The Deadly Kiss-Off

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Allow me,” I said. “It’s not every day I get to witness a command performance of the Flying Wallendas in action.”

  I was glad to leave the three of them alone for a few minutes to straighten out any lingering issues, so I checked on Lura first. She appeared to have slept through the whole thing in her recliner while the TV blared its daytime inanity.

  Outside again, I handed out the beers and we all sipped in grateful silence under the warm October sun.

  Then Stan said, “Okay, that killer roof ain’t gonna shingle itself. Let’s get back to it.”

  Happily, Caleb had the good form not to ask whether Stan was okay or up to the task, but just said, “I don’t think we can quite finish it today.”

  “Fair enough. One day at a time, son, one day at a time.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “And I’ve got to whip the gardens at Versailles into shape. That’s a big job, too.”

  “Oh, boo-hoo for you,” said Stan.

  Sandra regarded Caleb and Stan with silent admonishment that did more than any words could to let them both know they were on her strict parole. She went inside, the newly sociable roofers ascended, and I returned to my push mower.

  On the way back to our B&B, Stan didn’t speak for the first few miles. Then he said, “Now I owe you both big-time.”

  “Owe both who what?”

  “I owed you already for saving my life.” Stan referred to our first meeting, when I had blasted a hit of Narcan up his snout after he OD’d. “And now I owe Stinchcombe for stopping me from taking a thirty-foot nosedive. That’s debt enough to make a fella weary of going on. Maybe I should just change my name and take a powder.”

  “Or—and I admit, this is a long shot—you could try being a better person.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen, Glen boy. But don’t worry, neither is the other thing. You and Johnny Reb are stuck with me for a good long while yet.”

  Before dinner, lying on his bed in our room, Stan said, “I gotta make a couple of private phone calls.”

  “You know how to find your way downstairs to the street.”

  “I figured you could leave me the room so I could rest up a little more. I’ve had a very demanding day.”

  “Oh, Christ, what a big baby! All right, I’ll meet you at the Blue Moon.”

  When he showed at the restaurant, Stan seemed quite pleased with himself.

  With a wariness born of experience, I said, “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing but the smoothing of our domestic troubles, and the paving of our road to riches. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “It’s not ‘our’ domestic troubles. Nellie and I don’t have any disagreements.”

  “I am generous to a fault, Glen, and what’s mine is yours.”

  * * *

  The shingling job was finished by midafternoon the next day, and I had made as much progress as I could with the unruly flora, short of taking a flamethrower to the entire lot and starting from scratch. Now the four of us—Caleb, Stan, Sandralene, and I—sat around the kitchen table, sweaty and rewarding our sense of accomplishment with a cold pilsner.

  Stan spoke up. “Reb, you thought about my offer long enough?”

  “I have. And I’m going to take you up on it.” He looked to Sandy and me. “Like I told Stan, my roofing business is on its last legs. Work has dried up almost entirely. I was about ready to throw in the towel anyhow, when Stan asked me to go north and help him with his new enterprise.”

  “New enterprise?” I said.

  “Just hold your horses, son. You’ll hear all about it on the drive back home. Now, Sandy, honey, what did Lura say when you told her about our plans?”

  “She’s all for it, Stan. She’s very grateful and she even started to cry. She said you’re like the son she never had.”

  “What plans?” I said.

  “Lura’s coming back to the city with us.”

  “You’re putting her and Sandy up in that tiny hovel you call an apartment?”

  “No, Reb’s gonna live there. And quit making the place sound worse than it is.”

  “Where’s Lura going to live, then?”

  “With your uncle Ralph and Suzy Lam. Old people love having other old people around.”

  “With Ralph and Suzy! What do they think about this?”

  “Why don’t you call them?”

  I took out my phone and dialed my uncle’s house. Suzy Lam, Ralph’s racetrack coconspirator, main squeeze, and Chinese-auntie-style force of nature, picked up.

  “Nephew! You in town yet? We can’t wait to meet Sandy’s mom. She looks like Wonder Woman, too, maybe, huh? And that rent money she brings—too generous. It will help us so much! This shitbox car of mine goes through oil like a goddamn battleship!”

  After I managed to extricate myself from Suzy Lam’s enthusiasm, something dawned on me.

  “If Caleb’s living in your apartment, and Lura’s at Uncle Ralph’s, where are you and Sandy going to stay?”

  “Right with you and Nellie, son! We gotta keep our heads together twenty-four-seven to pull this operation off!”

  18

  We were approaching the city limits, and I was still trying to fathom all the convolutions of this new scheme of Stan’s. Only partially sketched out, inspired by a chance occurrence, and certainly requiring a much larger investment than he and I could cobble together, the whole megillah seemed dicey and a little daft.

  On this gray, chilly October Monday—goodbye, temperate West Virginia clime!—with drizzle flecking the windshield, and the antique car’s lack of a working heater a distinct inconvenience, the two of us were the only occupants of Stan’s Bicentennial Super Jeep. Much as Stan had wished to play the conquering hero ferrying Sandralene and her mother north, Sandy’s calm and cogent reasoning had finally prevailed on him to admit that his car did not constitute a suitable conveyance, especially for Lura.

  “That oversize Hot Wheels toy is a rolling death trap,” Sandralene had told him. And it’s got no shocks to speak of. I am not going to have Mama shaken to pieces before she dies in a fiery collision.”

  And so, despite Stan’s barely suppressed grumbles, it was Caleb who got to shepherd the ladies home. His silver 2005 Buick Park Avenue—payment in kind for fitting out some tract mansion with storm windows—appeared to be a sort of shabby-luxe West Virginia status symbol. He was quite proud of it, and it did seem like a limousine next to Stan’s ride. So our cramped back seats held only Lura’s modest luggage. The trunk of Caleb’s car was stuffed with his clothes and vital possessions, including a complete set of roof-shingling tools, “just in case this here plan of yours goes tits-up.”

  Both Caleb’s home and the Parmalee manse, with its new watertight roof, were sealed up snug for the duration of this change in residency, and under the watchful eye of one of Caleb’s many cousins.

  “Call up Sandy and see how they’re doing.”

  “You just talked to her twenty minutes ago.”

  “I want her to know I care about her and her mama.”

  “Jesus, you’d think you two had just agreed to go steady while sipping frappés at the local soda fountain. Did you give her your letter sweater yet?”

  “Today is the first day of the rest of your motherfucking life, Glen. That’s how I try to live.”

  “Maybe we should start up a line of inspirational posters instead of this harebrained enterprise you have barely begun to elaborate.”

  The impetus for Stan’s dreams of quick unearned wealth, I learned, had been his last delivery of goods from Detroit—the trip I bailed on in favor of lolling about in the Cape Verde Islands with Nellie. (He had quit his driving job at that point, or at least arranged an indefinite leave of absence. In either case, he and Gunther had parted on good terms.) The journey had been unexceptional—no hijackers or cops or snoop
y weigh-station personnel involved. But the cargo had been atypical. And its ultimate disposition had been totally snafued.

  Stan had transported not fake baby formula or fake Victoria’s Secret lingerie or fake Le Creuset cookpots, all of which he and I had delivered before. No, this time he hauled a trailer full of fake Intel Core X-Series microprocessors, each packaged tastefully in its black-and-gold box whose printing quality was only slightly muddier than the real thing.

  Five thousand of them, each with a retail value of fourteen hundred dollars. That is, the real ones from Intel fetched that much, and these would presumably sell in roughly the same ballpark, even considering the discount for their illegitimate provenance.

  Seven million dollars’ worth of bogus computer chips.

  If I had entertained any illusions that penny-ante Gunther, who picked up beer money at flea markets with his fake handbags, was the mastermind of this racket, this news laid them to rest.

  Certainly, Vin Santo, the presumed whale behind this speculative endeavor, stood to make some nice money if he could sell all these little gizmos. And there had apparently been a guaranteed buyer—before they got busted.

  Stan had shown me the headlines on his phone.

  counterfeit game console distributor arrested

  millions of dollars in estimated illegal sales

  before being shut down

  district attorney earns gratitude of retailers

  Now the five thousand fake units were sitting in Gunther’s warehouse without a buyer.

  And Stan thought he could parlay them into at least a million dollars apiece for us.

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked him. “Just step into the shoes of the guy who was arrested, in possession of more fake PlayStations and Xboxes?”

  “No way. The local cops and the feds are all over that market, just waiting for the next sucker to try it so’s they can chop his head off, too. No, we have to turn those chips into some other kinda digital whatsit. Everything digital is hot these days. Your ePads and your iDildos and all like that. We find someone who can use those chips, then we go to Santo and arrange to broker the deal for a cut. I figure he’s pretty desperate by now to unload that stuff, which is just taking up space on his shelves, and recoup his investment.”

  “Sure. But would he really cut us in for such a big percentage of the deal? Two million out of seven tops?”

  “I figure it depends. If he can’t find a taker himself and we make it easy for him, then we’d be worth it. But I ain’t gonna settle for less than a million apiece. I’m sick of nickel-and-diming it.”

  “But what if he finds a buyer himself?”

  “Then we’re out in the cold. That’s why we have to move fast.”

  “And how do you suggest we go about locating a client for these chips?”

  “We are going to get a solid lead from your buddies who rooked me.”

  “Chris Tabak and Jess Inkley, from Burning Chrome? As I recall, they did not precisely ‘rook’ you. It was more like you dumping wheelbarrows of cash at their feet.”

  “Those are the bums, whatever they did or didn’t do. I figure they’ve got tons of leads, even if some are investment opportunities that weren’t quite up to snuff for them.”

  “You know,” I said, “you might actually be onto something there.”

  “And why are you surprised at my genius? No, wait—no need to jeopardize our friendship. Now, get Sandralene on the phone. I want to make sure they know how to get to your uncle Ralph’s house.”

  I called Sandy and established that they were not far behind us, having made an additional bathroom stop to accommodate Lura, and that Sandy did indeed recall where Uncle Ralph lived: on Greenwich Street in a modest working-class neighborhood dubbed, with unmerited pomposity, the Swales.

  After I hung up, Stan said, “Still not gonna call Nellie to let her know what’s up?”

  “She knows we’re returning today, and she’s back from her own road trip. But there is no way I’m going to tell her over the phone that you and Sandralene are coming to stay with us. That is the kind of news that has to be delivered face-to-face.”

  “Aw, you know Nellie loves me and Sandy. That little girl has had a sweet spot for me ever since I rescued her from a lifetime of wage slavery at Micky Dee’s.”

  “And involved her as an accessory in a grand-larceny scheme from which she emerged unpunished only by the grace of who knows what overgenerous deities. It’s still a miracle that she ever forgave me for all the lies you forced me to tell her.”

  “Ha, that’s a good one! You whomped up more lies than I ever did. Bigger and badder ones, too—mainly because that’s what lawyers do.”

  “No, that’s what crooked lawyers do. And God knows, ever since I became one long before you stepped on the scene, I have lied my way into and out of more trouble than I ever before imagined. But I don’t seem able to stop.”

  “Because you don’t want to be a normie, no more’n I do.”

  “This much is true,” I said. “But let us return to the topic of your moving in with Nellie and me. Being good friends with someone does not necessarily mean you care to share living quarters with them.”

  “Quitcher old-lady fussing about it, will ya? It’s only temporary. Didn’t we all live together at the motor lodge?”

  “Yes—in separate cabins.”

  “What if I promise not to use your toothbrush?”

  “Was that ever even a likelihood?”

  We were almost at Uncle Ralph’s, so I tabled the discussion.

  At the front door of the modest, frowsy ranch house, I had an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu, taking me back to when I had lived here postincarceration, after my stint at the halfway house, before Stan and company ever entered my life. It seemed eons ago, and I wondered what new changes this phase of my life would bring, and how I would feel looking back on this day from some distant point.

  Suzy Lam greeted us as if we were from the Lottery Commission, bringing her one of those giant publicity checks. Her cheerful, roly-poly Asian bountifulness always made me feel good. I was glad Uncle Ralph had her in his life.

  “Where’s my new sister, boys!” she whooped. “I got her room all fixed up nice. Now, Glen, I know it used to be yours, but there is no moving back in now!”

  I thanked her and went inside to see Uncle Ralph. As usual, his wrinkled, whiskery vitality as he bounced up out of his comfy chair conveyed a mix of Uncle Sam and a billy goat.

  “Glen,” he said, “you’re looking fit as a fiddler crab. When are you and Nellie going to take us to dinner again? I could chow down at Red Lobster any old time.”

  “Soon, Uncle Ralph. Once things stop being so busy all the time.”

  Through the front window, I saw Caleb’s car pull up.

  Sandralene ushered Lura in with daughterly solicitude. Introductions were made, with Caleb receiving a generous share of Suzy’s bonhomie, and the arrangements of the house were disclosed, down to how to stop the toilet from running on forever after a flush.

  “It’s a swell place,” Lura said. “Thanks for having me. I’m glad not to be alone in that big old house, and to free up Sandralene. I just hope the winter isn’t too cold up here.”

  “Colder than a well-digger’s ass most years,” Uncle Ralph said helpfully.

  “Goodness!”

  “Mama, don’t listen to him. If you feel settled, I’m going to go now.”

  Sandralene and her mother kissed goodbye, and we left the house.

  “Reb, I’m gonna show you to your new place before we go brace Glen’s woman about us moving in. I figure not having a stranger around will make things simpler with Nellie. But we’ll all get together for supper tonight. Sound okay?”

  “Sure. I don’t want to be a monkey wrench in anything.”

  I was a little uneasy at how fast Stan
was railroading Caleb, so I asked the big, easygoing Southerner, “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone for a while, here in a strange city? You’ve got our phone numbers …”

  Caleb gave me his trademark broad, guileless grin. “Oh. Sure, Glen, thanks for asking. But you know, I’m a big boy now, and this is not my first time in a standoffish northern city. Why, back in high school we had a class trip to New York. Stayed overnight, too!”

  Stan rolled his eyes. “So your passport’s got a shitload of exotic stamps in it. Let’s get a move on.”

  We drove in two cars to Stan’s ghetto apartment. I had never actually been inside since Stan and I reconnected at the flea market and was surprised to find the third-floor walk-up less squalid than the exterior of the building and the generally dismal tone of the block had led me to imagine. Caleb trotted up his stuff from the car, then flopped down on the couch.

  “I won’t mind a break,” he said. “Kinda tuckered out. This is more changes than I’ve had to go through in the last ten years.”

  Stan returned from the bedroom with a suitcase of his own clothes. Sandralene’s things from West Virginia had already been transferred to the Jeep.

  Sandralene bent down to bestow a kiss on Caleb’s cheek. “Thanks so much for all you’ve done, Caleb. We’ll try to make all your troubles worthwhile.”

  “The landlord lives on the first floor,” Stan said. “I’m gonna tell him which car is yours; then it shouldn’t be messed with.”

  With Sandralene along in the Jeep, I got demoted to the cramped back seat along with the bags. Luckily, it was a short ride to my condo.

  Nellie must have been watching for us, because she met us down in the lobby with kisses and hugs and a huge smile.

  I felt grateful to be back in comfortable, familiar surroundings. It seemed that lately all I had done was travel. I got ready to deliver my carefully formulated speech to Nellie about our new very temporary lodgers, when Stan blurted out, “Nellie, babe, Sandy and I have to crash with you guys for a while. That okay?”