Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  I refilled the tumbler, took a deep breath, and dialed. And I’ll be damned if the Ancient Mariner himself didn’t pick up L’s phone.

  “Let me talk to my wife,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said let me talk to my wife.” I was agitated. Enough was enough with this motherfucker.

  “Your wife? I’ve got a little news flash for you, Ray—”

  “Give me that.” It was L. She had yanked the phone out of old Graybeard’s mitts. You had to love that. She still had the old spark in her. Yoga hadn’t taken that away.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you, Ray.”

  “I know. I’ve been kind of busy.”

  “Busy being a fugitive, maybe.”

  “I’m not a fugitive,” I said, going on another coughing jag.

  “Raymond, you may recall that I know a thing or two about the law. Trust me when I tell you you’re a fugitive.”

  “I’ve got everything under control,” I spat out.

  “That’s fantastic. You can tell that to all the policemen and reporters back at the house. You’re in a lot of trouble, Ray.”

  “I’m telling you: I’ve got it covered. Everything’s gonna work out a lot better than you think it is, trust me. I’m on the verge of—”

  “You’re on the verge of going to jail, is what you’re on the verge of. If you don’t die first. You sound horrible.”

  This was an excellent sign. She was showing concern.

  “I’m not worried about it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I was surprised Old Man River answered the phone,” I said. “Isn’t it past his bedtime?”

  “Don’t start, Raymond. I will hang up this phone.”

  “Where are you and the Old Rooster at, anyway?”

  “Never you mind where we are. And you’re not getting any younger yourself, mister. At the rate you’re going, your next birthday cake is going to have a file in it.”

  “Good one, Boo.”

  I figured any form of humor, even at my expense, was a good sign, though I needed to shift the conversation away from my legal difficulties and from exposing too much about the plan. I was a rotten secret keeper, a giver of birthday and Christmas presents days too soon, and if I stayed on the phone too long, I could well blow the surprise. Then again, hearing her voice was so sweet, I didn’t dare shorten the conversation. Plus, she hadn’t told me why she wanted to talk to me yet. I walked toward the window. The roller coaster twisted and turned over at New York, New York. People threw their hands in the air. They were having a good time. Why not? You only went around once.

  “Hey,” I said. “If we got back together, do you think we can still beat the Fishers? Or does the divorce screw that up?”

  Right before I got exiled, we saw a story on TV about this couple, Herbert and Zelymyra Fisher, who had gotten married in the 1920s and stayed together eighty-seven years, which was the record for the world’s longest marriage. It was a dream of mine to top it. A long shot, I know, but still.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said.

  “I’ve got a lot to tell you, too.”

  “Listen. Boyd and I—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Hold on just a sec,” I said.

  I walked over and opened it. It was room service. They had the wrong suite. I shooed the guy away and strolled back to the window. “Sorry about that. It was room service.”

  “I’d ask what you were doing, but I really don’t want to know,” she said in that new tone of hers that wasn’t all that new. “I got a series of strange messages from someone named Coco, by the way. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say,” she said.

  “I’m in Vegas right now.”

  “Another stellar decision. Nice, Ray.”

  “It is nice. See, I finally got that money from the old man—”

  “I am not talking about your father. I forgive you. I pray for you. But I cannot talk about that. Do you understand?”

  “I wish you’d let me explain.”

  “I’m going to hang up this phone if you say another word about it,” she said, and she meant it. I was already kicking myself for having brought it up.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “Do we understand each other?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good, then,” she said.

  “But can I tell you one thing? About the frogman coming out of the lake? I’ve been dreaming about him, and it may mean something important.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “OK. OK. Jesus.” I took a swig from the tumbler. Changed course. “Want to talk about the Bible?”

  “No, I do not want to talk about the Bible. Why on earth would I want to talk about the Bible?”

  “Because you’re into that kind of thing ever since you met Father Phil.”

  “His name is not Father Phil. Father Phil is a television character.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  There was silence on the other end. I shouldn’t have mentioned Father Phil, either. I needed to shut up. Or stick with something I knew.

  “I’ve been getting back into Warren Zevon,” I said. “He has very unique characters in his songs, don’t you think?”

  More silence. Stolen-journal references weren’t smart. C’mon, Ray.

  “I told you I took personality tests for us, right? We’re total opposites. And I took a life expectancy test. I’m going to live till ninety-one. I tried doing one for you, but I didn’t have all of the answers health-wise. I texted you about it.”

  Nothing.

  “You seen any good movies lately?”

  “No,” she finally offered.

  “That’s because you haven’t been with me,” I said cheerfully.

  “I don’t want to talk about the movies.”

  “You love talking about the movies.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Does Boyd like them? Or does he miss the silent ones he grew up with?”

  “I’m getting married, Ray.”

  I’ve been accused many, many times of hearing what I want to hear. Usually by L, come to think of it. What I wanted to hear in this case was “I want to get married again, Ray,” which meant “I want to get married to you again, Ray,” which meant “We’re still married, Ray.” I swear I heard it that way.

  “That’s so great,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “The same way as what? What are you talking about?”

  “I feel like we’re still married, too,” I said.

  There was silence for a second or two. It was nice. I basked in it.

  “I’m getting married to Boyd.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m marrying Boyd. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I felt like I owed you that much. I felt like I owed you this conversation. So we can finally have closure.”

  “Closure?” I mumbled.

  “Yeah,” she said very, very softly. Sweetly. Her old voice. “Closure.”

  I didn’t say anything for I don’t know how long. I just stared at all the brake lights blinking on and off and on and off up and down the boulevard. Where was everyone going? Where was there to go?

  “Boo?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. But you need to accept this.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  And it didn’t. It couldn’t. I had a million and a half dollars. I had a plan. And she was my wife. Someone else can’t marry your wife. It doesn’t work that way.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re supposed to come back,” I mumbled.

  “You don’t want me back,” she said. “Trust me.”

  “I don’t— Where are you? I’m coming there right now.”

  “You’re not coming anywhe
re,” she snapped. “This is the end of all this craziness. Do you understand me? The end of it. I want you to let this go once and for all. I want you to let me live my life.”

  “I never touched Dawn!” I shouted. “Why won’t you believe me?”

  “I do believe you. This doesn’t have anything to do with that. This is just—this is just what it is. This is where I need to be.”

  “And where exactly is that?”

  “Ray,” she said, and then I heard her say five minutes very softly to someone else.

  “Put that old bag of bones on the phone!”

  “No, I will not put him on the phone,” she said. “This doesn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “That decrepit old poacher steals my wife, and it doesn’t have anything to do with him? Are you insane? Put him on the goddamn phone.”

  “Ray, you keep talking like that and I will hang up on you. I don’t want this conversation to end like that.”

  “I don’t understand this,” I said. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. And if you don’t turn yourself in, you’ll be arrested at the airport anyway.”

  “Why?” And I meant that. A guy like me didn’t belong in jail. That made no sense.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Where are you? L? Where are you? I want to know where you are.”

  She didn’t say anything. I wish I could tell you what I was feeling then, outside of waves of panic and confusion, but I can’t. Panic and confusion don’t let you feel anything but panic and confusion. They own you.

  “You were born to be with me,” I said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re telling me you were born to be with Old Man River? Mr. Personality is going to take my place? Are you serious? He’s gonna be your Clyde?”

  “We’re not Bonnie and Clyde, Ray.”

  “Sure we are. We said we were.”

  “We said that a million years ago. And even Bonnie and Clyde weren’t Bonnie and Clyde. She was an uneducated woman in the Depression. Her family was poor. She had no job prospects outside of prostitution. She stayed because she had no options, OK, Ray? It wasn’t a love story. It was pragmatism.”

  I had no idea whether she was right or not, but why spoil the story like that? Why was she being so hateful?

  “You blame me for everything,” I cried. “But I was on tilt.”

  “I was angry. Of course I was angry. But I prayed and prayed, and I’m not angry anymore. I just want to move forward with my life. Be a better person. No one’s to blame. This is just what happened.”

  “How can you be a better person? You’re the best person I know.” Tears started streaming down my face. I didn’t even bother to wipe them.

  “I’m not, Ray. I’m not. I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to change some things.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. We didn’t have to change anything. We were perfect.”

  “That was a lifetime ago. And we weren’t perfect. We were children. Don’t you see how selfish we were? We only did for each other.”

  “Who the hell else were we supposed to do stuff for?” I cried.

  “I can’t get into this with you, OK? I can’t. I just wanted to tell you about me and Boyd. I just wanted to say goodbye to you with a good feeling in my heart. You were my whole life for so long. I’ll never forget you. I’ll carry you everywhere. But this ends for me right now. This part of my life is over.”

  That was too much. I started sobbing. I was wailing so hard I could barely breathe. L didn’t say anything. She didn’t comfort me. Maybe because she had never heard that kind of sound come out of me. I don’t know.

  “This can’t be happening,” I finally choked out.

  “It’s already happened,” she said quietly. “It happened a long time ago.”

  I slumped down against the window. The room got fifty degrees colder. My God. It had already happened, hadn’t it?

  “But—”

  “Goodbye, angel.”

  UP POPS THE DEVIL

  October 30

  . . . one time I even heard bells going off and asked him about it, and he said it was someone from the Salvation Army. I said, “But it’s April,” and he said, “I know. It’s weird, right?” Another time he sounded terrible and wondered if he had seasonal affective disorder. That was in July, which I pointed out. His response? “Can you not get it in July?” How was I supposed to know he was gambling and doing God knows what else? Casinos are the saddest places in the world. It never occurred to me that he’d have any interest in that.

  AFTER SOBBING TO THE POINT of throwing up, popping one too many painkillers, and drinking two full tumblers of Absolut, I tossed on an MGM robe and slippers, put on my Ray-Bans, and shuffled to the elevators like a zombie. Bob Mota found me down on the floor within half a minute (the man was everywhere). He looked me over and said, “Hey, Raoul, how’s your night?” like I was wearing a three-piece suit and not a fucking robe and slippers. Then he led me to a table, gave me a marker for a quarter million in chips, and handed my tumbler to a waitress to refill. There was obviously something very wrong with me, but Mota had a million and a half reasons not to ask questions, and so he didn’t.

  The chips had absolutely no value to me. I might as well have been sitting in front of a stack of peanut shells. The numbers on the cards meant nothing. Eights. Fours. Threes. I stared at them like I had never seen them before. I looked at the haughty little mustache the king of spades was sporting. Who did he think he was? Fuck him. The jack of diamonds gazed at me with weary eyes. What was his problem? He thought he had problems? Did he know what just happened to me? I sat there and looked at all the people playing cards nearby. Chewing their nails over some nickel bet. Praying for good things to happen. Celebrating minor detours on the road to the inevitable. What were they doing there? What did they think was going to happen? Didn’t they understand what a rigged game looked like? Didn’t they understand what a gross waste of time it all was? Didn’t they know that you’re supposed to take vacations to places of great beauty? Places touched by history and the imprint of true human endeavor? Places where you could learn something? Be astonished? Feel a sense of genuine possibility and community? What were they doing gathering in a rancid man-made shithole that appealed to the least original impulses in the human race? Didn’t any of them know that the story always ended up the same way? Didn’t anyone have any interest in saving themselves? Didn’t they know that almost any endeavor in life was a better use of their time and resources than sitting at a stupid felt-covered table? And what the hell kind of material was felt, anyway?

  I sat there and drank vodka like it was water and did whatever struck me at the time. Sometimes it was to play right, to hit and stick like I was supposed to, and other times it was to do the unthinkable, just to see how it felt. Which it didn’t. Nothing did. You could have cattle-prodded me and I wouldn’t have flinched. I stood on 7. Hit on 19. Doubled on 14. I played one hand at a time, $10,000 a hand. The dealers looked to the pit bosses whenever I asked for a card on an 18 or sat pat with an 8, and the pit bosses shrugged and acted like they didn’t see what was going on. I never said a word to the dealers. When people who recognized me from my big run walked by and said, “Hey, Raoul!” I ignored them. Who were they? Did they know about L and Boyd? Were they trying to rub it in?

  When my tumbler got empty, I’d silently hand it to the waitress, and she’d fill it. Every twenty minutes or so Bob Mota would ask if I wanted to take a break, if I was feeling all right, and I’d tell him I was fine. He didn’t know what the hell had gotten into me, and he didn’t care. If you live in Vegas long enough, chances are that you’ve seen everything there is to see many times over, and if some wack job in a robe wants to hit 19 on a $10,000 bet, then, well, so be it. Plus, what did he care about my motivations? What did he care if my life was over? He wanted the Grand’s money back. He would have let me sit there stark naked, blowing a kazoo
, if I was going to make it that easy.

  When I got bored with blackjack, I wandered over to the baccarat salon and put $10,000 on one hand, even though I had forgotten how to play. A couple of Japanese guys in tuxedos looked at me like I was insane. After losing a quick ten Gs there, I put another ten on a hand of Caribbean stud poker, which I had forgotten how to play as well. I carried my plastic rack through the casino, stopping wherever it struck me. I put $10,000 on a counter in front of a giant wheel that looked like it belonged on the boardwalk. As I watched it spin ’round and ’round, I thought of the summers in Point Pleasant with L. The Bloody Marys on the deck of the Parker House. The nights dancing to the Springsteen cover band at Jenks by the Sea. The rainy afternoons drinking Rolling Rock and playing bumper pool at the Broadway on Randall Avenue. All the long, deep kisses in the glow of Ferris wheel lights. Tears were streaming down my face. The dealer looked at Bob Mota and Manny C., who had appeared and was following me like he was in the Secret Service. They shrugged as the wheel spun and clicked and spun and clicked. I leaned on the counter and wiped my face as the wheel finally stopped. I stared at it. “Did I win?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” I said. “It’s all right. No one’s to blame.”

  I told Mota and Manny that I wanted to throw some dice and shuffled off to the nearest craps table in my robe and slippers, easing in among a small group at the south end of the oval. It was a $5-limit table, but Mota whispered to the box man and told me to go ahead and play whatever I liked. I signed another $250,000 marker. By that point, I could barely stand. I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel anything. The painkillers were overwhelming me, so I purposefully smashed my cast on a drink shelf on the underside of the table. That I could feel. That got the blood flowing. Then people started in on me. Commenting about my sunglasses. My robe. Calling me Howard Hughes. A group of frat boys at the end of the table kept asking to borrow money. I went from being on the verge of passing out to the edge of killing somebody. I felt aggressive all of a sudden. Unreasonably angry. I felt like everyone was on Boyd Bollinger’s side somehow. That they had all been working against me. The frat boys especially. So I called Mota and Manny C. over. “Tell those Sigma Nu fuckers to beat it or I’m going to the Mirage.”