by Grant Mccrea
See, said Dani, nothing.
Well, I don’t know if this counts exactly as nothing, I said.
Then what is it? she asked with a faux innocent smile.
The remains of a machine.
Is that anything like the remains of a day? she asked.
Something like that.
I just didn’t understand that movie? she said enthusiastically. How that woman, I mean, you know …
I started to laugh again. She joined in.
Back at the car, I succumbed to a moment of melancholy.
I’d had another piece of something I could never have.
And what else? I’d seen some old metal stuff. I’d got brown stains on my pants. And dust on my shirt. I stopped to brush as much of it off as I could before getting in the car. It stuck to my hands. I slapped and rubbed them together to get rid of it. It stuck around. The hell was this stuff?
Oh well. I could wash up back at the motel. I drove slowly. I felt drained. She’d drained me. Of my vital bodily fluids, as someone somewhere was fond of saying. It was a good drained, though. Like draining a pustule. Or something.
Jesus, I thought. I guess I’m still stoned.
48.
NOW, IN MY FORMER LIFE, as a put-upon partner at a relatively large and hideously confining law firm whose clients consisted mainly of large corporations and their owners and hangers-on, men, and the odd woman, whose idea of a risqué act would be putting down a ten-spot on the Kentucky Derby, I would not have contemplated for a moment doing a job for some highly suspect meatballs from Brighton Beach that very likely involved picking up a brown paper bag of cash—or perhaps something much worse—of unknown provenance from a mysterious guy named Yugo in some outer borough of Las Vegas. In fact, rather than picking up whatever the hell it was, I might well have picked up the phone and called the authorities. Well, probably not. But I certainly would have called in the firm’s resident ethics guru, the terminally unsmiling Uptight Bob Shumaker, so that he could listen gravely to the story, ostentatiously consult the relevant passages of the Bar Association’s Code of Ethics, read them aloud to me slowly, like I was the slow kid in his third-grade French class, tell me that he would take care of it, and scuttle back to his manicured office to do whatever it is that law firm ethicists do about such things.
But Evgeny had me pegged correctly: a guy with a debt and a drinking habit, too much free time and a short attention span, a guy whose wife had recently died in most unpleasant circumstances, a guy who, if he ever actually cared about the niceties, which was doubtful, cared less so now. A guy who needed some quick cash. Desperately.
I got a call from Manfred. He’d meet me at the motel. In the lobby.
I hoped the two chairs weren’t occupied.
Then I remembered.
I’d never told them where I was staying.
Damn these guys.
Manfred was waiting when I got there. He filled his beige chair to cubic capacity. I slouched into mine. I like to slouch. Lower back, I always say. And I do, actually, have a lower back thing. But I also just like to slouch. I spent most of my adolescence slouching. Hell, all of my adolescence. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t stopped slouching since. It’s a hard habit to give up.
Manfred gave me the details. Yugo lived in some suburb with a name like all the others. Something with a tree in it. He gave me the address. Told me to be careful. Yugo was a little, ah, eccentric.
Sure, I said to myself. Thanks for the tip. I should need to be careful.
Thanks, Butch, I also said to myself. For the gun.
Funny how these things worked. You got a gun, all of a sudden you needed it all the time.
Yugo’s place was at the end of a long drive lined with tall cedars closely spaced. Cedars, in the fucking desert? A water-sucking monstrosity of conspicuous magnificence. The road opened onto a circular driveway. Four or five new SUVs were parked haphazardly. The house was a huge square stone thing with pillars and a crenellated top. The windows were tall and narrow. Supposed to look like some kind of castle, I supposed. Fit right into the neighborhood. With all those other castles and cacti.
At any rate, it seemed like Yugo was a pretty successful guy. At whatever he did.
The door was a big solid thing with a large brass knocker. No bell in sight. I used the knocker.
I waited a while.
I knocked again.
I waited some more.
Yes, a muffled voice said.
Is Yugo there? I asked.
Who wants to know? the voice responded.
Rick Redman. I’m here on business.
What kind of business?
A little business for Evgeny.
Hold on, the voice said.
I heard a number of locks being opened.
The door cracked. An eye peered out. Looked me up and down.
The eye opened the door a ways. Let me in. Behind the door there was another door. It was closed. Between the two doors there was barely room for me and the owner of the eye.
He was a small, wizened fellow with an air of imminent demise. His hair was wispy and white. There were large black spots on his forearms and face. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt several sizes too large. And sandals too big for his feet. As though he’d been shrinking for some time.
Wait here a moment, he said.
He went back through the second door. I heard him lock it behind him.
The space had the dank air of illness. I thought of an underground jail cell. But it was too small for that. There was just enough dim light, coming from a wrought iron chandelier far above, for me to make out a framed scroll visible on the side wall. It conferred upon someone the Grand Order of the Knights of Malta.
What the hell were the Knights of Malta? I made a note to look it up.
If I ever got out of there.
The inside door opened. The cadaver was back.
Come in, he said with a smile that did not have a cheering effect.
I followed him in. He took me down a long hallway. To the sides were elaborately furnished rooms, each as dank and decrepit as the man himself. There was a powerful odor of carpet mold, and very old chicken soup.
He took me to the back of the house. It seemed to take a long time. In the back were a set of French doors. He opened the doors. Ushered me into the backyard.
Where reposed a large swimming pool and, each in a skintight striped Speedo bathing suit distinguished from the others only by color, half a dozen bronzed immensities. Bodybuilders, to all appearances. Oiled and shiny. Getting the sun.
Jerry, said the cadaver to the nearest brute.
Jerry leapt up from his lawn chair. Sir? he said.
Get me a gin and tonic. And Mr. Redman, what will you have?
Scotch. Whatever you have.
We have many things, Mr. Redman. What type of scotch would you like?
You wouldn’t happen to have a little Laphroaig handy, would you?
Indeed we would. Jerry?
Jerry scuttled off. If a man that size can scuttle.
I noticed the unmistakable signs of intravenous usage on the cadaver’s arms. Not junkie trails. The kind with bandage marks.
Mr. Yugo is not here, Mr. Redman, he said, his voice a phlegm-filled tremble. But he has told me to make you welcome. My name is Isador. Now, if you would share with me the nature of the business you have with Mr. Yugo, I’m quite sure that I can assist.
Mr. Yugo, I said, there’s no need for the charade. Evgeny asked me to pick something up. He wouldn’t have sent me if I couldn’t be trusted. I’d love to share a drink with you, talk about old times, maybe chat up some of your buddies here, Jerry seems like a nice guy. But we don’t need to dance.
Jerry is working on his master’s thesis in applied geometrics, Yugo said a bit defensively. My friends are not necessarily what you assume.
I make no assumptions, sir, I said graciously. I understand the value of a good education. I myself at one time attended the school of applied phi
losophy.
Pardon me?
Law school.
Ah, wheezed Mr. Yugo, beginning a laugh that rose to a gurgle that took on the air of a life-threatening expulsion. He turned away and leaned over the arm of his chair. I was about to call out to one of the beefcake boys to assist when Yugo composed himself, sat up again.
I apologize, he said. A spot of the flu.
Sure, I thought, a spot just about the size of a grapefruit-sized lung tumor.
In any case, he wheezed, I enjoy a man with a sense of humor.
Jerry returned with the drinks, two mismatched glasses and a bottle of Beefeater on a tray. My scotch was in a double shot glass. Yugo’s gin, presumably but not necessarily and tonic, was in a tumbler the size of a bedside lamp. Jerry stood by with the Beefeater. Each time Yugo sipped the glass a quarter empty, Jerry topped it up. Even if there had been tonic in the tumbler to start with, by the end of the conversation Yugo was drinking pure gin.
I guess, I thought, the dying are entitled to their pleasures.
Despite his decrepitude, Yugo had something of a patrician air. Noblesse oblige, I think they call it somewhere. One was supposed to be grateful for his company. Or maybe it was the other way around. I made a note to look it up.
I smiled politely through some idle chitchat—apparently he had some audacious plan to tear down a bunch of historical buildings in Brooklyn when nobody was looking, and build on the land some highly profitable condos—while I waited for him to get back to the subject of the meeting. Halfway through his liter of gin, he did so.
I don’t want to waste your time, Mr. Redman. Though the view is rather pleasant, wouldn’t you say?
I didn’t know if he was referring to the pool, the shrubbery or the boys, but I nodded my assent.
This, ah, delivery, he said. Is that what Evgeny said? Delivery?
Not in those words. He said you’d have something for me.
Ah, interesting. Not exactly the same thing.
Listen, Yugo, I’d love to debate the finer points of the English language with you all afternoon. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t. I don’t like it here. I’m creeped out by the place. I’m just here to do a job. I’d like to do it and get back to my business.
This is not your business, Mr. Redman?
Mr. Yugo. Seriously, I’m just the messenger. I’m just supposed to … get the something. I don’t even know if it’s a thing. Could be instructions. But I assume you do know, or why would Evgeny have sent me to you? If you’re not going to give it to me, whatever it is, if you have a problem with Evgeny, you need to talk to him about it, not me.
Oh, no, no, he said with a not very convincing display of sincerity, I have no problem with Evgeny. We go way back, Mr. Redman, Evgeny and I. We’re like brothers. It is just that it is, really, Mr. Redman, there is nothing here for you to pick up. I do not have something for you.
Well then, sir, I said, mocking his tone as much as I dared, perhaps you would not be averse to letting me know where exactly the something is.
If there is a something, it is with Delgado, sir.
Delgado.
Yes, Delgado. You are not familiar with Delgado?
I told you, Mr. Yugo, I’m just the water boy. The real game’s not over here.
He gave me a puzzled look.
Never mind, I said. No, I don’t know who Delgado is. But if he’s the one with the thing, I’d appreciate knowing where he is.
You do not wish to know why it is with Delgado? If there is an it?
No, I don’t. And I’ve had enough with the Alice in Wonderland shit. I have a job to do. It’s supposed to be a simple job. Get the something from whomever. Point me at Delgado. I go get the something. If I can’t, well, I guess that doesn’t concern you.
No, I don’t suppose it does.
A silence ensued.
Jerry leaned over Yugo, topped up the tumbler. I got a good look at the pecs and abs. Jerry caught me looking, gave me a gnarly smile. I didn’t reciprocate. Looked away. Nice pecs, I thought. But the guy could use some dental work.
You’ll get the instructions by text message, he said, draining his tumbler of gin for the third time.
I see. Does this really need to be so … cloak-and-dagger?
He gave me a Look that said, I despise you and the mangy burro you rode in on.
I got up to take my leave of the charming Mr. Yugo and his consorts.
Oh, and Mr. Redman? he said, his contempt more palpable by the second.
Sir?
I wouldn’t take the gun.
I glanced at my left armpit.
Is it that obvious? I asked.
He gave me that Look that your mom, or the traffic cop, gives you when you ask, wide-eyed, what you could possibly have done wrong.
It might go off, he said.
Ah. I see what you mean. Okay. Next time, I’ll leave it at home.
Wherever that was.
49.
I LEFT YUGO’S WITH A BAD TASTE IN MY MOUTH and a pain in the pit of my gut. I assuaged them both with a couple of scotches at a watering hole I happened to pass by on my way to Red Rock.
Gentlemen’s Lunch, it said, but I knew what it meant. I wasn’t going to find any gentlemen inside.
A pickup truck was sitting lonely in the lot. Looking for a party that wasn’t ever going to start. Hanging from a bent coat hanger sticking up from the hood was the dreariest, dirtiest U.S. flag I’d ever seen. On the back end was a bumper sticker that said Panty Bandit, next to a crude cartoon of pink underwear.
The only other vehicle there was a police cruiser.
Inside the joint, a beefy uniformed member of the local constabulary had his butt poured like a wedge of soft cheese over the stool at the Donkey Kong machine, furiously ramming and jamming the joystick and grunting curses, oblivious to the strippers lounging contemptuously at the bar.
I ordered a scotch. Double. Ice. The strippers ignored me. I ignored them. There was a couple there, talking. Maybe he was the Panty Bandit. He looked like one. He was way short. Jeans, cowboy hat, that stringy overbaked look you get from working outdoors all your life. His wife, or girlfriend, was six inches taller than him, long straight brown hair and missing more than one tooth. Her skin looked like the hide of a buffalo with mange. Reminded me of the line about refusing to live in a place where the average number of adult teeth is fewer than three.
The Panty Bandit and Ms. Toothless turned in my direction, including me in their conversation as if we’d known each other for years.
You know how you can say something on Monday, the Panty Bandit said to me, and it works, and then you say the same thing on Friday, you get punched in the face?
Yeah, I said. Life can be like that.
Damn straight, man.
God, you’re such a punk, Joe, Ms. Toothless said. He couldn’t tie me up, she said, nodding to me with complete drunken assurance that I knew exactly what she was talking about.
Did you want him to? I asked.
I’m going to have my daddy fuck you, Alice, said Joe.
You won’t let me be the child, said Alice. I always have to be the mother.
My question, I think, said Joe with a hiccup, has become obsolete.
I know about it when men have inside jokes, said Alice. It’s all about sex.
No, it’s all about trying to get sex, said Joe.
I live in a home, Alice said to me.
Really? I said.
No, I mean, I have a backyard. I live with many cats. They fetch. They’re doglike. They run in and out.
You know what? said Joe. Never miss a chance to shut up. Because you might learn something.
Do you have to be on the phone with my mother when you say that? said Alice.
I finished my scotch and dragged myself away from the happy couple.
They were my kind of people. But I had work to do.
In the car, I thought of Madeleine. This new-daughter thing was confusing. Hell, everything that was happening wa
s confusing.
So I stepped on the gas. I pushed the Mini Cooper to its considerable limits. There were endless low and craggy hills. Mesas. Gulches and saguaros. Enough saguaros to cover several smallish planets. A dry and deadly landscape filled, you knew, with dry and deadly reptiles, should you be inclined to park the car, go for a stroll.
All the way to Eloise’s friendly trailer park. In a half hour flat.
I parked the Mini Cooper some ways from the trailer. I needed any advantage I could get, to get through to this woman. Surprise was an advantage. Almost always.
The dusty sound of unattended children drifted in the desert breeze. The faintly pleasant smell of marginal existence. An old man was sitting on a chair carved out from a fifty-five-gallon drum.
Howdy, he said.
Hi, I replied.
Don’t ’member seein’ you ’round here, he said, lighting a hand-rolled smoke, spitting out bits of tobacco.
No, I don’t suppose you do.
Sit down, he said, nodding to a pile of worn-out tractor tires. Elmer, he said, extending a withered arm, to which was attached a clenched and largely useless thing that might have once been a hand.
I took the thing. Gave it a squeeze.
Rick, I said.
There was something warm about the guy. His gummy smile. His wattled neck. His air of utter calm. This was a guy who’d done his time. The rest was bonus. He was going to sit on his oilcan. Watch the desiccated world go by. Master of his patch of sand.
He told me he’d been a fisherman, in Maine. Came down here thirty years ago. For the rheumatism.
I lay back among the rubber. I thought about tires burning in blockades. Lebanon. Chicago. Caracas. Prague.