The Big Get-Even

by Paul Di Filippo

  Nellie, of course, was wildly enthusiastic. “Glen, you know I want our place to take off, so I’m only going to steer the best people to you. No slackers, just good workers. They only don’t have jobs because there are no jobs around. You don’t mind if some of the applicants are my cousins, do you?”

  I tried to get my head out of its funk. Nellie’s earnest excitement didn’t deserve a cold dousing.

  “No, of course not. But if any of the women are as sexy as you, I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “Você palhaço! I’ll show you who’s the sexiest of all!”

  That interchange had led to an agreeable afternoon interlude during which, for a short time, I could forget my troubles.

  I gave up watching construction of the towering stack of flammable stuff. It had too many associations with a funeral pyre—mine.

  The former cookshack and concession stand was unrecognizable now. Despite wincing at what it had cost, I had to admit, it looked nice. One large room, done up in old-fashioned knotty-pine paneling, opened off the enlarged kitchen. Its floor-to-ceiling windows cantilevered outward so that in good weather—as, for instance, now—the place could seem like an open-air pavilion. There was even a small dais for a live band. Inside, all the tables bore sparkling white tablecloths. They were not set with real plates and silverware, because tonight’s meal would employ paper plates and plasticware, all of which awaited on long side tables, along with paper cups and paper napkins.

  Tonight’s meal was to be prepared outdoors. Two homemade grills—the kind raised high on angle-iron cradles and fashioned from fifty-five-gallon drums split down the middle and hinged—now held glowing coals that were reaching the perfect cooking temperature. The chefs were a couple of young guys supplied by Valdo Gonsalves, who hovered over his protégés like some ancient deity of the hearth. Alongside the grills were folding tables bearing what looked like enough meat to satisfy a modest-size pack of velociraptors. Some distance off, an array of galvanized tubs full of ice and bottled drinks glittered like the Great Lakes in midwinter.

  I tried not to tot up all the costs in my head. After all, we were supposed to be celebrating the completion of construction, and the imminent relaunch of the lodge.

  And also the new line of credit from Midland Trust Bank.

  * * *

  Once Stan had clicked off the connection to Uncle Ralph and handed me back my phone, I had found my voice.

  “You realize this is insane, right? How can we justify pumping more money into this scheme? We’ve blown through all my stash after you promised me it would last for the duration.”

  Stan had sounded genuinely wounded. “How the fuck was I to anticipate Schreiber holding our feet to the fire about making this place actually work? I thought we’d just sit here and have ourselves a little vacation until Nancarrow came sniffing around. Your money woulda covered all that, no problem.”

  “Well, we should have anticipated that there’d be some officious bastard looking over our shoulders and demanding results. That mistake’s on us. But now you’re dragging my uncle deeper into fraud. When he agreed to act as our beard and purchase the place, he was committing no crime. But now, when you ask him to take out a loan under false pretenses—”

  “What false pretenses? Haven’t we shown our good intentions by pumping all our hard-earned dough into this shithole? Now we just need some more funding to bring it off. Happens to legit businesspeople all the time. They run short. When we finally bail outta here, nobody’s gonna say anything except we tried and failed and got discouraged. Boo-hoo-hoo, another victim of the bad economy.”

  “And what about leaving Uncle Ralph stuck with the loan?”

  “He’s not gonna be stuck with no loan, because we are going to repay it first thing, outta the dough we rake in from Nancarrow. Then we split for Cape Verde.”

  “I don’t know. It sounds dicey. I counted on us moving fast once we ripped off Nancarrow, before he could take any action against us.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that. We are gonna move fast—we have to. Can’t let old Algy cook up some revenge. He’ll be hurting, and there’s no telling what he won’t stop at to get his money back. But we’ll have plane tickets in our hands the minute the check clears. Plenty of daily flights to Cape Verde, never totally booked. I did the research. We’ll pay a premium for quick tickets, but who cares? Chicken feed. Ray can get them online in thirty seconds. Then we’re outta here with five million apiece in our hands. We can leave the loan repayment with Ralph, along with some sweetener, and let him deal with the bank. And that reminds me, if you’re bringing Nellie with you, you’d better make sure she’s got her passport up to date.”

  I didn’t reply right away.

  “What’s the matter? Getting cold feet about taking her? How could you kick her to the curb? I thought she was hot stuff in bed, given all the time you two spend there.”

  “No. It’s just … we haven’t really discussed it yet. You see, she doesn’t know about what we’re actually doing here. She thinks we’re into the lodge reopening for real. And she’s kinda heavily invested in the idea.”

  “Holy shit, Glen! I thought for sure you woulda told her the truth by now!”

  “Well, I haven’t. And don’t you spill the beans, either. I’ll do it my own way, in my own time. Warn Sandralene, too. And I’ll see Vee and Ray about it.”

  “Putting off the hard stuff never works in the end, you know.”

  “Gee, where were you with this sage advice when I was running my Ponzi scheme? I might never have gone to jail!”

  Stan clapped me on the shoulder. “And then we never woulda met and ended up here today!”

  “Wouldn’t that be a crying shame.”

  * * *

  Uncle Ralph had arrived two days after the phone call, in Suzy Lam’s maroon Kia, now dusted with road dirt, with Suzy herself behind the wheel, of course. He jumped out of the car like a spry, excited kid, albeit one with wrinkles, gray hair, and a three-day beard. Suzy, weary from doing all the driving, got out a little slower. But after a short rest and refreshment, she was back to her old lively self.

  “You introduce me now to everybody, Glen. We know Stan and Sandy; they’re righteous folks. But we need to see your other friends before Ralph puts his good name on the line again. Your people are the real crystal ball for your success, Glen. Don’t you ever forget it!”

  I did the honors for Vee, Ray, and Nellie. Suzy quickly registered her approval of them all, though she had her usual no-nonsense observations to make as well—right to everyone’s face, naturally—regarding Vee’s “excessive soberness,” Ray’s quietness, and Nellie’s untested youth. Uncle Ralph had weighed in positively as well. His endorsement of Nellie was particularly enthusiastic, consisting of lots of winks and semilecherous leers in my direction when he supposed no one was looking though everyone really was. Jesus, was I that transparent in everything? I didn’t rate my chances of conning Nancarrow very highly, unless I got my game face on.

  The day after Uncle Ralph and Suzy’s arrival, we were in Centerdale, in the office of the loan manager at Midland Trust Bank, one Harriet Kilmer, who surely had a nickname among her coworkers, along the lines of “Iron Maiden” or “Miss Hardnose.” But we came with recommendations from Schreiber, Sheriff Broadstairs, and all our vendors. Moreover, there was something about Uncle Ralph’s naive, elfin enthusiasm that seemed to awaken Kilmer’s atrophied sense of empathy.

  “So, Mr. Sickert, exactly how big a line of credit do you feel you need to fully capitalize your investment?”

  We had coached Uncle Ralph on this. “Well, Harriet, the way I figure it, we can’t really get by with less than a quarter of a million. Might never touch the bulk of it, but it’s better to have it and not need it than the other way around.”

  Stan regarded the polished tips of his shoes as if they might help him divine
Harriet’s answer. I pretended to be working sums on Harriet’s borrowed calculator. Only Uncle Ralph had directly engaged Harriet’s gaze.

  She said nothing for what seemed an eternity. I almost got up to leave.

  “Well, Mr. Sickert, given your good faith in investing so much in our community already, I think that figure is only reasonable. There’s no sense in dooming such an important project to failure by taking half measures.”

  Out in the car, with the papers all signed, Stan said, “You goddamn magnificent horndog, Ralph, why’d you stop at a quarter of a million? You coulda got into the old girl’s pants, too, if you wanted.”

  Ralph said, “Suzy’s woman enough for me, Stan. Keeps me plumb tuckered out, every single night.”

  I sank back in the passenger seat, wishing there were some way to selectively unhear things.

  29

  Work on the bonfire had ceased. The damn wobbly pile was about fourteen feet high. It wouldn’t be lit, I assumed, until the climax of the evening. Burning Man East. God help this place when the enormous thing was torched. Maybe the whole lodge would catch fire and disappear, preferably with no lives lost. We could still sell the land to Nancarrow. That was all he was interested in: the theoretical footprint for Steve Prynne’s casino dreams. Was it right to pray for such an act of destruction, and the shattered hopes of so many innocent locals, Nellie foremost among them?

  I was debating the ethics of sending my prayer for an inferno heavenward when I noticed Elbert Tighe and Kirwan running two garden hoses toward the pyre. Of course. Tighe’s frontier efficiency would have considered all dangers and immediately conjured up defenses.

  “Glen,” said Tighe, “you’re probably happy now that we put in that reserve tank. Fifteen gallons a minute is good, but sometimes you need to draw down faster.”

  Indeed, once we had secured our line of credit, I let Tighe convince me to bump up our water capacity with a large reserve tank that filled itself when the system was being underutilized. Couldn’t let the patrons run out of water for their hot showers, now, could we?

  I gave up on the feasibility of asking God for help. He was obviously against me, too.

  Freed from toting wood, the partygoers now turned their attention noisily to refreshments. Bottle caps popped off into the grass; beverages gurgled into red plastic cups. Behind a table all her own, with a blender at the end of an extension cord, Suzy Lam was mixing and dispensing Bermuda mai tais. A ghost of the too-sweet taste of peach schnapps filled my mouth. Uncle Ralph, glass in hand, stood proudly at her side. It was hard to tell whether he was already plastered or just joyful.

  Outdoor floodlights—on the main building, on the dining room, on stanchions in the gravel parking lot—cast zones of near-daylight radiance in the deepening nightfall. And any holdout islands of darkness were banished by lighted tiki torches.

  The savory smell of roasting meat filled the soon-to-be-autumnal air.

  I thought I should see how Ray Zerkin was getting along, for he had assumed a certain important duty for the evening.

  Ray sat behind a bank of electronic equipment, including several large speakers. He wore big, nerdy headphones and was busy scrolling through screens on his iPad. When he saw me, he took the headphones off.

  “I’m almost ready, Mr. Glen. I was just integrating Mr. Stan’s files with mine. I’ve never really attempted to listen to the music he calls the blues, so I will just insert some of his songs at random intervals. But, of course, I have a very good playlist of my own material, which is very logically arranged.”

  One day, I had discovered in conversation with Ray that in addition to baseball, he had a passion for one particular musical genre: classic disco.

  At first, I thought he was pulling my leg; then I remembered that pranks were not really his thing. But I should have known that Ray’s sincerity was unwavering. This gangly kid, who would never in a million years come near a dance floor, found something in the quintessential dance music that resonated with him. Maybe it was just the glamour or the frequency of beats per minute, but something clicked deeply.

  And he knew everything, not just the recognizable hits. He played stuff for me I had never heard: Anita Ward, Vicki Sue Robinson, the Dazz Band—I can’t remember them all.

  Once I learned this, putting Ray in charge of the music for the party was a no-brainer. He wasn’t going to mingle otherwise. His seat behind the equipment represented a safe refuge.

  “Are we ready, Mr. Glen?”

  “Hit it, maestro.”

  “Bad Girls” by Donna Summer began to pump from the speakers. The reaction from the crowd was instantaneously positive and electric.

  Several women of various ages came up to Ray’s perch.

  “Great choice, Ray!”

  “Ray, you rock!”

  “Can I get you a drink, Ray?”

  “Ray, you taking requests?”

  Ray’s emotionless demeanor barely concealed a trembling nervous pleasure, reminding me of a wild animal consenting to be petted. “I wouldn’t mind a Pepsi, please.”

  Turning away from Ray, I saw the Impala pulling in, its headlights sweeping the scene. I hastened over.

  It looked like a clown car unloading as the big old beater disgorged seven people. From behind the wheel, Stan, of course, emerged. Nellie and her mother slid out from the front seat, passenger-side. (Nellie had been in the middle, next to Stan, and I wasn’t sure I liked that, but I supposed they had enough of a chaperone with Mom.) The youngest boy, Justin, had been sitting on his father’s lap in back, with the girls Adelma and Leidira taking up the rest of the rear. Standing self-consciously by the rear fender, those two adolescents exhibited the same nascent beauty that Nellie had in full bloom, and I had to mentally shake myself not to ogle them. Little brother Justin possessed a preternatural air of wisdom. He was utterly unlike most of the Anglo kids his age I knew, who tended to be spoiled and bratty.

  Nellie raced up to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me over.

  “Here are my sisters and brother, Glen. And this is my mamãe, Zahira, and my papai, Ivanildo. You have to all like each other, or I’ll die!”

  In the next three seconds, Nellie’s parents ran about ten thousand instinctive calculations on my character and net personhood, and thankfully, I emerged with a positive rating. Ivanildo’s handshake was a fraction less powerful than Stan’s or Elbert Tighe’s. And hugging the plump Zahira was like sinking into a fragrant feather mattress.

  “Glen, you don’t mind if I show my family all around, do you? You can keep busy for a while?”

  I wanted Nellie by my side for comfort and reassurance that tonight and all the rest of our time here was going to go right, but I could see that she really wanted to show off the place and her new friends.

  “No, of course not,” I said. “We’ll hook up later.”

  Nellie trotted off, jabbering in Caboverde at about a thousand words a minute.

  Stan came up to me. “Jesus Christ, that girl can yap!” he said. “I don’t think she shut up for one minute, coming or going. Thank Christ Sandy is a lady of few words. Where is she, anyhow?”

  Stan’s intolerance of Nellie’s chatter, whether manufactured for my benefit or not, made me forget how close they had sat in the car. “I think I saw her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of tomato sauce.”

  “Quiet as a mouse, and a hell of a great cook. That’s a winning combo right there, without even getting into how she fucks like a bunny on steroids. Sandralene! Your man is back!”

  Stan made a beeline for the kitchen, and after getting myself a beer, I began to wander about the festive scene. But watching people have so much fun when I wasn’t having any myself proved strenuous, so I drifted away from the center of things.

  A giant smooth-skinned beech tree on the edge of the property cast a cone of darkness below itself. Something inside that penumbra glinte
d with the light from a distant tiki torch. I went over to look.

  Varvara “Vee” Aptekar, her back against the tree trunk, was weeping softly in the night.

  30

  I didn’t want to intrude, but it was too late to become invisible. Vee had seen me through the tears and disarrayed hair, so I stepped deeper into the well of shade and seclusion. The raucous party noises seemed to recede, drowned out by the katydids and crickets and frogs in their urgent, endless calls for sex.

  My eyes were adjusting to the gloom. Vee’s hands were balled tight, and she used each fist to wipe away tears and snot. The plain silver bracelet that had caught the torchlight glinted again. From a hunched-over posture, as if reacting to a gut punch, she straightened her spine firmly against the tree trunk, like someone facing a firing squad and determined to be brave.

  “Take a picture, why don’t you? Capture the exact moment when the female freak shattered. Trust me, it won’t last long.”

  “Vee, come on, get honest with yourself. You’re no freak show, and I’m not some gawking rube in the audience. I’m your friend.”

  “My friend. That’s rich. I haven’t had a friend since I was five. That’s when I learned how fast things can turn to shit.”

  This was the first time in all these weeks that she had ever talked about her past, and I wanted to tread cautiously so she wouldn’t change her mind about opening up. But at the same time, I sensed she wouldn’t buy any euphemistic rose-tinted crap.

  “Listen, Vee, I know you had a rough break. Losing both parents had to be horrible, especially in a murder-suicide. But it’s happened to lots of people before, and some of them recover.”

  “Yeah, I thought I was recovering okay, too, for a few years. And then when I was fourteen, I found out why my mother and father had to die. When I learned what a fucking bastard Nancarrow was and how he had gone on to live his life happily after he ruined mine, something shriveled up inside me. That’s when I realized there is no justice, and what slime people really are. Not one decent soul in a million. And certainly no saints in my world. That’s when I knew I had to be as hard as I could if I was ever going to get even with Nancarrow.”