“I’m carrying a gun now, Rosie. Got it right here under this loose jacket. I’d take it out to show you, but I know you never liked guns. Some very big guys warned me to keep my nose out of something, and, well, you know how I am. I hope I don’t have to shoot anybody, but I might if they come back.”
H. P. Lovecraft, the master of classic horror fiction, was at rest nearby, hidden behind a thicket of azaleas. Not far off, Thomas Wilson Dorr was entombed, his failed rebellion no longer a threat to Rhode Island’s ruling class. Ruggerio “the Blind Pig” Bruccola was just behind a row of rhododendrons, buried with the last few secrets he’d managed to keep from the feds. My best friend was never at a loss for stimulating company.
“I’m tired, Rosie. Tired of watching the newspaper business collapse. Tired of the Maniellas and their dirty business. Tired of writing about dead and missing kids. Maybe I just need a little time off, but all I can manage right now is a night out. I’ve got tickets for Buddy Guy at the House of Blues in Boston tomorrow night. Same place we saw him jam three years ago. I’m taking this woman I know. You’d like her, Rosie. She’s smart and funny and loves the blues. Drop-dead gorgeous, too. Only thing is, she doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Off to the east, gulls swooped over the Seekonk River. Rosie and I sat silently for a while and listened to their rusty-hinge cries. This was Swan Point Cemetery, but I didn’t see any swans. I wrapped my arms around the cold granite headstone and gave Rosie a hug. Then I stood, removed the jersey from her shoulders, folded it, and walked past a dozen graves to my car.
I turned the ignition, popped Buddy Guy into the CD player, and growled along with him:
You damn right, I’ve got the blues.
That evening, I flopped on my mattress with a book by a former Tampa Tribune reporter named Ace Atkins. Crime novels were his parachute out of the newspaper business. If only I had that kind of talent. Ace was one of my favorite writers, but I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering. After reading the same paragraph four times, I gave it up, snatched the remote, and tried channel surfing. A Law & Order rerun, Dog the Bounty Hunter, Rachael Ray cooking something I wouldn’t eat on a dare, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Jim Cramer bellowing bad investment advice, a NOVA special on frogs, The Golden Girls (which seemed to be on twenty-four hours a day), a meaningless game between two bottom-dwelling NBA teams … Finally I landed on a Charlie Rose interview with some economist I’d never heard of. Rose was the television equivalent of a bottle of Ambien and a whiskey chaser, but I was so restless that not even he could put me to sleep.
I spent ten minutes looking for my cell phone, found it in the pocket of my bomber jacket, and called Joseph DeLucca. Twenty minutes later, I was smoking a cigar in the doorway of Pazienza’s gym when Joseph rolled up in a decade-old Mustang that was even money to beat my Bronco to the glue factory.
I held the heavy bag for him again as he gave it a good working over. When he was done, he helped me wrap my hands. I began with a flurry of jabs and then turned my hips and put everything I had into a left hook. I backed off to catch my breath and then attacked the bag again, jabbing, hooking, and looping overhand rights. Sweat streamed into my eyes. I could barely see, but I kept throwing punches. I hated that bag. I willed it alive so I could beat it to death. I drew a breath and pounded it some more.
“Mulligan!”
I threw a right cross and a left hook.
“Mulligan!”
Another hook.
“Mulligan!?” Joseph said. He grabbed me by the waist and dragged me away from the bag.
“What?”
“Look at your fuckin’ hands.”
Blood was seeping through the wraps.
Thirty minutes later, both of us freshly showered, we knocked on the door at Hopes. It was after hours and the lights were turned down. Annie, the barmaid, unlocked the door, let us in, and locked it behind us. A half-dozen copy editors were playing low-stakes poker at a table in back. A couple of off-duty cops sat at the bar, drinking from tall glasses of Guinness. Joseph and I grabbed a couple of cans of Bud from the cooler, slapped our money on the bar, and took our pick of the empty tables.
I smelled like Dial. Joseph smelled as if he’d bathed in Axe. I hated Axe. I pulled out a cigar, clipped the end, set fire to it, and glared in turn at each customer in the place, daring someone to tell me to put it out.
Joseph gulped from his can of Bud, set it back on the table, and said, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
When I got home, I was still jumpy. I lay in bed drinking Bushmills from a pint bottle, hoping it would calm me down. I used the remote to snap on the TV and channel surfed until I stumbled on a favorite movie, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. As the whiskey kicked in, I fought to keep my eyes open, afraid of what my dreams might bring.
I knew I’d lost the fight when a bloody little girl walked into the room and asked me to help her find her arms.
23
According to my grandfather, America lost its tenuous hold on civilization in 1967; but, the Summer of Love’s flower children, acid rock, and LSD proved to be a fleeting madness. When the collapse he feared finally did come, he wasn’t alive to see it. It happened in 1998, the year Joseph R. Francis released his first Girls Gone Wild video. Since then it’s been a downward spiral of celebrity boxing, Carrot Top, Jackass, Paris Hilton, Flavor Flav, Norbit, Lindsay Lohan, Glenn Beck, Starbucks Pumpkin Chai, Octomom, Bob Dylan’s Christmas in the Heart CD, and Jimmy Dean’s Chocolate Chip Pancakes & Sausage on a Stick.
The scene at the House of Blues completed the picture. The crowd consisted mainly of unruly college jocks and their half-naked dates, most of them shit-faced before they pushed through the door, bellied up to the bar, and clamored for beer. Recorded music blared from speakers as we waited for Buddy Guy to take the stage. Elmore James. Muddy Waters. Koko Taylor. A rowdy bunch in Boston College Eagles sweatshirts howled along, getting the words all wrong. When an asshole in a UMass-Boston jersey and a double-barreled beer helmet staggered into Yolanda for the second time, his arm mashing her left breast, I figured it had to be on purpose. Maybe she had a point about white boys. This was beginning to look like a mistake.
Late that afternoon, I’d spent more than my customary three seconds looking in my mirror. Getting ready for a date usually required a few simple steps. Sniff the armpits, drag a wet brush through my hair, pluck a relatively fresh shirt from a pile of laundry, and make sure my shoes matched. This time I peered at myself, wondering what I had to offer a woman as … well, as woman as Yolanda. Nothing changed no matter how hard I looked. Maybe I could spill some coffee on my shirt again. She thought it was cute the first time.
On the way to pick her up, I stopped off at the mall downtown and blew a hundred bucks on a pair of loafers at Bostonian. The last time I’d treated myself to a new pair of kicks was when my marriage to Dorcas was ending. They were running shoes. I’d heard somewhere that shoes say a lot about a man. I hoped the loafers were smooth talkers.
It was a short drive to East Greenwich, an artsy little town on the western shore of Narragansett Bay. Time enough to play just six tunes from my prostitution playlist. Just off Division Street, I pulled up to a cluster of roomy condos, stared at the tangle of identical door fronts, and realized that I’d forgotten to write down Yolanda’s unit number. Was it 52 or 53? Or maybe 54?
I was pulling out my cell to call her when I spotted a window with a decal of a dark, clenched fist in the bottom corner. Fierce yet discreet. Had to be her. I switched off the ignition, brushed cigar ash from my pants, bounded up the walk, and rang the bell to No. 54.
The door to No. 53 opened instead, and there was Yolanda, suppressing a smile that said she’d been watching me. Then the door to No. 54 eased open, and a squat gray panther, her hair a mass of blue curls, said, “May I help you?”
“He’s mine,” Yolanda said. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Steinberg.”
Mrs. Steinberg looked me up and dow
n and winked at Yolanda before closing her door.
“Fooled by the fist, were you?” Yolanda said. “Wait a sec while I grab my coat.”
She left me alone in a room that was all mint green and air, with lots of framed pictures on the walls and tables. Some were of an older woman with a face like Yolanda’s, others of a man handsome enough to worry me.
“That’s my brother Mark,” she said.
I turned and saw she’d pulled on a sleek leather jacket that went well with her faded jeans and red Tony Lamas. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore very little makeup, as if she knew she didn’t need improving.
“He used to be a reporter, L.A. Times, but he could see there was no future in it. He’s in law school now.”
“Good he’s got a plan.”
“It is, but he’s not thrilled about it. All he ever wanted to do was be a newspaperman. He really misses it. You guys should talk sometime.”
“Oh? So he’s okay with white guys?”
She laughed, the sound I’d been waiting for. “Like me, he considers them a necessary evil.”
I fumbled for the keys to the Bronco as she locked her door. Then she turned to me and said, “Where’s your car?”
“Right there,” I said, pointing to Secretariat, still wheezing and ticking in his stall. “I cleaned off a spot for you on the front seat.”
“Let’s take mine,” she said, and led me to a new burgundy Acura ZDX. Settling into the ivory leather passenger seat was like sinking into a tub of warm butter. Yolanda touched something on the dash, and the engine thrummed to life.
I wondered what we’d talk about on the traffic-choked, hour-long drive to Boston. The Maniellas were a conversation stopper. Dismembered children had dubious romantic appeal. And I sucked at small talk. What could I say to convince her that white guys could be A-OK? Maybe I could remember not to say things like A-OK.
Yolanda touched something else on the dash, and John Lee Hooker started grunting “Hittin’ the Bottle Again.” We fell into a comfortable silence, breaking it occasionally to touch on the weather, the car’s handling, and the quality of the selections from the satellite radio blues channel. We were two people who didn’t know each other well, trying not to talk about work. I leaned back and envisioned the two of us, bodies scrunched together in a jam-packed club, swaying to the rhythms of the best blues guitar player in the world. Maybe Buddy would get Yolanda’s mojo working.
Ninety minutes later, when Beer Helmet stumbled into her for a third time, it didn’t seem to be turning out the way I’d planned. I grabbed the asshole’s wrist and swung him around to face me.
“Apologize,” I said.
He didn’t. Instead, he tossed her a dismissive “she’s nobody anyway” look and started to turn away. I threw a left. Behind it was the power of my loathing for beer helmets, Carrot Top, Jackass, and all the rest of the jackasses. The punch caught nothing but air. Beer Helmet was already on the floor, clutching his balls and writhing in agony. The point of Yolanda’s Tony Lamas had scored a direct hit.
Beer Helmet’s buddies moved toward us but then backed off as two bouncers plowed through the crowd. They must have seen the whole thing because they didn’t throw us out. Instead, they gave Yolanda a high five, yanked the jerk to his feet, and dragged him off.
“My hero,” I said.
“Just a little somethin’ you pick up,” she said, “when you’re raised on the West Side.”
Beer Helmet’s ejection seemed to sober the crowd, or at least settle it down. A few minutes later, Buddy and his band strutted out. I put my arms around Yolanda’s waist, and she let me keep them there, leaning back against me as we swayed to the music. That drew hard stares from the jocks and their dates. Blues fans are mostly white these days, and Boston is far from a postracial town. Except for Buddy and the band, Yolanda was the only black person in the place.
Buddy played not one, not two, but three encores. By the time he was done with a ten-minute version of “Slippin’ In,” we’d shouted our throats raw, and Yolanda’s body had been pressed against mine for more than an hour. Buddy wasn’t coming back for a fourth time, so the bouncers cleared the room for the second show. As we strolled out arm in arm onto Lansdowne Street, both of us were hungry, although not necessarily for the same thing.
On the sidewalk, one of the bouncers tapped my shoulder. “Hey, pal,” he said. “Your lady can work security here anytime.”
Yolanda laughed out loud. I hoped it was working as a bouncer that struck her as funny, but it might have been the idea that she was my lady.
I was worried about where we’d be heading for grub. I didn’t figure Yolanda for a chili dog/cheese fries kind of gal, and I was short after shelling out for the tickets. As Yolanda turned west, I tugged her arm.
“The parking lot’s the other way.”
“Yeah, but it smells better in this direction, and a sista needs to eat.”
“This is Lansdowne Street, Yolanda. The main food groups here are beer, grease, and Tabasco.”
“Yum,” she said, and kept walking.
We strolled past Fenway Park, and at the corner of Brookline Street, she stopped in front of the Cask’n Flagon.
“Will this do?” she said. “I’ve been thinking about their cheese fries all day.”
And I fell for her a little more.
“So the show was tight, huh?” she said as we settled into our seats under a black-and-white photograph of a young Ted Williams. “I coulda listened to that brutha play all night. And damn, he’s still ripped. The way he moves, it’s hard to believe he’s seventy-four.”
She pulled her nose out of the menu and locked eyes with me. “Thanks, Mulligan. I forget to do things like this until someone reminds me that there’s a world outside the law office.”
“I could remind you more often.”
She didn’t say anything to that. Suddenly, her menu was more interesting.
“I would never have pictured you in a place like this, Yolanda, but you look right at home.”
The waiter was a young black man with more muscles than he needed for the job. “Miss Mosley-Jones!” he said. “It’s been a long time. Having the cheese fries and two sloppy burgers again?”
“Damn right,” she said. “It’s my day to be bad.”
I certainly hoped so.
The waiter turned his eyes to me, and his wattage went down a notch.
“The same,” I said. “And bring us a pitcher of Samuel Adams.”
“I didn’t realize you were a regular,” I said after the waiter left.
“I’ve only been here once. Last summer I got to missing the Cubs, so I caught a Sox game at Fenway. It reminded me so much of Wrigley I got a little weepy. After nine innings, I’m always starving, so I followed the crowd here.”
“You’ve been here once, and the waiter remembers your name?”
“You don’t think I’m memorable?”
“I think you’re unforgettable.”
Just then, my cell vibrated. I slipped it out, checked the number, and put it back in my pants pocket.
“Nothing important?”
“Just a blast from the past.”
“The almost-ex?”
“How’d you guess?”
“What’s she like? What kind of woman ends up with you?”
The phone started vibrating again. I pulled it out, flipped it open, placed it in the middle of the table, and pressed speaker.
“Mulligan.”
“You … fucking … bastard!”
“Good evening to you, too, Dorcas.”
“Who are you out whoring with tonight, you sonuvabitch?”
“I’m having dinner with a friend right now, Dorcas. Sorry, but don’t have time for one of our friendly chats.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, you goddamn—”
I flipped the phone shut and put it back in my pocket.
“Damn,” Yolanda said. “What the hell did you do to her?”
“Married her.
She’s never forgiven me for it.”
“Gotta be more to it than that.”
“She’s unstable, Yolanda. She needs help.”
“So get her some.”
“I’ve tried, but she refuses. She thinks the rest of us are the crazy ones.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
We fell into an uncomfortable silence. Maybe introducing the object of my affection to Dorcas wasn’t the smoothest move. The silence lengthened while I tried to think of something that would drown out the sound of my almost-ex’s screech.
“She can make me sound like a monster,” I said. “I’m not. I’m just a regular guy who made a bad choice.”
Yolanda smiled, and the mood lightened. “You’re not a regular white guy, Mulligan.”
“I’m not?”
“Uh-uh. Most of them try to impress me by quoting the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, telling me how many black friends they have, and dropping the names of rappers, getting most of them wrong.”
“Gee,” I said. “And to think I was just about to tell you how much I dig Jay-Z Hammer.”
She threw back her head and laughed. When the waiter finally showed up with our food, we spent the next half hour slurping, pulling fries from a gooey mountain of cheese, and licking our fingers. I loved watching her be so unlawyerlike.
Once we’d picked the cheese fries plate clean and drained the last of the beer, she didn’t look any thicker than when we came in. I wasn’t sure I could get through the rest of the evening without unbuttoning my pants. And not in a good way.
On the drive home, we listened to more blues on the radio and talked about the show, the Cubs, and the Red Sox; but everything I said really meant “Please let me kiss you.”
“Can’t tell you how great this was, Mulligan,” Yolanda said as she pulled the Acura into the space next to my Bronco. “I felt like a human being instead of a lawyer for a change.”
“So where should we go next time?”
Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel Page 11
