Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore (9780385538398)

by Mosley, Walter

  Phyllis and I were the same in some ways but that wasn’t enough for us to be friends. Marcia Pinkney and I had in common an overwhelming pain but we could not really share it.

  It seemed that on those small journal pages all I could do was describe a world of closed doors and failed dreams. Everything I was, everything I saw seemed to be its own opposite—why, I wrote, live in a world like that?

  The phone rang while I was going over and over this pointless cycle of thought.

  “Hello?”

  “Deb?” a man said. He sounded as if he’d recently been crying.

  “Hey, Jude. How are you?”

  “I’ve been calling for two days.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I’ve been so busy. There’s going to be a funeral next Saturday at Day’s Rest. I hope you can come.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The value of death dawned upon me at that moment. People rarely meant so much with their words.

  How are you?

  I’m fine. You?

  Getting along.

  Great.

  But when someone dies everyone has deep feelings that come to the surface, wailing and screaming and feeling profound.

  Marcia and Mr. Dardanelle, even Lieutenant Mendelson showed sincere deference to me and to my dead.

  “Can I do anything for you, Deb?” Jude asked.

  “I don’t think so, honey. Either everything is done or it’s already too late.”

  Jude gasped through the line and I felt sorry for him.

  “Was he … was he in a lot of pain?” the eternal friend asked.

  “No. It was quick, and if I know Theon he was having a very good time before he passed.”

  “An accident?”

  “A video camera that was plugged into the wall fell in the bathtub.”

  “Oh my God.”

  He sounded so sweet. I wondered how such a mild-mannered man could be construed as dangerous.

  Jude was much smarter than Theon. He was also quite knowledgeable. Whenever the three of us got together Theon would get pissed because Jude was happy discussing D. H. Lawrence or Virginia Woolf with me. He had a college education and his mind moved easily between speculation and substance.

  Jude understood what a video camera in the bathtub meant. His silence was another kind of respect. His friendship, though not for me, not exactly, was just the thing I needed.

  “Would you like to meet for dinner?” I asked him.

  “Tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where?”

  When I got to Monarc’s Jude was already at a small round table in a partially secluded corner. He stood to kiss my cheeks and press my hands. His trousers were black, shirt gray—he even wore a black beret centered on his head like proper Frenchmen wear them.

  “You changed your hair and your clothes,” he said.

  “You mean I don’t look like a cheap whore anymore.”

  “You always had class, Deb. Even on the worst days you rose above the … the shit.”

  Jude was a small man. His hairline was receding but he wasn’t yet forty.

  “He loved you,” Jude said.

  “As well as he could. He loved you too.”

  I luxuriated in the pleasure Jude took in this secondhand emotion. Tears formed in his eyes and I was absolutely sure that no one in the world would miss Theon more than that little man.

  “Sometimes I used to hate you, Debbie,” he confessed. “You know, I wanted to be going home with him but he wanted you. You.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Jude’s ardor was uncontainable. Theon’s stupid uncalculated suicide brought out feelings from every corner and depth.

  “But you were always nice to me,” Jude said. “And I’d go home feeling so guilty because you never treated me bad.

  “But he loved you.… He told me that you were the woman made for him. It wasn’t just sex either. He said that you were his soul mate. And, and, and I don’t know. In some ways it broke my heart but made me happy at the same time.”

  I noticed Rash Vineland staring at us from three tables away. For some reason the sight of him made me reach across the table and take Jude’s hand.

  “We both had a place in his life, honey,” I said. “You were one of his only real friends. I mean, he had a lot of acquaintances but when something was important he always called you.”

  The gratitude in Jude’s eyes was replaced by something that seemed like guilt. I thought at the time that he was feeling ashamed for his jealousy.

  He squeezed my hand and the waiter came up with our menus.

  “I can’t stay, Deb,” Jude said. “Right after I talked to you I got this call. I have to go meet with the F-Troop Theatre Company. I’m designing the sets and costumes for their new show.”

  “Oh. You should invite me when it goes up.”

  “I’ll be happy to. I’ll have them send an invitation to your house for the opening.”

  “Um … maybe you should do it by e-mail,” I said. “You have my dot-com address, don’t you?”

  “What’s wrong, Deb? Why can’t they send it to your house?” The joy of Jude was his laserlike perceptivity.

  “Theon wasn’t the best businessman, hon. He had us in hock up to his nuts. I don’t think I’ll be in that house very long.”

  “Didn’t he have a life insurance policy?”

  The sound that came out of me was rarer than any orgasm or breakdown. It was so odd … my laughter: high and punctuated, surging up from my diaphragm like some kind of pent-up explosion finally finding its exit.

  I leaned over the table and I think Jude was a little frightened. My whole body shook with a mirth that was both light and dark. I lowered my head into cupped hands. It must have looked like I was crying. All I could do was imagine Theon Pinkney, known to the world as Axel Rod, having the wherewithal to plan for something like death, to worry about what he left behind him in the trail of wreckage that was his journey through life. I conjured up the image of the big-bellied man with the lovely naked child at his side, looking like some minor Greek god of the sea emerging with an errant nymph who caught his fancy.

  Gods didn’t buy life insurance policies, didn’t worry about money in the bank. Gods were eternal icons of fecundity and desire.

  “It’s gonna be all right, Deb,” Jude was saying.

  I raised my head, intending to assure Jude that I was laughing—not crying. But there were tears of hilarity in my eyes and I couldn’t speak because I knew that I’d start laughing again. So I nodded and held out my hands to him.

  Jude stared at me with intensity. He was worried, inspecting my emotions with deep concentration.

  “I really have to go,” he said apologetically.

  “It’s okay, Jude. I’m going to stay and have some soup, I think.”

  I could see Rash casting glances in our direction.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  I was trying not to laugh, to bury the silly feeling I had about Theon and the future.

  “I’m fine, Jude. Better than I can really say right now. It was so sweet of you to call, and … and when I finally make the plans for the service I’d love it if you would say a few words about Theon.”

  Jude was shocked by this request. He started and then sat back.

  “You mean you want me to come up to the podium?”

  “You can’t do it from the pews.”

  “I, I, I haven’t … I mean, Theon never really included me in his public life.”

  “But you were his friend and you both need this good-bye.”

  “I have to go, Deb,” he said. “I have to go.”

  He lurched up from the table and staggered to the door. His gait was so odd and pronounced that the waiters and bartender watched warily.

  When Jude was gone I wondered about the information that passed between us. He was thinking things that I had no idea of and I was experiencing emotions that he could not understand. Still, we seemed to have shared a profound mo
ment. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made me laugh out loud. It might have been my father, long before he was murdered and I became a whore.

  The laughter made me hungry. I ordered veal with escarole and saffron rice. I had a glass of dark red wine that the waiter gave me without naming a vintage. He just said, “I have something I think you’ll like,” and I nodded.

  For some time I ate without looking at Rash Vineland. There was a smile on my face and a new world somewhere in the recesses of my mind. The substance around me felt malleable. It wasn’t that I felt comfortable or secure. My dense pubic hair was growing in and I’d crossed a big director in the industry; my husband was dead and I had been pushed past broke into serious debt. But the veal was excellent and I could bring joy into people’s lives without spreading my ass for their inspection and titillation.

  “Salad, madam?” the waiter asked while clearing away the dinner dishes.

  “Please.”

  I turned my attention to Rash and crooked a finger. He got right up and strode the six paces to my table.

  “Was that your husband?” he asked while pulling out the chair that Jude had vacated.

  “And how are you this evening, Rash?” I replied.

  “Uh, okay, fine. How are you?”

  I smiled and the waiter brought my salad.

  “I like this dress,” he said.

  I was wearing a white sundress that didn’t crowd my tits or ass. It accented my figure simply because it fit and I liked the way it made me look—somewhat older and a few pounds over the limit.

  “Thank you.”

  Rash wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. His discomfort tickled me. He was shy but not because of the size of my nipples or the sighs I lied with on the screen. He wanted to make conversation, to carve out a place where he and I could communicate—one way or another. His wants were commonplace and predictable, like the plot of children’s cartoons on PBS. The story was safe, nonviolent, and fully dressed.

  “The man I was sitting with is a friend of the family,” I said. “My husband died a few days ago and Jude was offering his condolences.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was terrible,” I said, agreeing with Rash’s unspoken sympathy. “A terrible accident. I’ve been a little thrown off and Jude, who was a good friend of Theon’s, was offering his help.”

  “Theon was your husband’s name?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m really sorry. I can leave you alone if you want.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to be alone. I mean I can be if necessary but you’re nice. You know how to have a conversation.”

  “You wouldn’t know it by the way my foot’s in my mouth right now.”

  “That’s my fault. I’m a little tricky when it comes to talking to men. I like to keep ’em a little off balance. Otherwise most guys want to walk all over you.”

  I stared directly into the café au lait–colored young man’s eyes. It was all he could do not to avert his gaze.

  “I hardly know what to say when somebody experiences a loss like yours,” he said with barely a stutter. “Nobody close to me has ever died.”

  “You’re lucky. It hurts when they’re gone. And it doesn’t matter if it’s slow or fast, whether it’s a long drawn-out disease or an unexpected accident. When they’re gone the world turns upside down and you’re left holding on, trying not to fall off.”

  Rash gave me a little half smile, as if he were experiencing pain. I reached over and laid my hand on his.

  “You wanna come over to my house for a while?” I asked him. “We could just sit and talk. I’d really like that.”

  We took separate cars.

  Rash followed my taillights east and then over the mountain into Pasadena. When we got to my house on South Elm I parked on the street and he pulled up behind.

  I waited by the passenger’s side for him.

  “Nice car,” he said. “Nice house.”

  “Are you a gigolo?” I asked.

  “Why would you ask something like that?”

  “You’re talking about the worth of my possessions,” I said, feeling as if I were, once again, following a bad script. “So are you?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  He was thrown off, I thought, not so much by the question but the fact of my asking it on the street—before we went into the house.

  “Um … I’m an architect.”

  “You design skyscrapers and stuff like that?”

  “Not so much. Mostly houses, usually interiors. You know, rooms and maybe a patio or two. When people are designing or redesigning their homes I sit with them and work out the possibilities. After that I draw up plans and maybe help them find contractors.”

  “How’s that doing?”

  “On and off. I pay my rent most months. I owe money here and there, but I got this job for the interiors of this new office building going up on Wilshire. That’ll see me through to the end of next year.”

  There were stars in the sky behind the modest architect. For a moment I was distracted by them.

  “You wanna go in?” Rash asked.

  “That’s why we’re here, right?”

  “Maybe you changed your mind now that you know I’m a poor architect.”

  “Your job is the last thing I’m worried about, honey; believe me.”

  Rash smiled and I took him by the arm.

  We were halfway up the stone pathway when someone said, “Excuse me, Ms. Dare.”

  A white man in an upscale white trench coat was approaching from across the street. He was of normal height and build but something about the way he walked gave a sense of confidence, even finality. He was familiar-looking—but I’d met so many people that he was to me more a type than an actual person with a name to be remembered.

  “Yes?” I said.

  He strode right up to us and for an instant I believed that we, Rash and I, were both dead.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” the white man asked. “I mean, the last time I saw you your hair was longer and a different color.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Obviously not. But it is you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s me, Mr.…?”

  “Manetti. Coco Manetti. I called you.”

  The evening was suddenly something different than I imagined. Now, before I could practice normal conversation with a regular guy, I’d have to survive the machinations of a self-made gangster.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Manetti. I’ve been getting hundreds of calls, literally. I’ve been upset.”

  “I can see that,” he said, glancing at Rash.

  “This is my friend Tom Vance,” I lied. “He’s helping me plan the funeral.”

  “I knew your husband,” Coco said.

  “He’s mentioned you. Something about having to work off a debt.”

  Manetti’s cold eyes watched Rash’s face for a moment and then he turned back to me.

  “Can I come in for a few minutes before you start … planning?” he asked.

  I led both men into the white-on-white-in-white living room. Rash looked confused but he didn’t say anything to contradict the lie I’d created for him. Coco went to the long sofa and sat down in the exact center.

  I considered offering my guests drinks but decided against it, because I didn’t want to leave them alone together.

  In the electric light Coco had eyes that were dark brown. His skin was the color—and had the pallor—of death. Under the trench coat he had on gray wool trousers and a lime golf shirt. His shoes were real snakeskin and he wore no socks.

  “I’ll make this quick,” Coco said as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “You know Richard Ness?”

  “Sure, I know Dick.”

  Coco smiled.

  “Dick,” he said, “yes. Dick sold me Theon’s marker. It is now to me that you owe his debt.”

  In spite of his ominous meaning I was impressed with his
sentence structure.

  “Oh. I see.”

  “For some reason Dick was worried that he wouldn’t get satisfaction in the deal with you and so I paid him eighty cents on the dollar, knowing that I’d have better luck.”

  “You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, Mr. Manetti.”

  “You’d be surprised the blood I’ve seen.”

  “Theon never told me about this debt,” I explained. “I haven’t signed a thing. And he left me with nothing. The bank owns this house and his car, all our accounts are empty, and the credit cards are as kissing close to being maxed out as you can get.”

  “None of that’s a problem,” Coco said, sitting back and waving his hand carelessly. “The last time Theon was in hock to me he just worked off the debt—like you said.”

  I could feel the hardness come into my face.

  “You could come work for a friend of mine,” Manetti continued. “Two or three months of hard work and we’d be clear. Six months and you’ll be able to climb out of debt.”

  “I don’t do that anymore,” I said. The words felt good in my mouth. My nostrils flared.

  “That might be a mistake.”

  “Listen, man,” I said. “My husband just died. My accountants tell me that I’ll be thrown out in the street soon. I have to bury Theon and catch my breath.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Saturday at two forty-five.”

  “Where?”

  “Day’s Rest.” I could have lied but that wouldn’t have put Manetti off the scent.

  Coco got to his feet slowly and yet lithely. “I’ll be there. If Theon told you about our little deal you know that I mean serious business. I’m not like Dick at all.”

  With that Coco Manetti walked toward the front door and let himself out. I followed him and switched on the alarm system.

  “What was that all about?” Rash asked. He had trailed behind me.

  “You can leave if you want,” I said, pushing my way past him, headed for the kitchen.

  Rash came after me, which I both liked and dreaded. I was still in the lead when we arrived at the kitchen.