by Jack Ketchum
Thanks to Dale Meyers Cooper.
The Business
The cockroach was not too big but it was coming right at him, moving in that drunken way they have, a little to the left, a little to the right, appropriate in this place, moving past Mama’s beer spill on a trajectory that would take it directly yet indirectly to his Scotch.
“Hey, Billy,” he said to the barman. “pass me another napkin, will ya?”
Billy didn’t like him. Howard knew that. He couldn’t have cared less. He got service because he left a decent tip, and that was that. Billy handed him the cocktail napkin.
Howard squished the bug. If you had a potato chip stuffed with onion dip, that was what it felt like.
Mama didn’t notice. First, she was busy talking to his brother Norman and his bimbo soon-to-be-wife girlfriend Sonya, and second, Mama was going blind as a stump, bless her.
He balled up the napkin and set it on the lip of the bar for Billy to throw away, one less bug in the Apple, and sipped his Scotch and listened.
They were talking about the building over on 71st between Columbus and Central Park West. There was a major problem with the plumbing there. One of the tenants had been watching television two nights ago when the wall behind the television started to balloon out at him like some huge sudden off-white zit, and then it started to trickle. It had been necessary for Gonzales to turn off all the water in the building while they knocked in the bedroom wall and then the bathroom wall behind it in order to get at the pipes. All this at eight o’clock at night no less. People wanting to cook, wanting to shower, wanting to do the dishes. Tenants were screaming.
They’d have screamed a lot louder if they’d gotten a look at the poor guy’s pipes.
And at their own.
So now his mother and Norman were talking plumbing contractors, and, personally speaking, Howard was bored to tears. Because the decision on who to hire, finally, was not going to be Norman’s in any case. Not this time. Not anymore. There was no point discussing it.
Sorry, big brother.
Sure I am.
“Hey, Mama,” he said. “Enough with the business. It’s Mother’s Day. It’s a party. We came here to enjoy ourselves, right?”
She turned to him and smiled and patted his hand. He thought Mama had a real nice smile.
When her teeth were in.
“You’re right, sonny,” she said.
He hated it when she called him sonny, but she did it all the time. It was ridiculous. He was pushing fifty for God’s sake, practically bald, he had problems with his cholesterol and his blood pressure. He had weathered two divorces. And now the big guy down at the end of the bar, the Texan or Southerner or whatever the hell he was who always wore the same baseball cap and fishing vest like he was about to go pull some pike out of the Raritan or some damn place was looking at him and snickering. Because Mama had called him sonny. He hated sonny.
But it was Mama.
And you had to love Mama.
It was impossible, in fact, for him to even stay mad at her very long. Even when she was treating him like some idiot who would never have half a head for business while his brother Norman got treated almost like the second coming of Nate, their father—with that much respect. It happened sometimes.
Even then he couldn’t stay mad at her. Because, unlike Norman, and unlike their dear dead pain-in-the-butt father, Mama always encouraged him in what he did do.
Which, granted, wasn’t much.
What Howard did was he invested in shows. Off-Broadway shows mostly, especially the cabaret type that were big these days in the supper clubs. Like Forbidden Broadway and Forever Plaid, though he didn’t have a piece of either of these—God knows he wished he had. No, the shows he backed had names like Spike’s Stiletto-Heel Review and Recession Drag. Some made money and some didn’t. Most didn’t. But they kept him busy. And Mama had encouraged him.
So you had to love Mama.
His brother Norman was a whole other matter.
Look at him, he thought. The cheapskate. Standing at the bar drinking well-whiskey in the cheapest joint on Columbus Avenue.
The guy was worth over thirty million dollars.
He’d checked.
“We haven’t even ordered yet,” said Mama. “Come on. Let’s order.”
The bartender handed them each a menu.
Silence as they studied the cuisine. Buffalo wings and onion rings and fries. Chicken fingers. Burgers and clubs and reubens. Oh yeah. And the Mother’s Day Special Brunch Menu at eight ninety-five, all the Freixinet you could guzzle straight up or mimosa included.
Damn cheapskate.
It was Mother’s Day for God’s sake!
And Mr. Big Spender says last night at dinner that he’s taking them all out for brunch, his treat, how about that! And Mama’s delighted of course—and then they wind up here.
Mama didn’t seem to mind.
She seemed quite happy in fact.
He minded.
He’d been minding for a long time, and now, finally, he was doing something about it. The wheels were in motion. He’d greased the skids.
Norman was going to fall.
Outside the big plate-glass window the girl of his dreams cruised by on rollerskates, a moment’s suggestion of what for Howard was the promise of eternal grace, and was gone.
You could keep your Sonyas, your blond big-breasted short-waisted Little-Annie-Fannies of this world—Howard’s tastes were more refined. His notion of a thing of true beauty was five feet, ten inches tall or taller—though he himself was only five-six—long in the leg and in the neck, delicate of wrist and hand, small-breasted, slim-hipped, and young. Especially young. Your basic fashion-model infanta.
And he would have her. He’d have her soon.
He got flushed just thinking about it.
Nobody noticed.
He glanced at Sonya. Her eyes all squinty, puzzling over the one-page menu.
Sonya was pushing thirty. And not his type. Still it galled him that Norman was older and fatter and even more bald than he was and yet he had this younger woman, this considerably younger woman, this slightly aging bunny in fact—who was willing to marry him. While Howard remained womanless.
Except, of course, for Mama.
It was all about money. He knew that. Norman had the woman because Norman had the money, the buildings and the business all controlled by him, his father’s will had set it up that way—with Howard granted a certain amplitude of hard cash but no sure way of turning it into more. While Norman had ten brownstones and four high-rise apartments up his sleeve at all times.
No fair.
“I’ll have the Special,” said Mama. “Two eggs over easy, the bacon, the toast, and the home fries. Oh, and a mimosa, please.”
Billy scribbled it down.
“The Special,” said Sonya. “Western omelette, ham, toast, fries, and a glass of just the regular . . . you know . . . the champagne. I mean, no OJ. You know?”
“Make mine the same,” said Norman. He hugged her, smiling. She wrapped her tanned, firm naked arm around his waist, hugged him back, and giggled.
They were bonding over a western omelette.
My God.
“Steak and eggs,” he said. Billy looked at him. “I know it’s not on the menu. But you must have some kind of steak back there. Tell the cook to broil it medium and give me two eggs over easy and some fries. Green salad on the side. With Roquefort dressing. And forget the champagne. Just keep the Dewar’s coming.”
Mama elbowed him lightly in the ribs, smiling at him conspiratorially. “Spendthrift,” she said.
“Only when it’s on Norman’s tab.”
She laughed and leaned over and kissed his cheek. “He is a little tight, isn’t he, sonny,” she said. She sighed. “But that’s all to the good now, isn’t it.”
He presumed she meant now that he was marrying Sonya. Though it was hard to see how even a shop-till-you-drop clothes-horse like Sonya was going to break No
rman. If she got the opportunity.
Which she wasn’t.
It had actually been very easy to arrange. Even easier to conceive. As a matter of fact it had come to mind right away when Norman announced last month that he and Sonya were going on vacation together, a sort of pre-honeymoon honeymoon. To Mexico.
Mexico, he’d thought immediately. Where life is cheap.
Wasn’t that an ad for some movie or something?
They’d be gone a week, said Norman. Or longer.
Howard was already focusing on the or longer part.
There was a tenant in their 45th Street building in Hell’s Kitchen. His name was Castanza. By trade a painter and a carpenter. Supposedly. He and Mama and Norman had talked about Castanza many times because on two occasions now, police had been over to the office to question Norman about the man’s activities. Had they had any complaints about him? Was he paid up on his rent? What did they know about how he made a living? Had they noticed any significant spending? On the apartment perhaps?
When pressed, one of the investigators suggested—only suggested, mind you, and completely off the record—that they would probably do well to be careful in their dealings with Castanza, that any irregularities in his behavior toward them or any of their tenants should probably be reported immediately to the authorities, that he had been linked—not conclusively linked, but linked—to a number of disappearances in various places throughout the city. He and the battered old Ford truck he drove, which the meter maids kept ticketing constantly outside the building.
They’d noticed nothing and heard nothing but the suggestion stuck, distressing and sort of thrilling.
Castanza was possibly dangerous.
Possibly even a killer.
Castanza was from Mexico City.
A wholly conscienceless killer, Howard found, who worked for hire and actually worked pretty modestly. He was already down there. Waiting for Norman’s flight, the red-eye out of Kennedy this evening.
So that what Norman and Sonya would find down there was not the Mexico City of green expansive parks, monuments and plazas, of cappuccino in chic cafés and romantic moonlight strolls. What they would find down there was death.
He did not know where or how. He did not care to know. That was up to Castanza. The man had assured him that in Mexico it would not be difficult to make it appear drug related or perhaps brujo related—a touch of Santeria. Did he have a preference?
He did not.
The man knew Norman well and had no love for his landlord. Maybe that was why Howard was getting the price he was getting. Sonya he didn’t know at all—but Sonya was just window dressing anyway, she was nada, just some woman who’d be traveling with Norman.
By next week, the business would belong to him.
A begrudging provision of Nate’s will.
Nate would be turning over in his grave right about now. Mentally, Howard gave him the finger. The men in his family had always been prize bastards, and his Dad was no exception.
Howard was looking at his brother for the very last time.
As far as he was concerned it was about time.
It would all be him and Mama now.
That was fine.
He thought all this as the food arrived and they ate—you might even say he savored it.
It was sure much easier to chew than the steak.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” said Norman. His fork clattered noisily to his empty plate. First one started, first one finished. Every time. “You need champagne for this, little brother. Come on. Billy? Set my brother up, will you?”
“I don’t drink champagne,” said Howard. “Especially that stuff. You know that.”
“One glass won’t kill you. I want to make a proper toast here, all right? Gimme a break.”
Norman was smiling, his lips still greasy from the eggs and fries, and flecked with crumbs of toast. It was amazing to Howard that his mother had given birth to something so repulsive.
He guessed he might as well go along with it, though.. It was a holiday, right?
“Okay,” he said. “One glass. You got anything better than that?” he asked the barman.
Billy shrugged. “I can give you a split of Korbel Brut.”
“Jesus. Yeah, okay.”
The bartender popped open the bottle and poured, then freshened Mama’s, Norman’s, and Sonya’s glasses with the Freixinet. Howard gulped the dregs of his Scotch, and they raised their glasses.
“To my brother,” Norman said.
“Huh?”
“To you.”
“It’s Mother’s Day. What’s to toast me for?”
And then all three of them were smiling, looking at him.
Oh, cute, he thought. I got some kind of conspiracy going here.
“It’s a surprise,” said Norman. “Believe me, you’re going to like it. Drink up. Cheers, everybody.”
They drank.
Howard could already imagine the Korbel headache.
“Here’s the story, little brother,” Norman said. “You know that me and Sonya are getting married next month, right? Right. Okay, so the two of us have been talking, and then we talked it over with Mama, and . . . well, the point is I’m not getting any younger, you know? Not that I’m all that much older than you are but the point is I’m not getting any younger, right? and Sonya and me, we’re sick of the city. Crowds, hassles, dirt. Remember we were in Barbados last year? We keep thinking Barbados, Sonya and me. Now I know you’ve always wanted to run the business but Dad’s will being Dad’s will, it was always me who ran the business. But I tell you, I got plenty of money, I got plenty of investments, hell I’ll be dead before I spend it all! So guess what, I’m giving it to you.”
“Giving me . . . ?”
“The business, you shmuck!” he laughed. “I’m giving you the business!”
“Isn’t that wonderful, sonny!” said Mama. She leaned over and kissed him. Norman held out his hand.
“Congratulations, little brother.”
Howard shook his brother’s hand. His dead brother’s hand.
He considered his options.
There weren’t many.
There was no way to call off Castanza. He didn’t even know where or how to reach the man. Norman’s tickets were already paid for and short of Mama having a stroke or a heart attack right there at the bar, nothing anybody said or did—especially anything he said or did—was going to keep him and Sonya from climbing on that plane in four hours. Unless, of course, Howard were to admit to what he’d done.
If he admitted to what he’d done, he certainly wouldn’t be getting the business. In fact, Norman was perfectly capable of having his ass thrown in jail. He wouldn’t have blamed him.
His options were . . . limited.
Sorry, Norm, he thought. Who’d have guessed you’d turn soft over a blonde after all these years of hardball.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I’m . . . I guess I’m overwhelmed, Norman. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, little brother. The transfer papers’ll be on your desk in the morning. You’re somebody’s landlord now, buddy. Enjoy yourself.”
Sonya came over and kissed his cheek.
She smelled of Tigress and fried eggs.
Mama gave him a hug.
“You’ll do a wonderful job. I know you will, sonny.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
Over her shoulder he saw Norman check his Rolex.
“We better get going now, Mama,” he said. “We got to get you packed up.”
“Huh?”
Norman sighed. “Right, we forgot to tell you. Sonya’s mom and Dad are coming in tomorrow, her mother’s sister’s in St. Luke’s. What is it, Sonya, colonostomy?”
“Colostomy.”
“Colostomy. So anyway, Sonya can’t go. So I invited Mama.”
“You invited Mama? To Mexico?”
Norman laughed. “Sure, to Mexico. Where am I going, Hoboken? Mama’s never seen it and I
figured what the hell, it’s either that or eat the tickets and why not.”
“You’ll have a great time,” said Sonya.
“I’m sure we will,” said Mama, smiling. “I haven’t been anywhere with one of my boys in twenty years. Of course we will!”
Castanza doesn’t know her, thought Howard. Not even a description. Castanza said the woman was nada. Just somebody traveling with Norman. Window-dressing.
My God, Mama!
Mama who had supported him, raised him, encouraged him. Who had, by marrying Nate forty-two years ago in the first place, then bearing two children in the second place, handed him his goddamn life!
He considered his options.
They were very much the same options he had considered when it was only Norman and Sonya he was worrying about. So it didn’t take him long, just a moment or so while he pushed aside the half-empty champagne glass and signaled to Billy for another Dewar’s rocks, one that he supposed would be the first of many—though it was still four hours to flight time, and he knew he’d have to be careful on the drinking.
He knew he shouldn’t be too drunk when they boarded.
Norman wouldn’t care.
But Mama would worry.
Mother and Daughter
When my father left, my mother covered all the mirrors.
My father was a jazz pianist and a good one. Maybe too good.
“He hears too much,” my mother said to us once. “It’s driving him crazy.”
She would have been the one to know.
But it was true. My father heard everything. Taking in a conversation halfway across a crowded restaurant was nothing for him. Riding down the highway he could hear the wind in the trees over the grumbling of his car and my mother’s backseat driving. Most people sleep through a night’s gentle rain. My father couldn’t. He had perfect pitch and could reproduce a seagull’s call or a blackbird’s on the piano, a percussive instrument no less, so well that my sister and I knew exactly which was which. He could play the theme from Picnic on one hand and the theme from Gone with the Wind on the other simultaneously.