by Alan Osi
My wife was in her underpants, drying her hair, when I burst into the bedroom, short of breath. She looked over at me and her face was in alarm, seeing my excitement.
“Barry, what’s wrong?”
“It’s the phone,” I said.
“Vonnie is on the phone.” “Vonnie?” she said, in the same sort of voice as her daughter.
“It’s her, Baby. It’s our Vonnie,” I said.
Margie stared at me for a quick minute, in shock I guess, and then she went over to the phone. So, for the first time in far too many years, my wife and daughter spoke. Margie spent the whole conversation crying into the handset; her relief and joy were messy.
“When are you coming home?” she kept saying. “When are you coming home?”
Me? I went back into the kitchen and sat down, staring off into the backyard as the lady on television kept right on reporting the same stories we’d listened to earlier.
I thought about picking up the phone and getting back into the conversation, and I did, eventually. But, I took a while before I did it.
They needed time to talk, and I needed time to get myself in check, and to thank God, for bringing our daughter back to us.
I supposed our trial was finally, at long last, over.
73. CLYDE
I didn’t sleep well.
Once I found out the stake out was off, I went straight home. I’d called Rob, and, as much as possible on the train, told him what happened. “We need to meet tomorrow,” he said. “Figure this out.” I agreed, but didn’t look forward to it at all.
This whole thing seemed doomed, problems on top of problems. In addition to the pissing contest Will and Rob were in, now we’d been chased off by some mob outfit, maybe the Yugoslavians or Ukrainians.
With all that on my mind, when I slinked home there was really nothing to do—but, roll one up, blaze it, and then try to sleep.
Only my thoughts didn’t cooperate; they refused to sit down. I stared at the ceiling in the dark for hours, wondering what I should do.
Should we continue? Did we want to stay in this game, which had gotten so much more complex?
I couldn’t speak for Rob. But, I knew Will had the same idea as I did, that governments and gangs were basically the same thing. Taxes weren’t no different from protection rackets. Pay up or something bad might happen to you. It was all fucked up. No matter which way you went, law-abiding citizen or mafia bully-boy, you were some rich dude’s pawn.
That’s why I got into this business in the first place—to live by my wits, on my own terms.
But things change. When they told us to “take the messenger out of the equation,” they meant it. Right now, we worked for them.
The good news was that what we did after we succeeded was probably up to us—‘s long as we either paid them dues or did it far away from here.
I passed the night with thoughts like these, occasionally trying to force them to stop so I could sleep. But, they never did. And now, in morning’s gray light, I had no great ideas to show for the long night, only exhaustion.
Worst part was, any minute now, Rob would come banging down my door, demanding the whole story, pushing me to move forward in whatever way his tunnel-vision brain mapped the situation.
I smiled at my own thoughts. “Mapped the situation.” Moondust had changed me.
I understood now that people chose the view of a problem that most attracted them and called it truth. But, understanding that was dangerous, I had to live in this fucked up world, and a man needed to be able to take a stand without hesitation. Obviously, I was having trouble doing that.
I wondered how Rob avoided this kind of thing. Probably because he’d not done as much moondust as I.
I couldn’t keep thinking such thoughts. So I rolled a blunt as big as I could. By the time I finished smoking, I couldn’t think of anything. Sat on my couch and got completely absorbed in television. At some point, I fell asleep.
Before long, I got woken up by someone ringing my door buzzer like a madman. I rolled off the sofa where I fell asleep and stumbled, zombie-like, over to the door.
“Who is it?” I said, pushing the button.
“Rob, yo. Let me up.”
I hit the buzzer, unlocked the door, and started rolling up another one. I was going through my weed fast. But, I needed to be able to calm this fool down. I heard fury in his voice just then.
He burst into the room, throwing the door wide. I guess it was some sort of display. Showing me he was a big man.
“What’s up, Rob?” I said, sleep all in my voice.
“So you agree with Will, now?”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“I don’t give a shit how you are. You’re giving up.”
“Yo. Did you listen to what I said last night?” I said.
“Yeah, you said you were blowing the stake-out, and that’s all I needed to know. To be honest, I feel like shooting your ass.”
“To be honest I think you’re a dumb ass, and I’m regretting bringing you in on this,” I responded, to his surprise. I guess he figured I had no spine. “You should have listened, dude. We got mushed.”
“What?” he said. “By who?”
“By the mob. Let me finish this blunt, and I’ll tell you about it. Again.”
It killed him that I made him wait. I played it cool, and we both tried not to make it clear on our faces or in our body language that we were in a power struggle.
When I finished drying the blunt, I gave it to him to light up.
“Alright,” I said, as he inhaled. “Listen up this time.” And I told him the story of the guy who appeared, some well-dressed European with dead eyes and enforcers on the rooftops. I told him about the messenger, and the address we were given.
“So let me ask you something,” he said. “How do you know this guy was for real?”
“He had dudes on the roof, man. With guns.”
“Did you see the guns?”
“I heard them, alright? I know what gunshot sounds like.”
“But you don’t even know which mob it is.”
“They didn’t tell me. Why the fuck would they?”
“So it might not even be a mob.”
“That’s real easy for you to say, sitting here, smoking my weed. You weren’t there. You took your ass home, remember? It’s easy for you to sit here and criticize from the sidelines. You think I didn’t question the guy? Fuck you. If you don’t believe me, take your dumb ass over there and get shot.
He stared at me, not saying anything. So I continued. “There’s a better way. Will already told us there’s a guy operating in Manhattan. Now we got his address. He doesn’t know we’re coming, and no one’s watching his back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I do know our Williamsburg guy has people. We got better odds if we switch it up.”
He was quiet again.
“You know I’m right,” I said. “You know it.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Then go back to Williamsburg and get your ass shot. They aren’t fucking around, Rob. We have a choice here. Make the right one.”
I handed him the blunt, and he puffed in, then exhaled, saying, “Okay, let’s say we find the dude. Then what? We’d be owned, for the rest of our lives.”
“I say we skip town. We go where no one’s heard of this, set up shop, and live like kings.”
“Until we run into the mob there?”
“That’s part of this business, Rob. Ain’t no point arguing about what is.”
“Which city?” Rob said.
“I’d go somewhere on the west coast. Seattle or Portland. Maybe San Fran.”
“San Fran’s too expensive.”
“Or, shit, we go our separate ways, all go into business for ourselves. But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We need to talk to Will before we make any big decisions.”
Rob made a face.
“He was right, Rob. Don’t matter if he just
got lucky, don’t matter what his reasons were. He was right.”
“So what?” Rob said, after another pause. “We go hash it out with him, then go to this dude’s apartment and get the secret formula?”
“Yeah.”
That was that. We finished the blunt, I called Will and told him we were coming by. Then, we were off.
74. HAILEY
I think it surprised us all that Perce’s reporter guy broke the stake-out. The three of us moondust dealers, Percival and Mark and I, would be in business at least another day, which was definitely a good thing. Momma had bills to pay.
Still, we couldn’t go back to the way things were. It was nerve-wracking, but exciting too. The adrenaline life.
I’d always lived this way. My parents wanted me to stay in suburbia, find a nice husband, and raise the next generation of suburban assholes. But, I never had any interest in that. So I stayed up late, shoving Iggy Pop into my virgin ears with an old black-and-yellow Walkman sport, and drawing under my covers with a flashlight. Later, I ran from cops to spray my tag on New Jersey’s walls. Eventually I graduated to oil paints. I did all that because I loved art, because I was alive, and because I wanted to live in the marrow of life.
Today’s adventure: Mark, Percival, and I would meet a man named Maxwell, because he freed Perce from being tailed and was key to our plans. His article would bring the spotlight, turning our world into a stage. Ironic how we now sought the very thing we worked so hard to avoid before: moondust fame. Life chasing the marrow was subject to change.
We set a brunch meeting, at a spot called Dumont on Metropolitan. I arrived first, about ten minutes early, and ordered a mimosa. And then another, because the first one became mysteriously empty long before my whistle got wetted.
The hostess sat me in a lovely spot to sip and people-watch, an alcove sort of halfway between the main dining room and the back deck. It served our purposes beautifully, there were only two tables here, and fewer people could overhear us. The painted auburn walls were close and the ceiling low. The brightest light came from the glass door leading outside to their lovely deck, which I preferred in the summertime. The people-watching was nice because my seat faced the bustling hallway. To my right the kitchen door constantly banged to admit hustling wait staff, heading either to the deck or the main dining-room on my right. And brunch-goers went back and forth to the restroom, to pee or adjust makeup, as the servers rushed meals to tables.
This place made the best eggs benedict. Gorgeous coffee, too.
Spurred by the thought, I took a second to order some java. While I already sipped a mimosa, I felt my constitution could handle the combo. They say mixing narcotics always creates a high greater than the sum of the parts. I was a believer.
I was stirring my newly arrived coffee, when Mark, the first of my brunch-mates, arrived.
“How now, brown Dao?” I said.
“Is that a racist anti-Asia joke?”
“You mean the word brown? You people are damned touchy.”
“Oh, you’re so funny.”
“My people are known for our humor.”
“Who, the Vikings? I know them for raping, pillaging, and writing horribly depressing mythology.”
“Who’s racist now, anti-Nordite?”
“They also liked to bury shark meat in the winter and then dig it up and eat it in spring. I ate some on moondust. Grossest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
I chuckled. “Anyway. You know how I’m half-Jewish? I was talking about the Jews when I mentioned my awesome sense of humor.”
“Not that I care. But, I had no idea.”
“My Father’s side,” I said, before taking another sip. He died when I was young, too young to remember. Mother said his immigrant parents never forgave him for marrying out of the faith, so I didn’t have much connection to my Jewish side, sadly.
“Ah,” said Mark.
“Have anything nasty to say about the Jews?”
“Never, of course.” He flagged down our scurrying waitress and ordered coffee himself, with Beignets. The waitress wasn’t the same who’d brought my beverages. This new woman was gorgeous, one of those chicks with long flowery hair. Not that Mark would care. But, I knew Percival well enough to understand how he’d appreciate her existence.
“So,” said Mark, “how late do you think our guests of honor will be?”
“With Percival involved? We’ll be lucky if we leave before the dinner rush.”
Ultimately, Perce proved me wrong. He arrived before the Beignets came out, with his reporter in tow. I took my first gander at Maxwell, an important part of my life even though I never met him before. My impression: He could be an extra from an Ivy League college flick. Rugby player number three or something. Blond. But, not too blond, decent looking. But, not quite handsome, green eyes on the small side. Square-ish jaw, a little bit of a double-chin, broad shouldered, wider hips than the norm for his body type. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, not here in skin-deep city. But, he wouldn’t get kicked out of most beds, either.
His clothing came either from the more conservative collections of Abercrombie or the cutting-edge at Banana Republic. Nice shoes, though. Good leather, well made, stylish.
He looked at us, and our eyes caught. There was a kind of shadow in his eyes, something slight, but noticeable.
“Mark. Hailey. How’s the coffee?” Perce said.
“Immaculate as usual,” said Mark, whose eyes fixed on the reporter. “Who’s your friend?”
“You know who,” Percival said. They both grabbed chairs. “Guys, this is Maxwell, reporter at The New York Globe and yesterday’s hero. Max, this is Hailey and Mark, my associates, whom you’ve been so eager to meet.”
Max looked at me, too deeply, as he said, “My pleasure.”
Oh brother.
75. MAXWELL
Now, this I wasn’t expecting.
She was hipster as hell. Pale blue tips on her hair, black bracelets, dark eyeliner, and skinny jeans. Not at all my type—a druggie, to boot—but she had that thing. It was her eyes, I suppose. Her tits were pretty nice too.
It unbalanced me, being attracted again. The dirt on Max-and-Justine’s grave hadn’t even had a chance to settle. But, the old libido was a Minotaur in a maze, demanding steady diet.
And why shouldn’t I go for it? The best ointment for a break up was a fling.
“What’s good here?” I said, in order to break the silence.
“Everything, dude. The eggs with hollandaise are my favorite, any type. Get a mimosa if you can loosen up enough to drink before sundown.”
The other guy, Mark, said, “Try a Beignet. They’re amazing.”
They chatted a bit while I glanced at the menu. I decided to take Beaver’s advice, and ordered Eggs Florentine. Then it was time to handle the business of the day. Showtime, in other words.
“Well,” I said, grabbing the stage, “It’s nice to finally meet the two of you. I’ve heard a lot about you, from our friend Wally here.”
There was a loaded pause. “From whom?” the girl, Hailey, said.
“From… Wally. Your friend.” I said, looking at Wally. Their reaction confused me.
Beaver took a deep breath. “There’s something I should probably mention,” he said. I raised my eyebrows, and he continued. “When we met, I wasn’t sure of you, at all. If you were who you said you were, or, for that matter, if I wanted to be involved in your article. To keep my options open I gave you another dude’s name. Wally Beaver is the DJ you met at the bar that night, who called me right in front of you—the one you were tailing when we met.”
“Clever,” I said after a second.
“My name is Percival.”
“Were your parents renaissance-fair clowns?”
Wally, or Percival, turned to his friends. “You can see what a winning character this kid is, can’t you?” he said. The other two stared at me with counterculture glowers. I guess making fun of their silly names was out of order.
“Okay. Well, we’re on to something big—”
Hailey interrupted, “We’re on to something big and have been for a while now. You just found out about it and are hoping to hop our coat-tails. Not the same thing at all.”
“Beauty and brains to match,” I said, and unfortunately, she rolled her eyes. I pushed on. “Well, that being said, I have a proposal for you. I need—”
“We know what you’re doing, and we know what you want,” said Mark.
“Okay. Well, if you know everything, and you’re all determined not to let me finish a sentence, why don’t you just tell me why we’re here?”
“My pleasure,” the one named Mark said. “We’re going to throw a party in a few days. It’s going to be a moondust party. You’ll see people doing moondust. You’ll get to interview whoever you want. Your article will not only have the information you need, but an actual event to link this phenomenon to. Something centralized, tangible, and real.
“In return, you’re going to include our names as the organizers, and the name and location of the event in your article. That’s the deal,” he said.
A sweet one, too. But, I had to play it cool. “Okay. What’s in it for you?” I said, even though I could guess.
“Why do you care?” asked Hailey.
“Because I do,” I said.
“You’re our free advertising,” said Percival.
“I’ll do it. Tell me where and when.”
“We’re still working on that. I’ll text you when it’s set in stone.”
“Well,” I said, “That takes care of most of my needs. But, not all of them.”
“Oh, no?” said Hailey.
“You have no idea,” I said. “I want to know how you make the stuff.” Beaver and Mark’s expressions were incredulous, Hailey’s more guarded. I pushed on before their reactions solidified. “It’s for the scientific study of moondust. As I told Bea—I mean, Percival here—the substance you have is going to cause quite the stir in the scientific community. Knowing how it is made would go a long way in their research of its various principles and properties.”