s like Angel’s lieutenant. Big as the Empire State building.”

  “Oh my God. I think this chick Ivy was like forced to have sex with him,” I said.

  “Sounds like Paulie, okay. Anyways I drove the van out here and delivered the suitcase to Angel. Then he offered me a job making deliveries for him in Taos.”

  “Why didn’t you just come back to Bridgeport?”

  “Trust me. You don’t mess with hombres like Angel. I was afraid he might hurt Denise.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “He knew all about her.”

  “That’s outrageous. Who told him—?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Who do ya think?”

  I swallow. Ben or Chris. “I don’t understand what Angel’s motive was for the whole suitcase thing.”

  “It’s done all the time in this business. Angel wanted Chris and Ben beholden to him. Now they gotta do whatever he says.”

  “Ben sent me here to pick up another suitcase,” I said.

  He lowered his head. “I was afraid of that.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “I’m so in over my head.”

  “You can’t deliver that suitcase,” Joey said. “It’s too fucking dangerous.”

  “If what you say about Angel is true, what choice do I have?”

  “You do hav
e a choice. I’ll deliver the suitcase,” he said.

  “What are you nuts? You said Angel—”

  A pool of white light filtered through the window. “Hey, looks like Rojo’s back,” Joey said. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

  We buttoned up our jackets and opened the front door. The wind whipped our faces. I helped Joey totter down the steps of the porch. Headlights bathed us in bright light. I shielded my eyes. Then a car with a Mercedes hood ornament rushed toward us as if the driver’s intention was to mow us down.

  As I jerked Joey back to the curb, the car skidded, then jerked to a halt, and the passenger window rolled down. A guy with a black ponytail and gravelly voice yelled, “Joey, Laila, get your asses in the car.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Margaritaville (Chris’s Story)

  Austin, Texas, 2012

  I veer the Acura back on course to Margaritaville, the restaurant in East Austin that Chris chose to meet for lunch. He’d heard they served interior Mexican food, not the Tex-Mex fare you get in most city bistros. I turn into the parking lot of what looks more like a sleazy bar than an eatery. Empty beer cans litter the parking lot, and guys with shaved heads, multiple piercings, and face tattoos loiter about.

  The digital clock now reads 12:05 p.m. I call Chris to see if he’s arrived. His cell connects straight to voicemail. “This is Dr. Reynolds. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If this is a medical emergency, please dial 911.”

  Doctor Reynolds? Who would have guessed?

  It dawns on me he may be waiting inside the restaurant. I emerge from the Acura and sprint the ten yards past the skinheads to the entrance. Once indoors, I squint in the semidarkness. The aroma of spicy Mexican food permeates the air, reminding me of dinners at my mother-in-law’s house in New Mexico. Bottles of various brands of Mexican tequila fill a massive wall of shelves. Blue Agave, Mixto, Blanco, Reposado, Anejo. A waitress saunters by with a tray full of mouth-watering plates of enchiladas, tacos, poblanos and beans dripping in cheese. I give Chris an “A” for an excellent food choice, along with a “D” for seedy location.