Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Ed Gorman

  He tipped back momentarily on his heels as he conjured up those carnal cyber images in his head.

  “You hint to her about our sideline?” I asked, conversationally. Her online thing struck me as someone who had a taste for larceny. Or maybe she was just a stone exhibitionist. Either way, she seemed to be a likely candidate.

  “Not yet, but yes, she certainly seems prime material. There must be plenty of these bourgeois fools who have fantasies about the Asian goddess or Dragon Lady.”

  Steiner was a study in contradictions. He justified his arrangement with me as a way to strike back at the nabobs of convention and conformity. Going on about his patients, the vain, jowled men and the sun-aged, vodka-breathing blondes deluded they could defy gravity and time. Yet I also knew he was spiteful that he got the low-rent chin nip or outpatient tummy tuck, with the high-end work those vodka blondes wanted flying out to Beverly Hills to get done.

  “Here you go,” I said, laying the packet of blow on his desk. That was the item I got from my connection at the casino. Women weren’t Doc’s only weakness.

  He put the dope away, relocking the drawer. Randolph Scott looked down on us from behind him. Steiner was also a movie cowboy aficionado, and had several such portraits — Glenn Ford, the Duke, Eastwood, and so on — tacked to the walls. All of them were autographed. I’d sold him his Ford. Hey, Western memorabilia brings in a decent buck.

  “Noreen make contact?” We were walking back out of his office.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I still think it was too dead-on to use the name of his dead wife.”

  “We all want to believe that the second chance can be had,” he said wistfully. “The heart forever overrules the intellect, does it not?”

  I demurred. Since my research had shown the dentist was into mysticism, it did seem Dudley was more inclined to fall for the bit the more he glommed that this Noreen could be the spirit of his departed. This was the first time we’d done the Kim Novak this nose-on, and I hoped it didn’t jinx the con.

  Shaking Doc’s hand in front of the receptionist, it looked like I was simply some sort of pharmaceutical salesman making his rounds. Which in a way was true. I gave her a nod and she returned that with a brief smile that could be interpreted a couple of different ways. Could be Doc had let on more than he allowed. Yes by golly, she was a candidate.

  The slap across my face brought me out of my daydreaming and back into my current unpleasant situation.

  “Got your attention now, asshole?” Hat Boy followed his question with a jab from his steel-toed boot into my chest. They’d untied me from the makeshift table and dumped me in a corner. A brief wind rippled the blue plastic covering the cutouts for the windows.

  “The bishop will be here soon,” Leaning Man said, pocketing the cell he’d been talking on. He crossed his arms and looked down at my pitiful form. “Then we’ll get down to it, won’t we, sugar lips?”

  I feebly managed to give them the finger. Instead of knocking the crap out of me, which I expected, Hat Boy and Leaning Man laughed like they were watching a Chris Rock routine. Hell, why not? They were holding all the cards.

  I know I should pace my intake. I am a doctor, for God’s sake. Once I was in demand, and know more than some windshield-washing addict what this heavenly narcotic does to you physically and mentally. But the feeling it purveys, that, well, that is almost like sex itself, is it not?

  I know too that as I sit here in the tomblike dark of my office, Wagner softly on my stereo, the hum of the thoroughfare beyond a desensitizing lullaby of normalcy, current matters are far from that. And yet a kind of throttle of inertia embraces me as I ingest more powder, my self-image that of the immigrant gangster Pacino played in that movie all those rappers sample. The cocaine gives me spine. The coke will give me the eier to reach for the pistol in my middle drawer should I need to.

  This I must believe because I know my erstwhile partner in the doppelgänger enterprise is not a heroic man. I dip my head and partake of more of the powder. Mein Gott, it is an amazing substance. I wipe the residue from the rim of my nostrils and lick some left off the back of my index finger. I certainly don’t mean to say that he is a coward. You can’t be gutless and perpetrate the sort of bold swindles he pulls off. You have to project the veneer that reflects what the person you’re taking wants to see, and he certainly has that.

  But what am I to him? I, who used to be a surgeon and now create cartoon heart-shaped derrieres for the self-perpetuating, self-absorbed class. I have more coke and I wait. I could go downstairs and get in my Cadillac CTS with the temperature-controlled seats and the surround sound, the vehicle purchased from the profits I made doing my part, but where would I go? I am very comfortable in my newly obtained condo in nearby Summerlin. And really, as I have more coke and analyze it further, I am an asset, am I not?

  Here I was, having driven to his office to tell him the important news I’d discovered about Shauna, anxious as I was not to speak on the phone. Cocaine makes one wary. But then spying that large one with the cowboy hat taking him away forcibly. The other one I couldn’t see so well at the wheel of their car. Together those Macheaths will squeeze my name along with the other particulars of the operation out of him. What if they aren’t giving him the works, and will simply offer him money? Or drugs. The judicious use of psilocybin or scopolamine, that would disorient him or create fright or paranoia and that could get him babbling as well.

  Yet when he does give them my name, why would they give me the treatment? It would seem to me their boss would want to keep me in the picture, assuming he wants to keep the effort going. And why wouldn’t he? Whoever was in charge of the hoodlums must be a man of means, a gangster of some sort, surely. Unless it was over a personal matter that he was taken away as he was. That might be. And if so, then all my worrying is unfounded, and I should cease my consumption. I will, just after this next line.

  “You do have amusing qualities,” Shauna Cheung said condescendingly. She set her margarita down on the pub table and fluffed out those raven tresses. “But why should I kick back anything to you or to Herr Doktor?” She put a finger up. “More than, say, the cost of getting the remodeling done, as you call it, and some sort of finder’s fee? Though when you really think about it, why are you necessary at all?”

  I pantomimed for two more drinks from the waitress in the faux-moll outfit. The third-floor game room in the Riverhead Casino was called Nitti’s. Leaning just so across the pool table, Shauna steadied herself and smacked the cue ball dead-on. She dropped her solid into the awaiting hole. I appreciated a woman who could work the stick. She walked to the short side of the table, eyeing her next shot.

  “It’s not just setting the job in motion that matters,” I said. “But lining up the marks does take a certain specialty.” That had come out more harshly than I’d intended. I couldn’t let this chick get ahead of me. “But sure, you’re right, you don’t need me. Only, who’s gonna soothe that old croaker sack’s nerves when you’re off playing slap and tickle with the mark? Riddle me that, Green Hornet.”

  “It’s not hard to find a crooked cutter,” she said. “Half of them are sniffing their Xylocain or whiffing their patient’s panties … or want to.”

  The cue ball glanced off the solid seven and it spun on its axis but didn’t have much trajectory. She left me with much of nothing on the table but I was cool. I positioned myself confidently. “You figure to branch out with my idea, that it?”

  She smiled radiantly. “I’m not saying that, homeboy. I could see where you might be an asset.”

  “Now you’re just jerking me to make me miss.” I did anyway. My striped ball bounced off the padded corner.

  She lined up her next shot. “No. But I was thinking this hustle could be a two-way thing.”

  “How you mean?”

  “There’re plenty of lonely widows, you know. Fact is, statistically, there’s more older broads with some savings than older men.” She let loose with her cue stick and, banking
her shot, knocked in another solid.

  “I’m not taking the denture-cream money from some gummy grannies. That is not what this is,” I insisted.

  “My bad.” She gave me that smile of hers again, well aware that it got to me despite my anger. “The point remains, you’re not tapping your market’s full potential.”

  “Maybe that’s where you come in,” I suggested. “Lining up some of these beefcake boys for the work.”

  She seemed to consider that while she sunk her last solid. “Who knows? I might take a semester off and show you how to properly expand your operation.” She pointed the cue stick at the middle pocket and put the eight ball away in a smooth stroke. “See you, champ.”

  I stood watching her walk away, allowing as she did a bit of a swing of those wonderful hips in those designer jeans. Yeah, Ms. Cheung was a real go-getter. And if I wasn’t careful, she was going to run me like she did this pool game, and put me out of the picture.

  “Really, you don’t need to keep doing this.”

  “It’s my pleasure to see that look on your face,” I said.

  She yawned and stretched on the bed. The diamond and white-gold pendant I’d just given her was resplendent against her magnificent bronzed skin. Noreen — and I understood she wasn’t that Noreen, the woman I met in those days of want in Tulsa — pulled me closer from where I stood gazing down on her.

  “How will I ever thank you?” she giggled, reaching for my boxers. Oh these modern women. I was glad I no longer wore the traditional undergarments. Much too much fuss to get out of. She laid back on the bed again, giving me an eyeful of that young and fit body of hers clad only in the frilly panties I’d bought her. What a self-deluding fool I was. How pathetic I must be to this gorgeous girl who could have her way with any of those snarling boys with their bunching pectorals prowling Vegas to satiate hedonistic desires. Yet here I was, a slave to my baseness.

  “What’s wrong, baby cakes?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and she snuggled close. “I’m not so gone that for one minute I would suppose you have real feelings for me,” I began, touching her hair. “Sending orchids and chocolate bunnies to you at that bar and grill like some teenager.” I wiped a hand over my face. “Why did you agree to see me?”

  “You have to stop doubting yourself, Eldon. I told you. Men my age have grown up playing video games, blowing up monsters and making it with digitally animated babes with balloon boobs. Salivating over how they can get a house like they’ve seen on MTV Cribs and a car featured on Pimp My Ride.”

  She kissed my far too rotund belly. “I was and still am flattered a man of your experience would find me of interest.”

  I grabbed her by the shoulders, tighter than either of us expected. “What if I’m crazy, Noreen? I know full well you aren’t her, she died some thirty years ago. There’s plenty of Noreens in this world, and no doubt a fair share in Las Vegas. And sure you favor her some, but she never had a body like yours or — ”

  I stopped myself, ashamed and excited all at once.

  “She never did this, did she, Eldon?” She pushed me onto my back and demonstrated a technique, shall we say, I’d never experienced before in sixty-seven somewhat sheltered years. Then she had me reciprocate. Oh my. But I believe that’s what the article I read in the AARP magazine advocated — to keep your mind active in the Golden Years, you should learn something new every day to keep sharp. Well I was a damn needle that night.

  Afterward, as we got dressed for dinner, I asked her, “When you decide to leave me, do it quickly, will you? I’ve convinced myself I can take it easier like that, as if it were a gut punch, okay?”

  “Why do you always talk like that? And why would I leave someone who is so kind to me?” She was combing her hair. As I’d noticed before, she didn’t look in the mirror. I suppose I assumed all beautiful women regarded themselves, primed themselves for a night out. But then, what did I know of women such as this second-chance Noreen? She patted my cheek and gave me a look that rolled the tops of my socks.

  Of course at dinner, like before, there were those who ogled, wondering just what sort of relationship we had. Her laughing at my shopworn attempts at humor and me grinning like Tom Sawyer must have when he tricked others into painting that fence for him. They were envious, I convinced myself. Here I was, not particularly handsome nor commanding, yet I was the one who’d struck it rich in Las Vegas. The Wheel of Fortune had spun in my favor.

  The next day in my office, as I sat and admired my Hank Aaron prize, marveling at how that transaction had brought me such luck, my private line rang.

  “Bishop George,” I said upon hearing his voice. “How may I help you today?” I listened. He was concerned about my being with Noreen. Her age wasn’t the issue. I knew that despite the public image he cultivated for business reasons, he still practiced plural marriage. I knew too that his third wife was seventeen. Mine and Noreen’s age difference wasn’t the issue. This call was of a more temporal nature.

  “Oh, no, she has not made such an inquiry.” I listened some more. Bishop Abel George rarely raised his voice, but he was persistent in his manner. “Yes, I understand she’s just a cocktail waitress. What? Why would I do that, Bishop George? I’ve certainly not been very strong in our ward for some time, as you are well aware. But her being a gentile is of no consequence.” He talked, then I said, “It’s enough that we make each other happy.”

  I wasn’t a child. I knew that answer wouldn’t satisfy him. Indeed, I was quite aware of where his probing was going. Oh, I didn’t know the exact details, but I knew that he would extract what he evaluated as his due from me. Hadn’t he always?

  That Mormon creep was scary. Good thing he just saw me as a stupid gold digger. He doesn’t know I’ve done Guys and Dolls at the Rio, and was Big Nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in summer stock. I know how to play my part. He couldn’t rattle me, even coupled with his two bodyguards looking all fish-eyed at me.

  Him asking all polite and slithery with his quiet voice and the way he leans in when he’s sitting with his fancy cane and all. Eldon showed some backbone, though, talked up for me, for us, really. That must be kinda new ‘cause that bastard gave him a stare, that’s for sure. Getting it regularly makes a man strong.

  Eldon was so ready for the picking, I knew my plan was going to work.

  I straddled him one more time and made all the right sounds. Sorry Eldon, but you’re just a means to an end. You and that clown who actually believed I was going to kick back a percentage to him like his other girls had ‘cause this was his idea and he’d set the con up. Nothing worse than a bullshitter who started to believe his own BS.

  “Are you familiar with the Mormon Cricket?”

  If I could talk without spitting blood, I still wouldn’t have answered. When the bishop arrived, Hat Boy figured to rack up extra points with his boss, and slugged me when I tried to rise from the corner.

  “The Mormon Cricket,” he continued, “is not in fact a cricket, but a katydid.”

  The bishop glanced down at his ostrich-skin boots, then back at my battered face. He sat near me, imperial-like in a folding chair, his large hand gripping his dark wood cane topped with a silver bird of some sort. “They are a large insect, though incapable of flight. They live in and on sagebrush and alfalfa, and I’ve seen them decimate fields of fragrant Black-eyed Susans and Morningstars. These abominations will even eat their own.” He got a misty look in his pale eyes, then refocused on me.

  “The first settlement’s wheat was saved by gulls eating those damned insects,” Bishop George said, glaring down at me like Odin used to mad dog Thor in those worn-out Jack Kirby comics I had. My only inheritance from a long-gone mother. Back when I was in one of the several foster homes I’d supposedly been raised in.

  “Do you not see the significance of that? Here you had birds, seagulls, that came from the ocean, from California, to save us in the desert in Utah.” He pointed his gull-headed cane at me.

&nbs
p; I couldn’t muster a response. What did he expect me to do, convert?

  “The spirit of Joseph Smith was with us then, as it is now.”

  “Your Jezebel took money from Eldon Dudley and then disappeared. This was some two hundred thousand in cash reserves he kept tucked away for necessities.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yeah, that was pretty lame, but I wasn’t inclined to give him the satisfaction that I was beaten. Not only had he caught me, but the chick I’d set up as the dentist’s Noreen had skipped out on me as well. How sad was that?

  Given his exertions at tanning my hide, Hat Boy was wiping his face with a handkerchief. He then gulped down some bottled water Leaning Man had passed to him. Bishop George, a tall sumbitch with a mug like a knot of wood and an Abe Lincoln jaw, smiled. That was gruesome. “You make money by setting up lonely, well-to-do men with women who purport to be their lost loves.”

  Mostly he was correct. I did background research on the marks like you do in any long con. But I didn’t coach the women to be the dead wife or high-school sweetheart, endlessly drilling them with facts and dates. That kind of pretend the chump would see through in no time. The art of my approach was for the woman to remind the sucker of the dead wife or the girlfriend. There were other guys hyped on actresses from their teenaged days. Hell, there was even one mark, a software geekonaire, who had this crush on his junior-high teacher. So I had Steiner remodel Helen just enough to suggest her features and he was hooked. We took him for more than three hundred Gs in stock options he signed over to her to save her supposedly ailing son. This setup included a child actor we hired to wheeze and sweat in a hospital bed. His stage mother desperate to get the kid a credit. People.