His second week, a courier came out and picked up three sedated chicks destined to roam some movie producer’s estate in the Pacific Palisades. Manny found Jim sitting on an overturned feed bucket by the coop, bawling into his hands. When he noticed Manny standing there watching, Jim leaned back against the chicken wire. “Goddamn it,” he said, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets as though he could stop his tears that way.
Manny squatted in front of the older man. “It’s all right.”
“I know that, kid,” Jim managed to say, before he crumpled forward again, crying and hiccuping like a child. Manny held him, stiff and awkward as a Joshua tree, half-stroking his head. He was no good at these things.
They stayed like this a while, and just as Manny’s thighs began to burn from squatting for so long, Jim calmed and his breath steadied, but he did not lift his face. Instead, he put his hand on the back of Manny’s neck and urged Manny’s head down toward his groin.
Working Jim’s belt buckle loose with one hand, Manny was grateful as a pet: here was something he knew how to do. Jim finished in Manny’s mouth, with a string of quick jerks that scraped the feed bucket along the ground, then zipped his Wranglers and wiped his eyes. He squinted out across the sagebrush. “Jesus H.,” he said. “It’s like selling off one of your kids.”
From that day on, Jim never sold another peacock. He named the remaining sixteen after Nevada’s sixteen counties. Washoe, the eldest female, died in the winter of 2003, when coyotes got into the coop. One of her mates, Lander, died of old age shortly thereafter, though on darker days it’s not hard for Manny to convince himself that Lander died of a broken heart. Now there are four females and ten males, including White Pine, a rare albino, red eyed and completely white, down to his feet and the tip of his thick, five-foot train.
After two years, Jim moved to Brazil. Retirement, he called it, though he was only fifty-two. He took his wife with him. When he left he said only, “Take good care of my babies, Manny boy. And the girls, too.” When Jim comes out for the annual audit, wheelchair-bound these days, he spends most of his time in the shady coop, the fiscal year’s ledger book open on his lap, his face tilted to the sun.
Manny, too, has come to love these birds. He feeds them at sunrise before he goes to bed, and again at dusk, after breakfast. At least once a week he takes a heavy-duty rake and cleans out the stalls, sifting out rocks and piss clods with the sturdy iron teeth. Sometimes he wakes and comes out to the shade of the coop at midday, when the girls are still asleep. He likes to watch the iridescent shimmer of blue all down the throats of the males, their shake and strut, the bobbing of their crests, the green and gold and red eyes spread across their fans. He admires the great effort with which they display, that they try so damn hard. Though a few of the girls complain about it, it soothes Manny to fall asleep to the trill and ca-ca-caw of the regal peacocks, the shades in his fifth wheel drawn against the desert sun.
He keeps a rosary in the coop, looped through chicken wire, and though he hasn’t been to mass since he was thirteen years old, he’s taken to praying out there some mornings, alone. To his mind, the coop at dawn is as close to holy land as there is.
• • •
That night, when the cab finally arrives at Michele’s motel, the driver turns back to Michele and asks him whether he’d like to do it again sometime. And Michele manages, “Yes, I like very much.”
The driver says, “Tomorrow, then?” Michele suspects this is meant to be a joke, but still he hesitates. Of course he’s realized the place isn’t just a bar. There are whorehouses in Genoa, and he’s no altar boy. But the people there are friendly, and they don’t ask his age. If he doesn’t go back to the ranch, what would he do instead? Unpack and repack Renzo’s bag, as he had the night before. Stare at the cell phone the police gave him, willing it both to ring and not to. Fiddle with the canteen—the only one they’d brought with them—that he was carrying when he abandoned Renzo. Try to imagine the feeling of three days thirsty.
The driver waits for an answer. God knows Michele can afford another run. Nevada Search & Rescue have given him a debit card for his living expenses. They said the money would come from the embassy, because he was foreign, that it was a loophole, a word he had to look up. The room he and Renzo had been sharing at the La Quinta on Tropicana was covered too. But before they’d explained all that, before they’d handed him the debit card, they gave him an international phone card and asked him to call Renzo’s parents and explain what had happened. They were sorry to ask that of him, they said, but none of them spoke the language. An officer showed him to a little room with a phone on a desk beside a stained instant-coffee machine. The officer said Michele had better advise Renzo’s parents to fly to the U.S. Then he shut the door softly behind him.
Michele wove the coils of the phone cord between his fingers for a moment. Then he lifted the phone, input the codes from the phone card, and dialed his own parents instead. His mother answered and asked whether everything was okay. She sounded more exposed than a mother ought to. He told her yes, everything was fine. More lies came warmly to him then. “Actually, something happened,” he said in Italian. He told his mother he’d left his wallet out on the beach in Los Angeles and someone had taken his money. Not his ID, just the money. His mother comforted him. She teased him gently for being so naive. She thanked God that it was only that. She said she would have his father wire him more spending money. I love you, his mother said before she hung up. Be good.
Afterward, the officer returned and set his hand kindly on Michele’s shoulder. He nodded at the phone and said, “We appreciate that.” Michele said nothing.
The next morning, Michele used the debit card he’d been given at the ATM in the gas station across from the motel. He halfheartedly withdrew stacks of twenties until the machine beeped and spit out a warm, smooth sheet of paper. On his walk across the parking lot he was dully surprised to count five hundred dollars in his palm. Once in his room, he used his pocket dictionary to translate the words from the sheet of paper, eventually understanding that five hundred dollars was the maximum amount he was permitted to withdraw in a single day.
Since then, Michele has gone to the gas station every morning, buying a sugary Honey Bun and a squat carton of orange juice and withdrawing another five hundred dollars. Each morning he expects the machine to reject the card. If confronted about the money, he plans to say it was an accident, that he was confused about the machine or the currency, and hand the rest of it over.
On good days, he looks forward to spending the money on very good pot and Ecstasy that he and Renzo will take in the Grand Canyon. Even now, in the back of the cab, he imagines Renzo’s face flickered by a campfire, the Colorado River sliding by. Renzo laughs hard at something, barely able to get his words out. A girl sits beside him, laughing too, and looking at Michele lovingly, with silver glitter dancing around her eyes.
“Tell it again,” they are begging in Italian, tears rolling down their cheeks. “Tell us how you fucked the American cops for all their money.”
“Yes,” Michele says to the cabdriver now. “Please, you will come tomorrow?”
So the next day, as the streetlights come on and the shadows of the mountains grow long through the city, the taxicab returns and takes exit thirty-three west, spiriting Michele from Las Vegas up and over the Spring Mountains, out of that valley always saturated with light.
• • •
Manny watches from the peacock coop as a pair of headlights turn off the highway. Hot, immediate hope for the Italian boy blooms inside him, though he knows enough about the tricks of lust and loneliness to recognize his thoughts as pure fantasy. He returns to the birds; Gladys can handle the lineup. But soon, over the scrape of his rake against the gravel, he hears the front door open and the breeze carries to him the familiar squeals of surprise that Darla releases for all her regulars.
<
br /> Manny stops in his trailer to change his shirt, wipe the sweat from his forehead and armpits with a bouquet of toilet paper, and reapply deodorant. By the time he steps into the main house, Darla is refilling Michele’s Budweiser. She flits and chatters around him like a hummingbird, finally perching herself on the upholstered stool beside him. Her legs dangle, not reaching the floor even with the added inches of her slick, clear-plastic heels.
“Did you go to the oh-six Olympics?” she asks. “In Turin?”
“Oh, ah, no.” Michele laughs. “I live far from there. But I watch on the TV.”
“Hella,” says Darla. “I love the Olympics. I like the Summer Olympics best, swimming, diving, all of it. I would love to go sometime. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve been to Mexico, Canada, Australia, and Costa Rica, but never Europe.” This is a lie, one Manny must have heard a thousand times. Aside from the year she spent stripping in L.A., the girl’s barely traveled as far as Lake Havasu for spring break. But the line impresses tourists and townies alike. They’re pleased by the prospect of bedding a cosmopolitan whore.
“Yes, Europe is the best place for to visit. Take the train, when you go. The train is best.”
“You know, if you had enough fucking money, and spent it, like, in one of those weird sports like riflery or table tennis or the ribbon routine—shit like that—anyone could be an Olympian. That’s what I’m gonna do. Get a good trainer, a famous one, fucking quit my job.”
She babbles on like that, and the boy seems to like it. That’s the difference between the ranch and a strip club. Here, some men come in just to talk. Sure, they want a piece of ass so bad that they’re coming out of their skin to pay for it. But there’s something that brings out the lonesomeness in them. Maybe it’s being so far from civilization. Manny’s heard them afterward, over the intercom. Old men, young men, men with wives or steady girlfriends, men who’ve never had anybody in their whole pathetic lives. They listen to their date chatter until the hour is up, and when she reaches for her clothes or the white wedge of towel on the nightstand to wipe herself, they hold her tightly and say, so softly it might be mistaken for a blip of static over the wires, Wait.
The Italian returns the next night, and the next. Manny watches him and Darla get closer. They talk at the bar, then huddled together on the couch in the lobby, then with their feet dipped in the pool, splitting pomegranates on the concrete and spitting the seeds and pith into the dirt.
The other girls are talking. One morning before bed, Amy’s voice spills from the hall bathroom. “If Michele was one of these old farts, Manny would have pried him from that girl’s titty on day one. He’s just glad to finally have some ass around here.”
Jim would not stand for this. But Manny cannot bring himself to throw the kid out. Amy is right: He likes having Michele around, and, yes, a part of him thinks, Why not me? His last hookup—in the hot soak room at the Tecopa baths, Mormon crickets shrieking in the eaves—was a forlorn, unmemorable thing, as all since Jim have been.
Manny spends more and more time out with his birds, away from the trouble swelling indoors. He knows he can’t go on ignoring it forever, but he tries. He scrubs the salt deposits from the water troughs, hand-feeds the birds sardines and apple slices, and watches them strip a whole cooked chicken to the bone. He rakes and rakes the sand as the sun comes up, drawing intricate patterns like the monks on a show he saw once, as if the dirt were an offering to God.
• • •
On the sixth night, Michele is sitting close to Darla on the cheap red sofa in the corner, watching the other girls sing karaoke, when the buzz of the doorbell sounds throughout the bar. Michele notices for the first time small black blocks—they must be speakers—arranged throughout the room: above the glass shelves behind the bar, over the neon-lit lounge area, tucked up where the low ceiling meets the wall. The girls ebb to the front lobby, running their hands all over themselves while they walk, checking hooks and ties and the backs of earrings, adjusting their panty hose and breasts and hairdos. Darla stands up, runs her tongue over her teeth, and rolls something oily and fruit-scented onto her lips.
“Where you are going?” he asks the back of her.
Army Amy calls over the clacking of plastic heels on the laminate dance floor, “Don’t you worry, sugar. We’ll take care of you.” She winks.
Without leaving the couch, Michele watches a thick-armed man step through the front doorway. Plastic mirrored sunglasses dangle from the man’s neck by a fluorescent-colored cord. Flecks of cement speckle his work boots. He points to Darla and says her name. The two walk by the bar, arm in arm. She grins like a pageant contestant, a beauty queen. When the man isn’t looking, she blows Michele a kiss. This girl is trouble. Renzo would have loved her. Renzo was always looking for trouble.
Listen to him: Renzo was. This is what unsettles him, how easily the past tense comes now. The police had said, There is a chance. Maybe if the heat doesn’t get too bad. Even as Michele nodded, his tongue rolled silently through conjugation exercises. He’s young, the cops have kept saying. He’s athletic. And in his head, each time Michele has corrected them: He was young. He was athletic. Just this morning, Michele called the police station, and the woman who answers the phone said she was sorry, that there was no news, they would call the cell phone as soon as they found his friend. “But don’t you worry,” she said. “God works in mysterious ways.”
And as if he dreamed in English, Michele replied, “Yes, He did.”
All those years confusing the past perfect, the past continuous, the simple past, and now it comes to him, here. Now he thinks in the frantic notes he took before he quit trying altogether. Simple past: use when an action started and finished at a specific time in the past. The speaker may not actually mention the specific time, but he does have one in mind.
• • •
After the lineup, Manny returns to the bar with Army Amy. Michele joins them. Amy sets her overtanned tits on the bar, and they rest there like two globes in a skin sac. “I need a goddamn date,” she says.
Michele smiles broadly at her—the big, openmouthed smile of a foreigner pretending to know what’s going on.
Amy traces her finger up and down the boy’s forearm. “Why don’t you pour this kid a real beer, Manny?” Manny fixes Michele a pint of Boddingtons. The kid looks at the cloud of head billowing to the top of his new beer, mildly bewildered.
“Budweiser is piss,” Amy says. “It’s a joke here.”
Michele takes a long swallow of his new beer. “When she will, ah, return?”
“Darla? Depends,” says Manny. He calls back to the office. “Gladys, what’d she log?”
When he first started, Manny had asked Gladys whether she ever listened in on the suites, “You know, for fun?” Gladys only scoffed and said, “Fun? Baby, I’ve seen it all. My best client was a county commissioner. He used to drive his Buick all the way down from Tonopah once a month, just to have me tap on the floor with his dead wife’s peg leg. This was before you were even born.”
“Hold on,” she says now. They hear the click of the old intercom buttons as Gladys patches in to the suite. “Nothing special, baby,” she calls. “Just a suck and fuck. A grand.”
Manny whistles. Half of that is his. “Damn. That girl’s got a gold mine between her legs.”
“Big deal,” says Amy. Through her tank top she grips a breast in each hand and lifts them to Michele’s face, first one and then the other. “Think what she could do with some assets.” Michele looks away, and who could blame him? No one outside the industry would call Amy a beauty. She has big biceps and a bench-press chest left over from her time in the army, where she was supposedly a Green Beret. Whenever a new ad comes out, she flashes the proofs to anyone who will look, listing all the places the billboards will go up: off I-15 near Indian Springs, by the turnoff to the test site, on 395 in Stateline for all
those rich, horny Californians. On the latest, Amy is saluting and smiling above the words, Visit Army Amy for an honorable discharge!
Amy swirls her finger in the foam of Michele’s beer. “When I was her age, I had to work for my money. I was hosting big parties. I’m talking twelve, thirteen hours of straight fucking. You learn a lot that way.” She sticks the finger deep in her mouth and licks it clean. “You want me to teach you, Luigi?”
Michele shakes his head.
“Come on. Won’t cost you no grand.”
He takes a drink of the Boddingtons and says, “Shut the fuck up, you.”
Amy straightens on her stool. “I know you want to make an honest woman out of her, Luigi, but your little prom date is—how do you say?—sucking some Teamster’s cock right now. Get it?”
Michele knocks his pint glass over, and beer soaks her wife-beater. Amy jumps back, dripping.
“I am sorry,” he says. “Very sorry.” He lays cocktail napkins impotently on the spreading puddle of beer.
She sets her jaw and leans in close to him. “I bet you’ll fuck me now, you wop drunk.”
“That’s enough,” says Manny.
“Me?” says Amy.
He wipes the spill with a dry rag. “Go change.”
Amy gathers the hem of her shirt and wrings it out. “I know what you’re thinking, Manny. Don’t bother. She’s got this kid’s dick on a string. And you?” She laughs. “You’re shit out of luck.”
The empty pint glass rolls off the bar and shatters on the laminate.
Manny looks straight at her. “Go change or go home.”
Amy stomps out the back door. Manny comes around and helps Michele pick up the glass from the floor. A few girls have gathered around. Lacy tries to help, but he waves her and the others back to the couch, to a pair of Southern truck drivers they called in off the road with the CB in the office. Something tortured and twangy and sour rises from the jukebox.
Battleborn: Stories Page 7
