Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  I’m Rick.

  Congratulations.

  I’m trying to help out a guy.

  A guy.

  Guy named Jules FitzGibbon. I’m his lawyer. You know Jules?

  Maybe.

  They think he might have killed somebody.

  No shit, said Serge, flat and uninterested.

  You knew that?

  No.

  Okay, well. Murder. Serious stuff.

  No shit, he said again, in the same flat voice.

  Yeah. They say he killed Larry Silver.

  No shit?

  This time he added the question mark. I was making progress. Pretty soon we’d be best friends.

  Yeah, I said. You knew Larry Silver?

  Maybe.

  What do you know about him?

  He’s a guy, he said. Guy who hung around.

  Serge and Jules must have gone to the same elocution school.

  He have any enemies? Anybody might want to kill him?

  I don’t know, man, said Serge.

  He was warming up a bit.

  Can you tell me anything else about him?

  He was just a guy. Hung around. I don’t know anybody liked him much. I don’t know anybody wanted to kill him, neither.

  He have any friends you know of?

  He had a girlfriend, for a while.

  You know her name?

  Nah.

  Sarah?

  Don’t know.

  Was he into drugs?

  Serge almost smiled. Didn’t say anything.

  Listen, man, I said. I’m a lawyer. I’m not a cop. I’m here right now. I got eyes. Don’t worry about it.

  Serge thought about it.

  Yeah, he said.

  What was he into?

  Whatever was around. You know. Tree. Meth. Whatever.

  Did he sell?

  When he had some money to buy, he’d sell. What he didn’t do hisself.

  I’m thinking that wasn’t too often.

  You got that right.

  Did he and Jules know each other?

  Sure. Everybody knows everybody.

  Anything special between them? They hate each other? Hang together?

  Nothing special I know about.

  You know anything about a poker game, a few days ago?

  Poker? Shit, no. I don’t play no poker.

  Not you. A game that Larry and Jules were at.

  Nah.

  Anything else you can tell me? I asked. About either of them?

  Serge sat and thought. And thought. I rolled my eyes. Pulled another twenty out of my pocket. I placed it neatly on the floor in front of him. He eyed it. He thought some more.

  I think they had some kind of a deal going, he said. One day. Once.

  What kind of a deal? Dope deal?

  I don’t know. Maybe.

  Anything you know about it at all?

  Nah. Not really. Larry saying something about how they had something going. He was going to get some money out of it.

  Some kind of poker scam? I persisted. They going to take somebody for some money?

  Could be. I don’t know.

  Anybody else you know might know something about it?

  Nah.

  I asked a few more questions. I didn’t learn anything more. He was a slug. A cipher. He couldn’t even make stuff up if he wanted to.

  I got out of there.

  The light and air of the outside world startled me. I squinted. My eyes slowly adjusted. I took a deep breath. A whole bunch of tension I hadn’t known was there slid out of me.

  Jesus H. Christ, I said to myself. I thought I had problems.

  14.

  WHEN I GOT TO THE WHITE STALLION, Dorita was already there. We compared notes. I told her about Serge. She told me about Sarah.

  She’s quite a number, she said. Purple hair. Mouth on her like a rabid carp.

  A rabid carp? You’re outdoing yourself.

  I’m just getting started.

  I was afraid of that.

  She talked up a storm. But she didn’t say much.

  You must have got along famously.

  Have you noticed how pointy these shoes are?

  Sorry.

  You’d better be.

  I am. Truly. Abjectly. As sorry as those shoes are pointy.

  That sounds like just about the right amount of sorry.

  I like it when things work out like that. Can we get back to Sarah?

  I found her in a bar downtown. Ratty couches. Black light. Candles.

  Nice.

  She was smoking a clove cigarette.

  Ugh.

  Indeed. She was a little uptight at first. The cops had talked to her yesterday. Seems she wasn’t too happy about that. Not a big fan. Didn’t have anything to tell them. On the other hand, she didn’t have much to tell me, either.

  Did she admit to being Larry’s girlfriend?

  She didn’t exactly deny it. She didn’t like the word. But she lived with him. Some dank little studio off Delancey Street. She was with him the day he died, earlier on. She didn’t know anything about Jules. Or any money Larry owed him.

  Not a whole lot of help.

  No, but she did tell me a bit about the guy. Sounded like a snake.

  A loser kind of snake.

  Not a great snake success. But he was always looking for a scam. Always thinking the next one was going to be the big one. They’d be set for life.

  The usual.

  Sure. He was talking about how if his parents were rich he and Sarah could pretend he was kidnapped, get a ransom out of them, disappear with the money. But his parents are some kind of farmers or something.

  So I’ve heard.

  They wouldn’t get far with a goat and some chickens.

  I guess they could ride the goat out of town.

  Into the sunset. Sure.

  I mean, she seemed to find him sort of sexy, in a loser sort of way. I got a bit of S&M flavor, from the way she talked about him. He had a mean streak. Had his share of incidents. Big scar on his stomach he said came from a knife fight. Never been arrested, though. Or so she said. Strangely enough, for a guy like that.

  What about the poker angle? She know anything about this poker game?

  Nothing specific. He played poker. Went off to a game once in a while, usually all night. He’d come home after the sun had come up. Sometimes he’d have a bunch of cash. More often tapped out.

  Did she know who he played with?

  Just ‘the guys.’ You know.

  Not inconceivable that he and Jules had cooked up some kind of poker scam. Ripped somebody off. Made an enemy. Or argued over the spoils.

  One doesn’t exclude the other.

  Could be either. Or both.

  But if it happened, she didn’t know anything about it.

  Or wasn’t saying.

  Or wasn’t saying.

  And I suppose whoever they ripped off might have followed Larry to Jules’s place, waited outside. Followed him. Bashed in his head. When the moment seemed right.

  Well. It’s not impossible.

  You don’t seem entirely convinced.

  What’s to convince? It’s not inconsistent with what we know. But there’s not much positive in support of it, either.

  But you don’t think I’m off the deep end?

  Not any more than usual.

  Thanks, babe. I knew I could count on you.

  Let’s talk about sex.

  You know I hate it when you do that, I said.

  Let’s do it anyway.

  I’d rather go dancing.

  Then let’s go dancing.

  I was being ironic.

  So what?

  You know I can’t dance.

  You can watch me.

  Yeah, that’ll be fun.

  Why does nobody know how to eat pussy anymore?

  Come on.

  Really. Why not? Don’t you have a theory? You always have a theory.

  Did they used to?

 
; Darren did.

  Yes. But he was Australian.

  I could get past that.

  That’s not what you said at the time. And anyway, wasn’t he the one with the button dick?

  That was a problem.

  I would think.

  It was so embarrassing.

  Imagine how he felt about it.

  That’s what I mean.

  Sad.

  Shocking.

  You still haven’t gotten over it, I’m sure.

  And he was so pretty, too. What a waste.

  And so dumb.

  But oh, he could eat pussy.

  Overcompensation, I guess.

  Yes, well, she said. If you’re going to overcompensate, there are worse ways.

  Skeet shooting?

  Fast cars.

  Random anger?

  Bar fights.

  Homicide?

  Compulsive eating.

  All of the above?

  I think I dated that guy.

  Listen, honey, all this sex talk makes me depressed.

  Poor baby.

  I mean it.

  You really ought to drop this martyr thing, Rick. Get yourself a girlfriend.

  I can’t do that, I said.

  Why not? Everybody else does.

  I just can’t.

  Come on, darling. Give in to it. Lust can be fun.

  Lust. I’d felt it all the time, an age ago, or two it seemed. Resisting temptation had never been my long suit.

  But now, there was nothing to give in to.

  So I gave in to Dorita. We went to a joint she loved. In the meatpacking district. Transsexuals. Bikers. Investment bankers. In short, the usual Saturday night crowd. We drank. She drank more. She danced on the bar with the other exhibitionists. Flirted with the bartender, a blonde named Erika. I watched. Attractive women all around. I wished I knew how to flirt.

  I stood against the wall. I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes.

  It was a lot like high school.

  Dorita started talking to a muscular guy with a deep tan and a leather jacket. She stood very close to him. He put his hand on her waist, leaned in to whisper something in her ear. His teeth sparkled. She laughed.

  Time for me to leave.

  I left.

  Dorita didn’t seem to notice.

  I didn’t mind. I knew that she’d say sorry later. That she’d mean it. That it didn’t matter, in the end.

  Outside it had begun to rain. I hailed a cab. The back seat smelled of wet newspapers and stale chewing gum.

  At home, the lights were out. I groped my way upstairs. I didn’t want to turn on any lights. Wake Melissa up. Have to deal.

  Let Steiglitz deal.

  15.

  MONDAY MORNING MY TEETH HURT. Why should today be different from any other day? I asked myself. Every day they hurt. I grind them in the night.

  Two hours of tossing and grinding hadn’t rested me. I smoothed my suit. I’d slept in it. It would have to do.

  I unlocked the pill drawer. Paxil, 30 milligrams, to bring the anxiety down. Wellbutrin, 150 milligrams, to jack the initiative back up. Another 75, slow release, to keep it going. Valium, unprescribed, to take the edge off. Prilosec, 30 milligrams, for the reflux.

  None of these had any perceptible effect. It was only when I didn’t take them that I felt it. In spades. Bricks on my shoulders. Pains in my gut. Darkness all over.

  Thank God for chemistry. I was a walking talking lab rat, but at least I wasn’t miserable. Well. At least I wasn’t as miserable as I used to be.

  I went downstairs. Melissa was on the couch. Face up, mouth open. She looked dead. I was used to that. It was the dry skin, I think, that created the effect. The first few times I’d noticed it, I’d been afraid. I’d woken her up. But it was no longer fear I felt, when I saw her this way. A mild dread, perhaps. Curiosity.

  In the kitchen, Kelly was eating breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. Maple syrup. Too much of it.

  Kelly was my consolation.

  I worried about her weight, though. Much more than she did. In fact, she professed not to care. I didn’t believe it. Though knowing Kelly, I should have. She wasn’t given to mendacity.

  She was on the wrestling team. The boys’ team. There was no girls’ wrestling team.

  She was very strong. I’d noticed it years before, when she was young. I’d told her so.

  You’re so strong, I’d said, it’s amazing.

  I knew, as a father will, that it was my remark, so long ago, that had inspired her to test her strength against the boys. I was proud of it. And afraid. Proud that my daughter would think my opinion so important as to manifest it in her life. Afraid at the power I wielded. That I might wield it badly.

  Curious to think of the childless few. Their simple lives.

  What are you up to today, love? I asked.

  Nothing.

  It was endemic, this nothing thing. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you thinking? Nothing. What are you reading? Nothing.

  Take all these nothings, I said, put them in a big brown bag. What have you got?

  Nothing in a bag, she replied, deadpan.

  I laughed so hard I dropped the milk.

  Jesus Weinstein! said Kelly.

  Jesus Weinstein? I asked, grabbing paper towels.

  Yes?

  What the heck is that?

  Mr. Weinstein. He’s my Tech teacher.

  I think I knew that. And?

  Well, the other day in class he’s writing on the blackboard. He writes down a bunch of stuff. Circuit diagrams and stuff. And then he says—You know how his hair is red and sits on top of his head like roadkill?

  I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me that.

  Well, now it looks like bad-fitting roadkill.

  Okay.

  And he says, this is your Bible. It’s the Bible of electronics.

  What? His hair?

  If by ‘his hair’ you mean ‘the stuff he wrote on the blackboard.’

  Ah.

  So now we call him Jesus Weinstein.

  I think I’m following you, I laughed.

  And that’s what we call Jesus, too. Jesus Weinstein.

  I guess that’s the part I don’t get.

  If you don’t get it, I can’t explain it to you.

  Okay.

  I mean, why not?

  Right.

  We’ve got it. Why not use it?

  Right. I’ll remember that, next time I write the tuition check.

  Kelly laughed her sweet, infectious laugh.

  Melissa appeared in the kitchen doorway. Rumpled. Bleary.

  What’s all the laughing about?

  Just joking around, Mom.

  Melissa frowned, went to the fridge. Opened the door. Leaned over and peered in, as if shortsighted.

  Which she wasn’t.

  Where’s the milk? she asked, irritated. Most of it’s on the floor, said Kelly.

  Melissa scowled at me. I still had the sopping paper towels in my hand.

  I shrugged, like an embarrassed schoolboy.

  You’re such a clumsy fool, she said.

  Serious. Grave. A doctor giving her patient the bad news.

  She was still beautiful.

  I turned away and sighed.

  Oh come off it, Mom, said Kelly, lightheartedly.

  Did you walk the dog yet? was Melissa’s answer.

  Not yet, Mom. I’m eating breakfast.

  Good God. How many times have I told you he can’t wait for your dithering all morning? I’ll be picking up dog crap all day again. Always the same. Every bloody day.

  The dog had been a mistake. Kelly was a cat person, like me. I’d had cats all my pre-Melissa life. Loved cats. Aloof, but intense. Relaxed, but ready to attack when necessary.

  Just like me.

  Sure.

  When Kelly was small, she’d insisted on a pet. Of course, I’d said. Bad enough to be an only child. The least we could do was get her a companion. But Me
lissa was allergic to cats. A sign I should have heeded, long before.

  So we had a choice: a hairless cat, or a dog. Kelly went for the dog. It was a bichon. Cute and cuddly. As close to a cat as we could find. Purebred, unfortunately. Cost me a cool fifteen hundred.

  Kelly loved the dog. I tolerated it. Melissa hated the thing. Nobody walked it. It shat all over the house.

  Melissa’s voice rose as the dog rant escalated. Her face turned hard. But she didn’t look at Kelly. It was as though she were alone. Talking to herself. Angry and alone.

  I felt it in my teeth. My knees. My lower back. The pain. To see her like this now. Aging. Angry. Alien.

  I’ll go buy milk, I said, and slunk out of the room. The corner store was not so far away. I’d take the damn dog. What did it cost me? Less than a confrontation would, for sure.

  Day in, day out, the anger.

  It hadn’t always been like this. I remembered other times. Law school days. The Blue Bar. Low ceiling. Pale blue walls. Odd lights in unexpected corners, throwing blue shadows. Bryan Ferry singing ‘Avalon.’ Cold and at the same time warm.

  She had been brash, funny, fearless. Domineering. Beautiful, of course. But needy, underneath all that. And smart as hell.

  I fell in love.

  I thought that she did too. We lived life as the joke we arrogantly thought it was. We were smart enough to get away with it. For a while. We joked with Marco, the owner of the Blue Bar, in a pink dress, shining Day-Glo in the blue light. We exulted in our difference from the crowd. From our fellow students, fearful of failure. We both knew we’d never be the life of the party. But we’d make our own. Melissa, me and Marco. There were rarely any other customers in the place. The joint must have been a front for something, we’d speculated. We couldn’t figure out what, though. Marco seemed so innocent.

  Then, in her apartment, she’d succumb. Tie me up, she’d say. Take me hard. Show me who’s a man. She’d wanted to be dominated. Submissive. At my mercy. Deliciously against the grain. It struck a chord in me. A deep, discordant chord, full of danger and promise. And yearning. The Tristan chord, it was, brought to life.

  When it was over, we’d collapse into each other’s arms. We’d put on Bruckner’s Eighth. We’d kiss for hours, and hold each other tight. The power of our love seemed endless.

  What had happened? Had I missed something? Had this Melissa always been there, this new Melissa, angry and vindictive, waiting to leap out, lash out and tear apart our dreams? I’d seen no sign of it, back then.

  There were the pills, of course. The green ones, purple, orange, white. The vodka that washed them down. Stolichnaya from the freezer. But substances alone could not be all it was. It made no sense. It must always have been there. The anger. Hiding. Waiting. The pills and vodka only helped it show itself.