Crumbtown

by Joe Connelly

  He was standing over the jukebox like it was a car he was fixing, his knees bent into the bumper, the opening bass lines of Otis Redding, and Rita felt her knees bending too. They were her songs; she’d put them in herself, the ones that kept her alive, those nights when she felt the doors to the bar locked on the outside. So long since someone held her that close. Kissing a man again. He was only carrying two guns when he came in, and one of them wasn’t even real.

  When Don had talked the machine into taking his dollar, he looked over to Rita, wearing that same tilted smile again, and this time he understood what it was saying—that she was going to dance with him, but probably not speak with him, which was more than he’d ever asked of anyone. And while they danced, he’d quietly explain to her how he wasn’t a killer, how he’d never killed anyone in his life, and all the events of ten years before, what happened at the last bank job, not to forget the three guns he picked up today. And maybe she’d sleep with him, and maybe she wouldn’t, and that wasn’t the most important thing now. He needed to go slow, the slow dance.

  And no more Al Green. Al was a good start, but after one song he put too much pressure on the proceedings, everybody worried about why they’re not kissing, and Marvin Gaye would only show off Don’s desperation, and Etta James was too unpredictable. So he went with the Otis Redding, the god-father of loneliness, and under the opening notes of “My Lover’s Prayer,” he turned to the bar, her eyes with his, everything still there, walking toward her as the front door opened, a man filling half of it, “Gimme my gun,” Eddy said.

  Don went to the box on the bar and took out the nine-millimeter and pointed it at Eddy, who ducked behind the door. He pointed it past Eddy, at another man standing on the sidewalk, Rob, the director, more people behind him, Anthony King with his eye patch, the blond police captain, and parked across the street, sitting low in the driver’s seat, what looked like Detective Hammamann, wearing a fake mustache and glasses. Don’s whole crazy day waiting for him out there, ready to flood back in. He put the gun in his jacket and raised his hands over his head. “It’s all right,” he said, walking to the door, calling at the director, “I’m Don Reedy. Come on in.”

  Rob came up and shook Don’s hand. “How about that. It’s Don.”

  Eddy slapped Rob in the head, “Of course it’s Don.” He punched Don’s arm. “Only Don could have taken my gun like that. The Don.”

  King came into the door and stopped. Dyan walking into his back. “Hey Don,” King said. “I want my gun back.”

  “He got yours, too?”

  “This afternoon,” said King.

  “Isn’t this great,” Rob said, “Don picked up two guns already.”

  Dyan shoved King to her right, “Wait in the car, Anthony,” marching to the center of the room. “So this is the real Don.”

  He stared at Rita behind the sink, with every glass she washed she bent a little lower, scrubbing to the bottom, until all Don could see was the top of her hair, the tip of her nose.

  Dyan pointed to the bartender, “Who’s she?”

  “That’s Rita,” Rob said.

  “She doesn’t look like Rita.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Eddy said.

  “So go,” she turned to Don, “I didn’t introduce myself. My name’s Dyan Swaine. I’m playing Rita in the show.”

  Don nodded, his eyes still on Rita, the one person Dyan didn’t want to see. She already knew Rita, as well as she knew herself, the character had been growing inside her ever since she finished reading the script. Rita was about having fun; it was as simple as that. Always spontaneous, generous, her laughter infectious, a true friend, bisexual but she preferred the company of men, especially those who didn’t care about breaking a few rules, all the things that Captain Palmer wasn’t allowed to do. Every night after leaving the set, Dyan sitting alone in the hotel, the takeout Chinese and the cop channels on TV.

  Rita picked up the towel, her back to him now, wiping at the register. Don followed her hands to the hair above her neck, over her ear, the scene repeating in the mirror, a little further each time. Another song from the jukebox, Delamar Harris, “How Do You Start Over When You Can’t Stop.” She filled her glass and swallowed it down.

  “I love this song,” Dyan said, her hip banging into Don’s leg hard enough to make him turn, the cop on his arm, from the TV set that morning. A beautiful cop. A TV captain.

  “Can I see your palm,” she pulled his hand up to her eye. “I heard that criminals have an extra line. Would you look at that, it’s the same as mine.” For ten years she’d kept this Rita locked up, the girl she used to be, waiting tables on Avenue A. Sneaking into clubs after work, dancing all night, sleeping till three. “Hey Don do you want to dance?” She grabbed his other hand, swinging his arms, “Come on,” her hips right to left.

  “This is a little fast,” Don said.

  She moved his hands to her back, “How about this?”

  Eddy locked the bathroom door, groping his pockets for the ribbon of foil, cutting it with his finger, the man in the mirror. Your name is Don Reedy, he said. You just got out of prison. The streets you used to run, now everything’s different. He pulled out the keys to the Dingo and dipped in the flat side of the ignition, turning it over in the powder, up and up to the eyes in the glass. You meet this bartender, Rita. One look and you know. She sees right through. He dipped the key again, another turn, folding it in. They want you to go back, you can’t go back. She’s the only one who understands that, who sees what’s lying in your heart, where no one’s ever cared to look, so long as you got your lines right, danced for the camera. Rita knows that. She knows. You ain’t never gonna do that dance again.

  He burst out of the bathroom and stopped, wiping his nose until the room slowed, Don and Dyan dancing by the jukebox, Rob at his computer, Rita behind the bar. He climbed on a stool in front of her, slapping himself in the chest like he just hit a home run. “Rita, Rita,” he said, then three more times again, waiting for more words to come. “What can I say?”

  She filled her glass a third time, drinking it quickly, then wiping her hands on her pants. She looked over to the back corner, Don’s arms wrapped around that policewoman, her hips bouncing against him like she was going up the stairs. Rita turned to Eddy. “Will you dance?” she asked.

  “You mean the Dance. I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Dancing,” she said, walking around the bar, shoving his hands behind her back, the same way Don was holding Dyan. She pulled him into the middle of the room, Eddy twitching in her arms. At one point she had to stand on his feet. It was like dancing with a spring.

  Don saw Little Eddy’s arms around Rita’s back and in response he moved his hands down Dyan’s. Eddy imitated Don perfectly, holding Rita by the waist. Dyan saw that and she lowered her cheek to Don’s shoulder. Eddy tried to get Rita to do the same, his hand behind her head, pulling it down.

  Rita pushed him in the chest, shoving him back. He moved toward her and she shoved him again, walking to the closet in the back corner, opening the door. She said something to Joe Far, who slept in the closet most evenings until ten, then she grabbed her sweater, putting it on in the mirror, Don and Dyan behind her, still dancing. She walked around the bar and up to Eddy near the front door, standing over him, three inches taller at least. She shook her head and walked out, Eddy running after.

  Don watched her leave, then Eddy; he watched the door close, the door closed. Dyan Swaine stepped out of his arms, exhaling dramatically, “So what did you just get out of prison or something?”

  He walked out the door, searching the street. They were gone. He turned into Lemmings, over the bridge, thirty blocks back to his hotel.

  ACT III

  Nine

  SCENE 36

  Rita opened one eye to see Little Eddy sitting in flowered boxers at her kitchen table. She opened another to see her husband Misha cooking at the stove, singing Willie Nelson in demented-sounding English.

 
“Good morning Rita,” Eddy said. “Misha’s making us the famous Russian eggs.”

  “Good morning,” said Misha as he carried the pan to Eddy’s plate, spooning out the red scramble. “I forgot key and your friend Don here was thanks enough to enter me the door.”

  “The man says he lives here so I let him in,” Little Eddy said, “then he says he’s your husband, and I’m like, yo, where’s my pants, I gotta go. But Misha here says it’s cool, how you two have this open relationship, and I wish I could get Ava going with that, but it ain’t gonna happen. Not that anything happened, Rita, because you got so drunk in that Russian place we went to. I didn’t think you’d make it back.”

  She brought her legs to the bedside, the same stockings she’d worn the night before, a new hole over the big toe. “We are separated,” she said to Eddy. “I want to get a divorce but we have to go back to Russia for that.” She bent over to put on her shoes, her head hurting so much she wanted to cry. “I move, and he follows. I cannot get out.”

  “I hear that,” said Little Eddy.

  Misha walked over and handed her a cup of coffee. He placed the plate of eggs by her hip. “I love you, my Rediska,” he said in Russian, “and that is why I have poisoned the eggs.”

  “Get out,” said Rita.

  “What did he say?” asked Little Eddy.

  “He poisoned in the eggs.”

  “Special Russian eggs,” said Misha.

  Little Eddy stood. “Where’s my pants. I got to go.”

  “He did not poison,” said Rita, “he just talks and talks like this.”

  “That’s cool,” Eddy said, grabbing a shoe, a wallet, a sock, scrambling down the stairs, hopping on one foot across the street.

  Misha sat at the table, spooning the eggs to his mouth, filling it up, he said, “This Don Reedy, I don’t believe he’s a bank robber.”

  37

  The morning sun bounced off the street and into the bar, where it fell upon Rob sleeping on his keyboard. A phone rang and he opened his eyes and threw himself from the table, a little voice saying, “Will you hold for Brian Halo.”

  “Yes, I’ll hold,” Rob said.

  Brian Halo came on, his helicopter phone. “Rob, about these rewrites.”

  “I’m just finishing them, Brian Halo. I’ve been up all night and I was just finishing right now.” Rob poked at his cheeks.

  “That’s okay. Dyan just sent over the changes you two worked on. Rob they’re terrific.”

  “I didn’t make any changes with Dyan. She took my disk when I refused to have Rita run over Don.”

  “I love that scene,” said Brian Halo, “and Rita being in the gang and robbing the banks. Rita punching out the mob boss. What a character she’s become, always telling everyone what to do. She’s a pistol, Rob, everything I hoped for; you did it.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “And to think I was going to fire you this morning if I didn’t get these in, and instead I’ve already told three people today how much I love you. Now get back to work. Dyan has sketched in what she wants; you just fill in the dialogue.”

  The phone clicked off and he returned his head to the keyboard. How many hours had he slept last night, how many in the last month? For what? He thought back to the excitement of that first day, hearing the story in the bar. It was in his hands then, the weight of the words, he felt the world waiting. The same way that Don must have felt holding that bag of money in the bank, about to throw it to the people. Rob opened his eyes, the pile of papers at his elbow, the script that he first titled Crumbtown. If anyone should be writing this with Rob, it was Don.

  He stood and looked at the clock, time to go to the set, rehearsals for the first bank robbery, the biggest scene in the show and Dyan wasn’t in it. He’d ask Don’s advice; they could work together on the script. No, they’d work without it. Rob picked up the pages and threw them in the air, white sheets covering the tables and chairs, falling to the bar as the front door opened, a man who had to stoop to get in. It was Arnold, the owner’s son, the man who’d broken Rob’s foot two months before, now staring at the mess on the floor.

  “What?” Rob squeezed his head under the desk, covering his face with his hands. “What do you want from me?”

  “I am driver,” Arnold said, walking around the computer to grab Rob’s arm, “to take you to the set,” pulling him to the door.

  38

  Don sat in his bed, the striped walls of his room, the phone again. He stood and walked to the window, the phone still ringing, Rita Bell, Rita Bell. He had to stop thinking about her, the scenes he kept running over—kissing in the bar, dancing down the stairs, the knot in her shirt, streaks of black light to the moment she walked out. Don punched at the wall, two rights and a left, his little cell.

  The phone stopped ringing. Then started again. Could it be her? He traced a path in the carpet, window to bed and back again. He had to forget Rita now, forget Tim and Tom, too, forget the guns. Only one thing mattered, staying out of prison. From what Don could tell, TV was a lot like Crumbtown, only more so, easier to get lost in, the lines between the laws. One minute you think you’re playing a winner, the next you’re underwater, ten years in a cell trying to remember. He needed to get a hold of the script, find out what the story was, why anyone would want to make a show about Don’s life. Then he’d call the mayor, Maury Threetoes. Twenty years he’d been loyal to Maury, never asked for anything. Don wanted to disappear.

  There was a house upstate, a hideaway on a hill. Maury called it the Gail. He took Don there once, showed him the key, said anytime Don needed. It was Maury’s way of saying he was one of the family, the lost son, the fourth toe. Maury always sent him bagels on his birthday.

  The phone on the desk stopped and was replaced by a ringing in his jacket. Don pulled out his phone, pushed the button, a voice inside saying his car was downstairs, to take him to the set, car number thirty-eight. He walked to the desk, his face in the mirror, a wallet, a key, and a gun. He’d stop by the bar in the evening, the afternoon if they finished early, already planning what to say to her, how to make it right. They’d go to the Gail together, when all this was done. It had a Jacuzzi and a wine cellar, Maury had been talking about putting in a pool. Don picked up his wallet and shoved it in his pocket. Just be yourself, he said, and picked up the gun, putting it inside his jacket.

  39

  Tim grabbed Tom under the arms to hurry him along, past the large trailer marked “Don,” and the larger trailer next to it, which looked more like a horse carrier and was divided along the side by six thin doors, each with a name taped on the front: Bank Manager, Security Guard, Teller One, Teller Two, Happy Jones, and on the last door, two names, Renaldo and Cam.

  “You see that,” said Tim.

  “Happy gets his own room, the prick.”

  The twins each wore fluorescent orange vests tied over their jackets, the word “Parking” printed on their stomachs.

  “Well we’re supposed to drive them to the set then let’s do it,” said Tom.

  The trailer door opened, and the actor playing Renaldo stepped onto the top metal step, turning to yell at the man inside, “Stop crying. I can’t listen to it anymore. I’m going now.”

  Tim stretched up his hand, “Hi, how you doing?” Tom did the same. “We’re the original bank robbers of the story, the guys you two are supposed to be playing.”

  “Thanks, I don’t need any parking.”

  “We’ve also been hired as consultants,” said Tim, “to help the characters with any details.”

  “You could help me, “ Renaldo said, “five years, a dozen television shows and seven films, and never have I had to work under conditions like this.”

  “Who is it?” the voice called out from inside the trailer, the actor playing Cam. “I want to see.”

  Somehow they all got in, the three around the man on the bed, who stopped crying briefly when introduced to Tom. “You’re the bank robber,” Cam said, “Tom, right, the
one that I’m supposed to be playing. There were so many things I wanted to ask.”

  “I’m here,” said Tom, reaching out his hand.

  Cam grabbed it and pulled Tom close, their balding heads meeting above the bed. Except for Tom’s cervical collar, Cam’s darker skin, the two could have been twins. Cam glanced at the actor named Renaldo, then out the door, turning loudly to Tom’s ear, “They’re trying to kill me, Tom.”

  “We just received the new script,” Renaldo said. “He’s going to be shot in the first robbery. Dyan Swaine is taking his place.”

  “Dyan Swaine,” said Tim. “Oh boy.”

  Renaldo nodded, “It will be a privilege to work with her.”

  “I’m a dead man,” cried Cam.

  “No,” said Tom, “it was Happy who got shot.”

  Cam sat up in the bed, “I’m three months behind in the rent. The guild is gonna cut off my insurance.” He grabbed at Tom’s vest, “If they shoot me I’m going to kill myself.”

  “Nobody’s gonna shoot you,” Tom pulled him to the door. “We’re going over there right now, and I swear to God nobody’s gonna shoot you.”

  40

  The car dropped Don on Delinquency, the streets around the bank blocked off with orange cones and empty coffee cups. He walked down the trailers lined up on Lemmings: wardrobe, makeup and props, boxes of fake pistols on the sidewalk, a rack of ski masks on clothespins, drying in the wind. On the far corner he found Rob Landetta leaning on one of the trucks, waving at Don as he yelled in his phone, “I want a big explosion, Sammy, but not so big you can’t see the vault door come off. Big smoke afterward . . . hold on, Sammy, I got the real guy right here, I’ll ask him. Hey Don, what did you use to blow up the bank vault door?”