Something for Nothing

by David Anthony

  “So how do we know they’re not using actors in those films?” he’d finally asked at one point. They were in the car, driving home, all four of them staring silently out the windows into the darkness.

  Peter had laughed, and Martin could tell he’d scored points with Sarah. But Linda hadn’t been amused.

  “That’s right, Martin,” she’d said. “It’s all a big joke. You’re a comedian.”

  Martin apologized, but what he really felt was relief—he’d almost made the same joke right there in the classroom, in front of all the kids and parents. And he would have done it, except that a couple of the cops were a little intimidating. This was especially true of one of them. He was a detective—one of those plain-clothes guys, like on TV—and he’d shown them his bullet wounds from two separate shootings during drug raids in Oakland. Martin remembered him, because during a break the guy had stopped Peter and asked what he was reading. (It was Baseball Stars of 1973.) They were just out of earshot, and Martin saw that they talked for a couple of minutes.

  Later, when he asked what they’d talked about, Peter just shrugged and said “The A’s.”

  “What about them?”

  “Just, you know, the playoffs and stuff.”

  “Did you tell him we went to a playoff game last year?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Peter had said, his voice flat and hard to read. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you tell him we live right near Sal Bando?” Martin persisted. “That you’ve trick-or-treated at his house?”

  Sal Bando was the third baseman and team captain for the A’s. Martin’s realtor had told him that Bando lived nearby when they were first looking at houses. He’d also mentioned that the A’s catcher, Gene Tenace, lived somewhere in town as well. Bando’s house was nice, but not incredibly nice. Like some other houses in the neighborhood, it had a Japanese theme. Sand pits and ponds and decorative wooden extensions on the arches of the roof. It even had one of those sit-on-the-floor dining-room-table things (or at least that’s what the realtor had said).

  Martin was pleased to realize that he was in the same income bracket as a guy like Sal Bando (though he was pretty sure Bando wasn’t up to his eyeballs in debt like he was). Peter, though, was thrilled. He was obsessed with Bando and with the A’s more generally. Walked the dog past Bando’s house every day, wrote reports about the A’s for school, listened to all their games on his little orange transistor radio.

  Martin had never spoken with Bando, of course, and in fact he’d only caught a glimpse of him a few times. The first time he was by himself. It was as Martin was driving past, and Bando had just walked out his front door. Martin had seen him plenty of times on TV, and had even seen him a handful of times live, in games at the Oakland Coliseum. Here, though, because he didn’t have his uniform on, he seemed bigger, somehow, than Martin realized. He really filled out his street clothes, that was for sure.

  “He’s a big motherfucker!” he’d said later on to Linda, giving over to his excitement. “I’ll bet he’s got a huge cock.”

  Linda had shushed him, motioning to indicate that the kids were in the house somewhere. But then, after a pause, she’d also laughed, which Martin liked—Linda could roll with the crude humor once in a while, even give a little back.

  “He had nice shoes, too,” Martin had also told her. “Alligator, I think. He was wearing light-brown slacks and some sort of short-sleeved shirt. He’s got big arms. He’s a big guy.”

  Martin’s only regret about this sighting was that he’d made the mistake of slowing down a little too much to check him out. This made Bando turn to look at him, and when he did it was obvious what Martin was doing. But Martin didn’t panic. He just gave him a little wave—“Hello, neighbor!”—and Bando did the same, his thick forearm and meaty hand raised in response.

  More than once after this, Martin had fantasized about building on this encounter somehow. He’d read about the Brooklyn Dodgers—the way stars like Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, and Duke Snider were just regular guys in the neighborhood near Ebbets Field, and he wondered if Bando was up for something like that. This wasn’t Reggie Jackson, after all, who was a genuine superstar, and far too rich and flashy for Martin’s neighborhood. Guys like Bando and Tenace, they were all right. He’d heard somewhere that they were the real enforcers in the dugout and the locker room, and it made sense. You didn’t win the World Series, as the A’s had done two years in a row, without a few guys keeping things in order. And look, Bando wasn’t the team captain for nothing, right?

  The scenario he thought about most often revolved around a fishing trip with Bando. Martin and Peter would swing by early, before it was even light, and they’d drive out to the marina, talking about Charlie Finley, the A’s owner, and why he was an asshole. Martin would show Bando the ins and outs of deep-sea fishing, and then later, someone would snap a photo of the three of them—Martin and Peter and Sal Bando—once they were back on the dock, all of them sunburned and tired but their faces flushed with excitement because they’d caught their limit and had a great time. Peter would take the photo to school, watch the other kids shit their pants with jealousy. And Martin would frame it and put it up in his office—though he’d act like it was no big deal. The customers would eat it up, and even Radkovitch would be impressed.

  MARTIN HURRIED TO DROP Peter off at school (no sign of his teacher today, unfortunately), and then hit the freeway. He was going to be late, he knew, but he tried to give over to it. He sighed audibly—heard himself do it and wondered if he did it more than he realized (Linda said he did it all the time).

  Had they made a mistake in moving to the suburbs? Walnut Station and the other little suburban enclaves nestled east of Oakland and Berkeley were in a beautiful area, no doubt about it. All along the freeway it was open foothills, large stretches of tall grass, and patches of old oak trees. From what Martin had been told (by Sarah, as part of a seemingly endless series of reports on the Gold Rush era), Walnut Station had been a Pony Express stop for San Francisco and Sacramento; the word station was the giveaway, apparently. That was why the town council still maintained some of the original mid-nineteenth-century buildings at the center of town. Or at least the facades of the buildings. Wooden exteriors, swinging saloon doors, rail fences. The main building was The Miner’s Hotel. Now, though, it was a restaurant and a bunch of antique shops. The council hired a blacksmith to heat up his forge on weekends and say “Howdy, folks!” when you walked past, and to show kids how to hammer something on his anvil.

  Martin thought it ridiculous—embarrassing. Not to mention boring. And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Walnut Station had turned out to be hot, isolated, and boring. He hated to admit it (and he certainly wouldn’t admit it to Linda), but the move was a bit of a bust.

  Living in Oakland, he’d had a quick commute. Better, he was close to the track, and most of their friends lived nearby. Now it took forty-five minutes to get to work, and he spent half his time driving back and forth to see their old friends—mainly because they hadn’t made any friends out here in the suburbs. He’d thought for a while that a couple down the street, the Weavers, might become friends. Hal Weaver had inherited a big steel plant in Antioch, or Pittsburg, or one of those crummy cities by the delta, and he and his absurdly good-looking wife Miriam liked to throw a lot of cocktail parties. But the friendship had fizzled out. Martin would see cars in the Weavers’ driveway and in the street, maybe a few people on the stoop, and know that he and Linda had been blown off. Once, Hal had even given him a friendly wave as he drove past, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him to feel guilty for not inviting them. Maybe next time! the wave seemed to say.

  Hal was a pompous, drunken lout, and so missing out on a friendship with him was no loss. But Martin was genuinely disappointed that Miriam had backed away—was mortified, in fact, to think that it might have been his fault. And probably had been. He’d have a few drinks, and the next thing he knew he’d be fawning over her, star
ing at her dark hair and deep blue eyes or her breasts. Or, worse, he’d make suggestive jokes and then laugh too hard, grind the conversation to a halt.

  Even Linda had noticed it. “You’re making an ass of yourself,” she’d said to him the last time they’d been over there. That was six or seven months ago. He still saw Miriam in her yard once in a while. He’d spot her on his way home from work and slow the car to a stop, roll down the window and say hello, chat her up a bit. He knew he seemed overeager, but he couldn’t help himself. And it wasn’t just that she was so attractive. No, the real issue was that she seemed so contained and so confident. She’d look at him, smiling in a vague sort of way, as if it amused her to know he was that interested, or that curious. It drove him crazy.

  He’d found himself thinking about her more and more the past few months—ever since that last party, in fact. Or a specific two-minute slice of the party, that is. He’d asked to use the bathroom, and Miriam had walked him into the living room and pointed down the hall. When he came back out she was gone (it had taken him a little extra time—he’d been worried about the splashing sound his urine would make, and that had frozen him up, made him have to take a deep breath and relax). And so when he emerged from the bathroom, he was suddenly gripped with the sensation of being alone in Miriam Weaver’s house. Or if not alone, then unobserved.

  So he’d lingered. The party was going on outside, but from the hallway the voices and bursts of laughter (forced Walnut Station laughter, Martin thought) were muffled. There were some photos along the hallway, and he’d paused to glance at them. They were mostly of the kids, who were nice enough, actually (which was a triumph, given what a dickhead their dad was). These were all in color. Shots of them out hunting at their duck club, getting their first Communions at church, stuff like that. There were also some older, black-and-white photos, mostly of Miriam and Hal when they were younger, maybe when they were first married, or before that, even. There weren’t any kids in the pictures, anyway. Martin had to admit that Hal looked kind of handsome; he was certainly thinner, and he had more hair. And of course Miriam looked really incredible. She was one of those people who looked right at the camera. Jesus, she really was good-looking. Could someone please explain how Hal Weaver had managed to land someone like this?

  Looking at the pictures in the hallway had made Martin think about Miriam Weaver and her private world. What she sounded like when she talked to a close friend on the phone, or maybe the letters she’d written but never sent. Or what she thought about when no one was around and the house was quiet for a change—her fantasies, her fears, her secrets. Down the hallway was the master bedroom; he could see the edge of their bed, and a bunch of ties on a clothing rack. And a couple of pairs of Hal’s shoes on the floor next to the rack. That was about it, though. And there wasn’t any time to peek in and see the rest of the room—it was time to get back out onto the patio (he didn’t want Miriam thinking he’d used the bathroom to take a dump, after all).

  But his brief foray to the bathroom had made him curious. He wanted a chance to wander around, feel the atmosphere, and touch the things that made it her house. He hadn’t asked himself why this was the case, and he didn’t intend to—not if he could avoid it. He just knew it was something he had a surprisingly strong urge to do. Ever since then, he’d thought about it off and on—thought about Miriam, her house, how he could get back in there. He thought about stopping by when he knew no one was around except Miriam, say hello, just checking in. But he knew he didn’t have the guts for that. And it wasn’t what he wanted, not really. No, he just wanted to walk around in there when no one else was around. Okay, it was a little strange. But it had become a daydream place to which he’d sneak off, even while he was sitting talking to Linda and the kids at dinner, or when he was calling the banks and telling them payment was on the way (which it wasn’t). He’d be talking, engaged and animated, but really he was imagining being in Miriam’s house.

  Martin flicked on the radio and willed himself not to think about Miriam Weaver. Within fifteen minutes he was driving through the Caldecott Tunnel, watching the lights flicker past. The kids always tried to hold their breath the whole way through. It was about a mile long, and even without traffic it took a minute or maybe a little more to get through it. Peter still hadn’t managed it (the kid definitely needed to get some exercise).

  He braked for a traffic backup, and turned off the radio (there wasn’t any reception, only static). A middle-aged woman next to him in a white Mustang was fixing her hair in her rearview mirror. It looked like a wig. She probably had five or six of them in her bathroom at home, he thought, all lined up on Styrofoam heads and waiting—hoping—that they’d be chosen. “Let’s see,” she’d say. “I’m going to wear you to work, because my boss likes this look, and you later on tonight, for cocktails.”

  Martin could envision this because he himself had a toupee (that was what he called it, though Linda liked to tease him and call it a wig). In fact, he had his own line-up of three of those Styrofoam heads in his bedroom. They were on his bureau, each one crowned by a toupee with a slightly different style: shaggy, wavy, and clean-cut.

  Shit, he thought. Was there an accident up ahead? He had a lot to deal with at work. A lot to worry about, that is. Radkovitch had stopped by the office on Thursday, which had surprised Martin. He was supposed to be out all week, pounding the pavement, working on loan possibilities. He hadn’t met yet with the guys from the Wells Fargo loan office (one of them was a contact from Merrill, apparently), but he wanted to talk about a backup plan.

  “A backup plan?” Martin had asked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I thought the Wells Fargo guy was your pal.”

  “I know, I know,” Radkovitch said to him. “He is. But just listen.” Martin heard the irritation in Radkovitch’s voice, and it occurred to him that Radkovitch was getting a little tired of him. He’d been surprised by this realization.

  “Fine,” Martin said. “Fire away . . . I’m all ears.”

  Radkovitch nodded, and Martin was struck yet again by his looks. Lots of thick, dark, wavy hair, green eyes. And of course he was really built. Tall and lean. He looked like an athlete, is what it was, right down to the nice tan, and the telltale band of white skin that showed where he put a sweat band on his right wrist when he played tennis.

  “Well,” Radkovitch said. “I’ve been talking to the people who own the Buick dealership in Oakland. You know, the big place on Shattuck, near Fortieth Street?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said, looking out the big front window at Michael Ludwig as he washed down a plane. “Go on.”

  “Okay,” Radkovitch said. “Well, the thing is, I heard through some contacts that they’ve been looking for a way to diversify. And I think Anderson Aircrafts is exactly the sort of business they’d be interested in right now. In fact, they are interested, Martin. I talked to them last week. It went well, all things considered.”

  It was a way to land on his feet, Radkovitch had explained. Essentially, it would be a kind of buyout. Martin could still run things, but in point of fact Anderson Aircrafts would be owned by the Buick guys. They’d been in business forever, and even though times were bad, their pockets were deep. They’d be fine, and so Martin would be fine, too.

  Of course, things would be different. It wouldn’t be like owning the place. He wouldn’t get the big bucks or be able to do the creative tax write-offs. He’d get commissions on sales, maybe a salary for managing the office. And they, in turn, would cover Martin’s debts. Which were considerable, Radkovitch reminded him. He’d have to sell the place at Tahoe, the boat, and probably the horse—definitely the horse. But his place in Walnut Station would be safe.

  “It could be worse,” he’d told Martin. “I think you should give it some thought.”

  Martin had thought about it, all right. He’d sat there, projecting forward to his new life as a thinly disguised car salesman—a job he’d actually had a long time ago, before starting Anderson Aircraft
s. He knew the drill: lots of hours, kissing up to customers, scraping for commissions, working your ass off. Get up, drive to work, drive home. Maybe have a good week here and there. And no time off—or probably not. And what would he have to do, anyway? No race horse, no boat, no membership at the club. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to save up and take the kids to Baskin-Robbins and see fucking Gary Roberts once in a while.

  Traffic in the tunnel started moving again, and soon enough Martin was driving through Hayward, almost at the airport and work. It was still overcast on the bay side of the hills, and much cooler. There were lots of gas lines here, as well. A couple of signs even read no gas.

  He pulled over at Nelda’s, the local diner near the airport, and bought a cup of coffee and some donuts—scarfed a couple down right there, put the rest in a bag for later. He’d give a couple to Ludwig. Then he walked over to the news shop next door to get the Daily Racing Form. He wanted to try for a few of the later races today at Golden Gate Fields, especially to see this one horse he’d been hearing about, Big Bad Wolf. Adrian Carmine, a hotshot jockey from L.A., was riding him, and he wanted to put some money on him. If there weren’t any potential buyers coming by, why hang around? On Wednesday a guy in a white 240Z had stopped in and asked to set up a test flight for Monday morning—today. He’d even talked about trade-in value on the Z, which was usually a good sign. But something about the guy had made Martin think he was full of shit.

  The other reason for going to the track—let’s face it, the reason—was that he knew he needed to check in with Val Desmond, the trainer for his current horse, Temperature’s Rising. He was running in the big stakes race out at the county fair on the Fourth of July. It was the main event of the year, and Martin was excited—thrilled—that a horse of his had made it into the race. Temperature’s Rising was the third horse Martin had owned, and Val had trained all of them. The first two had been only okay, but Temperature’s Rising was the real deal (for a local horse, at least).