“I’m Bart,” he said.
“I’m Ray,” the man at the table said. “And that guy”—the mechanic was rolling now—“is Alan.”
The bowling ball left Alan’s hand and thundered down the alley. Pins exploded everywhere and then Alan made a disgusted noise. He had left the seven-ten split. He tried to hang his second ball over the right gutter and get them both. The ball dropped into the gutter and he made another disgusted noise as the pin-setter knocked them back.
“Go for one,” Ray admonished. “Always go for one. Who do you think you are, Billy Welu?”
“I didn’t have english on the ball. A little more and kazam. Hi, Bart.”
“Hello.”
They shook hands all around.
“Good to meet you,” Alan said. Then, to Ray: “Let’s start a new string and let Bart in on it. You got my ass whipped in this one anyhow.”
“Sure.”
“Go ahead and go first, Bart,” Alan said.
He hadn’t bowled in maybe five years. He selected a twelve-pound ball that felt right to his fingers and promptly rolled it down the left-hand gutter. He watched it go, feeling like a horse’s ass. He was more careful with the next ball but it hooked and he only go three pins. Ray rolled a strike. Alan hit nine and then covered the four pin.
At the end of the five frames the score was Ray 89, Alan 76, Bart 40. But he was enjoying the feeling.of sweat on his back and the unaccustomed exertion of certain muscles that were rarely given the chance to show off.
He had gotten into the game enough that for a moment he didn’t know what Ray was talking about when he said: “It’s called malglinite.”
He looked over, frowning a little at the unfamiliar word, and then understood. Alan was out front, holding his ball and looking seriously down at the four-six, all concentration.
“Okay,” he said.
“It comes in sticks about four inches long. There are forty sticks. Each one has about sixty times the explosive force of a stick of dynamite.”
“Oh,” he said, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Alan rolled and jumped in the air when he got both pins for his spare.
He rolled, got seven pins, and sat down again. Ray struck out. Alan went to the ball caddy and held the ball under his chin, frowning down the polished lane at the pins. He gave courtesy to the bowler on his right, and then made his four-step approach.
“There’s four hundred feet of fuse. It takes an electrical charge to set the stuff off. You can turn a blow-torch on it and it will just melt. It—oh, good one! Good one, Al!”
Al had made a Brooklyn hit and knocked them all back.
He got up, threw two gutterballs, and sat down again. Ray spared.
As Alan approached the line, Ray went on: “It takes electricity, a storage battery. You got that?”
“Yes,” he said. He looked down at his score. 47. Seven more than his age.
“You can cut lengths of fuse and splice them together and get simultaneous explosion, can you dig it?”
“Yes.”
Alan rolled another Brooklyn strike.
When he came back, grinning, Ray said: “You can’t trust those Brooklyn hits, boy. Get it over in the right pocket.”
“Up your ass, I’m only eight pins down.”
He rolled, got six pins, sat down, and Ray struck out again. Ray had 116 at the end of seven.
When he sat down again Ray asked: “Do you have any questions?”
“No. Can we leave at the end of this string?”
“Sure. But you wouldn’t be so bad if you worked some of the rust off. You keep twisting your hand when you deliver. That’s your problem.”
Alan hit the Brooklyn pocket exactly as he had on his two previous strikes, but this time left the seven-ten split and came back scowling. He thought, this is where I came in.
“I told you not to trust that whore’s pocket,” Ray said, grinning.
“Screw,” Alan growled. He went for the spare and dropped the ball into the gutter again.
“Some guys,” Ray said, laughing. “Honest to God, some guys never learn, you know that? They never do.”
The Town Line tavern had a huge red neon sign that knew nothing of the energy crisis. It flicked off and on with mindless, eternal confidence. Underneath the red neon was a white marquee that said:
TONITE
THE FABULOUS OYSTERS
DIRECT FROM BOSTON
There was a plowed parking lot to the right of the tavern, filled with the cars of Saturday night patrons. When he drove in he saw that the parking lot went around to the back in an L. There were several parking slots left back there. He drove in next to an empty one, shut off the car, and got out.
The night was pitilessly cold, the kind of night that doesn’t feel that cold until you realize that your ears went as numb as pump handles in the first fifteen seconds you were out. Overhead a million stars glittered in magnified brilliance. Through the tavern’s back wall he could hear the Fabulous Oysters playing “After Midnight.” J.J. Cale wrote that song, he thought, and wondered where he had picked up that useless piece of information. It was amazing the way the human brain filled up with road litter. He could remember who wrote “After Midnight,” but he couldn’t remember his dead son’s face. That seemed very cruel.
The Custom Cab pickup rolled up next to his station wagon; Ray and Alan got out. They were all business now, both dressed in heavy gloves and Army surplus parkas.
“You got some money for us,” Ray said.
He took the envelope out of his coat and handed it over. Ray opened it and riffled the bills inside, estimating rather than counting.
“Okay. Open up your wagon.”
He opened the back (which, in the Ford brochures, was called the Magic Doorgate) and the two of them slid a heavy wooden crate out of the pickup and carried it to his wagon.
“Fuse is in the bottom,” Ray said, breathing white jets out of his nose. “Remember, you need juice. Otherwise you might just as well use the stuff for birthday candles.”
“I’ll remember.”
“You ought to bowl more. You got a powerful swing.”
They got back into their truck and drove away. A few moments later he also drove away, leaving the Fabulous Oysters to their own devices. His ears were cold, and they prickled when the heater warmed them up.
When he got home, he carried the crate into the house and pried it open with a screwdriver. The stuff looked exactly as Ray had said it would, like waxy gray candles. Beneath the sticks and a layer of newspaper were two fat white loops of fuse. The loops of fuse had been secured with white plasic ties that looked identical to the ones with which he secure his Hefty garbage bags.
He put the crate in the living room closet and tried to forget it, but it seemed to give off evil emanations that spread out from the closet to cover the whole house, as though something evil had happened in there years ago, something that had slowly and surely tainted everything.
January 13, 1974
He drove down to the Landing Strip and crawled up and down the streets, looking for Drake’s place of business. He saw crowded tenements standing shoulder to shoulder, so exhausted that it seemed that they would collapse if the buildings flanking them were taken away. A forest of TV antennas rose from the top of each one, standing against the sky like frightened hair. Bars, closed until noon. A derelict car in the middle of a side street, tires gone, headlights gone, chrome gone, making it look like a bleached cow skeleton in the middle of Death Valley. Glass twinkled in the gutters. All the pawnshops and liquor stores had accordion grilles across their plate glass windows. He thought: That’s what we learned from the race riots eight years ago. How to prevent looting in an emergency. And halfway down Venner Street he saw a small storefront with a sign in Old English letters. The sign said:
DROP DOWN MAMMA COFFEEHOUSE
He parked, locked the car, and went inside. There were only two customers, a young black kid in an oversize pea coat who seemed to be dozing,
and an old white boozer who was sipping coffee from a thick white porcelain mug. His hands trembled helplessly each time the mug approached his mouth. The boozer’s skin was yellow and when he looked up his eyes were haunted with light, as if the whole man were trapped inside this stinking prison, too deep to get out.
Drake was sitting behind the counter at the rear, next to a two-burner hotplate. One Silex held hot water, the other black coffee. There was a cigar box on the counter with some change in it. There were two signs, crayoned on construction paper. One said:
MENU
Coffee 15¢
Tea 15¢
All soda 25¢
Balogna 30¢
PB&J 25¢
Hot Dog 35¢
The other sign said:
PLEASE WAIT TO BE SERVED!
All Drop In counter help are VOLUNTEERS and when you serve yourself you make them feel useless and stupid. Please wait and remember GOD LOVES YOU!
Drake looked up from his magazine, a tattered copy of The National Lampoon. For a moment his eyes went that peculiar hazy shade of a man snapping his mental fingers for the right name, and then he said: “Mr. Dawes, how are you?”
“Good. Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“Sure can.” He took one of the thick mugs off the second layer of the pyramid behind him and poured. “Milk?”
“Just black.” He gave Drake a quarter and Drake gave him a dime out of the cigar box. “I wanted to thank you for the other night, and I wanted to make a contribution.”
“Nothing to thank me for.”
“Yes there is. That party was what they call a bad scene.”
“Chemicals can do that. Not always, but sometimes. Some boys brought in a friend of theirs last summer who had dropped acid in the city park. The kid went into a screaming fit because he thought the pigeons were coming after him to eat him. Sounds like a Reader’s Digest horror story, doesn’t it?”
“The girl who gave me the mescaline said she once plunged a man’s hand out of the drain. She didn’t know afterwards if it really happened or not.”
“Who was she?”
“I really don’t know,” he said truthfully. “Anyway, here.” He put a roll of bills on the counter next to the cigar box. The roll was secured with a rubber band.
Drake frowned at it without touching it.
“Actually it’s for this place,” he said. He was sure Drake knew that, but he needed to plug Drake’s silence.
Drake unfastened the rubber band, holding the bills with his left, manipulating with that oddly scarred right. He put the rubber band aside and counted slowly.
“This is five thousand dollars,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Would you be offended if I asked you where—”
“I got it? No, I wouldn’t be offended. From the sale of my house to this city. They are going to put a road through there.”
“Your wife agrees?”
“My wife has no say in the matter. We are separated. Soon to be divorced. She has her half of the sale to do with as she sees fit.”
“I see.”
Behind them, the old boozer began to hum. It was not a tune; just humming.
Drake poked moodily at the bills with his right forefinger. The corners of the bills were curled up from being rolled. “I can’t take this,” he said finally.
“Why not?”
Drake said: “Don’t you remember what we talked about?”
He did. “I’ve no plans that way.”
“I think you do. A man with his feet planted in this world does not give money away on a whim.”
“This is not a whim,” he said firmly.
Drake looked at him sharply. “What would you call it? A chance acquaintance?”
“Hell, I’ve given money away to people I’ve never seen. Cancer researchers. A Save-the-Child Foundation. A muscular dystrophy hospital in Boston. I’ve never been in Boston.”
“Sums this large?”
“No.”
“And cash money, Mr. Dawes. A man who still has a use for money never wants to see it. He cashes checks, signs papers. Even playing nickle-ante poker he uses chips. It makes it symbolic. And in our society a man with no use for money hasn’t much use for living, either.”
“That’s a pretty goddamned materialistic attitude for—”
“A priest? But I’m not that anymore. Not since this happened.” He held up the scarred, wounded hand. “Shall I tell you how I get the money to keep this place on its feet? We came too late for the window-dressing charities like the United Fund or the City Appeal Fund. The people who work here are all retired, old people who don’t understand the kids who come in here, but want to be something besides just a face leaning out of a third-story window watching the street. I’ve got some kids on probation that scout up bands to play for free on Friday and Saturday night, bands that are just starting up and need the exposure. We pass the hat. But mostly the grease comes from rich people, the upper crust. I do tours. I speak at ladies’ teas. I tell them about the kids on bummers and the Sterno freaks that sleep under the viaducts and make newspaper fires to keep from freezing in the winter. I tell them about the fifteen-year-old girl who’d been on the road since 1971 and came in here with big white lice crawling all over her head and her pubic hair. I tell them about all the VD in Norton. I tell them about the fishermen, guys that hang out in the bus terminals looking for boys on the run, offering them jobs as male whores. I tell them about how these young boys end up blowing some guy in a theater men’s room for ten dollars, fifteen if he promises to swallow the come. Fifty percent for him and fifty percent for his pimp. And these women, their eyes go all shocked and then sort of melty and tender, and probably their thighs get all wet and sloppy, but they pony up and that’s the important thing. Sometimes you can latch onto one and get more than a ten-buck contribution. She takes you to her house in Crescent for dinner, introduces you to the family, and gets you to say grace after the maid brings the first course. And you say it, no matter how bad the words taste in your mouth and you rumple the kid’s hair—there’s always one, Dawes, just the one, not like the nasty rabbits down in this part of town that breed a whole tenementful of them—and you say what a fine young man you’ve got here, or what a pretty girl, and if you’re very lucky the lady will have invited some of her bridge buddies or country club buddies to see this sideshow-freak priest, who’s probably a radical and running guns to the Panthers or the Algerian Freedom League, and you do the old Father Brown bit, add a trace of the auld Blarney, and smile until your face hurts. All this is known as shaking the money tree, and it’s all done in the most elegant of surroundings, but going home it feels just like you were down on your knees and eating some AC/DC businessman’s cock in one of the stalls at Cinema 41. But what the hell, that’s my game, part of my ‘penance’ if you’ll pardon the word, but my penance doesn’t include necrophilia. And that, Mr. Dawes, is what I feel you are offering me. And that’s why I have to say no.”
“Penance for what?”
“That,” said Drake with a twisted smile, “is between me and God.”
“Then why pick this method of finance, if it’s so personally repugnant to you? Why don’t you just—”
“I do it this way because it’s the only way. I’m locked in.”
With a sudden, horrible sinking of despair, he realized that Drake had just explained why he had come here, why he had done everything.
“Are you all right, Mr. Dawes? You look—”
“I’m fine. I want to wish you the best of luck. Even if you’re not getting anywhere.”
“I have no illusions,” Drake said, and smiled. “You ought to reconsider ... anything drastic. There are alternatives.”
“Are there?” He smiled back. “Close this place now. Walk out with me and we’ll go into business together. I am making a serious proposal.”
“You’re making sport of me.”
“No,” he said. “Maybe somebody is making sport of both of us.” H
e turned away, rolling the bills into a short, tight cylinder again. The kid was still sleeping. The old man had put his cup down half empty on the table and was looking at it vacuously. He was still humming. On his way by, he stuffed the roll of bills into the old man’s cup, splashing muddy coffee onto the table. He left quickly and unlocked his car at the curb, expecting Drake to follow him out and remonstrate, perhaps save him. But Drake did not, perhaps expecting him to come back in and save himself.
Instead, he got into his car and drove away.
January 14, 1974
He went downtown to the Sears store and bought an automobile battery and a pair of jumper cables. Written on the side of the battery were these words, printed in raised plastic:
DIE-HARD
He went home and put them in the front closet with the wooden crate. He thought of what would happen if the police came here with a search warrant. Guns in the garage, explosives in the living room, a large amount of cash in the kitchen. B. G. Dawes, desperate revolutionary. Secret Agent X-9, in the pay of a foreign cartel too hideous to be mentioned. He had a subscription to Reader’s Digest, which was filled with such spy stories, along with an endless series of crusades, anti-smoking, anti-pornography, anti-crime. It was always more frightening when the purported spy was a suburban WASP, one of us. KGB agents in Willamette or Des Moines, passing microdots in the drugstore lending library, plotting violent overthrow of the republic at drive-in movies, eating Big Macs with one tooth hollowed out so as to contain prussic acid.
Yes, a search warrant and they would crucify him. But he was not really afraid anymore. Things seemed to have progressed beyond that point.
January 15, 1974
“Tell me what you want,” Magliore said wearily.
Roadwork Page 26
