Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  As the Sarge pointed, the camera swung and captured a sheepish-looking Maurice, peeking out of the motel lobby door. I was a little disappointed that there wasn’t a dog with him, but maybe it was back in the office.

  Unable to eat and having no further interest in exploring the Internet shitshow, I went back to the garage and sat in the car. I had nodded off at the jail, but I hadn’t slept soundly in ages. The last good night’s sleep I’d had was probably with L. I had basically been a walking zombie ever since I started going to bed under the watchful eye of a doomed sea captain, and while I’m not going to blame fatigue for the bad decisions I made before my banishment, I think it contributed to some of the things I did after. They’ve done a lot of studies on this. You’re just not yourself without the proper rest.

  After taking a couple of painkillers, I was out. Completely zonked. I think there’s a good chance I could have slept for three days straight if I hadn’t been woken by a punch in the face.

  “Wake up, Ray Parisi!”

  My aviators cracked and fell off my face. I looked up. Saw a swirl of bright yellow and flashes of red, white, and blue. It was like staring into the sun while being attacked by the American flag. Then I got hit again.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  I managed to get my good hand on the door handle and tumbled out onto the pavement of the parking garage, getting back to my feet while the onslaught continued. What the hell was happening? Was this another bad dream? Did Bing Buli come back for seconds? As with the banging on my door back at the motel, there were a lot of potential candidates for this onslaught.

  “You stinking liar!”

  My attacker finally stepped back. Threw a pair of red Wayfarers at me.

  “Your sister Margarita’s getting married, huh?”

  “Renée—”

  “You don’t even have a sister! Your ex-wife is getting married and you’re on the television and I know who you are, you son-of-a-bitching liar!”

  “Renée. Calm down, for Chrissakes.”

  “I will not calm down!”

  I looked at Renée. She was on tilt. She was either going to fall to the ground and have a breakdown or take the tire iron out of the trunk and bludgeon me to death in a Memphis parking garage.

  “You’re a crazy person and a liar and a stalker, and you’re going to jail!”

  “Hey. I am not a stalker.”

  “Like fun you’re not. I heard them all talking about you and then I saw you on the TV and then they all gathered around the bar and watched it and I listened to everything and your name is not Raoul McNothin’. You used to be a TV guy and you don’t even have a sister and that guy Boyd didn’t kill anybody. You almost killed somebody. You’re the one they want to keep from the wedding. You’re the one who’s going to jail.”

  “Will you just calm down and let me explain?”

  “Oh, hey, Renée, come to Memphis, Tennessee. Come help me save the day. I’m Johnny Nice Guy. I’m Tommy Trust.” She gave me a blistering look. Then she went and picked up her Wayfarers. It seemed to settle her down some. But not a lot. “G’head and talk, Mr. Plastics. Mr. BS.”

  “I—”

  “Why is everyone in the world a liar? Huh? Why does everyone have to treat me like shit? Is it so hard for anyone to tell the fricking truth and be nice?” This was when the tears started to come. “I saw a video of you with kids playing baseball. It had a skillion views. What happened to you? You used to be awesome. Now you’re a bad person.”

  “I’m not—I’m telling you, I can explain.”

  “Oh, can you? Well, I’m a rabbit, then.”

  I looked at her. What?

  “Like, I’m all ears.”

  The rage was subsiding, and mascara was leaking down her cheeks. I didn’t really know what to say to her. Truth be told, time was short, and I was wondering if she had gotten any info on the wedding or L’s whereabouts before she’d made her discovery. I wasn’t in a position to ask her about that, though. It’s the problem with most conversations. You spend all your time avoiding the stuff you truly want to know about.

  “I didn’t mean to lie to—”

  “I told you, I Googled you,” she said. “I know everything.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I did mean to, I guess, since I did it, but I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t mean to do that. I just need to stop this wedding, and I guess I figured—”

  “You figured I wouldn’t help you if I knew you were trying to get your GD wife back. I shoulda known. I shoulda known you weren’t interested in me. No one’s interested in me except for one thing, which is always a big nothing. And you weren’t even interested in that.”

  She started bawling. I put my arm around her. Almost brained her with my cast. She buried her head in my chest and sobbed, but then she seemed to think better of allowing me to comfort her and pushed me away. A car drove down to our level and then turned around and went back up the ramp.

  “You made me think about the future,” she sobbed. “You made me think about pretty things.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I’m sorry. You’re a great girl, Renée.”

  “‘You’re a great girl, Renée.’ Augh. Why don’t I barf now?”

  She leaned against the car. The fire went out of her. And then the hurt. All that was left was the resignation. It was the worst of the three. It was impossible not to think of Dawn.

  “You know what?” she said, wiping her face. “Life’s like that retarded guy said in that movie my mom likes. It’s like a box of chocolates, except every time you bite into one, you find out it’s just a ball of crap. And then when you get the taste out of your mouth, you think, Heck, maybe it was just that one, I’ll try another, and then that one is a ball of crap, too. You eat one ball of crap after another until there’s none left. That’s what life is.”

  She looked at me with red eyes. “You’re a ball of crap, Ray.”

  With that, Renée marched away. I have no idea where she thought she was going. She was in a strange city. She couldn’t have had much money or booked a return ticket. But I didn’t stop her. I should have. She wanted me to. But I didn’t, and the reason I didn’t was because I was running out of time, and in the end it was a matter of priorities, like everything was. Is that selfish? I don’t know. When people say someone’s selfish, it just means that they’re not on that person’s priority list, and it upsets them. That’s all. Because the truth of the matter is everyone’s selfish. Everyone’s trying to survive. To get situated and straight before they can help somebody else. You can’t call that selfishness. It’s just life. That said, I should have stopped her. I shouldn’t have let her walk off alone like that. But there was no time to lose. L had called me for a reason. She had to know I’d find her. Sacrifices had to be made.

  As Renée disappeared, I pulled out my phone and looked at the clock. It was almost seven P.M. I panicked. How was it seven already? How long had I been out? I left the duffel bag of cash in the trunk, put on my bent shades, and took the stairwell up to the lobby, stopping to wipe the blood dripping out of my nose. Again, the place was packed, and this time I saw Hope Fortescu and her beleaguered husband, Roger, walking toward the elevators, dressed to the nines. I stayed out of sight. Explored the ballrooms on the second floor. All were empty. I ducked back into the stairwell. Started climbing. On the fourth-floor landing, I passed a black kid in a catering outfit. He couldn’t have been over nineteen and looked exactly like the actor who played D’Angelo Barksdale on The Wire.

  “ ’Scuse me. Does this place have a bridal suite?” I asked.

  “Fuck happened to you, man?”

  “Long day,” I said. “Bridal suite. Yeah or nay?”

  “Yeah. Up on six.”

  “Anyone in there?”

  “Have to imagine,” he said. “There’s a wedding tonight. On the roof.”

  “You know who?”

  “Rich white people. Who else? They even got the d
ucks. Nobody ever got the ducks before.”

  I pulled out my phone. Pulled up a picture of the ducks walking the red carpet toward the lobby fountain. “These guys?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Tradition. They do it twice a day. Down at eleven. Up at five. Tourists eat it up.”

  “What’s so interesting about ducks swimming? What else are they supposed to do?”

  He smiled. Shrugged. “People like stupid shit, man. What can I say?”

  I nodded. Lord knows there wasn’t any quibbling with that statement. “Listen. You got any interest in making some easy money?”

  “Always.”

  My first thought, straight from the movies, was to get my hands on a catering uniform.

  “Whatcha want a catering uniform for?” he asked.

  “Because I want to see who’s in the bridal suite without getting recognized.”

  “A uniform don’t cover your head,” he said logically. “And your head’s pretty fucked-up.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  Let me admit right now that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I think I had some kind of PTSD situation going on. I had been in three fights in under forty-eight hours, and while Everett from Wisconsin and Renée were not exactly terrifying opponents, Bing Buli had done a number on me. And then there were the drugs. And the bronchitis. And the fact that I was two hours away from losing the love of my life. I was clearly on the ropes, but it was late in the fight, and I just needed to hang on, gather my strength, and throw one last haymaker.

  “Here’s what we do,” D’Angelo said. “First, how much money we talking?”

  I pulled out some bills. “How’s a grand?”

  He shot his hand out. “I’m Warren, and I’m most definitely at your service.”

  “I was hoping your name was D’Angelo.”

  “For a G, you can call me whatever you want. Now, you just wanna know who’s in there? That all?”

  “Right.”

  They wouldn’t be together before the wedding. Question was, who was in there, Bollinger or L? And if it was Boyd, where was she?

  “OK. Here’s how it is. I’m gonna knock on the door. Say I got a question about the setup in the ballroom.”

  “I thought the wedding was on the roof.”

  “It is. But the cocktail party’s in the ballroom. Rooftop level, but inside.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I’ll put a phone in my pocket, peeking out like this, and record everything at the door, and then I’ll show it to you so you can see who’s in there. No one will know what’s up.”

  “Great idea, Warren,” I said, coughing up a storm.

  “No worries, brother. But you gotta cover your mouth.”

  I covered up. It went on for a while. God, was I falling apart.

  “You got a phone? The video on mine’s jacked.”

  I handed him my phone. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”

  “Not really,” he said, gesturing to the money. “Far as I’m concerned, I already know who’s in there. Ten members of the Franklin family.”

  He dashed off. I sat on the stairs and waited. I took out the first love letter L had ever written to me. I’d had it folded in my wallet for more than fifteen years. She had written it after the first time we slept together. No one ever belonged to a person more than she belonged to me. She told me she wanted to spend every second of the rest of her life with me. She told me it made her sick to write because I wasn’t by her side. She told me she had never felt anything like this in her entire life and never would again. She signed it “Yours & Terrified.”

  Warren returned. “Your shit is blowing up,” he said, showing me my phone. Messages were flooding in for a change. Then he played the video. It was Pete Gaffney at the door for some reason, his shrew wife, Elyssa, behind him. Warren was smooth. He congratulated them before saying there was a question about the ice sculpture in the ballroom. They said they weren’t the couple.

  “Sorry,” Warren said on-camera. “Isn’t this the bridal suite?”

  “The couple’s not staying here,” Gaffney said. “They were going to, but the bride has a nut-job ex-husband on the loose. We can call them for you.”

  “It’s OK,” Warren said. “It’s a minor issue. I’ll just speak to the wedding planner. No need to disturb them.”

  He clicked off the video. Handed me my phone back.

  “You should have gotten them on the phone,” I said.

  “And said what?”

  “I don’t know. Asked where they were.”

  “That would be pretty suspicious,” he said, handing me the money back.

  “Don’t be crazy,” I said. “A deal’s a deal. Plus, I can really use an ally here.”

  Warren gave me a long look. “You’re the guy he’s talking about, right?”

  I shrugged. He smiled.

  “Ah, shit. Shit. I know who you are. They’re all talking about you. You’re the guy on TV, right? That sports dude? Cut off all your hair, didn’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “It’s cool. Your secret’s safe with me, man. If all these stiffs are against you, you gotta be all right. Come on. I’ll show you where it’s going down.”

  We walked up to the roof level, where signs reading PRIVATE EVENT hung everywhere. Inside the ballroom, preparations were taking place. No expense was being spared. I kept my head down. It was pointless being up there. All I could do was fuck things up. My best bet was to wait until L arrived and then somehow get her isolated. How, I didn’t know, but Warren had replaced Benny as an Ally, so at least I wasn’t alone in my quest.

  A sign on the door leading to the roof read REMEMBER TONIGHT, FOR IT IS THE BEGINNING OF ALWAYS in calligraphy. I was fuming. Could you believe this motherfucker? What the hell did Boyd Bollinger know about always?

  We went outside. White chairs and a white-canopied altar were set up. Flowers were everywhere. From the roof, you could see the Mississippi River. The bridge leading into Arkansas. Something seemed to be going on along the banks of the river. Warren nodded toward the activity. “Dude’s spending. Special wedding fireworks combined with the city fireworks. Rented out Mud Island for the after-party, too. You don’t wanna know what that must’ve run.”

  I looked over at a marble room encased in glass. A black guy in a burgundy uniform was fitting five ducks with bow ties. We walked over.

  “These them?” I asked.

  “Don’t normally let the ducks do nothing but swim in the fountain,” the man said, “but they got ’em walking down the aisle tonight. Groom’s got juice.”

  God, was I sick of hearing about Boyd Bollinger’s local influence. It was fucking Memphis, for Chrissakes. It wasn’t like the guy shut down Times Square. I turned and looked at Warren. “What time does this bullshit start?”

  “Cocktails and hor d’oeuvres in the ballroom at eight. Out here at nine for the ceremony. Then the fireworks. Then they all go to Mud Island. Maybe it’d be easier to catch her then?”

  “She’ll be married by then.”

  “Right. Sorry, man.”

  I considered things. Even though time was very short, I knew my instinct was right. The best thing was to lie low. Use Warren as my eyes and ears. I pulled out another $1,000. Handed it to him. “I’m going to need more help.”

  “Brother, we were tight five minutes ago. You’re about the best friend I got now. You just paid for fall semester.”

  The plan we devised was simple. I’d hide in the garage, and Warren would find the bride. When he did, he’d text me. Then he’d do his best to concoct a way to get her alone, at which point I’d make my move.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Warren.”

  “Shoot. You’re a little crazy, but we don’t mind a little crazy in Memphis.”

  I made my way back down the stairs and into the parking garage. Sat in the car. The stolen car. With $2 million in the trunk. And cops ups
tairs. Every time a text came in, I had to look at it to make sure it wasn’t Warren, and that wasn’t a lot of laughs, especially since Dawn was killing me. She must have not gotten the money yet.

  Time ticked away. I was helpless. It was looking like I might not pull this off after all. Finally, at close to eight-thirty, word arrived: “Bride in 605.”

  I texted him back. “Great work. Where are you?”

  “Roof. Cops in lobby. Cops in ballroom. B careful.”

  “Who else is in 605?”

  “Buncha bitches,” he wrote.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Meet me on 4th floor landing.”

  I grabbed the duffel bag and ran up the stairs. Met Warren.

  “I guess I don’t want to know what’s in there,” he said, looking at the bag.

  “You don’t.”

  “Please tell me this ain’t a Columbine situation.”

  “It’s not. Tell me—how can we clear 605? Fire alarm?”

  “Fire alarm won’t get her alone,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause she’d run out with the rest of them. Think, man.”

  “Well, I can’t knock on the door. Those chicks will have me arrested on the spot.”

  “No doubt. Manager just did lineup and told everyone to be on the lookout for you. Showed your picture around. Didn’t look like you, but still. You got all kinds of heat. I actually kinda respect it now that I know you ain’t lookin’ to kill anybody.”

  “Maybe those girls will go up for the cocktail party?”

  “It’s already going on. No one in the bridal party is there. Groom’s making the rounds, though.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Dude take your girl from you, Ray? That what this is about?”

  I nodded.

  “Shit. She got some daddy issues. Don’t know what to tell you, man.”

  “We need a helicopter,” I said seriously.

  Warren put his hand on my shoulder. “I like you, Ray. I wanna help you. But you gotta help yourself, too. Talking about shit like helicopters is not gonna help you. You feel me?”

  I nodded again.