Garbage

by Stephen Dixon

  “What’d you just take there?” one of the two men says.

  “A knife.” I show it. “Think I want to get stabbed by him? Here, if you think I’m a thief,” and I throw it into the street.

  “That better?”

  “What, for some kid on junk to find and stick in one of us?” He gets the knife and holds it.

  I dial the police. The officer says “Does he need an ambulance?” and I say “He just seems knocked out like any number of drunks at my bar and his bleeding’s about stopped, but I haven’t that much sympathy for him so do what you want,” and she says “A car and an ambulance if the hospital has one right away will be right there.”

  I hang up and say to the two men “To explain things, so you won’t go crazy attacking me thinking I want to steal, what I’m going to do now is try and find evidence on this man to see if he’s linked to the people who set fire to my apartment and are trying to kill my business place,” and the more talking one says “Why can’t you wait that for the cops?”

  “Because they and the hospitals have a reputation of losing evidence out of bungling, I read, or when they just don’t want something to get known, and I know damn well they also won’t tell me what they find if I ask. Understand I’m not saying the police are in on it against me intentionally or in any way. But you can’t believe what I’ve gone through with them so far with my bar, so for all sorts of reasons like my health I have to start relying on myself, all right?” and the man says “Okay, go ahead, but everything you do and say we’re telling the cops, if we can remember it,” and a young man behind them says “I’ll jot it down,” and takes out a pen and pad and writes.

  I search the man’s coat and pants pockets. Wallet he has I open but it has nothing but money and my note and a photo of an old man and woman in it and I put it back in his pants. Tissuepack, paperback, keys attached to a nailclipper and religious medal and that’s all. The man’s eyes open a few times and I say “How are you? You’ll be all right,” and he says “What’re you doing, get out of my stuff,” and shuts his eyes. I feel for his pulse but don’t get any mostly because I don’t know how to get a pulse if it’s not just squeezing the wrist for a beat. Then the police car comes and when they take a look at the man, one says “You should’ve thought of this when you called us—he seems like he’s dying and needs an ambulance,” and I say “One’s supposed to be on the way,” and he says “Where is it then?” and puts in a call for one.

  The police search me, find the billy, tell the two men and the young one with the pad and pen to stay. They wrap a blanket around the man I hit, massage his hands and keep the crowd back and a couple of people from trying to make phonecalls from the booth when they didn’t see the man on the floor, and soon at the same time two ambulances come from opposite ends of the avenue and the drivers argue for a while over who’s entitled to take the man while the two doctors from the different hospitals work on him. Finally one policeman says to a driver “You, for no good reason, just you,” and that ambulance team puts the man on a stretcher and takes him away.

  More police come and they divide me and the three men into two groups and while they’re asking me questions I overhear the more talkative of the two older men say “All I know is I saw that guy hit him, the barowner he says he is, few times real hard in the face and I think once with that club you took off him, but on that I’m not so sure. I didn’t see him provoked—he just went wild, ran after him shouting, knocked over a lady and attacked.”

  I say to the policeman interviewing me “What that fellow just said’s not true,” and I show them the note I got and say “The one I sent the man through the phonebooth shelf is in his wallet, but that’s gone with him and probably lost by now,” and the talkative man yells “Yeah, but you opened his wallet before because you said you didn’t trust the police force, so how does anyone know what notes you might’ve stuck in there?”

  “Did you see me?”

  “I didn’t see you not do it.”

  “And your friend?”

  “He’s not my friend. I don’t know him and he’s got a mouth for himself.”

  “I didn’t see you take or insert in the wallet anything like paper,” the other man says. “But my vision isn’t the sharpest except for bigger things, such as your beating up for no justification it seems the man they took away.”

  “What are you guys? You with the man I hit? You were there from the start, so maybe you are.”

  “Excuse me,” the young man says to the police. “But I have it in my notes where, and I quote, ‘suspect removes unconscious man’s wallet—seemingly unconscious—peers inside, puts it back in man’s same pants pocket left side,’ but there’s nothing about removing anything from the wallet.”

  “Did you see him taking anything out though?” a policeman says. “Or putting anything in?”

  “I’m not sure. I was doing a little looking but mostly writing.”

  “Let’s see that.” The young man tears some sheets out of the pad and the policeman reads from them. “‘Victim, up till now seemingly unconscious against glass panel of booth, says “Stop searching me” to assailant but assailant does not.’”

  “I was looking for the exact names and maybe his contacts of the people who’ve been hounding me, but maybe this pen-and-pad kid’s in with them too. Before I thought they were all just passerbys—passersby—whatever the hell they are, it is, walking past. But now, well—”

  “That’s all I am,” the young man says. “I live with my mom and aunts. I’m a journalism major on my way home from school uptown and if it’s all right now I’d like to leave to study and eat.”

  A policeman says “We got their names and pad notes and it’s a shitty day besides, so why don’t we let the witnesses go?” and the other policemen agree and the three men leave.

  I give the police the names of several detectives at their precinct and say “Ask them about me and the man I hit who I described to them earlier from my fire. Also why not check those two men and even the kid and see if they work for Stovin’s Carting Company or just who they do work for and if it’s in any way connected to garbage collection or goon-type crime and if the kid really is a student and what school. He didn’t seem like a liar, but how do we know?”

  “This isn ‘ t a police state,” a policeman says. “And if this incident ever goes to trial, your lawyer can handle all the who-works-for-who and so forth.”

  “It’s going to trial all right, but by me dragging into court that phony the ambulance took away.”

  “Good. But now I’m sorry but we got to bring you in for assault and intent with a dangerous weapon,” and I say “My billy? Come on, your microscope guys will find it stayed in my pocket as protection with no blood or head marks on it except for maybe some drunk’s arm a year back if any blood got on it then and can last that long. But I want to tell you something before you take me in.”

  “If he dies you’ll feel horrible—get in.”

  I get in back of the car and say to him in front “It’s true. I never killed anybody, even when I could’ve when I was in the service, but wouldn’t even do it overseas. Few times I fought I shot over the enemy’s heads.”

  “So they could live to kill your buddies. Oh, guys like you I don’t understand and would’ve shot in the back in the army if I knew what you were doing. But that man you punched you might’ve been mistaken, you know. He could’ve just opened your envelope because he was making a call and his fingers out of nothing to do wandered under the shelf and fiddled around with the envelope you say was there but which we never found a speck of except for the tape you could’ve put there yourself, till he caught on what it might be.”

  “Then why’d he put my note from it into his wallet?”

  “We don’t know he did yet. But if he did, then maybe as a joke.”

  “I don’t get it. To give to someone else?”

  “That too. Maybe he wanted to play it on someone else. But what I was suggesting was maybe he kept the n
ote to show someone how much a joke had been played on him in the booth.”

  “With my spit all over it he’d put it in his wallet?”

  “The spit would’ve been dried by then.”

  “But he rubbed it off on the sidewalk.”

  “That’s what you claim.”

  “Back and forth he rubbed, back and forth.”

  “Someone else but you saw? Not those three duds.”

  “Then how do you also explain I recognized him as the note-leaving guy at my bar from the fire?”

  “Your word against his again.”

  “Hell with it. Long as I know he’s involved, that’s enough for me.”

  “Good for you,” and he calls in that we’re coming, other man gets out to wipe the snow off the windshield and we drive to the stationhouse.

  I’m booked, they ask if I have a lawyer. I say “I never had much use for anyone who takes so much money for what with a little hard brainwork I can do myself, not that I ever even much trusted them either,” and they say they’ll have one appointed to me then as that’s the law.

  “The law,” I say, “the law. Well just see if I don’t refuse your appointee,” and ask and they say okay for me to call my bar. I get Hector, one of the two men I asked to stay and say “Anyone there but you?”

  “Boo, but you told us not to.”

  “I know, but anyone else try and come in or call?”

  “No and it’s getting late and we got to be moving. Even for money it’s not worth staying here anymore—my wife will kill me.”

  “One last favor. I’m in the police station for something I did and am giving my keys to the police to close my place. Stay there till they come. Don’t let anyone but them in and ask for their badges.”

  “I don’t ask cops for badges. Question them and you anger and get trouble from them. They got uniforms on, they’re cops. You, I don’t ask what happened less you tell.”

  “Thanks, but listen. Take all the money out of the cash register and from the cigar box below and tip glass next to the juicer and put it all in one of the brown paper bags there by the coffeemaker.”

  “Wait a minute. Where’s the coffeemaker?”

  “By the juicer. Double the bags, in fact, as the change will weigh a ton. Leave the nickels if you want and keep the rest on you alone, Hector, not Boo. He’s okay, I’m not saying he’s not and I know he’s your friend. But he’s a little dim, right? and wait till I call you again at home. What’s your number?”

  “I don’t even see where’s the juicer and I’m looking.”

  “Right by the register. But your phone number.”

  He gives it.

  “Listen, Hector, I’m putting my faith in you two but you especially. And I’m not saying you’re dishonest by any means, because would I be asking you to do this for me if I was? But I know how much money there is between the register and cigar box. Tip glass probably another few bucks.”

  “How much you think altogether?”

  “Why you asking? Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to count it at home. But there’s twenty in it for you and Boo, ten apiece and okay, for you another five, just for doing this for me.”

  “What’re you afraid of, cops on the take?”

  “A little, yes. They’ve done it with other barowners. They slip in the place because of some minor infraction nobody’s followed for fifty years or an anonymous phone complaint maybe made by them in a disguised voice, and while one’s questioning the bartender, boom, half the register money’s suddenly gone. Where’d it go? ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ they say, ‘you accusing us?’ getting tough.’You yelling corrupt?’ Ah. Maybe, probably the ones who come to close will be clean and great but I can’t take chances, though forget the bottles they might cart away before they return my keys, and the steaks.”

  “How am I to tell Boo you only want me to hold the money? He’s big and already a bit tanked and mean from all the booze he drank.”

  “I told you guys only free beer.”

  “Not me, him, but you also told us you’d be right back.”

  “Okay, wait, let me think. After the police come take the money straight to Kelly’s Bar instead and give it to Kelly to hold.”

  “What’re you now, all of a sudden don’t trust me?”

  “I trust you but Kelly’s always been all right with me and he knows where to hide money, you might not.”

  “I got a floorboard in my place for stashing away stuff. And now I told you that you know something about me that nobody else does.”

  “I’d still rather have Kelly.”

  “You know, being so all right with people isn’t what I learned about him. Why I don’t go in there and others is he gives change for five dollars too many times when you give him a ten. And how you know he’ll be there?”

  “Call him. If he’s not, call me at the 15th Precinct right back. But just take the money if he is which he will be, he’s like me, he never leaves and he’ll be honest with me or else he knows he won’t get favors back. I’ll try and call you later tonight or the morning and you’ll have put down by then how much you gave Kelly, okay?”

  “Okay, but I still don’t like that you don’t trust me or what Boo might do.”

  “I do trust you, I do, and when I get back you have a home at the bar for free food and booze for a couple of days, Boo too. Now put him on.”

  “Yeh,” Boo says.

  “Boo, this is Shaney.”

  “Yeh, I know, Hector said, so?”

  “So Boo, I don’t care, I’m not normally like this as you know and don’t give me that tough ‘so’ stuff too, but big as you are and sober and mean as you might be that day, if you give Hector any flack about the job I just gave him to do I’ll beat your ass black and blue with my billy, I swear, and much worse than that I’ll ban you forever from my bar, you got?”

  “Yeh. I’ll keep myself straight.”

  “Good man and thanks.”

  I give the police my bar keys and two of them leave to lock up. I ask the sergeant if he could put a guard on the bar tonight for I’m almost sure Stovin’s men will try and firebomb the place or smash in all the plate glass. He says “We’re short-handed as it is. And I can’t see why your bar rates a special guard when you’re the person being held and charged for maybe clobbering to death one of the group you accuse of harassing you.”

  “You’ll put that down in writing for my bar’s insurance company?”

  “I’ll put your face down in writing if you don’t smarten up.” “And threaten me again and I’ll have whoever it is supposed to know about police threats know about you.”

  “Quick, someone—Angelo, get over here,” he yells to a policeman, “and get this asshole out of my sight before I lose my cool altogether and level him and then you guys will lose your protective sergeant for another few weeks.”

  Angelo sits me down, gets me coffee and tells me to lay off the sergeant. “He’s been called down before for busting a suspect’s jaw and we can’t afford to have him kicked off the force.” Later he checks with the sergeant and tells me that the court which will talk about bail and my appointed lawyer for my assault and possible manslaughter case doesn’t open till tomorrow at ten and I’ll have to spend the night in a detaining cell upstairs.

  I’m given a blanket, towel and toothbrush and taken to the cell. Three other men share it. I want to call Hector but the guard tells me “As a first-nighter you already made your limitation of one call.” I eat and while the guards and other prisoners watch TV in the common room shared by an entire floor of cells, I lie on my upper-bunk cot and think and think about my situation and end up thinking there’s nothing to think about how to end the situation and there’s no way I can stop and my only hope’s that Stovin’s will think or say they’ve had enough of me and our situation and let it drop.

  Cells are locked up right after the late evening news, we’re given a doughnut and apple juice snack, our light’s turned off though there’s still the glow from the common
room lamps and TV the guards continue to watch, the men in the cell talk in the dark about the movie they’d just seen.

  “I liked it because it was real.”

  “Real how? When you shoot someone there’s supposed to be holes and blood.”

  “Maybe there was but on the small screen compared to a theater’s you couldn’t see them and also the color was bad.”

  “What makes you say the movie wasn’t especially made for TV?”

  “Excuse me, fellas,” I say.

  “Because I saw it in its uncut version a year ago.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And I don’t believe you don’t believe me.”

  “Listen, you weasel.”

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to cut into your conversation, so anyone wants to tell me to shut up, go ahead. But as long as I’m here, and you want to know anything more about me I’m a barowner of a cheap place called Mitchell’s on East 5th Street, but any of you know anything about a garbage company called Stovin’s on D and Sand?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “No, why?” the man below me says.

  “You know them?”

  “No, what I got with garbage? I’m curious and just talking like the other two—what else we to do?”

  I make it brief about what’s happened to me the last few weeks and ask if they’ve heard of anything like that happening downtown and they all say no and then just generally in town and they say no and then what any of them would do if he was me.

  “Seems like two dudes just hustling you and your apartment fire wasn’t connected or they overfanned it to a mistake,” one of the men across from me says. “Don’t bother them again and they’ll go away.”

  “Never give someone advice that could cost him his life,” the man above him says.

  “Why, he’ll come back to haunt me?”

  “His brothers might, weasel.”

  “What I’d do,” the man below me says, “is lease for a cheap fee your bar for a year and take a southern vacation but tell your friends you went north, because you’ll get yourself killed resisting back to them like that.”