Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  Thanks, Dad. Anyway, come on over. I’m going food shopping. We can make a feast.

  Sounds good to me. But where are you?

  We’re at a friend of Peter’s house. He loaned it to us. He’s in Thailand looking for boys on the beach.

  Charming. What’s the address?

  She gave me the address. I dragged myself out of bed. Avoided the mirror.

  On the way, I remembered about Madeleine. Kelley’s half sister, I supposed. Kelley would need to know. But then I’d have to explain. And I didn’t have an explanation.

  Maybe I could do the Redman thing.

  Procrastinate.

  The place they’d borrowed was a tiny one-story adobe thing on the edge of the desert, in a poor part of town. It was the first time I’d seen that there was a poor part of town. But I guess the help had to live somewhere. Every surface in the place was occupied by kitschy stuff: 1950s girlie ashtrays, lamps in the shape of bulgy propeller-driven airplanes, bright orange plastic dinner plates, neatly stacked. Hundreds of porcelain dolls’ heads. The usual desert decor.

  I got the stuff, said Kelley, holding up a plastic bag.

  I looked in. Oh, nice. Baby bok choy. Fresh ginger and garlic. Fine rice noodles.

  Aha, I said. Chinese soup.

  It was our favorite thing to make. One of the few things that had nothing but good memories attached.

  They have grocery stores in Vegas?

  If you know where to look, said Kelley with a knowing wink.

  I had no idea what the wink meant.

  I minced the garlic. Kelley chopped the ginger. Peter told us about Anna Nicole Smith’s autopsy report.

  I mixed the ginger and garlic in soy sauce, rice vinegar and sesame oil. I put on the wok. Kelley chopped up some chicken. I sliced some shiitakes and green onions. Peter, reluctantly, soaked the rice noodles. I prepared the bok choy. Heated up some olive oil in the wok.

  Okay, olive oil isn’t Chinese. So sue me.

  I secretly surveyed the kitchen for booze, in the guise of looking for spices. I managed to open enough cabinets to find a bottle of gin. Peter liked gin. He liked to mix ridiculous colorful cocktails with it.

  I surreptitiously poured some into my glass of seltzer.

  Kelley was no naïf. She knew my proclivities. But I preferred to keep them from her as much as I could. She had enough to deal with.

  I heated a gallon of chicken stock in a robin’s egg blue cast-iron pot. Kelley stirred the sauce into the wok. Once the cloud of ginger and garlic flavors became almost overwhelming, she added the chicken, stirred it a bit, added the vegetables and just enough Asian chili oil to give the stuff a nice bite.

  You know, said Peter, feigning wistfulness. We really should become vegetarians.

  You want me to pull the chicken out now? asked Kelley.

  You’d have to take all the liquid out, too, I said. It’s chicken stock.

  Darn it, said Peter. I feel so sad.

  What about? I asked.

  The poor chickens, he said. I used to have pet chickens, you know.

  You did?

  Yes, Kelley said. He really did.

  Elvis and Baby, said Peter.

  Who?

  Those were their names. Elvis and Baby. They were really ugly at first. Then they got cute. Then they started eating everything. And I mean everything.

  Let’s not go there, I said.

  And then they got ugly again. Anyway, my point is, you don’t think about the poor chicken’s soul. You just cut it up and dump it in the pot.

  I do so think about chickens’ souls, said Kelley.

  Not nearly enough, said Peter.

  If I promise to think more about chicken souls, can we finish making the soup?

  Yes! said Peter. Victory at last. Chicken souls for the soup.

  Oh my God, I said. You didn’t do all that just to set up that lame pun, did you?

  Of course not, said Peter. It just came to me now.

  We poured the sizzling contents of the wok into the boiling chicken stock. It roiled. It gave off the heavenly scent of everything good about having children. Family. An anchor in the heaving world.

  So, Dadster, Kelley said. How’s it going?

  I don’t know, I said. Bad. Depressing.

  Like the time you cut your fingernails too short? Kelley laughed. You complained about that for a week.

  We were so worried, said Peter.

  The suicide watch, said Kelley.

  And the time he cut his thumb slicing onions? said Peter.

  Oh my God, said Kelley, that scream.

  I called 411, said Peter.

  Unfortunately, said Kelley, they had no information.

  I took it all with a smile. Your children, of course, know you better than yourself. Which doesn’t mean you believe them when they tell you about it.

  I thought about the Melissa years. How Kelley kept me alive. Melissa alive. With her humor and good grace. Maybe, I thought, it had a bad side. Allowed me to indulge my depressions, my negativity. Knowing Kelley would always be there to bring me back to reality. Or at least a funny version of it.

  We sat on the couch. A piece of plywood on bricks stood in for a coffee table. I put the bowls on the plywood. I put noodles in the bottom of the bowls. Peter ostentatiously ladled out the soup from an enormous mango-colored tureen.

  So how’s your big case going, Daddy? Kelley asked.

  Yeah, Daddy, said Peter, leaning forward. Tell us all about it. Got any pictures we can see? Naked ladies? Mangled bodies? Naked men?

  It’s not so interesting, I laughed. Just a missing persons case. Or something like that.

  Oh, you’re holding something back, said Peter, I can tell you are. Come on, we’re family. You can share. Who’s missing?

  Somebody’s sister.

  A sister. Then there has to be a man involved. Tell me there’s a man involved. Tell me he’s tall and Bulgarian.

  Russian, actually. But I don’t know if he has a mustache.

  Russian. That’s okay. He has to have a hairy chest, though.

  I’ll let you know. If I ever meet him. The Russians I’ve been dealing with so far, well, I can’t tell you if they have a hairy chest. But I’m quite sure they aren’t your type.

  Ooh, said Peter. Mystery. Tell me more.

  I told them about Andrei and Anatoly. How Brendan was being drawn into their world. How worried I was about him. Kelley and Peter knew Brendan, of course. He was Kelley’s uncle, now that I thought of it. She liked him.

  Daddy, said Peter. What’s wrong with you? It’s so obvious.

  What’s so obvious?

  There’s nothing mysterious about it. They’re showing him the town. The other side of town, if you know what I mean.

  I don’t know, I said. I mean, I know what you mean. And yes, they are. Harmless, I’m sure. But I’m not sure I know much of anything these days.

  Daddy! said Kelley. Did you cut yourself again?

  Oh, Daddy, said Peter. Introduce me. Don’t even introduce me. All I need is to see them. Then I’ll know everything.

  Okay, I said, laughing, next time I get a chance, I’ll point them out. You’re family, after all.

  Oh, squealed Peter. Thank you, thank you.

  He gave me an enormous squishy hug.

  I tolerated it. I loved Peter. I really did think of him as family. But I wasn’t sure how I felt about big squishy man hugs, in the best of circumstances.

  Anyway, I said. I don’t blame Brendan. He’s doing his thing. He’s allowed. He’s an adult.

  Well … said Peter, officially, I guess.

  And anyway, nothing I could say would change what he wants to do. He’s very willful, you know. In spite of … the other things.

  What other things?

  Oh, come on, I said. This isn’t fun. Let’s get back to having fun.

  We got back to having fun. We ate the soup. Peter stole more than his share of the shiitakes. I took more of the meat. Kelley was happy with
the noodles.

  Peter was telling a story. I wasn’t listening.

  I was ruminating. I was thinking about Dani from Oklahoma. The scent of apricots. Matt was out of town, she’d said. Matt and the kids. For a week. Was the week over? There was no way of knowing.

  Afterwards, Peter was saying, we had a little party. There were muffins. Somebody said, I want a muffin. I looked at the security guard. Take him! I said. He’s well baked. And available!

  You couldn’t stop him when he got like this. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a drink.

  I’ll have a Grey Goose, said Peter, on the rocks, dirty, with, ah, one olive.

  Whatever that means, I said. I’ll do what I can do.

  I know it’ll be enough, Daddy, he said.

  Peter, said Kelley, it’s time to calm down.

  Oh dear, he said. I guess you’re right.

  For some reason I began thinking about Henderson. Dani. How she’d put the children’s toys away. Quickly. Nervously. Like she didn’t want me to think of her as a mother.

  Everything had screamed desire.

  Of course, I’d made that mistake before. Wishful thinking. Followed by swift humiliation.

  I was willing to risk it though. The navel ring. Those tight abs. But I’d need an excuse, to just show up again. These Midwestern girls, they stand on ceremony. I needed a hook.

  Basements, I said, returning with the drinks.

  All right, Peter said. Your turn. What about basements?

  Seems like everything important’s in a basement.

  I think you may need to clarify, said Peter.

  Yeah, Dadski, said Kelley. What’s this all about?

  The Brighton Beach game was in a basement, I said.

  O-kaaay.

  And.

  Yeeesss?

  I’m sure there are others. Dani said something about a basement.

  Who’s Danny?

  Never mind. Somebody I interviewed.

  Sure, Dadster. Anyway. I used to live in the basement.

  When you were trying to avoid … I started.

  You can stop there, she said.

  I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.

  So, she said, what are they? The other basements. Not ours. The others.

  I’m quite certain some other basements will turn up, I said.

  Funny how they do that, she said.

  You’re sitting in a bar, said Peter.

  Minding your own business, said Kelley.

  In walks a basement.

  As though it owned the place.

  Sits on the stool next to you.

  Just shoves right in there.

  God, it pisses you off.

  They can be so presumptuous.

  Those damn basements.

  All right, all right, I said. All this basement talk. How did this start?

  The one with Danny in it.

  That’s the one. Well, I was just thinking, when she told me about overhearing Vladimir talk about the bartender?

  Dadster, what the hell are you talking about?

  She said they were in the basement.

  Who?

  Eloise and Vladimir. When she overheard them. She said they were in the basement.

  Hello? said Kelley. Interpreter, please?

  In a minute, said Peter. We need to get to the bottom of this.

  Har, I said.

  And? asked Kelley.

  I never went to the basement. I mean, I didn’t have a search warrant or anything. But I could have asked. I don’t know. It just seems like maybe there was something there.

  Where?

  In Henderson.

  Henderson’s about a thirty-minute cab ride from here.

  I think I could do it in twenty-eight. With the right driver.

  Dadminton?

  Yes, my dear?

  Sometimes I think there may yet be hope for you.

  You’re the sweetest, I said.

  Brownie? she asked.

  The ones with the Nutella sauce? Peter replied.

  Yup .

  Ohhhh, baby.

  We ate. We laughed.

  This was the life.

  A life that was ever receding from my grasp.

  41.

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE MOTEL, nobody was there. I lay back on the sectional, closed my eyes. There was something about spending time with Kelley. It took the tension away. I dreamt of dreamier days. Life with Kelley and Melissa. Before Melissa’s Monster intervened. Melissa, lovely and evanescent. I hadn’t yet discovered what the evanescence meant. That she couldn’t face her demons. That she’d needed to anesthetize herself. But Kelley was everywhere, distracting me, making me dance to Frank Sinatra singing ‘Chicago.’ That toddlin’ town. Jokes, pictures, stories. Homemade plays with her friends. Reading silly books to me. As though she were the parent, I the child …

  Butch shook me awake.

  Hunh? I said.

  We got a meet, he said.

  What meet?

  With the Russkies.

  Yeah? What about it?

  They called.

  They called you?

  No, they called you. I picked up your cell. You were long gone.

  Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?

  So sue me.

  I’ll definitely take that option under consideration. What did they say?

  It’s at some bar called the Shining Mullet or something.

  Thanks for your help.

  You can’t miss it, he said, it’s right across from the place that says My Horse Shall Be Called a Horse of Prayer, For All Peoples.

  What?

  Just a couple doors down from Furry Paws.

  What?

  Furry Paws Pet Supplies. And, by the way, they have free delivery.

  The horse place?

  Furry Paws.

  Thank God for America.

  Amen.

  Find me a pet store with free delivery in Bulgaria.

  Exactly. Brendan’ll meet us there.

  Turned out the joint wasn’t that far away. We could walk it. Though the distance was magnified by the fact that the hundred-twenty-degree-in-the-shade trek was across acres of parking lot and a four-lane highway. I slogged across the softening asphalt. I bitched. I whined. I caviled. I’d have ululated. If I’d known how.

  Butch ignored me.

  The place was a cheesy joint that some of the less affluent WSOP players stayed at because you could get a room for sixty bucks a night. In Vegas, as elsewhere, you can reliably estimate the cheese factor from the room rate. If that wasn’t enough, you could tell from the waitresses: they were trying way too hard. And not looking too good.

  We tracked down Brendan at the bar. He was wearing some kind of zoot suit and a scarf thing that you might have seen on Cary Grant in 1953. I provisionally refrained from comment.

  We had some time to kill before the meet, so we checked out the poker room. The Bellagio it wasn’t. On the floor next to the manager’s booth was an empty blue plastic milk bottle case. The kind you made bookshelves with in college. On the empty crate was taped a crudely hand-lettered cardboard sign that said:

  DO NOT REMOVE FROM THE POKER ROOM!

  Okay, I said. I’ll resist the temptation.

  The biggest game going was 1–2 no limit, but Michael the floor man assured us the place was packed with donkeys, and money could be made. That didn’t turn out to be entirely accurate. Apart from a couple of frat boys who would call you down with anything but who packed up early to go party, the players were pretty decent. Nevertheless, I managed to hit a good run of cards and pick up a few hundred dollars before trekking back over to the bar.

  Three doubles in, the Russkies still hadn’t arrived.

  We took a table. Brendan was talking about some movie he’d seen. Something about a guy who did a thing, a girl who got involved, shit happening. The girl gets killed. Turns out she was a guy.

  Sounds like a piece of shit, I said. The real world isn’t like that. And where th
e fuck are your friends?

  But it’s based on real events, he said.

  Based on real events. Tell you the truth, sometimes I think my life is based on real events. But most of the time I think it isn’t. And by the way, where the fuck are your friends?

  They’ll be here.

  That wasn’t the question.

  Did I ever tell you that you get obnoxious when you drink? he said.

  That’s assertive of you, I said. You’re showing improvement. And no, you haven’t. Nor has anyone else. In fact, I am renowned city-wide for the friendliness of my exuberation. I mean inebriation. The exuberosity of my imbibation.

  Yeah, Butch interjected. Not just the city, either. Jersey, too.

  Even in Jersey, I agreed. They know me well in Asbury Park.

  Seaside Heights, said Butch.

  Cape May, I interjected. All the way to the bottom. And by the way, I said to Brendan, what’s with that suit? You don’t wear suits.

  And you sure as hell don’t wear that kind of suit, said Butch.

  I have no idea what you guys are talking about, said Brendan.

  Uh, the wide lapels? I said.

  The tight ankles? said Butch.

  Since when do you guys give a shit about what I wear? he said.

  It’s one thing to hang out with a bunch of Russian scumbags, said Butch. It’s another thing to become one.

  Fuck you, said Brendan. I’m going out for a smoke.

  That reminds me, I said. Here.

  I tossed him the crumpled pack of Gitanes.

  Since when do you smoke these? he asked.

  I don’t. That’s why I’m giving them to you. I got them from the sister.

  The sister?

  Eloise.

  What … he began. Headed outside for his smoke.

  We were spared further inanity by the appearance of the Russian Delegation. Evgeny waddled in the lead. For the first time I noticed that, while his torso was almost completely tubular from top to bottom, his extremities, his legs and arms, were tiny sticklike things, like Maxie Veinberg’s. I wondered how he kept himself upright. Didn’t you need some balance from the extremities? That tightrope walker’s pole thing?

  Following Evgeny were a couple of guys I hadn’t seen before. A skinny fellow with wispy strands of straw-blond hair, a cleft chin and an air of utter imbecility. He had a long Roman/Armenian nose. Might have been handsome if it weren’t for the hair, the slack facial expression and the fact that he looked like a child molester. The other guy had gray hair flecked with white, a receding chin, a turtleneck—who the hell wears a turtleneck anymore?—a stocky build and a menacing air. The kind of immovable cubic gentleman who, should the occasion arise, most definitely was not letting you leave the room.