by Jim Nesbitt
Divorced from the boss’s daughter after he crashed a society queen’s Porsche 911 Targa into a guardrail on the Gulf Freeway, the splashiest and most scandalous example of his life outside the pop of the society photos. Blow found in her purse and their bloodstreams. Charges quietly dropped. But the transgression was not forgotten. Crowe violated a key rule of the upper crust, one any cracker who has crawled up to that level of life should have etched on his eyeballs — keep the dirt private and the family name unsoiled.
A dive out of the public eye. A comeback as a financial advisor for the young, the rich and the nose-candy dependent. Hints that he serviced their finances and their habits. And those of some shadier interests as well. Married Savannah. Back on the gallery and gala circuit, this time for Houston’s hip and thirtysomethings. Back in the rumor mill — name bandied about after cops busted a ring of coke hounds working the same fast, rich young crowd Crowe was working. Called before a grand jury. Not indicted. Never called to testify in court.
Burch hit a key on the PowerBook, one he thought was supposed to call up the next electronic clip from Nexus. It didn’t. All he got was the sound of a fart and Krukovitch’s voice yelling one word: “DUMBASS!” He hit the key again. The noise and the name.
“Fuck! What the hell’s wrong with this damn thing?”
“Wrong question. What the hell’s wrong with you — forget which key I told you to hit?”
“I told you I didn’t know how to run these damn things.”
“You did fine until that last little item. You’ve been sitting there staring at the screen for the last ten minutes, muttering and smoking those damned Luckies. Made you forget what to do.”
“The smoke?”
“The muttering. It makes you absent-minded. Here — this is the key you hit for the next story. Got it?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
They were sitting in the cool, empty gloom of Louie’s, some three circuits of the minute hand away from the happy hour blitz. Little Hutch was walking the duckboards, checking bottles and glasses, filling wells with ice and coolers with beer, squaring the count in his cash tray.
A phone line ran from the back of Krukovitch’s gray laptop, snaking across the bar, looping over the edge and running between the glass necks of vodka, rum and whiskey to a jack in the wall just to the left of Louie’s liquor license — a private line where Louie’s bookies could reach him. A postcard of thonged, greased and sunbaked Florida hardbody ass was stuck in the pressboard frame that held the license. Once it had held a Polaroid of Burch’s third wedding, the one that took place in the court clerk’s office in Waxahachie, the state’s simple marital vows delivered by a skinny assistant with a whiny voice as the couple stood next to a tank full of goldfish, sweating with doomed nervousness despite the blast of air conditioning.
Burch knew he would find Krukovitch here. It was Monday, column day, and Krukovitch could always be found at the short end of the bar, banging Carlton 100s, drinking cups of inky coffee that he made himself on one of Louie’s double-burner rigs, spinning out another cranky 800 words on his obsession du jour — the pinheaded, dictatorial ways of Ross Perot; the revolving door of bimbos and ethical questions surrounding Slick Willy; the teeth-grinding mercantilism and intolerance of the D; the state’s execution rate for Death Row inmates, which Kruk damned as too slow; welfare cheats, art mavens, Deep Ellum hipsters and smiling civic hustlers; Robert Tilton and the endless stupidities of Bubba, the state’s mythical mascot, a pickup-drivin’, gun-totin’, beer-swillin’ Neanderthal who lived somewheres out there, beyond the lights of the D, out where the creek forked and the farm-to-market road seldom crossed another of its kind.
A hip monarchist, that was Krukovitch, a conservative Burke would have loved, with no blind loyalty to the business class. Which made him a Bolshevik in the eyes of those who practiced the Dallas Way, those lock-stepped waltzers of business, civic and political interests who set the city’s tempo, filled its dance card behind closed doors and tolerated no step out of time.
But the boy also had a bit of the anarchist in him. In his teens, he was an all-world computer hacker, routinely tapping into Defense Department mainframes, phone systems, bank networks and, the move Krukovitch considered the triumph of his squeaky-voiced youth, a foray into the electronic brain of Merrill Lynch that netted him $300,000 worth of Exxon and 3M stock. All on a crude Kaypro, a machine that had the blue-collar appeal of a lunch box and the power and speed of a dying light bulb. Krukovitch never got nailed for his wanderings; he reigned in the days before the Justice Department started putting teenagers in jail for dialing up the Pentagon’s computers. He even wrote two books on his passion — The Hacker’s Bible and Whipping the Wire: Confessions of a Computer Thief.
When Burch walked in, Krukovitch was sending his column to the Observer’s mainframe, staring intently at the screen, waiting for the laptop to tell him the product had been delivered. When the words were safely home, Burch told him what he wanted and Krukovitch started briskly punching keys, telling him about CD-ROMS, stacking programs, virus sniffers, the new software rig that allowed him to tap into IBM-skewed databases and the near future of cellular modems that flashed 14,400 bits of information a second and would let him work at Louie’s without tying up the boss’s private line.
“It’ll be great. I can work without this damn umbilical cord and — the best thing — I’ll be able to get those stupid, mindless faxes everybody sends just like I’m working in a real office. All I need is the cash to buy it.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Just find me what I need and show me the keys to punch.”
Krukovitch gave him a hurt look, tapped into the Nexus database and called up the stories Burch wanted to see. Then he sulked, turning his back, picking up a magazine and firing up another Carlton as Burch fumbled with the laptop. Silent tension was broken only by Burch’s mutterings to himself. When he finally screwed up enough to throw the laptop into terminal gridlock, drawing Krukovitch’s little lecture about absent-mindedness, Little Hutch laughed.
“You guys are worse than an old married couple.”
“Fuck you, too, Hutch. Another Maker’s and ice water back, son. And toss me an ashtray. Asshole here has this one filled to the rim. You know you’re a walking ad for lung cancer, don’t you, Kruk?”
“Jeezus — why don’t you turn around and come back on in,” Hutch said, pouring the shot and topping the glass of ice water. “Leave the pissoff at the door and enjoy that drink.”
Burch gunned the shot and stared at Little Hutch, who carried twenty more pounds of muscle and twenty fewer years of age.
“I’ll drink your liquor Hutch, but when I want your advice, I’ll walk into the can and flush the toilet.”
Hutch’s eyes widened with anger then he shook his head.
“Suit yourself, dickhead. And serve yourself. Don’t bother to leave a tip, either. Just drink up, pay up, do your business and get the fuck out of my bar.”
Hutch moved away. Krukovitch stared at Burch.
“Christ, you’re in a fine mood. This is your living room, Jack. You don’t piss on the carpet here and you don’t abuse the help.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Who smacked you in the balls, today — one of the exes?”
“Worse.”
“What could be worse than an ex-wife?”
“The hellbitch.”
“Ah, bud — I hate to tell you this, but that’s a good nickname for just about everybody you go out with.”
“Savannah.”
“Ah, Christ. Is she what all this is about?”
“Could be.”
“Bullshit — it is. You’ve got that look in your eye, the one you always get when you’re about to go over the falls in a barrel again.”
“It’s part of my charm. Makes me the valued patron of this establishment that I am.”
“Makes you a prize chump, bud.”
“She’s payin’ the freight this time
— twenty grand to my shyster. In advance. Twenty grand later.”
“You’re going to work for her?”
Burch said nothing. The phone rang. Hutch answered then slid the cordless unit down the bar to him without a word.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah.”
“Make up your mind yet?”
“Told you we had a deal.”
“When are you coming to Houston? Tonight?”
“No can do. Got some lose ends to tie up. Day after tomorrow probably. Your check has to clear.”
“Jesus, you’re a hardass.”
“No, just an experienced businessman.”
“Can’t you get on down here and call about the check later?”
“Not hardly.”
“Look, I need you down here yesterday. I got some nasty folk asking questions about Jason that I can’t answer.”
“Buy a dog. Or a handgun.”
“Cute.”
“That’s what you used to say about my cock.”
“My, my — we’re in an expansive mood today.”
“The company I keep.”
“Cut the crap, Eddie. I got people puttin’ heat on me, so I’m gonna go to ground till you decide to get your ass down here to start earning my money. You remember Consuela Martin — my old runnin’ mate?”
“Hard to forget since that night I got to fuck both of you on her couch.”
“Glad you still pack your brains in your balls, lover.”
“What about Consuela?”
“She’ll know where to find me.”
Savannah rattled off a number. Burch reached over the bar for a napkin, then reached into Krukovitch’s jacket to fish out a pen, startling the brooding columnist.
“Give it to me again.”
“You know I hate it when you beg, lover.”
“Gimme the damn number, honey. And stick the smartass.”
“Stick it where, Big Boy? Same place you like to stick John Henry? Hot `n nasty in there, remember?”
Burch didn’t answer. He drew down on his Lucky and waited. He took a sip of Maker’s and waited some more. After a twenty count, Savannah rattled off Consuela’s number again.
“Eddie? Are you just staying put to yank my chain? I really need you down here.”
“Don’t push. I got other commitments. I’ll call when I’m on the way.”
She hung up. Krukovitch was watching him.
“No sense being coy. She’s hooked your ass again. Might as well shoot on down to Houston and start your suicide early.”
“Got commitments.”
“Commitments?” Krukovitch arched an eyebrow. It made him look like a devil’s helper trying to sell a package tour of his master’s choicest stretch of hell. “What commitments?”
“A date.”
“With who?”
“The youngster.”
“The Cuban?”
“The same.”
“Ah, Christ. Why don’t you take a razor and slit both wrists right now. At least you’d die among friends.”
SIX
Two hours, five cigarettes and three cups of coffee into his wait for her call, the phone rang. Across town, a movie was rolling, twenty minutes into its first reel. One she said she wanted to see.
“I’m sorry, Burch. I just got out of the bath and my hair’s still wringing wet.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll grab some drinks and hit the midnight show.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me? Drinks and the midnight show? Or maybe just drinks?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been on the phone and I’m depressed.”
“Who’s twisting your tail this time?”
“The usual cast of characters.”
“How is the old boyfriend — tell him about us yet?”
“I can’t do that. I can’t be cruel. His kids call me, and now his mother. I’m trying to find a way out that doesn’t hurt him more than I have already.”
“Simple way to do that Slick. Tell him you’ve moved on. Unless you haven’t.”
The sound of a deep breath on her end.
“I have.”
“Then what’s the problem? Not telling him is crueler than telling him.”
Silence.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Look, I don’t think I’m good company tonight. I’m depressed and the dog just ate another stopper from the bathtub and I cut my leg shaving and my period’s really heavy.”
“Then come on down. We’ll get some Chinese burritos.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard. It doesn’t matter. John Henry will wade through the Red River any ol’ time. Just so long as he doesn’t have to take a drink from it.”
Laughter.
“You’re awful.”
“Naw, just animalistic. In’ersted?”
“Hmmmmm. Tomorrow. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“Do better than that. Surprise me with a personal wake-up call.”
“I will. And Burch? I’ll never do this again.”
“What?”
“Stand you up.”
“Yes, you will. You specialize in keeping men waiting on you to stand them up. And men keep hanging ’round, hoping they’ll be the one you don’t stand up. Now the smart man goes about his life without waiting on you. He’s patient and grateful for those times you do come ’round and doesn’t pay attention to the times you say you will and don’t.”
“Some speech. Are you that man?”
“No. I’m nowhere near that patient, grateful or smart.”
And he never could ignore a woman’s lies, either spoken or silent. But he didn’t tell her that. He didn’t tell her he was about to leave town.
SEVEN
Heat bored through his forebrain as he turned off Esplanade and started walking down Dauphine. The rays of the mid-afternoon sun bounced off car windows and waxed auto metal like laser shots mixed with diamonds and glass — hard and cutting, sudden and painful to the naked eye.
For the tenth or fifteenth time on this ten-block walk into the Quarter, Louis tapped his coat pockets for shades that weren’t there. Another pair of Ray-Bans lost, probably sitting on the last bar he left, next to the loose change scattered for a tip and the dregs of his bourbon and soda.
On second thought, not the last bar, not that place — he was focused and hyper-careful in that dive, watching himself waltz another man to the subtle rhythms of his will with the Third Eye the true pro uses to dispassionately monitor his moves. He ran the movie back in his mind — no Ray-Bans on the bar, just the bourbon and soda.
His shades were sitting on another stretch of stained, gouged wood, in another room that was whiskey dark and flat beer stale. He saw that somewhere near the front end of the day’s reel.
His plum-colored linen coat was blackened across the back with sweat. Sweat ran through his slicked-back hair and down across his sloped forehead, stinging his eyes. It left sheen on his tanned, round face and soaked his black silk shirt, his matted chest hairs visible through the translucent fabric.
He kept the jacket on despite the sopping heat. It covered the holstered Taurus 9 mm riding on the back of his belt, a large chunk of chromed steel rubbing a raw spot into the skin between his kidneys. Riding a clip on the inside pocket of his jacket was a five-inch spike of sharpened, case-hardened carbon steel — the business end of an ice pick, tricked up so the handle looked like a pen top, a tortoise shell cap with a gold-plated band, mocking a Pelikan or a Mont Blanc. The top could be popped off the steel at the proper moment, ready to receive a replacement for the spike left buried in somebody’s neck.
The Quarter smelled as it always smelled — beyond ripe and rotten, a mix of the dank, the sweet and the occasionally disgusting, a place where a wrought iron gate promised passage to a life of old lace and ancient gentility, but all too often covered up one of life’s untended privies, rank beyond belief, alive against all odds, compelling and repugnant, a lover and a fiend, t
he essence of the feckless harlot. A city without a heart of gold; a town that ate its weak and young, and celebrated its darkest impulses with masked parades and drunken salutes to the pagan and the debauched.
A wino sprawled across the entrance of a renovated home of old French brick and glaringly white stucco, gripping the iron scroll work of a gate that closed off the Quarter’s lowlife from its gentry, keeping their vomit off the garden oleanders and the polished brass urns that held the orchids or the miniature banana trees or whatever tropical life the homeowner wanted to grow in this ever-humid air. A dog nosed the bottom of a pile of plastic garbage bags, pulling mystery meat from a dark green tear.
He was walking back to where his car was parked, a block above Decatur, and he hated walking. Ruined his shoes — thin-soled Italian loafers in a buttery gray-black, made for tapping the accelerator of a plush Caddy, not pounding pavement in the Quarter.
That would be a jet black Caddy, a ’75 Eldo with 12 layers of midnight covered by six layers of clear, windows smoky with the darkest tint the law would allow, leather seats the same color as his shoes. Black and gray, cut and dried, shades of a 40’s movie, his favorite time and his favorite colors. Offset by a tasteful burgundy, like the pinstriping that ran underneath the Caddy’s clear lacquer, or the plum jacket he wore today. A splash of color now and then. Throw the squares off stride. Keep the shitheads guessing.
Jewelry? Nothing but silver, like the heavy, square-linked bracelet that dangled from his left wrist, like the antique Elgin pocket watch with the roaring steam locomotive on the cover, like the beveled hunk on his right ring finger with the butte of solid onyx rising up from the metal.