by Lara Reznik
The booths are full of Mexican workers and urban cowboy types on their lunch hour. Will I even recognize Chris in the crowd? I parade down the aisles in search of him. I’m about to give up when I notice a guy sitting alone at a booth in the back of the restaurant. His grey hair is cropped short, and he’s wearing a worn leather jacket.
I slip into the booth and sit across the table from him. He glances up at me through thick bifocals, does a double take, and quickly removes the glasses. “Holy shit, Laila?”
We both rise and hug. The cigarettes and beer on his breath jet me back in time to Bridgeport. I want to scream at him but suppress my anger. I remind myself it’s important I stay calm and collected.
“Ben was right. You look awesome,” he says.
He’s definitely changed a lot. The cute blonde guy I remember has vanished. His face has the bloated look of an alcoholic with his veiny red nose and blanched skin. In comparison, Ben looks much better for the wear.
He gestures to the waitress who drops off menus and a Budweiser for him. I order a glass of Chardonnay.
“So tell me about yourself, Laila,” he says.
Should I commence with what a son of a bitch I think he was for deserting Katie and me thousands of miles away from home? Or how furious I am that he broke the pact and deflected Juanita Bonita’s investigation from him to me? No, best to let the past go and mine as much information as I can about his conversations with Juanita. If it means acting friendly, then so be it. I’m a lot older and wiser now and can play his game. While I don’t like it one bit, I’ll do what it takes to survive.
I provide a brief synopsis about Ed, the boys, and my I.T. career, ending with the recent visit from our new board member. The part about Ivy is a test to see how he responds.
“Ivy Banter?”
Have they been in contact? Is she part of a conspiracy with Ben and him to play me in the twenty-first century? “She’s Ivy Foreman now. The congressman’s wife.”
His pupils look like big pebbles under the bifocals. “No shit.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Last time I spoke to Ivy she was waiting tables in New Haven. Sounds like she’s done okay for herself.” Is he telling me the truth? Anything’s possible.
The cute waitress drops off our drink order.
Chris’s eyes follow her as she scurries away. He says he’s recently divorced from his wife of fifteen years. “Unfortunately, we never had any children.”
“I don’t picture you the fatherly type,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m not the same hombre from the seventies, you know. I regret not having a family. But I have a great career.”
“You’re some type of doctor?”
“You might call me a pop-psychologist.” He grabs the Bud and guzzles it down.
“Like Dr. Phil?”
He beams. “Kinda like that.”
“No offense meant to the female gender,” he says. “I just spend day in and day out listening to ladies’ problems. There’s never a shortage of bitches whose dudes have dumped them. A recession-proof business.”
Ben was right. He’s crazy. I feel sorry for those poor lambs hiring the wolf. Dr. Reynolds, my ass.
He clicks a few buttons on his smart phone. “Wanna see my fiancée?” He hands me the cell. The photo showcases a buxom blonde in her late thirties.
So ef’n predictable. I try not to roll my eyes. “She’s very pretty.”
“I’m not robbing the cradle, Laila. She’s almost forty.”
I hand him back the phone.
The waitress takes our food order, enchiladas de camarón for me, carne adovada for Chris. He requests a bottle of José Cuervo and two shot glasses.
“I’ll stick to Chardonnay.”
“Oh, come on, loosen up. For old time sakes.”
Against my better judgment, I agree. “One shot. But that’s it. I have to go back to work.” No way would I return to the office, but I’m not about to tell Chris that. Inhale, exhale . . .
He takes a gulp of his beer and places his hands flat on the table. “Can ya find it in your heart to forgive me and Ben for taking off?”
The waitress arrives with the bottle of tequila, salt-covered shot glasses, and limes.
“It’s past history,” I say. “I’m over it.”
Chris pours us each a shot. The liquid burns as it rides down my throat, but the buzz tames the anxiety building in my stomach. It works quicker than Yoga. I ask him what he thought of Juanita.
He darts his eyes around the bar to gauge whether anyone is within earshot. The three construction workers at the next table are speaking in Spanish. “That hot little private eye knows a lotta shit.” He leans forward and pours us each another shot.
“I’ve had enough,” I say.
“You’re gonna need it, honey, when I tell you the news.”
I take his advice and down another shot, bracing myself for the worst.
His pupils glow. “That Juanita bitch thinks Joey was murdered. She’s calling in the FBI.”
“Denise said it wasn’t an accident in her suicide note. But murder?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair. “There’s things you don’t know about that night, Laila.”
I rapidly feel sober. “Like what?”
“Ben . . . did some shit.”
“What are you talking about?”
We sit in silence for a few tense moments. Chris hunches his shoulders and his eyes glaze over. “Who the fuck did your friend Joey think he was dealing with?”
His snide tone frightens me. “What are you talking about?”
“The suitcase he stole. He screwed the family big time. Ruined our cash cow marijuana business.”
It takes me a minute to recall the suitcase fiasco through the tunnel of time and tequila. And then it all comes back to me as though it happened yesterday. “Joey explained everything to you and Ben when I brought him over to the house that night.”
“I remember the fat fuck’s lame explanation,” he says.
I remind Chris that Angel’s friend had put a gun to Joey’s head and forced him to take the suitcase to New Mexico.
Chris pounds his fist on the table. “We were indebted to Angel for losing that suitcase.
“Angel’s the one who played you, not Joey.” Like you played me.
“Bullshit. We’d been doing business with the dude for years.”
I realize there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. Not then, not now.
He winces. “Do you have any idea what was in the plaid suitcase you brought home from New Mexico?”
I whisper, “Marijuana. Not the shiniest moment of my life.” I remind myself I was just seventeen.
He guzzles the rest of his beer. “Ben and I tried to warn you when we dropped you off at JFK that night.”
I recall them yelling something at me as they drove off. “Warn me about what?”
Spittle forms at the corners of his mouth. “What do you know about PCP?”
I shrug. “It was a psychedelic drug in the sixties, I guess.”
“PCP is the common name for the chemical phencyclidine. We used to call it the peace pill in Berkeley.”
“Why should I care?”
“Pay attention, Laila. Angel was one of the early distributors. Back in the day they sold it as a crystalline powder. It made people too fucked up, so its usage dried up in the mid-sixties. Angel went back to dealing weed. He sent me and Ben home to Bridgeport to sell kilos to the U.B. students. Then things got too hot for him in Berkeley.”
“So he moved to Taos,” I say.
“Where he recreated a new form of PCP that you smoke. Have you ever heard it called ‘angel dust?’” Chris asks.
“I guess.”
“Google it. It’s named after our compadre Angel, who invented it. That’s what you brought home in the suitcase.”
“That can’t be.” But why would Chris lie about it now?
Chris’s voice softens. “Joey
went crazy on it that night before Kent State.”
“And jumped out the window,” I say.
“Not exactly,” Chris says in a hushed voice.
The blood drains from my face. “What are you saying?”
“Who gives a shit now?” Chris says.
“I give a shit. Joey’s family gives a shit.” For years I’ve had dreams about Mrs. Costello desperately searching for her lost son. Her only son. Her only child. Ben and Chris had convinced me Joey’s death was a drug-induced accident. Had they lied? There’s always more with those two. Layers of bullshit to peel away to get at the truth. I feel a migraine coming on with a vengeance.
The waitress arrives with our food order. The aroma of the Mexican dishes is intoxicating, but neither Chris nor I touch the food on our plates.
Chris clutches my wrist with his hand. “I forgot how green your eyes are.”
For crissakes, he’s flirting now. “Please. Continue with what happened.”
He releases my wrist. “I shouldn’t tell you any more.”
Could he actually be on the level? “We’re all in this together,” I say. “You can trust me.”
“I told you I’m divorced. Ben and Luanne were having an affair the last three years of my marriage,” he says.
“What does that have to do with that night?” Hello.
He tugs at his mustache. “If I held him accountable for all the girlfriends of mine he screwed . . .”
I fake a cough.
“Of all the girls, you were the biggest disappointment to me. I believed you were something special.”
Has he known about Ben and me all along? Why is he bringing this up in another century? “I-I thought it was you in that dark attic.”
He transmits an acidic stare. “You think I give a shit? It was a million years ago.”
I have no idea if he cares or not. He’s downed at least two more shots of José Cuervo. His eyes are wild. Ben’s warning echoes in my ears. He’s totally nuts.
He touches my hand. “I want to believe I can trust you now.”
I let him rub my palm with his fingers, feeling like I’m prostituting myself to allow him such a personal gesture. “For Godsakes, what happened that night?”
“I do trust you, Laila. Even if you slept with Ben.”
“Have we gone full circle here? I thought you didn’t care.”
He produces a pinched smile. “Just playing with you, baby. Where did we leave off?”
“The night I brought Joey and Denise to your house, I went to pick up my friend Katie at the airport. What happened while I was gone?”
He rakes his hands through is hair. “As I recall, we were all in the living room. Your friend Denise cozied up next to me on the couch. I tried to move over, I mean, she was your roommate and I wasn’t digging the attention. Ben kept refilling the pipe with the angel dust you brought back from New Mexico.”
“Please stop saying I brought it back.”
“Sorry, but it’s true, sweetheart.”
“Did Denise know what she was smoking?”
He looks at his hands. “I don’t remember if we told her or not.”
Of course not. I shake my head in disgust.
Chris continues, “No one knew what the hell was going on. Ben suggested a game of strip poker. We played a few hands. Everyone was laughing except Joey who sat in his jockeys with a sour face. Denise lost the next hand and took off her blouse. Her tits were staring me in the face.”
I roll my eyes at him. “TMI, Chris.”
“What?”
“The breasts. Too much information.”
“Sorry. Anyways, I started to get real paranoid and went into the kitchen. Ben followed me in there and asked if I wanted to mess with Joey’s head. I told him we didn’t need trouble. And then I must have passed out.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I’ve got no reason to lie to you.” Chris says. “The next thing I remember was waking up on the linoleum floor. People were yelling and banging shit up in the attic. The voices grew goddamn deafening so I ran upstairs to see what was going on. Denise and Ben were buck-naked in my bed. Joey was yelling, ‘You’re screwing my girl.’ He kicked Ben in the chest.”
Chris pours us each another shot of tequila, downs his shot, and says, “Denise screamed for Joey to calm down, but he got Ben in a headlock and started choking him.”
I feel nauseated as the story unfolds. Is Chris lying?
“I tried to pull him off of Ben,” Chris says, “but the big guy was too strong. Ben’s eyes were popping outta his head like ping pong balls, and he was gasping for breath. Finally, I peeled Joey’s hands off of Ben’s neck and told him to chill out. For a minute he seemed okay. I offered my hand to help him stand up. Then, he turned around and punched me in the face, knocking me back against the wall by the window. I saw stars and my lip was bleeding. When I looked up, Joey had a broken beer bottle in his hand and was running toward Ben. Next thing I knew, Ben pushed him out the window.” Chris’s whole face and neck are dripping with sweat. He grabs a napkin from the table and uses it to dry himself.
My hands are shaking so badly I knock a glass of water off the table. Ice cubes scatter everywhere. I sputter, “You’re saying Ben killed him?”
“Look at me, Laila.”
I gaze into bloodshot-blue eyes that seem sincere. But what do I know? He and Ben have played me for years.
“He fucking pushed him out the window.” Tears stream down his swollen face.
“In self-defense?”
“I guess. But you see, Laila, if the FBI opens up the case I’m afraid Ben’s gonna say I did it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You don’t think he wants to rot in prison?”
I have no idea what to believe. I glare at him. “Why did Denise specifically say to ask you what happened to Joey in her suicide note?”
“I’m the only one besides her and Ben who knows the truth. She knew Ben sure as hell wasn’t gonna implicate himself.”
His logic makes sense. But there’s something else I recall Mrs. Manelo telling me when we were in Denise’s bedroom. “Did you know Denise lived in Tucson in the seventies?”
“Shit yeah.” He half-smiles. “She was living with me and Ben.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Easy Rider
Taos, New Mexico, 1970
The guy in the passenger seat of the Mercedes ordered Joey and me to get into the back seat of the car. He had a bushy mustache streaked with grey and a sparkling diamond stud in his ear. He brushed my cheek with his finger and said, “I’m Angel,” then poked the driver’s arm. “Get a move on.” I caught the driver winking at me in the rearview mirror and realized it was Rojo.
“You got it, boss.” Rojo said, and stepped on the gas pedal.
I clung to the plush leather seat as Rojo sped the car down the icy roads. Angel turned up the volume of the radio and sang along to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” in an off-key raspy voice. When the song ended, he leered at me through rimless spectacles. “So, what’s a nice girl from Long Guyland doing with a couple of assholes like Ben and Chris?”
Did he know I’d been with both of them? Did everyone know? “I-I guess I’m not as nice as you might think.”
Angel laughed. He had perfect white-chicklet teeth and a sexy smile. “You’re cute, honey, even if you have little boobies.”
My jaw dropped. I peeked down at my chest. No way could he see the size of my breasts through the peacoat. Ben must have had a little chat with him about me. She’s a small-titted girl from Long Island, but she’s slept with both me and Chris. Ha, ha, ha.
Joey cleared his throat. “Laila’s a classy chick. Too good for those dudes, if you ask me.”
Angel whacked Joey’s head with his hand. Not hard, but enough to show he called the shots. “No one asked you, fuck-face. Let her speak for herself.”
“Chris and Ben are totally far out,” I said.
“You think?” A
ngel said.
I swallowed. “Why else would you do business with them?”
The car fell silent for a tense moment. “Good question, sweetheart. Which one of those two knuckleheads is your ol’ man anyway?” Angel asked.
So he didn’t know. Or maybe this was a test. “Ah, Chris.”
“I would have thought Ben more your type. Is that big-titted chick, what’s her name, still there?”
“Ivy?”
“That’s the one. They sent her out to Berkeley last year. She worked us pretty good.”
I recalled Ivy saying she’d been pressured to sleep with some dude she didn’t like. Angel? No, a guy named Paulie.
Angel lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. “I’m gonna take you to a party like you’ve never seen, baby. Then tomorrow morning Rojo will drive you back to the airport.” He punched Rojo’s arm. “You’ll need to leave town by 6:00 a.m. No partying for you, man. Stay sober, ya hear?”
“Yes, boss,” Rojo said. He sounded so subservient. Was that how people acted with Angel?
Angel twisted back around to me. “All you gotta do is check the suitcase in at the counter and get on the plane. It’s already in the trunk of this car. Can you handle that?”
“You can count on me, sir.”
“Good girl.” He cupped my chin. “You are a cute one. Dennis will like you.”
I didn’t dare ask who Dennis was, as Rojo veered the Mercedes up to a stylish southwestern villa.
We parked amongst BMWs, Porsches, and Cadillacs in the circular drive. When I opened the car door, a gush of snowflakes stung my face and covered my hair. We all dashed out to the front door where a group of people stood in line as though waiting to get into a groovy club. A beefy guy in a muscle shirt sat on a stool at the door. The bitter cold didn’t seem to bother him as he let two chicks dressed in fur coats inside, and turned away a couple of hippie guys in Army-Navy surplus jackets.
Rojo, Joey, and I headed to the back of the line but Angel told us to follow him to the front. He whispered something in the bouncer’s ear, a monster-sized guy who waved his arm at us to go on inside.
“Catch you later, Paulie,” Angel said, and followed us into the enormous entryway of the house.