“You’ll make it,” I said. “You’ll see.”
“I have to start a new life,” she repeated stubbornly. “I can’t start it on a thousand dollars.”
“It’s not the money, it’s the life,” I said.
“No, philosopher-queen,” said Candy, “in this instance it is actually the money.”
Dejectedly, we looked once more for other boxes, other hiding spots. Filled with disappointment, we lowered the busted blinds, turned off the lights, and left.
Candy refused to leave Interior. She wasn’t going anywhere until Floyd returned and gave her the money. While Gina banged her head against the car door, I tried to convince Candy to come back in the morning.
“Let’s go,” Gina said finally to me. “She told us to go. Let’s go.”
“No.”
“If you want, we’ll come back for her in the morning. I can’t stay here another minute, can you?”
“We’ll stay one more minute.”
“Can we at least go to the Horseshoe and get some food? It’s after eleven!”
Suddenly, Candy said she’d be right back and disappeared, running down the road to the bar. I called after her, but it was too late. She was gone fifteen minutes, during which Gina exhorted me for each one of those 900 seconds to get in the car and go. Then Candy was running toward us, her hands full of warm bacon and cheese potato skins. “Get in,” she breathed. “Eat. I found out where he is.”
The guys at the Horseshoe knew Floyd. They said he hung out at the Fireside Brewing Co. in Rapid City. Apparently, he had a really cute girlfriend.
“Why didn’t we think of asking at the Horseshoe earlier?” I wondered, starting up the Shelby in relief.
“Because you, genius, said you wouldn’t go in there,” Gina said. “We’d be sleeping by now if it weren’t for you.”
After nearly two hours and a hundred miles on a threadbare Route 44, no lights, no other cars, we got to Rapid City’s old center square nearing one in the morning. Rapid City surprised me because it wasn’t the western town I had been expecting, a hole-in-the-wall with tumbleweeds. It was laid out on a wide grid, the buildings square, six-storied, and orderly. It looked like an old small town. Candy knew the manager at the “historic” Alex Johnson hotel; unfortunately he was off duty at one in the morning, so we had to pay for our room up front, eighty bucks. I paid. I felt bad for Candy. We parked in an alley behind the hotel, off the street where the car would have been in full view, dropped our things in the small room on the top floor, and ran to Fireside Brewing Co. before it closed at two.
Inside the loudly crowded bar/restaurant, it took Candy less than a minute to scan the place, say, “I don’t fucking believe it!” and walk from the bar to a small group of rowdy studs. Gina and I followed.
“Well, well,” said Candy, loud, her hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “If it isn’t fucking Floyd.” Her denim skirt was short, her pink halter top faded in the smoky light.
A boy with nappy hair looked up. He was flushed and smooth like a baby, but unlike a baby, inebriated and sheepish. “Hey, Candykins,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Don’t screw with me, Floyd. I talked to you four weeks ago, told you I was coming. I talked to you yesterday and you told me to meet you at Wall Drug! Or did you forget?”
His eyes were darting from drink to drink. “Oh, yeah,” he drew out. “Was we supposed to meet tonight?” He chuckled. “I didn’t think you meant tonight. Sorry, hon. Did you wait long?”
“Yeah, about four fucking hours at your hole in Interior.” She looked over the guys sitting with him. “You want to talk in front of them? ’Cause I don’t mind.” Candy’s hands were still at her hips. Floyd’s friends were tipsy and equally useless at wading through the bullshit. Should they stay or should they go? the song kept insistently asking. They decided to go, tripping over each other in their intoxicated effort to make tracks.
“So, how are you?” He looked broke, and was just making conversation.
“I’ll dispense with the niceties,” said Candy. “Where’s my money, Floyd?”
“Money?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, like you never heard the word money. Where’s the forty grand I sent you over the last two years?”
“Forty?” He shook his head, tried to focus, tried to solemnize. “I don’t think it was that much, sugah.”
“Oh, you can be sure it was,” said Candy, yanking a white envelope out of her Mary Poppins bag. “It’s all here, the dates I sent the wires, the amounts.”
He was red in the face, and she was impressive the way she stuck up for herself, how she didn’t back down. He hemmed and hawed. He said the money was in the bank, and it was Saturday night, the bank wouldn’t be open till Monday. “But if you wanted to come back . . .” he drawled in his false tenor.
“I’m not leaving without my money,” said Candy. “So cough up, buddy. Don’t give me any of that sugah shit. You made twenty thousand bucks for doing nothing but keeping it under your pillow, as per my instructions. Remember?”
“I do, I do. But I don’t have it right now. It’s in the bank, I tell you. I’ll get it for you Monday. Are you girls hungry?”
“Yes—” That was Gina.
“No!” Candy slammed the table. Floyd recoiled. “Let’s go, and you can show me the bank statement, Floyd. Your most recent bank statement with the balance in black print.”
“Oh, I don’t keep that stuff. You know me.” He giggled like a girl, his contrite head bobbing on a thin gooseneck, his face round and flushed pink. “Don’t be upset, hon. I’m always happy to see you.”
“Fine, you didn’t know we were coming, but now we’re here, and we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy, just as soon as you get me my money.”
He coughed. He said tomorrow banks were closed. No one opened up banks on Sundays, not around these parts.
“Floyd, you told me to meet you in Wall Drug!”
“Oh, yeah . . .” he drew out slowly. “They sacked me just last week.”
“We spoke on the phone yesterday,” Candy said, just as slowly. “Your exact words were, I’m getting off work at six, I’ll see you then.”
“I might’ve misspoke, hon,” said Floyd, his eyes darting to the black bag on the floor near his booth.
“Point is,” said Candy, “while sitting around waiting for you, and we had plenty of time, you know, we had a drink out of the sink, and then I thought I’d write a card to my mother, telling her I arrived at your Interior abode safely. And I couldn’t find a pen that worked, though believe me, I looked. I couldn’t find any stamps, or envelopes. I couldn’t find,” Candy said caustically, “my Western Union receipts, the receipts telling me how much money you were stashing for me. Zilch. You know what else I couldn’t find? A checkbook. Imagine that. Keeping thousands of dollars in your account and not having a checkbook.”
The visibly shaking Floyd, I was realizing with increasing concern, looked strung out, not drunk. I’ve seen drunk plenty, but I’ve seen a guy on junk only once. I’ve never forgotten it. Drugs were worse. Gin was cheap. Drugs were not. Floyd was shifting his weight, nervously ticking away the seconds under Candy’s glare by obsessively rubbing his fingers, like he was washing his hands. His mouth kept moving in a silent defense, but he wasn’t looking at her. The music was loud. The waitress came over to ask if we needed something.
“Yes, twenty grand,” said Candy. “Got some of that?” The waitress slunk away.
“Where’s my fucking money?”
“See, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, Cand, and you’re not listening.”
“Oh, I’m listening, all right. Where’s my money?”
Floyd lowered his voice. His body swung from side to side.
“I can’t hear you,” said Candy. “What?”
“JD has it.”
“Who the fuck is JD?”
“Well, I thought he was a friend of mine,” Floyd replied theatrically, drawing
out the word thought so that it sounded like thawwwwwght.
“I hope you’re not wrong about that,” Candy said, “especially if he has my money.”
“He has to give it back to me. I’ll get it for you, sweetheart, I will. I just need a little time.”
“I don’t have time,” said Candy. “I don’t have five minutes. I need my money, and I need it tonight.”
“Oh, darling, I don’t know where JD is,” he wailed plaintively, as if he were about to cry. “I need to find him myself. I’m looking for him.”
“Floyd, Floyd.” Candy took deep breaths. Floyd was shifting, avoiding her gaze. Things were looking bleak for Candy’s money, judging by Floyd’s ungainly jitters.
A girl stepped up. “Floydie,” she squealed, “where you been, baby? I thought you were going to meet me at Justin’s. I’ve been waiting, like, five minutes.”
“I’m here, hon,” he said, turning her by the shoulders to face Candy. “Hon, this is my friend from back east. Remember I told you about her? Candy Cane? Candy, this is Lori. She’s my girl.”
Lori was a bird of a girl, dressed in black, and wobbly herself. Beside Floyd, she didn’t seem too bad, but standing close to Candy who was motionless, you could tell that Lori was a parable, a cautionary tale of what happened when you weighed eighty pounds wet and did too much junk. Her black tank top revealed bare, skeletal arms, the insides of which were scarred from bicep to wrist with the livid track marks of needles. Candy did not shake her trembling, proffered hand, she barely looked Lori’s addled way.
“I appreciate your fine manners, Floyd,” said Candy, “but I don’t have all night to stand here and make nice with your bag brides. Now where is my money?”
Floyd pushed Lori away. “Go and get us two beers, hon, please? You girls want anything? Go, Lori. I gotta finish up here.”
“What money she talkin’ ’bout? You owe her money? And what did she just call me?”
“He doesn’t owe me money,” snapped Candy. “He has my money, which he needs to fork over, my twenty thousand dollars.”
The girl threw back her head and laughed, a good, merry laugh. Floyd pushed her a little more forcefully. “Just go, I said. Go get me a beer, will you.”
“Floyd, is she crazy? You ain’t got that kinda money.”
“Lori!” He lowered his voice. “Seen JD?”
“No. That punkhead’s vanished.”
When she left, Floyd turned to Candy, whose angry arms were crossed on her chest. “Look,” he said, “sit. Sit for a sec. I need to tell you things. I’ll get you your money, but I gotta talk to you first.”
Candy did not sit down and motioned for Gina not to. “Floyd, you know my situation. I don’t have to tell you what kind of trouble I’m in.”
“You and me both, girlfriend,” Floyd said tiredly.
“You’re wasted, strung out, blasted and lit-up,” said Candy. “It’s none of my business. Float all you want. I just want my money.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t have it at the moment. JD has it. But we’re going to get it back from him. You’ll see. Come with me. We’ll find him together, you’ll explain the situation. He’s an okay guy. Except for that last thing . . .” Floyd shook his head. “Don’t want to talk about it. But other than that, he’s been pretty good to me.”
“I’ll ask you just one more time,” said Candy. “Why does JD have my money?”
“To help me out,” said Floyd. “I needed a little help. So I gave it to him to hold.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid I was going to spend it. And I didn’t want to do that. So I gave it to him to hold for me. But every once in a while I’d come to him because I needed something, and he’d give it to me. Then he’d say, this is on the house account, this little bit. I didn’t know what he meant, so I’d say, yeah, fine, whatever, but this last time he gave me stuff, it was no good. It was just gunk, horrible. I had to get more stuff from somewhere else, because his was ridiculous, just blanks, blanks and blanks—”
“Floyd, you’re a beamer?” A beamer is a serious addict.
“No, no, I’m just an ice-cream user. A baby. Just once in a while. It’s so good, Cand, you gotta try some, you just have to, you won’t go back. I’m not a beamer, oh, every once in a while, if I can’t get the good shit, I’ll have some light brown sugar, but I hate it, really.”
“So let me understand,” said Candy. “You gave your candy man, your balloon JD, from whom you get regular antifreeze, my money to hold so it would be safe from you?”
“You got it, baby.”
“And then you keep going to him asking for dirt and he gives it to you, saying it’s on the house account?”
“I thought he was saying it was on the house.”
“See, different meaning there.”
“Last time, he gave me gaffel, he gave me fake stuff.”
“You don’t look like you’re on flea powder now.”
“I had to go get me some from somewhere else, didn’t I? His dust was no good!”
Candy and I exchanged looks. I hope I didn’t look as helpless as I felt. Candy, I thought, still wasn’t getting it. I stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Gina flanked me.
“What money did you use to get dust, Floyd?”
“Don’t you worry about that. Not yours.”
“So what’s with the thousand bucks I found under your bed? Whose money is that?”
“Candy!” He became so agitated. “I can’t believe you looked under my bed.”
“You keep a messy house. You need to take better care of your things.”
“You have no right to look through my things.”
“Ha. Yes, and you have no right to take my money. Twenty thousand dollars. That’s robbery, larceny, embezzlement, all in the first degree, you name it. Right, Gina?”
“Right.”
“You either get me my money or I’m calling the police.”
“That thousand bucks is mine. I saved that from working.”
“Really? That’s convenient. And how come Lori doesn’t know about it? Would it upset your little girlfriend if she found out that you’ve been keeping that hunk of change under your bed?”
“You left it there, right? Because it’s my money.”
“I tell you what,” Candy said pleasantly, “you get me my twenty grand, I’ll give you back your thousand. Deal? Where’s JD?”
Floyd ordered Lori to stay put, and we left the Fireside Brewing Co. and walked down Main Street. Floyd went into every joint, as if on a mission, looking for his zoomer. The absurdity of what we were doing seemed lost on Candy, but not on me—searching for a drug dealer to ask for the return of money he was holding on behalf of a heroin user who was hitting him up daily for dope.
We found JD, an unsmiling Indian with hair down to his elbows, in the back room of a seedy small-time bar, counting out some change. Floyd introduced him as JD Soderquist, but the first thing JD said to Floyd was, “Get the fuck away from me, man. I’m sick to death of seeing your face. I don’t got nothing for you, understand? And who the hell is this with you?”
Floyd used his soothing tone, he patted JD on the arm, made cooing noises. He introduced us as his close friends, tried to explain the situation. Floyd talked to JD like a son who wants to appease the father before hitting him up for the keys to the Alfa Romeo. It took Floyd ten stilted struggling minutes and JD another incongruous five to understand what it was that Floyd needed from him.
“What money, Floyd? What the hell are you talking about? The money you gave me two weeks ago?”
“No, no, not two weeks, a long time ago. Months maybe.”
“Two weeks ago. And you didn’t give me twenty grand, you gave me five. And let me just say that since that day, you’ve come to me twice a day, asking for scag. You say, a little hit, a little stash, but Floyd—twice a day! Who do you think pays for that?”
“I only wanted a little tiny bit,” Floyd said beseechingly.
; “Twice every fucking day! What do you think I meant when I said this is on account?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” said Floyd, hurrying him along. “But that last batch, it was blank, baby. Blank, blank.”
“It was not blank,” said JD, twirling his mustache, completely in control and straight. “It was blue velvet. It was cut. And it was cut for two reasons. One, you’re out of fucking money. You ain’t got a house account no more, because the five grand you gave me, you blew on blow, you chased yourself out of Rapid City with your little balloon habit. And two, I was doing you a favor. I thought you were getting so far strung-out, soon we wouldn’t be able to bring you back. I was watching your back, Floydie-boy, and this is how you repay me? You bring me your pussy posse, more bag brides to pay for your fix? Where’s your regular skeezer, where’s Lori?”
“Bag brides?” mouthed Gina.
“Pussy posse?” mouthed I.
“You spent five thousand dollars of my money in the last two weeks?” said an aghast Candy.
JD looked us over. “I’ll give you a hundred and a dime bag for the three of them for an hour. But that’s it.”
Floyd said, “Now, JD, if we could be reasonable about this . . .”
But Candy had had enough. “I want my fucking money. My twenty grand, and I want it now.”
Next thing you know, we were all out on the street, shoved out none too gently by two of his bouncers. The door to the bar slammed. There was no re-entry. We didn’t move from the sidewalk.
“I don’t think he’s right,” explained Floyd. “I think he’s hanging on to my money. Our money. Your money. Honest, I didn’t . . . I just got a bit a day, to tide me over, I didn’t . . . honest, Candy, you have to believe me.”
“Did you give him all of my money?” Candy said in a low voice, struggling to control herself.
“Really, I think I gave him much more than five. I’m almost sure. I thought I gave him everything. For safekeeping.”
“You gave my money to your dealer for safekeeping,” she said flatly. “Where’s your share of my money?”
“Long gone, baby,” croaked Floyd. “Long, long gone.”
We walked beside him down the dark street. There was no one out, but the lights were on in the two or three bars still open. He swayed while walking. I wondered about Lori; JD called her a bag bride, so did Candy. What did that mean? I tried not to glean meaning from its use in the sentence JD used, but to do that, I had to not think of the sentence, and that sentence kept parading in my head like Macy’s giant balloons on Thanksgiving. A hundred bucks for the three of them for an hour. I held on to Gina’s arm. She held on to mine. Candy walked unsupported, as if she had to stand a little stiffer now that her meager dreams had turned to ashes. Music piped from the bars, and the jukebox, even in this remotest of remote corners, as if having only one universal song, was playing “I Will Survive.” I will survive.
Road to Paradise Page 32