Then they both slipped away.
7
ON THE CAB RIDE BACK to my place I questioned my own sanity. We'd stayed at Maxine's for only 20 minutes, and I never even asked her name. She was part of something I didn't understand, and worse yet she'd set me up for a beating. On the other hand she was gorgeous and intriguing, and I sensed something about her. An honesty and realness I didn't see in others. A bizarre sentiment considering what she'd done. Maybe it was just physical attraction and a lack of rational thought caused by head trauma. We entered my apartment. I switched on the light and she draped her jacket over the sofa.
“I guess now would be a good time to ask your name,” I said.
“La Lena,” she said. “Two words. Two capital letters. And yours?”
You know my name. I'm the guy from the basement, remember?
I didn't say it, but I wanted to. I played it cool instead.
“I'm Dutch,” I said. No sense being rude and spoiling the fun.
“Nice place,” she said. “No clutter. I like that.”
I told her I was a minimalist. That I'd recently discovered the joy of parting with things. How it made me feel free and unburdened.
“I see,” she said, hesitating. She wanting to ask me something. I waited.
“So, are you going to tell me what you were doing at the coffee shop the other day?”
“Looking for something,” I said. The vagueness was deliberate.
“Did you find it?”
I told her I may have, but I wasn't sure. That it was too soon to tell, but I felt like I was on the right track. I was dodging and weaving, keeping her off balance. Her raised eyebrows told me the gears in her mind were turning. Then she asked playfully if I'd been looking for her. I said we'd met by chance, but I was sure that wasn’t the case.
“Well, whatever it was you were doing, you made some people suspicious,” she said. “You didn't exactly blend in with the scenery. Seems like there's always somebody sniffing around trying to get the lowdown. Usually undercover cops or their junkie informants. You can spot them a mile away. I told them not to bother with you. I told them you were nobody. They didn't listen.”
“So I’m nobody?” I asked, wondering who they were.
“You're somebody,” she said. “I'm just not sure what kind of somebody.”
“Somebody who thinks you're very beautiful,” I told her. It was the most truthful and unambiguous thing I'd said all night.
She thanked me, then asked if I'd point her to the powder room. I told her I didn't have one. That I wasn't even sure what a powder room was, but I had a bathroom if that would do. I was going for witty and adorable. Foolishly, I pointed her toward the bathroom in my bedroom, regretting it immediately. Maybe she'd find a cigarette butt floating in a bowl of pungent urine, or worse yet, that one grape-size turd that fought against all odds to save itself from the morning's fatal flush. What I should've done was shown her to the guest bathroom off the hallway, but I must’ve subconsciously reasoned that if she was in my bedroom, somehow I'd end up in there too, and that we'd bump into one another in the darkness and it would lead to an epic fuck.
“Ha-ha,” she said, then disappeared into the bedroom.
I held my breath. No yelp, then a flush. I figured I was in the clear.
I walked to the window and peered out over the harbor. From my place on Boston Street I could see all the way to Fort McHenry on a good day. That night was ink black. I stood dead on my feet gazing into the darkness, and after a moment of perfect silence glanced toward the bedroom. No light escaped from around the bathroom door, so I walked over and looked in. Her tall brown boots were on the floor at the end of the bed. One was upright but the other had fallen over. The light that trickled in from the living room illuminated her beautiful face resting on my oversize pillow. She was under the comforter, fully dressed, and from the look of it sound asleep. I cracked the window to let in a little breeze, then lay next to her. Her smoky-cinnamon scent lulled me into a pre-sleep world characterized by absolute contentment. My eyelids fell and I evaporated into a coma.
WHEN I WOKE THE NEXT morning I was alone in bed. During the night I'd stripped off everything but my underwear and ended up under the covers. Familiar sounds and aromas drifted in from the kitchen, but before going to investigate I headed to the bathroom to clear the cobwebs and make myself as presentable as possible. I splashed a few handfuls of cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, then threw on jeans and a t-shirt. When I turned the corner she was at the stove flipping bacon with a towel wrapped tightly around her body. She'd showered and I'd slept right through it.
“Good morning dear,” I said, like a man might say to his wife of 30 years. “Sleep well?” She smiled and handed me the spatula.
“Can you take over from here?” she asked. She told me she needed to get dressed, pecked me on the cheek, then disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
By the time she reemerged I had the table set and the food plated. Two crispy strips of bacon, scrambled eggs, and sliced apples artfully arranged on white plates, with two cups of hot black coffee in stylish battleship grey mugs on the side. I pulled her chair out, playing the maître de. She thanked me then went right for her coffee. No cream. No sugar.
“I slept like a king last night,” I said.
“Me too.” Her sheepish grin was a thing of beauty. She laid her hand on mine and thanked me, for what I wasn't sure. She must have read my mind or seen the puzzled look on my face.
“For a wonderful night's sleep and breakfast. And now, I've got to run.”
I walked her to the door, and when we hugged our bodies meshed and there wasn't a shred of awkwardness. I kissed her on the cheek too, dying to lick those sweet lips.
“I don't usually look this bad,” I said.
“You've had a rough couple of days. Get some sleep,” she said. Then, “See ya around?”
I spent the rest of the day doing laundry and straightening up. I thought about her connection to the jokers who'd abducted me, and why she was so interested in what I was doing at the coffee shop. It would always come back to that. I recalled the lighter she'd used to light her cigarette that day too. If that black fist meant what I thought it did, we were on our way to becoming the world's most unlikely couple.
8
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON I was perusing the newspaper and half-watching the Colts, who were a few minutes away from dropping to 0 and 6 at the hands of the Vikings. I couldn't have cared less.
It'd been days since I'd seen La Lena. I didn't know where she lived or even her phone number, and I wouldn't have called even if I had. I knew I'd see her again, and I was hoping it'd be soon. Her knock startled me, and since there’s no peephole in my door I opened up without asking who was there.
“Not very careful for a guy with a history of getting abducted,” she said.
It takes spunk to wisecrack about setting a man up for a beating. “Guess not,” I said. “Come in.”
“Hope I'm not intruding.”
I told her she wasn't, then walked to the television and switched off the game. By the time I'd turned around she was laid out on the sofa, her head on a pillow at one end and her shoeless feet at the other. The same tall boots from the other night were off and standing together like toy soldiers beside the coffee table. She looked tired but beautiful, and in a parallel universe I scooped her up, carried her into the bedroom, removed her clothes piece by piece and kissed every luscious inch of her. In this world, I lifted her legs, placed her feet over my lap and eased into a foot massage.
“A girl could get used to this,” she said.
It went on like that for 20 minutes. I was enjoying it just as much as she was, even though I was the one doing all the work. Her feet were rubbing a sensitive area. I wondered if she felt my erection.
“Tell me about your family,” she said. “And, the other night I asked what you were looking for at the coffee shop when we first met, but you never answered my qu
estion.”
“I'll have to start from the beginning. You going to be here for a while?”
“You keep rubbing those feet and I'm not going anywhere,” she said.
Something about her made me want to talk. It was way out of character. I wanted her to know who I was and where I came from. For the first time in my life I wanted to be an open book. A partially open book.
My mind went from zero to 100 in two seconds. I knew what I wanted to say, but not how to say it. I'd have to hurl fragments at her as fast as they popped into my mind. She'd have to sift through them the best she could.
I told her we moved to the city when I was four. December, 1947. From a poor coal town in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia. Mom and dad from rough families. My violent alcoholic father. The gambling, the womanizing. My poor mother sobbing in the bathroom. The tension, the isolation, the stress. Empty cupboards. My father borrowing money from a loan shark just to put food on the table. Slapping my mother around in their tiny bedroom while I hid under my bed with my fingers in my ears. Stepping in when I was 14, and getting knocked unconscious for my trouble. The old man wasting away, eaten alive by cancer. His family destitute, debts unsettled. A man leaving a bouquet on the table next to his hospital bed. The card read – Rest in peace you fucking deadbeat. Dad's funeral. How I wanted to spit in his face before they covered him with dirt. The death benefit from his union pension mysteriously disappearing, mom never seeing a dime. Her cleaning homes during the day, waiting tables at a shitty truck stop at night. Holding her head high. Paying off his debts, in full, with interest, $1 at a time. Finding her dead in her bed two weeks before Christmas. Cause of death: hypothermia. Shut-off notice from the electric company on the kitchen table. Three months past due. Balance: $48.37. How I changed. The veil lifted. I saw the world as it was. No more bullshit stories about fairness, justice, and mercy. The world was a cesspool. The powerful preyed on the weak. Money and power were what mattered. Thumb your nose at the system, get crushed like a bug. Simple as that. La Lena said something, tried to. I cut her off. Her eyes were open wide and I saw something in them. It might have been compassion but I wasn't sure. I was painting a picture of another world, just for her. Her brain was busy processing. I felt a closeness to her. I wondered if she felt it too. Maybe she was just bored to death. I had to get the rest out.
And what about the blacks I asked? It sounded crude and confrontational, but I couldn’t stop to explain. Why such overabundances of guns, drugs, and fatherless children, but not enough decent schools or jobs? Was it a naturally occurring phenomenon? They were rhetorical questions, and I didn't give her time to answer. So why did I go to that rundown coffee shop in that rundown neighborhood? Because I thought it was the only place I was likely to run into somebody as pissed off as I was.
She stood, took my hand, led me into the bedroom and shut the door behind us. That was the first time we made love. It was even more amazing than the scenario I'd played over and over in my mind. When we were through we lay under the covers, our sticky bodies fused. I rubbed her pubic hair between my thumb and forefinger, exhausted. Catharsis and unrestrained passion will do that.
“Your turn,” I said. “What about your family?”
“Sounds like you already know them. You described them perfectly earlier. Illegitimate children, hopelessness, and heroin. You nailed it.”
I slid my hand over her stomach and kissed her behind the ear. “Sorry,” I said.
“Don't be.”
I asked her how old she was.
“25, and you?”
“37.”
“I didn't guess you for a day over 34,” she said.
I told her that was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day. “I'm starving. How does a steak sound?” I asked.
“Perfect.”
9
DOMINIC'S WAS JUST around the corner from my place. We walked with her arm looped around mine through the chilly evening air. Her hard boot heels clicked off the sidewalk sending muffled echoes down the car lined street. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I smelled smoke from a distant fireplace. Real or not, it conjured pleasant images of Thanksgiving turkeys and Christmas trees. Things I hadn't experienced for ages.
Dominic and I were old friends. He met us at the door like he knew we were coming.
“Wow amigo! What happened to your eye?” he asked.
“Tripped and fell,” I said. My look and tone told him to drop it.
“And who’s this?” he asked instead, reading my cues like a pro.
I introduced them.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he said. “But if you're a vegetarian you're in the wrong place.” He flashed the kind of hearty grin that only he could pull off.
She assured him she wasn't, and returned his smile with one of her own.
Dominic led us to a booth for two in a dark corner. The place had a nice, old time feel. Red and white checkered tablecloths, flickering candles in yellow globes, and Frank Sinatra doing his thing in the background. Cozy and perfect.
“So what'll it be?” I asked after she'd given her menu a look. She suggested I order for both of us and we'd see how my intuition was.
Dominic waited on us personally. Partly because he hadn't seen me in a while, but mostly because he couldn't take his eyes off of La Lena. He was a shameless flirt and skirt chaser, and she was a knockout.
For her I ordered a medium-rare New York strip, baked potato with butter on the side, salad with Russian dressing, and a ginger ale. Dominic knew to bring me the usual. He back peddled away slowly, and I got two thumbs up and an exaggerated wink before he disappeared into the kitchen.
“How'd I do?” I asked.
“Couldn't have done better myself,” she said.
There were things I'd noticed about La Lena. Things I liked. She didn't need to fill every moment with idle chatter for one. We ate in silence, enjoying our steaks and each other's company. A few times she reached over, stabbed a piece of meat I'd just cut and popped it into her mouth. I liked that about her too. She wasn't shy. We were seeing how long we could go without speaking before it got uncomfortable, but it never did.
“So who was the handsome guy at the coffee shop?” I asked.
“Carl,” she said. “He makes my skin crawl, but I've learned to put up with him. He's harmless once you get past the bluster.”
I told her I couldn't take my eyes off them that day, and that I wondered what such an unlikely pair was doing together.
She smirked, obviously unimpressed. “You're observant,” she said, “but your surveillance skills aren't exactly special-forces grade.” She knew I was watching them. She'd seen me in the corner of her eye. She hadn't even needed to turn her head. Carl was too oblivious to notice, she told me, but I needed to work on my technique.
“Thanks for the advice,” I said. “I'll work on that. So why were you with him? Hot date?”
“Hardy-har-har,” she said, her voice flat, head cocked for effect. She told me they worked for the same organization.
“Organization? Sounds clandestine and romantic,” I said. “Let me guess. CIA, KGB, SPCA?”
“No, no, and uh, no,” she said.
I was enjoying our banter, but I was asking sensitive questions. The last thing I wanted was to push too hard and spoil things. Our interaction was natural and easy. It felt right. I was just enjoying being with her, and there wasn't anything I could think of worth jeopardizing it. I was dying to ask her whose nose I'd broken though. I wanted to see the poor bastard in person. Remember me? I'm the guy who did that to your face. Not bad for two against one huh? I'm ready for round two whenever you are. I decided to drop it.
“How about a slice of chocolate cake or blueberry pie?” I asked.
“Blueberry pie would hit the spot,” she said, tracing the outline of my hand with her finger. “To go.”
She stayed with me that night, but in the morning she was gone. When I woke up there was a note on th
e nightstand.
We forgot to eat the blueberry pie last night.
Guess we got sidetracked....
The girl liked her notes.
10
GINO SAT AT THE CLUTTERED desk in his cramped office watching the neon Johnny Walker sign above the door flicker in and out of consciousness. The cheap wood paneling and lack of natural light added to the already dismal ambiance. Like a bar in Flint, Michigan where emaciated alcoholics with GM pensions went to drink themselves to death. His shaky hand reached for the burning cigarette resting in the ashtray. He sucked the last cloud of mentholated smog before stubbing it out. A disturbing scene assaulted his consciousness. A motel where you paid by the hour. He even saw the flittering pink sign. Vacancy! Vacancy! A plaid miniskirt and white stocking clad Veronica on her knees in front of a morbidly fat naked man. His sagging white hips swaying as his eyes rolled back into his head. Then she was on all fours vomiting into a hard-water stained bowl. Cheap noir. He needed some fresh air before he had a heart attack.
He walked around the block to the payphone next to the abandoned liquor store. It reeked of urine, and someone had carved, FUCK YOU! inside a heart on the phone's chrome front.
“Fuck you too,” he mumbled, then dropped a quarter and pressed each numbered tile deliberately. It rang and rang.
“Hello?” she said groggily.
“Veronica. Gino. I need to see you tonight.”
“Baby, I have to work.”
“You're taking the night off. I'll be around to get you at seven-thirty. We're going out for a nice dinner. Dress accordingly.” He hung up before she could protest.
Shakedown on Hate St Page 3
