Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  “But there’s a million and a half people in there,” I said as a couple of girls stumbled out onto Beale Street and vomited at exactly the same time. Their timing might have been impressive if it weren’t so depressing.

  “Already called last call.”

  I looked at the bouncer. He had “failed offensive lineman at a D-3 school” written all over him. The kind of beefy guy who went to the gym every day but refused to do cardio or anything involving the lower body. I handed him a hundred, which he held up to the light.

  “Enjoy,” he said before hollering “You bitches need to move it along” to the girls who were puking. No fewer than half a dozen people videotaped the retching. They must have been related to the Sarge.

  I worked my way through the crowd. A house band massacred Marshall Tucker’s “Heard It in a Love Song” with the help of a hundred mewling drunks. Strangers sucked face. Pools of stale beer and cocktails covered the floor. It was the first time I can remember being somewhere and feeling old. I looked for Benny Fowler. For the Hope Fortescu Quintet of Hate. It was nearly impossible to navigate the chaos, so I texted Renée to make sure I was at the right place: “Still Wet Willie’s?”

  She responded with a picture of Beth McCarthy, Hope Fortescu, Fiona Sweeney, Suzanne Deak, and Claire Hamilton arm in arm at the bar, slushy rum drinks in their hands and sloppy smiles on their aging, traitorous faces. They all looked just a few years away from entering their frosted-bob period.

  I worked my way through the crowd, ordered a vodka pineapple, handed the exhausted bartender a hundred when she said she had already made last call, and then glanced down to the end of the bar. Jackpot. All five of them were there, hammered, posing for more pictures. There was no way they’d recognize me, but what was I supposed to do next? I needed an Ally. I slammed my drink and ordered another, giving the bartender another C-note, and then turned to a girl with a lip ring who was standing next to me, failing to get the bartender’s attention. She was attractive, in her late twenties, had some bad ink, and was sweating like Ralph Fiennes at the end of The English Patient.

  “Fucking bitch,” she said, glaring at the bartender, who wouldn’t serve her.

  I slid my drink in front of her. “What’s mine is yours,” I said.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” she said, taking a swig without any concern that a strange guy had just handed her a drink. “I was fixin’ to go off on that bitch.”

  I smiled. Took a sip for myself.

  “We’re inside, you know,” she said, referring to my shades.

  “I’ve got an eye condition.”

  “Oh, shoot. Pinkeye? I had it in college. It was no joke. ’Preesh on sharing the drink. Gentlemen are going outta style. I’m Jade, by the way.”

  “You want to make some easy money, Jade?”

  “What?”

  “How do you feel about making some easy money?”

  She glared at me. “Girl takes a free drink and she’s Polly Prostitute? She’s the town whore?”

  “I don’t think you’re the town whore at all. I’m just trying to get some information,” I said, peeling off two hundreds and putting them on the bar. She dropped the attitude the second she got a look at the money. “See those five girls down there?”

  “The ones havin’ the photo shoot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’chall want with them?”

  “I need to find out what they’re doing in Memphis. Actually, I know what they’re doing here, but I can’t ask them myself. I can’t go into it. Basically, there’s a wedding, and they’re going to it, and I need to know when and where it is.”

  “They look like Yankees,” she said, giving them a once-over.

  “They are.”

  She pulled on her sleeveless flannel shirt. It was drenched. “Why you want to know about this wedding?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Just buddy up to them. You obviously have a great personality, so it should be easy,” I said, laying it on a little thick and pulling out an extra hundred. “Here. Take this and buy them a round. She’ll serve you.”

  “And the other two hundy is mine?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just find out about the wedding and report back.”

  “Okey-dokey, smoky,” she said, scooping up the cash and heading toward the girls.

  I tried to stare straight ahead, play it cool, but a quick glance down the bar revealed that Jade had made fast friends. She and Hope Fortescu had their arms around each other, and they were all toasting with shots of Jägermeister. Sure, I thought, treat a total stranger like Lady Di risen, but bury alive a guy you’ve known for fifteen years.

  After about five minutes, Jade made her way back to me.

  “Whattya got?” I said.

  “OK, first of all? They’re amazing. Especially Hope. She’s so sweet.”

  It was all I could do not to tell her what a vindictive, duplicitous viper Hope Fortescu was, not to mention what a lousy judge of character Jade herself had turned out to be.

  “They’re here for a super-secret wedding, like you said. They wouldn’t tell me where it is, but apparently the friend they’re all here to see has some psycho ex-husband stalking her. He just got out of jail or something, and they’re afraid he’s gonna show up, so they all took a vow of silence. It’s very Ya-Ya Sisterhood. They’re Yankees, but they’re all right with me.”

  “I’m sure the ex-husband is neither a psycho or a stalker,” I said. “He’s probably misunderstood and being demonized by people who never really knew him in the first place.”

  “That’s not what Hope says. He’s supposed to be cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, this guy. I was like, y’all are awesome friends to keep a secret like this, so I didn’t want to push it. Can I still keep the money?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Keep it.”

  It was then that I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. It was the possibly trustworthy and possibly not Pete Gaffney, heading for the bathroom. I took my leave of Jade and followed Gaffney to the can, hoping I was right in putting him on my Ally list.

  “Hey, man,” I said, sidling up to the urinal next to where he was taking a leak. It was filled with vomit, naturally, so I stared straight ahead at an advertisement for a local strip club that was hanging over the urinal. There were no fewer than a dozen penises drawn on it. “Hey,” I said again.

  “Dude, I’m taking a fucking whiz over here,” he said, and it wasn’t until then that I remembered what a dick Gaffney was.

  “Pete, it’s Ray.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Ray Parisi,” I whispered.

  He looked over. Managed to see through the hair and glasses. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Ray. Dude. You should not be here.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “In Tennessee? With everyone you know?”

  “Ray, you’re a fucking wanted man. You’re all over the goddamn news. You ought to be worrying about that and not who I’m on vacation with. I mean—Jesus Christ. What the fuck are you thinking, coming down here?”

  “I’m looking for L.”

  “You gotta let it go, man,” he said, zipping up.

  “I know about the wedding, Pete. I just need to know when and where.”

  “Ray, come on. I can’t. You know I can’t. The girls put up the wall. Any breach, and it’s straight to the doghouse.”

  “Just tell me where I can find L, then. I just need to talk to her, and then I’m out of here. I promise.”

  He looked at me. Glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “You didn’t get this from me.”

  “Copy that.”

  “I’m fucking serious, Ray.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I never saw you,” I said, and then I went on a coughing jag that he seemed to find more revolting than the bathroom, which was arguably the most disgusting room in the United States. Amerigo Vespucci wouldn’t have stood for it.

  �
��She’s at Graceland.”

  “What?”

  “She’s at Graceland. Boyd’s a big deal in these—”

  “You know Boyd?”

  “Of course I know Boyd.”

  “How?”

  “Are you serious?” he said.

  “Did he pay for you to be here?”

  “What? Why would he— No. Listen. Boyd’s a big deal in Memphis. Chief of police. The mayor. You name it. They’re staying the night at Graceland. He got some kind of hookup. I don’t know. Listen, Ray. I gotta go. I gotta split. You should get out of here. Turn yourself in. Something.”

  “I’m OK,” I said.

  “You’re not OK. You look like a fucking train wreck.”

  With that, he started to walk out.

  “Wait. Pete?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, turning around. “What now, Ray?”

  “You know who the United States of America is named after?”

  “Amerigo Vespucci. Why?”

  “No reason,” I said. Jesus, even a meathead like Gaffney knew that?

  He shook his head and walked out. I followed suit a few seconds later. The bouncers were making a racket. They wanted everyone gone. As I made my way back to the bar, I pondered just what that Old Rooster was up to. What the fuck was my wife doing in Elvis Presley’s bedroom?

  There was no sign of Jade. At least not where I’d left her. You know where there was a sign of Jade? Down at the end of the bar, with Hope Fortescu and the anti-Ray alliance. I glanced down. She was showing them the money I’d given her, which struck me as a very negative sign, and sure enough, it was, since she pointed right at me. Fucking Jade. What the hell had I ever done to her?

  Claire Hamilton took out her cell and started filming me. Beth McCarthy produced a can of Mace. Fiona Sweeney did a double take, reached into her purse, put on her glasses, and then whispered something to Jade. My cover was blown. Hope Fortescu marched straight to the door, naturally, and got in the bouncer’s ear. He shrugged. She responded by grabbing a cop who was out front and getting in his ear. I watched her gesturing through the window, saw the cop turn, and decided it was time to vamoose. I gave Jade the finger, then headed toward the back door, which led to an alley off of Beale. I made my way back to the main drag, disappeared into the massive, sweaty crowd, and was in the clear in no time.

  I trudged through the Memphis night. My cover in town was blown, and I had no information. It was not the start I was looking for. I walked past FedEx Field and the Gibson guitar factory and away from the lights of Beale. Two people were having sex against the ATM in the SunTrust parking lot. A fistfight broke out directly in front of a one-level brick law office. A loner repeatedly lit M-80s that sounded like atom bombs in a Kroger parking lot. Memphis seemed to be treating the approach of the Fourth of July like it might be the last day on earth. I pulled out my cell and called Renée.

  “Hola!”

  “Renée, it’s Ray.”

  “No duh. Wait, what?”

  “It’s Raoul.”

  “Oh. Obvi. I miss you!”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the suite. That’s OK, right? Bob the dickhead is being all nice to me now. He hooked me up with a massage. But that other guy? Manny? He’s the worst. He’s like that douchey little horse that’s always hanging around with Winnie-the-Pooh and being in a crappy mood.”

  “Great. Listen, I need you to look up Graceland for me.”

  “Coolio. What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Text me whatever info you can, like where people sleep there. Anything like that.”

  “Hold on while I check,” she said. “It’ll take two secs. These robes are the shit, by the way. I totally want to steal one. OK. No. Graceland closes at five o’clock. It doesn’t say anything about sleeping there. There’s no whattycallits. Sleepovers. I don’t think. What a weird-looking house.”

  Mr. Insider with his bullshit connections, I thought. Whenever I thought it was impossible to hate Bollinger more than I did, he pulled another rabbit out of his puckered old ass.

  “OK. Forget Graceland for a second. I tried Wet Willie’s. Anywhere else?”

  “Yepper. You need to check out a disco called Raiford’s. I’ll text you the addy. A lot of people are dancing there. I think it goes after hours. And Raoul? I think you’re a pretty awesome brother to be doing this. Margarita’s really lucky to have you looking out for her.”

  “Has there been any mention of the wedding?”

  “Nope. But Fiona Sweeney wrote ‘Big day tomorrow’ on her Facebook. So it’s like, you know, probably tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Renée. Send me that disco address.”

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n! Hurry back, OK? Or I could come there. I mean, if you need me, just say so.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said.

  An hour later and I was at Raiford’s disco, and if I thought Memphis looked and felt like 1972 before, then Raiford’s drove the idea home with a forty-year-old hammer. White vinyl banquettes. Disco ball. Multiple fog machines. Dance floor with squares lighting up. Sly Stone blasting from the speakers. And an old black man wearing a crown and cape (“King” Raiford himself) spinning the funk. It was a wild scene, with a mixed crowd, more black than white. The place was all kinds of alive, only I wasn’t looking for amusement, for a change, I was looking for information. And the only way I’d get it was to find my sole Ally. As I squinted through the fog, hoping to spot Benny Fowler, a black girl glided up to me and asked me to dance just when Raiford dropped “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ ” on the turntable.

  “Ohhhhhh shit,” the girl said. “Michael before the crazy. Let’s do this.”

  We hit the dance floor, shook it up a little (so much for not being there to have fun), and then a group drifted through the wall of fog, led by a guy with a cleanly shaved head. He looked familiar. And terrible. An Ally who had taken a razor to his dome, for some reason.

  “Benny?”

  He looked up. Didn’t recognize me.

  “Benny. It’s Ray,” I hollered.

  He was loaded. I took off my glasses. That did it. He hugged me harder than I’ve ever been hugged in my entire life.

  “I can’t believe it! Fucking Ray! What happened to your face?”

  “Can we talk, Benny?”

  Suddenly a tap on the shoulder.

  It was Pete Gaffney, looking superior and disappointed. Why was he even there? Since when did any of these people party like this? Weren’t they all parents?

  “Ray, I told you—”

  Someone bumped into him before he could admonish me. Gaffney overreacted, gave a blind shove, and then some more pushing followed, drinks got spilled, the girl I was dancing with started yelling, and in a matter of moments, the Raiford’s dance floor went from the happiest place on earth to Black Friday at Walmart. Bouncers interceded and started herding everyone out to the sidewalk.

  The most aggravated person out there was an older black guy in a mustard-colored suit. He looked almost exactly like Joe Frazier and was waving his clenched left fist around like Smokin’ Joe, threatening all manner of southpaw violence on none other than Gaffney, who got a lot less tough beyond the anonymity of the dance floor. He played the innocent to the bouncers, but the old dude wasn’t having it, and neither were his friends, all of whom were roughly seventy and dressed just as colorfully as he was (it looked like an old pack of Starbursts had decided to go for a night on the town). The posse tried to calm their guy, but he wasn’t having it.

  “I’ll cut a steak off that motherfucker,” he said, pointing at Gaffney, whose cries of “It wasn’t me” were met with indignation by the crowd, most of whom wanted to know why white tourists like Gaffney couldn’t just stay on Beale Street or go back to their hotel bars instead of spoiling everything at Raiford’s.

  “Come on, son,” the old man said, waving his left fist some more. “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

  As if the suit weren’t enoug
h, the guy’s slang was unreal (threatening to “cut a steak” off a man struck me as inspired, and “buy the ticket, take the ride” wasn’t far behind). I’d never heard anything like it. A bunch of people started recording him on their cell phones. They knew everything that came out of the old man’s mouth was gold.

  “The man shined me!” he hollered. “He shined me!”

  “No, I didn’t! I didn’t shine you!” Gaffney squawked, though you could tell he had no idea what that meant. I didn’t, either, but I loved the term, as did Benny Fowler, who had somehow lost all of his hair but not his sense of humor.

  As Gaffney was led toward the curb and an arriving taxi, the Starburst Brigade headed back inside, but not before the old man stopped and tossed one more gem at Gaffney. “I’m a man,” he declared. “I walk down the street. Remember that.”

  “Jesus,” Benny said with a tinge of awe, “he just topped himself.”

  “No question,” I said. “That one was next level.”

  The bouncer opened the cab door for the flustered Gaffney, and out poured Hope, Suzanne, Fiona, Claire, Beth, and Jade (Jesus). Before they could spot me, I grabbed Fowler, and we hustled off into the Memphis night.

  “I’m a man,” he said, following me.

  “You walk down the street.”

  Benny smiled broadly. Gave me another sloppy hug. “That’s right! Shit, I’ve missed you, Ray. Hey—what the fuck happened to your hair?”

  “A better question is what the fuck happened to your hair,” I said. “You looked like a second disco ball in there.”

  “Guy at work’s going through chemo,” he said. “We all shaved our heads in solidarity. Jordy went batshit. She won’t even look at me.”

  “A guy at school?”

  “No. Teaching’s all over. I thought I told you that. I’ve moved up in the world. I’m installing chair lifts in the homes of elderly people who can’t make it up the stairs. It’s like being a mortician, except the clients talk back. Very inspiring stuff.”

  I gazed at his head. It looked awful, but it was a decent thing to do. I thought I should’ve done that for L’s mom when she went through chemo instead of buying board games and trying to get her to act like everything was going to be OK. But I hadn’t. Everything, it seemed, came to me too late.