Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  “I don’t know. So many people, you know, they look at me a certain way. Oh, they never say anything—one reason or another—but they’re thinking, Poor slob, should get outta this business. What the fuck? Most people don’t even consider it a business. They think we’re screwing off up there. They think we’re a bunch of hacks.”

  “They’re jealous.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They are. They see all the attention we get, and they think they’d like it. They misunderstand.”

  “How many clubs do you think we’ve played?” Becker asked, breaking a short silence.

  “Three hundred maybe.”

  “How many gigs?”

  “Gigs? I don’t know… a thousand?”

  “Tonight was twelve hundred forty-seven.”

  “Is that right?”

  “How much longer am I supposed to keep doing this? How much longer do I live with fifty bucks in my checking account, saving money to buy strings and gas and all the shit you have to buy? I’m going out of my mind.”

  “It’s good for you. Last time I saw you like this, you wrote a couple of great tunes. Remember, man, you write the tunes. If this ever does take off, you make the publishing dough. The rest of us earn wages. There’s a big difference. You want somebody to tell you how fucking great you are, how we can’t do The Rocklts without you, how you hold the whole damn thing together by just being who you are—not me, not tonight.” He smiled, because Jay had smiled. Jay needed to be reminded of his value now and then. Jocko always did it in a strange way.

  “The life-style sucks.”

  “Basically, you’re right.”

  “We’re living in a dream world.”

  “Another reason why they’re all jealous,” he said, twisting what Jay had meant.

  “What if it never breaks? What if it never goes?”

  “That scares you, doesn’t it?”

  Angry now—jealous—Jay said, “You’re damn right that scares me, man. I haven’t got your kind of dough.”

  Jocko twisted the cigarette into the ashtray. Smoke curled away from him. The red ember glowed a moment and then turned gray and lifeless. “If you did, you wouldn’t write the songs you do. If you did, you wouldn’t sing better and better. You would become complacent. Believe me, Jay. I know about these things. Why the fuck do you think I drink so much damn Scotch?”

  Jay studied his friend, noticing for the first time his own shadow stenciled against the arm of the opposing couch. The shadow distracted him. “I’m tired.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s been a long, long time.”

  “It certainly has.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  “Me too.”

  “I meet a woman like Marlene and I wish I could take her out to fancy dinners, cruise town in a Porsche. Sometimes that stuff’s important.”

  “To whom?”

  Jay watched the shadow against the couch. “You’re saying it shouldn’t be.”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “That’s probably right. ‘We are who we are,’ and all that.”

  “No more. No less.”

  Becker smiled. It felt right to smile. “You’re a good shit, Rocks.”

  “A fuckin genius.”

  The cynicism bothered Jay. “You afraid of the future?”

  Jocko looked over at his friend. He wanted to tell him how much he envied Jay’s talent, his looks, his ability to take it all so damn lightly most of the time. He wanted to remind him of how lucky the last ten years had been: people—total strangers at the time—giving the band money to pay bills, to make tapes, loaning them vehicles, offering them places to stay; and all because they knew the band had it… they knew Jay had it. You could feel it. Something different. The future? What future? Jay’s future? Jocko had no fears about Jay’s future. The fucking world was blind—and deaf. At some point it would happen. It would simply happen. And then all the bar owners, all the managers, all the record people, would kick themselves, saying, “He was in here once. I passed up that kid.”

  “No, I’m not afraid of the future. I’m afraid of myself. Always have been…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jocko lit another cigarette and stared down at the Scotch. “We’ll talk in the morning. I have some ideas on how to better protect you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You realize we’ll finally be having breakfast over here.”

  “That means I buy the doughnuts.”

  “You’re damn right.” Jocko pulled the door to his room shut.

  Jay looked over at the empty coach. The knife seemed huge. He reached over and touched it. It was still warm from pressing against Jocko’s leg. Jay withdrew his hand quickly and stared at it, thinking, What if?

  32

  Kepella ordered a cab to pick him up at the Space Needle at 8:15. He drove to the monorail, and taking the same precautions as before, waited to board last. Arriving at the Seattle Center, he walked quickly to the waiting cab, climbed in, and barked to the driver, “Get moving.”

  Brandenburg wore a peach bathrobe. His Oriental maid was frying up some eggs and hashbrowns. At Brandenburg’s recommendation, Kepella asked for and received a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Kepella had worn his hair as short as Brandenburg’s during his stint in Korea. He had hated it. Kepella sipped at the OJ. Minute Maid was a treat for Kepella; this was luxury.

  “You look tired.”

  “You look like a goddamned king, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “But I do, Roy.” Brandenburg bit into some crisp toast and flicked crumbs from his lap. “I’m on vacation. I work hard. I play hard. That’s my prerogative.”

  “Vacation?”

  Brandenburg looked away. “Officially, I’m on vacation. It seemed an appropriate cover to myself and the director. You needn’t be bothered with the details. Fill me in, now. Where do we stand?” He lifted an eyebrow and sipped at the orange juice, obviously savoring the pulp, chewing it slowly.

  Kepella took out a slip of paper. On it were two names written in an unsteady hand. A few weeks ago Kepella had prided himself on his penmanship. No longer. It looked like the hand of an old man, and that’s how he felt—like an old man.

  Brandenburg picked up the piece of paper. “J. Becker, Marlene Jenner, passport number… What’s this?”

  “I want you to run those names for me. I want to know everything there is to know about both of them.”

  “Who’s this Becker?”

  That’s odd, Kepella thought. Why had Brandenburg only singled out the kid? “He may be involved.”

  “How?”

  “I’m hoping you can help answer that.”

  Brandenburg waved the paper in the air. “This may take a while.”

  “I want it sooner than later.”

  “My point is—”

  “I don’t give a damn what your point is, Brandenburg. These people are involved in this and I want to know how deeply. Now get me the information or count me out of this.”

  “Roy…”

  “Don’t ‘Roy’ me, Brandenburg. Don’t mix it sweet for me, buddy. I’m putting it all on the line out there. I’m an old fart, right? Right? And I don’t care for this one damn bit, you got that? Not one damn bit.” His hands were shaking. He needed a shot of Papa. There was a bottle in the car… “Don’t screw with me, mister.” He shoved his hands into his lap.

  Brandenberg was staring. “I’ll look into it, Roy.”

  “You’re damn right you’ll look into it,” Kepella whispered, ashamed now.

  “It shouldn’t be long now, Roy.”

  “It better not be.” Still a whisper.

  “You’ve passed the first group—”

  “They want the green laser deployment next. Can you figure that?”

  “They don’t go for the small stuff, I’ll say that.”

  “It’s like they know.”

&nb
sp; “What’s that, Roy?”

  “It’s like they know exactly what you and I talked about.”

  “What we discussed in the briefing was information I had, Roy. That’s why it strikes you as odd.”

  Kepella wanted to say, You strike me as odd, Brandenburg. Instead he said, “I want the information on the kid and the woman. I need that. You got that?”

  “A certain degree of informality I will tolerate, Roy. Let us not forget position, shall we?”

  Kepella wondered if Brandenburg might have a nip stashed around here somewhere. He desperately wanted to ask.

  “I’m running you, Roy. Not the other way around.” He paused between each word, “I… say… jump… you… say… how… far. Clear…?” He raised his voice. “Clear?!”

  Kepella cowered. He was sweating badly, sitting on his hands to keep them still. He felt weak, his mouth sour. He thought he might throw up. Just a nip. Just one shot and all would be well. “Seeing as you’re on vacation and all”—Kepella’s attitude had done an about-face, his tone, his entire disposition was suddenly submissive—“you wouldn’t happen to have a belt around?”

  “A belt?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Oh.” Brandenburg smiled, turning his wrist and glancing at his watch. “You mean a toddy?”

  How many people wear watches while still in their bathrobe? Kepella asked himself. This guy was one strange bird.

  “Over there.” Brandenburg pointed without looking, directing Kepella as he might direct a servant. “I’ll join you. Vodka isn’t it?”

  Kepella already had the cabinet open. “You don’t seem too surprised.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I was dry.”

  “You’re a drunk, Kepella.” His tone was contemptuous. “A drunk is never dry for long.”

  Kepella placed the bottle back in the cabinet and shut the door, his hand trembling. He remained kneeling. He wanted to show Brandenburg—or was it himself?—how strong he was; he didn’t need a drink… But then he reopened the cabinet and brought the bottle of Smirnoff over to the dining room table.

  The window was open: another clear day. The air smelled clean and moist. It would be another scorcher. Brandenburg slowly unscrewed the bottle cap, watching Kepella watch him. He poured a tiny amount into his orange juice and slid the bottle over to Kepella. Kepella poured a decent-sized shot. It mixed with the pulp that had stuck to the sides of the glass. He drank it without looking at Brandenburg.

  “To your health,” Brandenburg said, sipping his spiked OJ.

  The vodka hit bottom and Kepella relaxed. He told himself if he could just cut down, he would be able to regain control. Mornings were the worst: the queasy stomach, the dry heaves, the shakes. But he had to start somewhere.

  “You’re doing a fine job, Roy. Really quite good. I think you’ll be happy in Washington… D.C. that is. Washington could use some fresh blood.”

  “I brought the money with me.”

  “I wondered what that was.”

  “The first advance.”

  “Yes. Well, let’s a take a look.” He signaled Kepella to hand him the briefcase. Roy obeyed, now hoping the man might recommend another “toddy.” Brandenburg opened the briefcase. “New bills.” He looked at Kepella. “You should have specified old bills.”

  “I forgot.” Spoken like a child to a parent. It was the truth; Kepella never remembered discussing it.

  “The point is, Roy, the bills I have are old bills, as I thought you understood. We can’t very well make a switch now, can we? If this fellow Holst is supplying her with the cash, well then, he would be suspicious if you turned around and paid off your debt with different bills, now wouldn’t he?”

  “I could pay him a small amount, like I had deposited it and later withdrawn this amount.”

  Brandenburg just stared at Kepella, waiting for him to see the flaw in the idea.

  Kepella finally said, “No, that’s no good. Why the hell would I deposit a few grand in cash?” He shook his head. A child.

  “Why don’t I give you a thousand of the marked bills. You can say you woke up this morning, went out to play the dogs, and finally won.”

  “Good idea.”

  “But for Christ’s sake, Roy, make certain you find out which dogs did win, in case he asks you.” Brandenburg left the room. When he returned he handed Kepella the marked money.

  Then Kepella remembered. “How did you know about Rosie?”

  “What?”

  “Rosie. The last time we met, you mentioned Rosie. How did you know about her?” Brandenburg suddenly seemed nervous. Imagine that. Old flattop nervous.

  Brandenburg said, “You told me about her. You mentioned her. How else would I know about her?”

  Kepella knew he had never said anything. He nodded as if this explained it. He figured Brandenburg didn’t want to admit to having him followed, or didn’t want to admit having met with Mark Galpin, which Kepella was sure he must have. “The dog thing is a good idea.”

  “Another?” Brandenburg tapped the edge of the bottle. It chimed a dull note.

  Kepella had to work to control himself. He looked at Brandenburg and shrugged. “Why not?” He poured one for himself. Brandenburg had barely touched his laced OJ. Kepella’s hands tingled; the base of his brain was warm. “When can you have the information on the two?”

  “I told you it may take a while.”

  “I want it today.”

  “Impossible.”

  “This evening then.” Kepella rose. “No later than this evening.”

  “These things take time, Roy. You know that.”

  “Listen, Brandenburg. I don’t much like you. You’re an arrogant son of a bitch. I figure you’re keeping from me about as much as you’re letting me in on. I figure it was you who put Galpin up to having me followed, because I know Mark Galpin, and he wouldn’t do something like that without a direct order. So I figure you know when I eat, shit, and sleep. That’s your business. But I need to know who the hell those two people are. That’s important to me. I wanta know whether or not I should be on guard with them, that sorta thing. And I happen to know that profile runs take about forty-five minutes maximum. So, for once you better listen to me. I want those profiles. I’ll give you ’til this evening. I want this damn job over with. Another few days at most. You had better hope Wilhelm is already on his way, because I won’t play along much longer, Washington or no Washington. I’ve lost my friends—what few I had—and my self-respect; I’m boozing again; and I’m beginning to think that if I play too much longer, either someone’s gonna waste me or I’ll lose any faint chance I may have at straightening out my life. If you screw up, if you miss Wilhelm again…” He paused. “I’m the one who lifted all the documents. I’m the one who’ll have all the explaining to do. Christ, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t prove you were running me.”

  “I’d back you up, Roy.”

  “Get me those profiles.” He huffed away, smelling like vodka. Brandenburg didn’t even turn his head. He pushed his orange juice aside and rang the silver bell on the table.

  33

  Evening. The sun hung low in the horizon, ready to set out over the Pacific. Shilshole was picturesque. A postcard. White masts glimmered in the soft light; halyards clapped against wood and aluminum, a constant dull applause mixing with the low whistle of wind across stays. Marlene finished painting clear nail polish onto her little fingernail. Holst worked at the small, folding table that was covered in newspaper, soldering the second of two wires to a DC convertor.

  “Are you sure that will work?” Marlene asked, blowing her nail dry.

  “Yes. The only problem is whether or not you can stall him.”

  “That is not a problem.”

  “You will go through with it, will you not?”

  “We have been over this. What choice do I have? Leave me alone.”

  He wondered if she was up to this. Perhaps he had pushed her too far by beating her. It was something h
e couldn’t control. There was nothing to be done about it now. He had hoped that with Marlene, a beating would have forced her final defeat, her surrender. Perhaps she is stronger than most, he mused. In a while—in a few days—I will lower you over the side for the last time. That will be the end of your defiance.

  He knew that Kepella controlled the game at the moment, and like it or not, they were now playing by his rules. Holst was soldering a way around that, and if Kepella did not deliver exactly as he promised, then Roy Walter Kepella also had little time left on this earth.

  Holst finished soldering, unplugged the iron, and approached Marlene with a tiny bottle in his right hand. He spoke German. “I put it into a bottle of nail polish. It’s a clear liquid, like what you just put on, so even if he checks, he won’t know the difference. Tip your finger now, and if you have the chance, again later.” He handed her the bottle. She unscrewed the cap carefully and inverted the small bottle, wetting the end of her index finger. It dried instantly.

  She asked, “And you are certain this will work?”

  “Yes. I tried it myself. It works.”

  ***

  Kepella and Marlene met again at the Greenlake Grill. This time Kepella waited in his Dodge until Marlene arrived, and then pulled alongside of her Eagle and rolled down his window. He appeared slightly drunk, a smile pasted on his leathery lips, his eyes glassy. “Hop in.”

  A block behind, Holst watched.

  “Should we not select a motel again?” Marlene asked Kepella while nervously scratching the back of her hand.

  “Not here. In a minute. Please, no questions.” Kepella had to maintain his role of paranoid informer. It wasn’t too difficult anymore.

  She opened the car door and slipped into the front seat. She smelled like wildflowers.

  The sky held a sliver of orange in the west, seemingly placed there by the brush of a careful artist. Then suddenly the brush stroke was gone; the sky glowed gray-blue.

  Kepella crossed the opposite lane and pulled into a Shell station, parking in front of a pay phone stall. “I pick, tonight,” he announced.

  “What?” Marlene exclaimed, realizing the blacklight fluid on her fingertip would be useless—Holst’s plan defeated.