The Big Get-Even

by Paul Di Filippo

  And Stan Hasso was swearing mightily as he kicked a rusting industrial-size vegetable-oil can around the clearing.

  “Goddamn greedy goatfucker! Coming up here with his list of shit-weasel goombahs all set to bleed us dry. I will hang him up by those brass balls of his if he shows his ugly mug around here again! Let him try and squeeze a nickel out of us!”

  I followed Stan at a respectful distance, waiting for him to run down of his own accord. As the tirade dwindled, his kicks at the can got less and less enthusiastic. I suspected that the lightweight boat shoes he wore, while perfectly stylish and congruous with the rest of his casual, sporty outfit, did not provide the sort of protection that such a futile endeavor called for.

  Stan eventually ceased abusing the empty can and walked with a slight limp over to the table. He plopped down just as Vee finished her setup. She made no reference to Stan’s rant, but only said, “I’ll be resting in my room. Call me when the food’s ready.”

  Stan grunted, then yelled out, “Sandy! Bring me a beer!”

  Sandralene’s voice belled out from the kitchen. “Get it yourself, you lazy shit! The chefs are busy!”

  I said, “Let me get it, Stan.”

  Another grunt.

  I came back with two beers and sat next to my partner in crime.

  “You know, of course, that we have to hire the people he wants us to hire.”

  “Goddamn it, of course I know it! What kind of frigging idiot do you take me for? I had to blow off steam, though—that or let you all watch my fucking head explode! Or maybe stick a spike in my arm again. I could go to Centerdale and find the dealers in five minutes flat.”

  For one fleeting second, I could almost taste the brilliant heroin sliding through my veins and feel the warm, all-embracing relief it brought.

  “Don’t even joke about that shit,” I said.

  “All right, all right, don’t worry about me. You want me to kiss my one-year coin from Narcotics Anonymous for you? It just slays me that this putz feels he can waltz in here with his demands and we have to accept them.”

  “I would say he was perfectly rational in making such an assumption.”

  “Sure he was. Because that’s how this lousy fucking world works! Ever since I was a kid in the Gulch, I’ve been getting pushed around like this. And let me tell you, it never feels any better, no matter how often it happens. Even good old Algy—Nancarrow, that is—who grew up side by side with me, turned around and screwed me good. Him telling me to burn down every other building he owned, then letting me take the rap! I can’t wait until we make our big score. He’ll learn what it feels like to get reamed up the ass, and I’ll finally be the guy doing the reaming.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “But we’ve got a certain hard distance to cover before then, and everything has to go smoothly. We can’t afford to antagonize anyone, especially the law. Besides, I doubt that his people will charge much more than anyone else around here—maybe even the same or less. And he did save us time looking up contractors.”

  Stan lowered his beer and regarded me as if I were a rainbow unicorn with dreadlocks. “You are truly like some ten-year-old Campfire Girl who is buried in horseshit and says, ‘There’s got to be a pony here someplace!’ I have never seen anyone so determined to put a positive spin on things. Are you really the same evil crooked lawyer who ripped off all those people?”

  “That was the drugs.”

  Stan snorted. “Drugs always need a willing partner, buddy. They don’t work on Mother Teresa.”

  A bell rang. Nellie stood in the doorway of the cookshack, yanking with one hand on the cord of what, in her other hand, looked like a ship’s bell. Where she had dug that up, I couldn’t even hazard a guess.

  “Dinnertime! Come quick, or we throw your share to the ducks!”

  Everyone assembled at the table, beneath the lantern light. Out of the kitchen came a mouthwatering array of swordfish, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. Tonight, the sangria used white wine. Dessert was strawberries over store-bought pound cake with Cool Whip.

  After the main meal, I had spun around on the picnic-table bench with my legs outward, to uncramp them. When Nellie served me cake, she—impulsively, I believe—sat down on my lap and made a big deal of sharing my plate. It felt honest and good, though a little showy, and I could hardly dump her from my lap. Not that I wanted to unburden myself of that firm, soft warmth. But the display still made me a little uneasy. I kept darting cautious glances at Vee to gauge her reaction. She had her nose buried in a new book.

  Eventually, the party broke up and Nellie came back with me to my room.

  After bone-rattling sex (to me, anyway; I hoped it was for her, too), she said, “So, who did you murder?” She was trying hard to keep her voice light, but I could tell she was concerned.

  So over the next hour, I told her all about my past. I didn’t hide anything, though I tried to put the best face on it all—even if Stan would have called me a Pollyanna.

  I glossed over how Stan and I had hooked up, letting her think it was through prison and rehab connections. And I certainly didn’t reveal our true scam. I stuck to the cover story about Uncle Ralph investing in this place and sending us up here as his representatives.

  Nellie had listened silently and attentively throughout. When I finished, she didn’t say anything for a minute or so.

  “And Stan. What’s his story?”

  “I can’t responsibly tell you that. His biography is his own matter to share. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Okay, I see.” Another short silence. “A lawyer! Huh! You could earn so much so easy. Not like anyone I ever knew. But the temptations must be so big, too. Drugs are bad. I blame the drugs. You’re just lucky you didn’t pick up anything nasty from the needles.”

  She hastily levered herself up off me, her beautiful breasts pendulous in the gloom, and I could sense, even in the dark, that she was suddenly scared.

  “Tell me, Glen, please. You did not pick up anything nasty from the needles, did you?”

  I pulled her back down and hugged her tight. “Nélida, Nélida, I would cut off my right arm rather than hurt you.”

  She accepted that, and I thanked God it was the truth.

  She fell asleep then, leaving me to wonder how I was ever going to tell her the rest.

  27

  As I sat at the desk in the lodge’s office, dreaming of a swim while studying invoices and work orders and punch lists and paint and textile samples, I felt a little crazy and uprooted. Lulled by the sounds of construction under way and trucks rumbling by and people coming and going, I felt almost as if an out-of-body experience was coming on. I’d had one of those during my addict days. Floating above your own unconscious body as some kind of ectoplasmic spirit, looking down at a temporarily untenanted vessel. Feeling vaguely baffled at the dislocation (or bilocation), but mostly peaceful and accepting—although today’s version of that hallucination threatened to reverse the ratio of those emotions: more bafflement, less peace.

  What the hell was I doing here? How had we gotten into this current fix? The trail up to this point seemed too convoluted to trace backward by the breadcrumbs, even though each individual step had been easy and comprehensible and seemingly a smart and necessary move.

  Stan and I had started out to work a simple scam, just two mooks out to rip off a bigger bastard. Our scheme involved a low-effort real estate subterfuge and some online hacking; therefore, we had acquired two coconspirators: Vee Aptekar and Ray Zerkin. So far, so logical. Then I had lucked into a girlfriend, Nellie Firmino. Not a predictable happening, but totally acceptable even as it complicated matters. But this latest development? Suddenly, I had a real managerial-type job, with all the attendant headaches and responsibilities. This was nothing I had foreseen or desired. If I had wanted, I could have gotten a grunt job like this back at home, living with Uncle Ralph, an
d held on to my stash of golden Pandas.

  And now, two weeks into our residency here at the bucolic Bigelow Junction Motor Lodge, thanks to the implacable dictates of our parole officer, the place was a hive of activity.

  Golden Touch Roofers, under the aegis of Lonnie Griffin (Sheriff Broadstairs’ cheery brother-in-law), was busy replacing all our shabby shingles on the main building, the cabins, and the several outbuildings. Instead of just defaulting to some standard shingle, I had been forced to examine several choices, listening to Lonnie extol their various qualities, and only then decide.

  Aphrodite Fabric Creations, helmed by the excitable and talkative Jennifer Brosseau, who struck me as someone who should have her own show on HGTV, was redoing all the furniture fabrics as well as selecting new curtains, bedspreads, and towels. This had required long consultations between us. The old bedsheets had been deemed barely acceptable, but only after a thorough laundering by Redcliff Linen Services, owned by the dour, disheveled, and taciturn Leon Redcliff. Thank God for at least one contractor who didn’t care to gab!

  The staff at Gonsalves Provisions, from the ancient Valdo Gonsalves himself (still working ten-hour days at age eighty-five) down to his innumerable sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews, was busy compiling and refining a standing order for foodstuffs that we would need once we opened to hypothetical hordes of ravenous vacationers. Nellie was delighted that we had chosen Gonsalves instead of the Anglo-run firm that was the other option on Broadstairs’ list.

  “They are the best!” Nellie gushed. “They carry everything. The spiciest linguiça for your jagacida. The freshest octopus for your polvo a modo ze de lino!”

  “We’re going to serve a Caboverdean menu here?”

  “Oh, not exclusively! But some special dishes—por que não?”

  And, of course, all those expensive perishables had to be stored under the proper Board of Health conditions. (I’d had no idea how many inspectors considered us their responsibility.) Which meant large new fridges and freezers. We could count on Pyrtle Restaurant Supplies for that. The salesman in charge of our account, Ron Peppler, had taken one look at the little concession shack where we had been cooking all our meals, and pronounced it woefully insufficient to hold the new equipment. And since we were going to have to expand and rewire the structure (under the capable hands of DiPippo Construction), we might as well add a big new gas range to our purchase list. Oh, yes, and the propane dealer was Cobb & Sons. The elder Cobb, Doug, was so youthful that he and his twin sons, Ben and Rich, looked more like triplets.

  Did I mention that a new window-rich, medium-size dining room was part of the expansion? That meant more work on fabric coordination for Jennifer Brosseau, but she had to bring on board Brenda Bethune from Green Radiance Furniture. Listening to the two women together was like putting your head between two massive speakers while Stevie Nicks and Kate Bush sang two different songs.

  All these vendors and contractors demanded infinite amounts of my finite time, from sunup to sundown. Scheduled meetings were bad enough, but once decisions were made, nothing ever went precisely as planned. I was kept running from one minicrisis to the next.

  Of course, I had tried to get Stan to take up some of the slack, but he just scoffed.

  “Do I look like I got your brains or patience, Glen boy? First time one of these delivery guys mouths off to me or tells me about some kinda delay or hang-up, I’d probably haul off and belt him. No, this is your shtick. But I know you can handle it.”

  The only chore I was spared was writing the numerous checks. Sandralene Parmalee still held the purse strings of the Maritime Bank account that safeguarded our rapidly dwindling funds.

  I recalled the first check she wrote, to Elbert Tighe. At the end of their second day on the filtration job, Tighe and Kirwan had been sitting under the canopy, each with a cold beer.

  “Now that you’re up and running,” Tighe said, “we got that water sample for the lab. But it’s just a formality. I’ve never seen a US Water Systems rig that failed a test. You can use that feed from the lake now with total confidence.”

  At the time, I hadn’t foreseen the chaos and duties yet to come, and so I felt a naive relief at the end of this process and was eager to pay Tighe off and see the end of him. Knowing he had informed Sheriff Broadstairs of our progress here had taken some of the shine off his integrity in my eyes.

  “Thanks, Elbert. Uh, I suppose we need to settle up now.”

  Tighe nodded and handed over his bill.

  I went to find Sandralene.

  She was sunbathing on a towel on the ground out back of her and Stan’s cabin. Stan was fishing, having found some old rods and tackle in the garage.

  Sandralene’s incredible bikini had not expanded to cover any more skin since its first appearance before my startled eyes. In fact, it seemed to have shrunk a bit—possibly because all the large meals had added a nondetrimental pound or two to Sandralene’s prodigious physique.

  “Sandralene?” I said softly. “Sandralene?”

  She came awake like a lazy tiger.

  “Sandralene, could you come write a check for Elbert?”

  “Of course, Glen.”

  The high-heeled sandals she stepped into added only about three inches to her height, but now she seemed to tower over me more than ever before.

  At the picnic table, Elbert and Kirwan might as well have seen Medusa. I don’t think they would have moved if I had tossed a lit stick of dynamite between them. Sandralene remained standing as she wrote the check with slow and deliberate movements. When she had finished, her solemn and intent expression blossomed into one of pride at fulfilling her duties.

  “There you are, gentlemen! Thank you both so very much!”

  That initial majestic dispensation of my funds had set the pattern for all the other occasions. We got the fastest work and quickest deliveries that Bigelow Junction had ever seen, just so the owners could present their invoices and bask in Sandralene’s presence. Even Jennifer Brosseau and Brenda Bethune were not immune. Not that either of them was gay, I was willing to bet, but just that they, too, wanted to experience the powerful juju of this Amazon Who Held the Checkbook.

  But while Sandralene disbursed our funds, I was the guy who monitored the shrinking balance in our account. Using Ray’s iPad, I could log on to Maritime’s system and watch as our money steadily evaporated.

  When we had gotten down to a truly scary low number, with many bills still outstanding, I buttonholed Stan.

  Of course, Nancarrow had not yet taken one nibble at our bait, putting our future tenure here in question. If he had bitten, I could have been more sanguine.

  “Stan, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but we are rapidly heading toward insolvency. What are we going to do about it?”

  “What about those rents from the serfs?”

  We were now into September. At the end of the month, the quarterly rents from the families who leased lots on our five hundred acres would be due. A couple thousand bucks.

  “It’s not much. And I don’t think we can even last till then.”

  Stan thought a while, then said, “I got it. We’re going to open a line of credit.”

  “With Maritime? They won’t give us a penny.”

  “Not with them, with some Centerdale bank. They’re the ones who want us to make a go of this place. We’re the fucking cash cow for the whole community.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Gimme your phone.”

  I handed over my phone, and Stan whizzed through my contacts before finding the one he wanted.

  “Hey, Uncle Ralph! How’s it hanging?”

  28

  I was never sure whose idea the bonfire was. True, we had a lot of nontoxic construction debris piled around the lodge: plywood scraps, short lengths of two-by-fours, large cardboard boxes, pallets, a couple of busted
chairs that Brenda Bethune and Jennifer Brosseau deemed unworthy of rehabbing. Perhaps a case could have been made up front for burning the stuff rather than paying someone to cart it away. After all, we were not in an urban situation here, but out in God’s country—unincorporated lands not subject to crown or church, where a man could burn up as much damn trash as he wanted. Or at least as much trash as he could afford to make. Also, plenty of dead timber was available just at the edge of our cleared property. So a bonfire was a pretty natural idea.

  I suspected Stan’s hand in this. It seemed just the kind of ostentatious, macho display that he would naturally imagine. But somehow, assembly of the pile of burnables—in a spot safely distant from all buildings and vehicles—had begun while Stan was still out on the road with Nellie, using the Impala to pick up her immediate family in Centerdale—Mamãe, Papai, and three of her sibs—for the celebration. And really, there were too many people bustling about for me to fasten correctly on any individual as the instigator. Maybe the idea had arisen spontaneously among several brains. By the time I took notice of the bonfire’s construction, it was well under way and many hands were involved.

  Besides the six of us who normally lived at the lodge, the place was swarming with all our contractors, their crews, and, for all I knew, the former spouses and adopted kids of their various office staffs, whom I had never met. It was four in the afternoon on the late-September day when all the work was officially considered done. The last task remaining before we would be able to open for business was to hire our on-site workers.

  I had deliberately put off interviewing people till now, despite Nellie’s quite logical assertion that interviews could go on concurrently with construction. I figured that the longer I stalled this farce, the closer we might get to hooking Nancarrow and succeeding with our scam, all without actually having to conduct a motel business. But still, all these many days after Ray had launched our seductive disinformation online, we had nary a bite. So now I had to pretend to be interested in hiring cooks and busboys and lifeguards and housekeepers.