Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  Due to all these factors, Ardy discovered himself functioning more or less as Miss Shattuck’s escort. The young lady seemed to require a lot of company. Lacking friends, she prevailed upon Ardy to supply it.

  Ardy did not complain.

  He rather enjoyed it.

  It was certainly contributing to his education.

  Dawn is rocketing south down Route 95, radar-detector alight on the dash. She has the habit of switching lanes at thirty-second intervals, without employing her turn-signals. Extensive use of her horn compensates somewhat for this. The glove-compartment of her Triumph is gorged with tickets for violations of both a moving and stationary nature. When no more tickets can be squeezed in, Ardy knows, Dawn stuffs the citations into a large manila envelope and mails them to her parents, Geraldine and Benjamin Shattuck, the natural-ice-cream magnates.

  It is a sunny afternoon in that odd week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when the normal forward motion of time seems suspended, everyone’s daily routine curiously disconnected from the rest of the year, and one tries to recover from the holiday over-indulgences just past in time for the upcoming calendar-page-turning festivities.

  Ardy’s feet are braced against the floorboards of the car, desperately pressing a nonexistent passenger brake pedal. Riding with Dawn is the one aspect of chaperoning her that he actively dislikes. Her reckless abandon and cavalier lack of concern for either of their lives have already, Ardy is certain, taken years off his allotted lifespan. He has debated offering to drive, but hesitates making the suggestion for two reasons. He is sure the police of this state and several surrounding ones have this vehicle targeted for frequent stops, and he shudders to imagine their reaction if they should discover a licenseless fugitive from justice at the wheel. Also, Ardy does not wish to fall into the same pattern of behavior with Dawn that he was forced into with Roseanna: i.e., chauffeur to mistress. No, Ardy is intent on establishing a more spiritual relationship with this perplexing young woman.…

  If he can remain alive long enough.

  “Dawn, I believe you have angered the driver of that enormous behemoth of a truck behind us. He is flashing a gesture whose meaning I do not strictly apprehend, but whose general significance is unmistakable.”

  “Tough titty.”

  Dawn rolls down her window and returns the gesture.

  “Dawn, his front bumper is approaching a conjunction with our rear one.”

  Dawn somehow manages to stick her head out her window while still guiding the car.

  “Eat my slush, you jerk!”

  Ardy was not aware that this model of car possessed the ability to move sideways, but such must be the case. One second they are directly opposite an exit ramp and still accelerating, and the next second they are somehow on the ramp itself and slowing down. The offended truck driver, his prey having escaped his very jaws, vents his anger with a saurian horn bellow.

  Untensing slightly, Ardy asks, “Tell me again, Dawn, why you had the federally mandated shoulder harnesses removed.”

  “They cramped my style and wrinkled my shirts.”

  “I see. More than reason enough.”

  Leaving the ramp, the car turns right on a secondary road busy with traffic of a more sedate sort.

  “You still won’t tell me anything more about where we’re going, Dawn?”

  “Only that it’s my favorite place in the world, and I think you’ll like it.”

  “I suppose that will have to suffice, although my curiosity remains piqued.”

  “Oh, Ardy, you’re a scream. I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. If only that darn Roy would light en up a little. He’s so darn serious all the time.”

  “I take it that you enjoy Roy’s company.”

  “Oh, I like him pretty well. We’ve known each other for so long, we’re practically like brother and sister.”

  Dawn’s fair skin suffuses with blood at this point, as if certain recent alcohol-clouded memories of a ticklish nature have surfaced. “But he can be such a bag of wind sometimes, with all this talk about politics.”

  “You must make allowances for Roy’s zealous nature and his millenarian impulses, which, I admit, can become a bit overbearing at times. But underneath he is really a simple and good-hearted fellow, worthy of your friendship.”

  “I guess you must’ve studied him longer than I have, Ardy.”

  “Almost three weeks now.”

  “Oh, Ardy, you kill me!

  The little Triumph takes a curve. Ahead and down lies a gargantuan flat-roofed windowless building set in the midst of acres of pavement dotted with parked cars.

  “I believe I recognize the building where they store the Space Shuttle between flights. However, I was not aware that it was located in this state.”

  Dawn laughs. “C’mon, Ardy, you know it’s just the mall.”

  “A-ha, I understand now. The mall.”

  Dawn turns into the huge lot that laps at the walls of the building like a black tide. Failing to find a space suitably close to the structure, she improvises one by parking in an area distinctly marked fire lane — keep clear. Dawn steps out, as does Ardy. Taking his hand, she leads him to a pair of glass doors which slide quickly open at their approach, as if the invisible servitors of some alien temple have whisked them open.

  Inside Ardy stops, struck to stone.

  The ceiling is three floors above his head. The people strolling along the two upper galleries appear unreal to Ardy, like tin figures in the air-rifle arcade not far from the Spice Island orphanage. Subtle luminescence creates the glow of a world that never was, a place outside of normal creation, where one’s duties consist solely of ambling and purchasing. Dozens of shops stretch away on either hand to the vanishing point. There are enough Christmas decorations present to cover the entire Spice Island a foot deep. At intervals escalators purr, their steps endlessly vanishing and being recreated.

  “I — I,” stammers Ardy. “Why are there not more people present? Surely tourists must arrive daily from around the nation to see this marvelous place.”

  “Oh, that’s enough joking, Ardy. I don’t like to be teased. I know I said this was my favorite place, but I was just speaking generically. You know there’re dozens more like it — some even bigger — within an hour’s drive.”

  “There are?”

  “You’re so bad! C’mon, let’s get a move on. I’ve got some serious shopping to do.”

  Dawn is more animated and relaxed than Ardy has ever seen her before. This seems to be her natural environment. She moves fluidly through it like a fish through the coral reefs around the Spice Island. Ardy can barely keep up with her, what with the various sensual demands on his attention. Sights, sounds and smells bombard him from every direction, until his head begins to throb.

  Armed with a pack of trusty credit cards, Dawn now embarks on a mission whose apparent purpose is to purchase one of everything that catches her fancy.

  Compared to Dawn, Roseanna is soon revealed in hindsight as a novice shopper.

  Ardy is recruited as package bearer on this safari, and as general fashion consultant, although as far as he can tell his opinions have little to do with whether Dawn buys something or not. That decision seems partly reflexive, springing from deep instincts. Meanwhile, in between bantering with clerks and trying on garments, she talks to Ardy about herself.

  “Roy’s told you about my folks, of course.”

  “Not to any great extent.”

  “Well, you must’ve heard of Gerry and Ben’s Handcranked Ice-cream Parlors. That’s my Mom and Dad. Geraldine and Benjamin Shattuck. They started the business back in ’Sixty-eight with a single store in Cambridge, where they were both going to school. Now they’re a chain across the whole Northeast. Shattuck Industries. Last year they had sales of forty million, with a nine percent profit. Counting sales to retail stores, of course. Why, I think they’ve even got a branch in this mall.”

  “I see,” says Ardy, trying to compute nine percent
of forty million. He keeps adding or losing significant zeroes. Surely it can’t be that much.…

  “But even though they both have no time for anything but business any more, they still remember their roots.” Dawn sighs. “And that’s my problem.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t …”

  “It’s like this. When they dropped out of school, Mom was majoring in ceramics and Dad was into performance art —”

  “My ignorance of theater terminology causes that last term to escapes my recognition, Dawn.”

  “I don’t really know what it was either. Something like mugging people, only not for their money, just their attention. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the ’rents were both real artistic hippies, like. But after a while, they felt it was their duty to get engaged with the community, so they forgot the art stuff and started the business. But they never really forgot it, if you see what I mean. Now, I’m expected to pick up where they left off almost twenty years ago. They don’t need me in the business. Instead, I’ve gotta fulfill this crazy dream they’ve got.”

  “It doesn’t seem like too horrid a fate.…”

  Dawn stops and whirls on Ardy, startling him so that he drops a shoebox.

  “You don’t understand,” she hisses. “I can’t do it. I don’t have any aptitude for it. I don’t have a goddamn artistic bone in my body.”

  “Surely you exaggerate.…”

  “Do you know how many different majors I’ve had?”

  “No.…”

  “Neither do I. I’ve lost count. Art history, glassblowing, ceramics, textile design, fashion design, painting, sculpture, woodworking, jewelry-making, weaving, graphics, photography … I’ve botched every one. Remind me to show you some of my old projects sometime.”

  Dawn resumes walking with pent-up energy. Struggling under the weight of his assorted boxes, bags and bundles, Ardy manages to retrieve the dropped package, then hurries to catch up.

  “I would be happy to view any portion of your oeuvre, Dawn. Perhaps my untutored yet sympathetic eye could distinguish some redeeming quality your professors have missed.…”

  “Oh, just forget it. You won’t see anything, because there’s nothing to see. I know I’ll never live up to my parents’ expectations, and that’s that. I just have to decide what I want to do with my life. If only I could spend all my time here, I’d be really happy! But that’s just silly.”

  “I don’t think your idea is so farfetched, Dawn. This place seems to have everything one would need to support life, and as long as Mister and Missus Shattuck do not cut off your credit, it would be entirely feasible. All that seems lacking is a place to shower and sleep, although that health spa, come to think of it, undoubtedly has bathing facilities, and these padded benches look not uncomfortable.…”

  Laughing, Dawn says, “Ardy, you know just what to say to get me out of myself. I hope you and Roy can stay forever. I don’t get along so well with those weird kids at the school, you know, and I’ve been awfully lonely here.”

  “Well,” Ardy temporizes, “I can’t speak for Roy.…”

  “Oh, I’m just indulging in wishful thinking. Don’t take me so seriously, Ardy. Look, here’s one of my favorite restaurants. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Peering over his topmost package, Ardy sees a big lighted sign: cradle o’ribs.

  “I could use some refreshment, Dawn.”

  Inside they seat themselves at a table with four chairs, filling one with packages. When the waiter comes, Dawn orders for both of them: “Two Caveman Specials.”

  While they wait, Ardy brings up something that has been nagging at him for the last few days.

  “Dawn, I don’t wish to intrude, but you mentioned that your parents were visiting somewhere called Spice Island.…”

  “That’s right. You must have heard of it before. The invasion several years ago … Well, just recently it’s become the ‘in’ place to vacation. My folks are down there looking into opening up a branch. There’s tons of investment and trade flowing into the place. Why, it’s getting to be almost like our fifty-first state.”

  “I’ve been away — I mean, I wasn’t aware.…”

  The waiter interrupts with their meals, depositing them and leaving.

  Ardy confronts a platter on which lies an enormous curving rack of meat-heavy bones, charred and drenched in spicy sauce. There are two baked potatoes with the slab and a side of peas, by measure a quart or so. A basket of rolls completes the collation.

  “Dawn, what animal can this possibly be from ?”

  “Oh, you tease, it’s just beef ribs. Don’t you like them?”

  “I probably will. I just wasn’t aware that steers normally grew to this dimension.”

  “It’s all that DES and stuff they feed them. But I don’t think it can hurt you.”

  “Not unless one fell on you, I assume.”

  “Oh, Ardy!”

  On the way home Ardy is lying back in his semi-reclined seat, dopey and somnolent from consuming two pounds of cow. It is the first time he has been relaxed while riding with Dawn. But in a moment that unwonted calm is shattered.

  “Whoa, hold on, Ardy!”

  “Ow, my head!”

  “Sorry, Ardy, I couldn’t avoid it. There was a goddamn bump in my lane the size of person.”

  “I fully understand, Dawn. Roy and I encountered much the same thing once before. No doubt one of those famous New England frost-heaves.”

  “I don’t know, Ardy, it was awfully big.…”

  Back home they find Roy supine, eyes closed, with his acoustic umbilical hookup in place. Somehow sensing the opening of the door, he comes alert, detaches himself, and rises up.

  “Hey, Dawn, I gotta talk to you about that party you’re planning.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Roy glances with hooded significance at Ardy. “Hey, bro’, this is private, like. So, you know …”

  “I shall be in my room reading until it is time to prepare supper.”

  Neither Roy nor Dawn possessing the smallest domestic streak, Ardy, within the short span of his stay to date, has already acquired the mantle of chef for their ménage. With the exertion of a little work, he preempts the gustatory decisions of his roommates. Thus he avoids facing Roy’s favorite meal of Fritos and canned guacamole, or Dawn’s choice: Domino’s anchovy pizza washed down with tequila.

  In his room (one of seven in the huge apartment, where Dawn must have rattled like a single die in a cup before their arrival), Ardy wonders briefly about Roy’s reticence in front of him. He knows Dawn is planning to host a New Year’s Eve party, but is perplexed about Roy’s role in the preparations, and why anything should be kept hidden.

  Dismissing the matter with a shrug, Ardy spots the current issue of Providence’s lone newspaper, The Journal-Bulletin. How nice of Roy, who must have left it there for Ardy, knowing how he enjoys it!

  Ever since Roy’s revelation of the seething underworld activities that lie just below the placid surface of this city, Ardy has been fascinated by any news he can get concerning the nefarious doings of La Cosa Nostra. The whole idea of real live gangsters strikes him as something out of the pages of one of the racier Digest Feature Condensations.

  Luckily, the Journal-Bulletin appears of a like mind with Ardy, unfailingly presenting each day the most lurid news on the subject it can unearth, usually running beneath giant headlines normally associated with Moon-landings.

  The story to date, insofar as Ardy has been able to deduce it, concerns Mob penetration of the construction industries. Much uproar has arisen over the discovery that major state paving contracts have been awarded to highly suspicious firms. The whole thing is quite thrilling.

  Settling into a chair with today’s paper, Ardy scans for the latent developments.

  RIVAL TO SCOZZAFAVA APPEARS

  Sources on Federal Hill have informed the Journal-Bulletin of the appearance of a new player on the already crowded Mob stage.

  It seems that Vincen
t “Scuzzy” Scozzafava, formerly the undisputed kingpin of Mob activities in the state, faces unexpected competition from a northern newcomer.

  Ruggiero “The Banker” Montagioia, a mysterious underworld figure — whose last field of operations is reputed to have been Boston—has moved into our hapless city, and is now slugging it out toe-to-toe with Scozzafava for domination of the lucrative construction industry.

  Montagioia maintains such a veil of secrecy about his person and past that no photo of him exists, nor have the crack investigative reporters of this paper been able to learn more about him than that he always dresses in a subdued and elegant manner, from which habit he apparently earns his nickname of “The Banker.”

  Law enforcement officials theorize that Montagioia might have been driven south by the unsettled conditions resulting from spreading radiation. The Journal-Bulletin anticipates a wave of gang-related violence.…

  So. The plot thickens. Ardy can hardly wait for further news. Of course, he will read about such things in the safety of his room. He has no intention of venturing to the actual turf where this exciting but possibly fatal activity is all taking place.

  Days pass. Ardy accompanies Dawn on many shopping excursions, one of which is to the market and liquor store, to stock up on comestibles for the upcoming party.

  “Will the guests actually consume fifty pounds of cold cuts, Dawn?”

  “Well, I hadn’t originally planned to buy so much. But Roy’s asked if he can invite a few of his new friends, and I want to have enough.”

  “But our cart also contains all these fine cheeses, dips, crackers, meatballs, macaroni and potato salads.…”

  “Ardy, one rule I always follow is that it’s better to buy too much than not enough.”

  “A novel approach, and one that could perhaps explain many First World practices. Of course, to implement your strategy, one must have the requisite financial resources.…”