by John Oakes
"We will. We'll have real bodies. Everything will be put right."
Leonard had been silent for a time, but he started crying when they handed him the ninth shot, or tenth. Cody had lost count. Apparently his house was being foreclosed on and, as he put it, his wife was "banging a Mexican."
"Jesus Christ," Tagg said derisively. He leaned over precariously and shoved his friend off his chair. The man tipped and hit the ground like a sack of pig shit. He remained there on his side, sobbing softly into the grass.
Cody and Tagg drank down their round.
Cody examined the battlefield. The two bottles were empty now. Glasses lay scattered, tipped over or broken on the table. Tagg was across the table, regarding Cody with heavy-lidded eyes. His sweaty brow bobbed and weaved and his shirt was unbuttoned to his stomach, revealing a white undershirt.
"You drunk?" Tagg asked.
"I've attained cruising altitude."
"Shit. I'm drunk." Tagg's face held an expression of surprise more than anger. "You may have caught me out of practice, shit stain. But that happens when you have a life."
The wedding was dying down. The receding tide of attendees left Cody and Tagg's table far from the main action near the dance floor where things were yet pitching and undulating. No one noticed the two men in a far corner of the tent, still left with their horns locked in a dance near as old as man's ability to ferment things.
"So what's it gonna be?" Tagg asked wearily. He sniffed in a big breath of air and slapped his face repeatedly to revive himself.
"It's gonna be another bottle of brown," Cody said. He laid his hands on the table, looked around at the void around them and then down at the man on the ground. Where'd Ricky gotten off to? Things had been relatively civil and Ricky had a business to look after. Cody couldn't blame him for leaving.
"I'll go get it." Cody worked his way to his feet, made sure he was steady and stepped around the table past Tagg.
Tagg shot out a hand and grabbed Cody's wrist, but his hand slipped and only caught Cody's sleeve. He gripped it and looked up at Cody. Cody looked down at him, waiting for Tagg to ask for a specific brand of whiskey or some water or...
"What did you get?" Tagg asked with a childlike curiosity.
"The last bottle was Maker's Mark," Cody said.
"Enough already. I only went along with this to see if you'd gab. But you're like a fuckin' whiskey-soaked energizer bunny."
Cody didn't understand.
"Or did his gold-digging wife get it all?" Tagg sniffed and turned to his lackey on the ground. "I know I'd be happy to give it all to her." He made a couple thrusts of his hips in his seat. The whimpering man on the ground was unable to laugh at Tagg's joke.
Tagg lolled his head back to look up at Cody, one eye squinting.
"Thing is, shit stain, no one seems too sure where all his money went." Tagg pulled on Cody's sleeve and turned himself in his chair to face Cody. "I'm just curious is all."
"Well, it ain't none of your business, is it?" Cody ripped his shirtsleeve from Tagg's grasp. "It's a family matter."
"Your father had no problem telling me what your grandfather gave him."
Tagg paused to let that sink in.
"So, he must think of me like family."
"You have a Dad, Tagg. He's a swell guy."
Tagg shook his head and laughed. He stood up clumsily, accidentally knocking over his chair. "That isn't really the point, is it?"
He put a finger to Cody's chest.
"You see, Leroy wagers that there musta been a God awful amount doled out. He just wonders if you got enough of it that he can finally cut you off."
"And you know that how?" Cody asked, feeling sick to his stomach.
Tagg's glassy eyes grew hungry again.
"Because he told me. First thing on the ride back to Houston."
Cody felt the blood draining from his face. The idea of his father confiding in the likes of Tagg, with his shit-eating grins and his coiffed hair and his quarterback swagger made Cody sicker than sick. It made him want to die.
"So, did you get his money or not? Simple question."
Cody's mouth hung open, and he shook his head angrily. "I...I...no...I...ain't none of your—
"You tell me," Tagg said. "You're gonna tell me right now, ya hear."
"Why do you gotta know so bad?" Cody asked, sounding somehow stupid to his own ears.
Tagg stepped right up into Cody's face.
"Because I am the line."
Cody could smell hair product, whiskey and a hint of cologne.
"What does that even mean?" Cody fought for words to express his frustration.
"It means," Tagg himself seemed to be searching for words, as he waggled his wild grin, "what you got, you got dropped into. And you ain't the measure of it. So I'm the mother fucking line. The line what tells when men need to be respected and when men need to be owned."
Cody swallowed hard at a dry mouth.
"I own you." Tagg almost gritted the words through his perfect teeth. Then he softened, sniffed and took a tutorial tone.
"You know when we'll get to see Heaven, Cody? When we've made it. Lots of things got messed up, since the fall from the Garden. It's the job of the strong to order it. That includes the people. Some gotta lead, some gotta follow, some gotta be led around by the nose. And so, what you got, everything you'll ever have, is mine." Tagg rested big white eyes on Cody.
"You are mine, the way this watch is mine." Tagg held up his wrist. "You are mine the way the cow belongs to the farmer." Tagg said the words slowly, punctuating each one with a jab to Cody's chest.
Cody took a half step backward, but Tagg stepped forward again.
"What did you get, shit stain?" He shot two fingers into Cody's chest again. "What did you get?"
He grabbed Cody by the front of his shirt and shook him violently.
"What did you get?" he yelled.
The world began to get very small. For some reason, in his growing panic, Cody was very aware of the beads of sweat showing on Tagg's brow.
"What did you get?" Tagg gritted through his teeth, face inches from Cody's.
Tagg reached his right hand back and curled it into a fist. "I'm go—
A sickening THUNK cut off his statement.
Cody would never forget the spilt second when he saw Tagg's eyes roll back in his head. For a long instant, the man hung suspended in mid air, almost as if he were floating. Then he fell to the ground hard, straight down, like all his bones had evaporated in a flash.
Cody watched in disbelief as Tagg lay on the grass, twitching. He looked up to see Ricky standing above Tagg, gripping an empty whiskey bottle in one hand, breathing quick, short breaths, and staring daggers at the heap of muscle laying at Cody's feet.
Chapter Twelve
The Bar Mitzvah
Cody approached the North San Antonio Country Club around 1pm the next day, a Saturday. Grey storm clouds hung above the beautiful, pillared entryway, threatening thunder and rain while mimicking his mood.
Inside, he glanced around until he saw a sign on a stand that read, "Cohen-Jennings Bar Mitzvah. Palladium Room A-B-C." A paper arrow pointed the way. Even without the sign, Cody probably could have guessed where to go by following the noise. He walked down the marble-floored hallway toward the raucous sounds. He found a number of opened double doors that all led into a room the size of a junior high gymnasium.
Cody stood by a door taking in the scene before him. The opposite wall was floor to ceiling windows that, even on this cloudy day, let light pour into the space. He saw a large amount of black and white clothing. The movement and chatter of kids dominated the scene. They were huddled in small groups around a video game here, pelting each other with cookies over there, and generally raising hell, while the parents sat at tables or stood by the windows talking amicably. One man by the back stood out for some reason. He was alone, drinking, had sandy blonde hair and was wearing a lime green polo shirt under a dark blue blazer.
For a moment he'd been concerned that Jews didn't drink. But no wait, that was Muslims? No Hindus? Cody couldn't remember exactly and had stopped caring by the time he was sipping at a pink lemonade and vodka. He'd had a slight headache all morning. Maybe a hair of the dog would do the trick.
Cody reveled in his luck at hitting two classy open bars in as many days. Getting out of the house could be fraught with peril, but it had its rewards.
Cody surveyed the crowd looking for any sign of Winton or Missy. Winton had said to arrive at 1pm and Cody had been right on time, but Winton had not given any other instructions.
Cody saw an inviting patch of back wall that would serve as an out of the way place to wait. He sidled up next to the middle-aged man he'd spotted before with the sandy blonde hair. The man was leaning a little too heavily against the wall. He was rather tall, maybe six foot, had a decent spare tire running around his midsection, and he looked thoroughly bored.
The sandy-haired man smiled, stopped leaning on the wall and shook Cody's hand.
"Howdy there. Trevor Jennings. Thanks for coming." He leant back against the wall again and stared off into the crowd.
"Oh, is this your...um...event then?" Cody asked
"My own personal Jew-stravaganza. Well, my son's. Stepson's. And you are?" The man asked as if he were really taking notice of Cody for the first time.
"With the performers," Cody offered. He nodded at the stage. "Sorry," Cody said and pointed to his drink. "I didn't know it was free until they'd made it already."
"Aww hell," Trevor said shifting his weight back and forth with stern annoyance on his face. "I thought with how cheap these people are, how much could a bar mitzvah cost? But no. You gotta invite every son of Abraham in a hundred mile radius and then treat 'em all like kings when they get here. It's some serious keeping-up-with-the-Joneses kind of shit. With how much this is costing me, I doubt you could make a dent. Help yourself pal. I could use a fellow gentile to drink with."
Cody didn't know what a gentile was, but it sounded like a compliment.
Trevor explained without Cody asking. "It's their word for guys like us."
He gave Cody an appraising glance. "I mean, you aren't Jewish, are you? I thought my J-DAR was getting pretty good."
"Ah, no. I'm not. Your J-DAR works fine. Which one is your stepson?"
"You see that fat kid with the un-tucked shirt and the funny little hat on?" Cody nodded. "Well look to his left at the fatter kid with the glasses and all the zits. That's my little bundle of joy, Jared."
Cody laughed. "I take it you aren't close?"
"Don't get me wrong," Trevor said, gesturing with his beer over the crowd. "He's an alright kid. He just doesn't like sports. He's always moping around the damn house and when he isn't, he is in his bedroom playing computer games and jerking off to Asian porn."
Trevor looked up at Cody. "Internet history," he explained with a small one-fingered salute from his brow.
"And you are more of a Southern Baptist, Football and barbecue type?" Cody asked.
"Damn straight! You see my dilemma plainly. I went down to the kid's room the other day to tell him dinner was ready. I figured out he didn't hear the intercom because he was in an argument with a Korean kid over some video game they were playing. And the kid was actual Korean. Like in goddam Korea."
Cody tried to nod sympathetically, and wondered to himself how many silver bullets red-faced Trevor had downed so early in the day.
Trevor shook his head and polished off his beer. "I tell you, we are from different times and different worlds. I know the kid needs a dad, but I got nothing he wants."
"My dad and I don't have much in common either."
Trevor turned and asked, "Did you grow up ok or are you all screwed up?"
"Oh, I'm screwed up. Yeah."
"Shit." Trevor kicked softly at a spot on the floor. "I messed things up with my daughter, from my first marriage. She married a beaner and I didn't take it too well. Then the bastard makes me look even worse by going and being a better husband and father than I ever was. I'm still digging myself out of that hole. I got a second chance here with that pimply nerd, and Jared's mom is a smoking hot piece of ass to boot. But look at that kid." Trevor waved his empty beer across the room in desperation.
"Sorry for the verbal diarrhea there, Stretch." Trevor shifted a little unsteadily.
It was remarkable how much he thought of his dad like a stepfather, sort of removed, linked, but not linked. But it wouldn't be that way unless Leroy had made it that way.
"At the end of the day we all like movies, cars, and violence on TV, right?" Cody asked.
Trevor just nodded in thought. Cody took a sip and continued, "Maybe you could start a new hobby and include him in it, meet each other in the middle somehow." Cody tried to imagine Leroy taking him canoeing or something, but couldn't quite picture it.
"Monster trucks? Heck I dunno. You don't really have to understand him totally, but if you even try, and give him your time, he'll grow up better, I think...maybe."
"Huh." Trevor looked at the floor sincerely in thought. Then he looked up to Cody and nodded. "Well, shit Dr. Phil, I'd say you earned that drink."
A hush fell over the throng as lights and music from the stage at the far end of the room indicated that the show was starting.
Cody shook Trevor's hand and walked up closer to the stage to find a good seat.
Winton was a somewhat morose and dry character to talk to, but a flamboyant performer on stage. Remarkably, his size was almost no factor, and when it was, it was used to his advantage. He was the master of the stage, the master of illusion, the master of the room. He was fifteen goddam feet tall, at one point almost literally, when one of his illusions put him atop stilts that were clothed like legs. The kids were going absolutely bat shit silly for the performance. Even the parents were enraptured. Winton had managed to work in some very subtle humor that only the adults fully understood.
He knew who was writing the check.
Missy could have loomed above him, being two feet taller, but she always managed to stand far enough behind him or on the other side of the stage from him as they artfully framed the centerpieces of their illusions. Altogether it was one of the best things Cody had seen in a long time. It buoyed him up over his many troubles.
Missy took their giant van home and Winton walked with Cody to his Trans-am, which Winton immediately complemented and asked to drive. Cody just tossed him the keys.
"It was a joke." Winton lifted up a stubby leg and waggled it over the ground. "Can't reach the pedals." He smiled and threw the keys back to Cody.
Instead, Winton navigated as Cody drove.
"I really have always wanted to have one of these," Winton remarked. "Ever since I first saw Smokey and the Bandit."
"Well," Cody asked, "What's stopping ya?"
He was immediately horrified by his own question, but Winton didn't seem to be.
"Money. The usual. They're generally real fixer-uppers and the sweet restored models are too expensive."
"Money? I thought you said you couldn't drive at all?"
"Not this car, not without having it fitted out properly. How do you think people in wheelchairs drive?"
"People in wheelchairs can drive?" Cody asked, incredulous.
Winton just laughed out loud. "Did you grow up Amish or something?"
Cody, once again, felt embarrassed. It must have shown.
"You seem a little inexperienced with a lot of the world is all. It's not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe even a compliment. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn."
"No, I think you're probably right. There's a lot I don't know about."
"But, ah jeez. See? Right there!" Winton reeled. "Cody, you don't know me that well, so you don't know how much a statement like that means to me."
Cody trie
d to smile, but he didn't really get it.
"Too many people," Winton continued, "they just go through life having to always know things, clinging to their little certainties like a kid with their damn blankie." Then looking up at Cody intently, "That's why I said you were honest back at the hospital. It doesn't take me long to size people up."
Winton made a flourish with one hand.
"You got a sort of wide-eyed wonderment like a kid, but you're also genuine like a kid too. No bullshit. I wish more adults were like you. The world would be a better place."
Cody was taken aback at the compliment. So, he wasn't an idiot, he was genuine? Cody wasn't sure how those two things fit together. Nevertheless, Cody was short on people going out of their way to say anything nice to him. He appreciated it, especially coming from Winton, who he admired even more after the magic show.
"Thanks man, I think."
"You know what, forget Crapplebee's," Winton said. "I'm gonna take you some place special."
Chapter Thirteen
Friends in Low Places
Cody followed Winton through the entrance of a nondescript, cement block building, and down a flight of steps into an expansive space. A long bar sat in the center of the opposite wall. Across from it was a fireplace and lounge seating. Near the bottom of the steps as they entered were some low booths upholstered in fake, red leather. At the far end of the room, past a small dance floor, were more tables and more booths. There were three pool tables, a couple dartboards and a pinball machine.
Winton invited Cody to sit down at a wide semi-circular booth near the fireplace.
"What are you drinking?"
Cody ordered his usual whiskey but with Coke this time. He looked around again, taking in his surroundings. Something about the place was off. The booth he was sitting in was normal sized, but nearly every table, chair and booth in the place was smaller than what you'd usually find in a bar or restaurant. Cody looked up to see Winton, drinks in hand, step down from the bar on a small set of stairs. Cody saw the female bartender only for a moment before she turned and dropped below the level of the bar on the other side. Cody whipped around and looked toward the rear of the room with the pool tables. He saw two small men playing pool.