Nah, man, it’s not that. Trust me, you’re not the first one. What I meant is I really don’t, like, know. ‘Cause I don’t fuck with that stuff anymore.
I hear you. Smart man.
Gene spilled some sugar into his mug and watched the spoon leave a tiny wake in the coffee. Yeah well, the thing is I used to have, you know . . .
Of course I know, Dieter responded. A habit, you had a habit, right? Hey, who didn’t?
In Mexico, Dieter could have told him, there was a time when China White was his only passion, the one lover he remained faithful to. The writing had veered off track, sex with the strays had lost its allure, and he was stuck in a dead-end job in a dead-end town without a prospect in sight. He still clung to the idea that somewhere in the world there was a certain woman, a soul mate, who would reveal the possibility of tenderness, maybe even love, but for the time being, a needle sliding under his skin was the softest caress he could summon. After work he avoided the Yucatan Café and went straight home to his spoon, his lighter, and a notepad. And there, in the glow of a minor dose, which was all he could afford, he somehow took control of the book again, forcing himself to follow a strict regimen of fruits and grain and exercise while avoiding alcohol altogether, toiling in the hotel kitchen during the day and holing up in his room at night to finish his opus, monk-like, except for the occasional shot of smack. Then one evening Erik Fuller collapsed on a moonlit beach and blood streamed out of his mouth, staining the sand, and when Dieter finished writing that chapter he was shaking. He studied, in shame, the tracks on his arm, vowing to clean up his act before it was too late, before it was his blood, not Erik Fuller’s, that blackened a Mexican beach.
Thanks for the coffee, Gene. He laid a five down on the bar and stood up to leave. Let’s just forget I brought it up, okay?
Wait a minute, D. Not so quick, huh? Gene lifted his hands in surrender. Look, there’s this guy I know. I could talk to him. No promises, okay? But I’ll see what I can do.
Dieter nodded, knowing how this would work, how Gene the middleman would skim his own percentage off top. And why not? I appreciate this, Geno. I really do.
Forget about it. He picked up his bar rag. So what are you looking for, anyway? Smoke? Pills?
Dieter’s lopsided grin seemed, to the bartender, almost feral, coming from such a gentle man. Anything you can get me, bro, anything at all.
Gene began to wipe down the counter again, alarmed by Dieter’s parting words. Anything you can get me, bro; a flat, airy statement that sparked the bartender’s suspicion and caused him, a few days later, to voice his concern. Not just the words, either, he would say, but the way the man had spoken them, as if the answer was so obvious the question didn’t need to be asked. Anything at all.
Because in Gene’s world, this was not the way it worked. He could recall half a dozen other patrons approaching him the same way Dieter had this morning, as furtive as men sneaking into a peep show, strangers stuck here in town for a few days wondering where they could score. Unlike Dieter, though, those men were always specific—hashish, seconal, meth—as precise in their choice of poison as customers who ordered Cutty Sark neat, or Jose Cuervo with salt and limes. Who in their right mind said anything at all? As if there was no difference between a harmless joint and a needle filled with scag. As if, when you came right down to it, the only issue was oblivion, and how fast you could get there, and who you took along.
23
No, it was a ten, Maggie repeated. Not a twenty, a ten.
It was a twenty.
I’m sorry, ma’am, but it was a ten.
Maggie refused to lower her gaze, even though staring down the customer—a fifty-something in a ratty housedress; who came out to a grocery store in the middle of the day in a housedress?—accomplished nothing. Maggie suspected the old shrew had fine tuned this particular scam on any number of cashiers, and wasn’t about to be taken to task by this one.
She glanced up at Cain the Pain’s glass-enclosed office on the second floor and saw the manager staring back down at her, already alerted. She held up the ten-dollar bill the woman had given her, and a few minutes later the Pain appeared at her side, inquiring, in a particularly cloying tone, if he could be of some service.
Maggie explained the situation then leaned insolently against her drawer, waiting for the Pain to do what he always did, to apologize to the old hag and hand her change for a twenty even though he knew it was highly unlikely that Maggie, as efficient a cashier as he had ever worked with, had miscalculated. The truth didn’t matter; the customer, as everyone knew, was never wrong.
To add insult to injury, after handing the woman the incorrect change the Pain offered to escort her out to the parking lot. Where, with a nod and a wink, he opened the back door of her car, placed the paper sack on the floor, and wished her a wonderful day. Maggie fumed.
An hour later, when she was getting ready to go on break, the Pain appeared at her side again, sneaking up without warning this time. He bent over the register pretending to study her tape. But he was standing too close. She could smell his sour breath and feel his bony hip rubbing against hers. She was ready to snap, ready to grab the son of a bitch by the short hairs and inform him in no uncertain terms that if he pressed up against her like that one more time she was going to sue him and his beloved grocery chain for sexual harassment.
Dieter laughed when she told him the story but his face expressed concern, too, empathy. After a lively swim in the surf they were strolling down the dazzling white sands of the beach on Christopher Key.
Cain the Pain, huh. I think I saw him once. The skinny guy with black glasses, right? Oily hair, looks like it’s plastered on?
That’s the one.
Determined not to let the incident at work ruin the rest of her day, Maggie looped an arm through Dieter’s and concentrated, instead, on her good fortune. On this exquisite fall afternoon—warm sun, pillows of cloud, a whisper of surf—here she was waltzing down a lovely stretch of sand with, of all people, her new lover. Her new lover! The word still felt clumsy on her tongue, in her mouth, whenever she said it. Boyfriend? No, that wasn’t accurate either. She was momentarily flummoxed. What do you call two people who have just discovered an affinity in bed and now wonder if that passion will translate into something more? Already she had the feeling that it might. For one, the sex had been extraordinary—to Maggie’s delight Dieter had proven himself a keen and attentive partner, orally inclined—but it was what happened in the aftermath of their initial lovemaking that truly surprised her. Still bristling with energy, Dieter had hopped out of bed and skipped across Room 24 to retrieve two bottles of beer from a Coleman cooler he kept stocked with refreshments for moments, Maggie supposed, like this. And as she leaned back against the headboard, the man who had heretofore been known mainly for his reticence began to tell her the story of his life. After months of silence the floodgates burst open, and the memories came pouring out.
Maggie relaxed, listening to Dieter’s unexpected narrative. A childhood in the hill country near Bloomington; the deep, abiding friendship with his sister Laurie; an apprenticeship in his father’s workshop while he pursued, at night, his true calling, books. He read voraciously, he said, anything he could get his hands on: Hemingway, Faulkner, Pound. Like the early days in his father’s woodshop, literature was a kind of apprenticeship, the wide-eyed novice dissecting certain sentences again and again to try and determine how the great writers locked those words together until they were as seamless as one of his father’s dovetail joints. And even though he inwardly scoffed at the notion that someone like him might eventually write that well too, one day he decided it might be worth the effort, if only to confirm his doubts.
Not surprisingly, his initial attempts to emulate the masters were spectacular failures; an international spy novel hampered by the fact that he had never traveled beyond the Midwest; tortured love poems that sought to mi
mic, to no avail, the rhythms of Rilke; political rants. Repositioning the ladder, he returned to prose, but more modestly now, penning a series of concise, straightforward narratives—sketches, he called them—set in the hill country, featuring a young protagonist fashioned after Nick Adams in Hemingway’s In Our Time. Determined to make his mark, however faint that mark might be, Dieter sent the stories out to the journals and received, for his efforts, so many rejection slips he began to wonder if his talent was a sham, a delusion.
And then one dreary December afternoon he trudged out to the mailbox through a foot of frozen snow to retrieve a letter that would effectively demolish this fatalistic view. Steeling himself for yet another rejection, Dieter sliced open the envelope only to discover, to his absolute astonishment, that one of his stories had been accepted for publication. He was a sophomore in college, still living at home, when the dam broke. Other stories were soon picked up—including one by the New Yorker—and a minor reputation, particularly around the IU campus, took root. Somehow, at twenty, the young writer had found his own voice, his own vision.
But as in any life, there were difficulties too: his mother’s sudden death from a rare blood disorder the year Dieter turned thirteen; the ups and downs of his father’s business; his sister Laurie’s juvenile diabetes. To top it off, there was the increasingly strained relationship with his dad. They had always been close, but as Dieter’s literary ambitions blossomed, the rapport between son and father collapsed. The cabinet maker wanted to know why Dieter wouldn’t admit that earning a living scribbling words on paper was a pipe dream. It was a nice hobby, even a noble one, he declared, but the boy needed to be realistic about his goals.
Dieter seethed at his father’s lack of understanding, his refusal to recognize his son’s special gifts. In the following weeks there were long periods of brooding silence punctured by sudden verbal jabs, and finally the situation became intolerable, the skirmishes so frequent and heated, Dieter marched into the kitchen one morning to announce that he was moving to Quintana Roo. To write.
A wave larger than all the preceding ones broke on the shore, rinsing Maggie’s ankles. She squealed with surprise, startled by the sudden foam. She hadn’t been back to this particular beach in years. When she was a kid, Christopher Key remained undeveloped, pristine, a wonderland. She had learned to swim there, splashing in the surf with her mother and father, beguiled by the tide rolling in and out of the estuary, the sandpipers pecking at tiny crabs burrowing in the wet sand, the pelicans soaring over the breakers in long, graceful Vs. Later, out by the old saltworks, she had reclined in the back seats of a succession of Fords and Chevys with boys she wasn’t all that fond of, necking until her lips turned blue. She had smoked pot there too, for the first time, with Jackie Banks. And hadn’t been back since. Like many locals she avoided the island now that it had become an exclusive sanctum for the nouveau riche, even if some right-minded citizens had managed, bless their hearts, to save the northern beaches.
After another hearty splash in the Gulf—salty kisses, restless hands—Dieter drove her back into town so she could pick up Hunter at Lureen’s and take him home. In a quiet voice she refused Dieter’s offer to come with them. Hunter, she said, was still adjusting to Colt’s absence and might not be ready yet to meet another man.
24
Lureen handed Maggie a Mason jar. Lipton, ice cubes, a wedge of lime.
Have some tea, sis. Take a load off.
They sat out by the pool watching Hunter and Toby play on the swings. It was a quiet, drowsy afternoon but Lureen was antsy today, bored with the usual banter. What she wanted, she told Maggie, was the dish on Dieter, her sister’s new stud.
Maggie shook her head, refusing to gossip or gloat. I’ve got a better idea.
Oh yeah? What’s that?
Read his book. It’s pretty much all right there.
Lureen lifted a cautionary finger in the direction of Toby, who was hanging upside down from a high steel bar, imitating a marsupial. Speaking of which, Lureen said, her eyes still on Toby, I hear that book is kinda . . .
Maggie feigned innocence. Kinda what?
You know.
Do I?
Stop.
Oh, you mean racy?
Lureen turned back to her sister, grinning now. That’s it, racy!
Well I guess you’ll have to find that out for yourself. Or maybe you and Charley could read it to each other . . . in bed.
Lureen’s laugh was a bark, an explosion. Like you and me used to read Peyton Place?
There you go.
Suddenly distracted, Lureen looked out at the boughs of a lemon tree heavy with fruit. Yeah, like that’s gonna help she murmured, revealing, to her startled sister, an unexpected crack in the walls of her indomitable marriage. Maggie started to respond but Lureen, ever resilient, abruptly changed the subject, raising her glass for a toast. At any rate, she saluted, here’s to the lovebirds.
Please.
Well that’s what you two are, aren’t you?
Friends, Lureen, we’re just friends.
Uh-huh, sure you are. So where did you two . . . friends, go today?
To the beach.
Lureen set her jar down and rubbed the tips of her fingers together, ready to pounce.
Yeah?
Yeah.
And?
And what?
And what did you do!? Growing impatient, Lureen flapped her hands in the air like two broken wings. C’mon, sis, spill! Dish!
We did what most people do at the beach, Maggie calmly replied. We swam.
Deflated, but not ready to give up just yet, Lureen drummed her fingers on the armrest of her lounge chair. That’s it?
Well no, not exactly. We ate some fruit, too, and took a long walk.
Maggie noticed that Lureen had polished off her tea and was chewing on an ice cube. Didn’t someone say that chewing ice cubes was a sign of sexual frustration?
You ate some fruit, huh. Apples and such.
That’s right.
How exciting, Lureen deadpanned.
Maggie glanced out at the back yard. On the swings, Hunter was hanging upside down now too, imitating his marsupial cousin.
Look, we’re taking it slow, okay? A step at a time. We’re both . . . well we’re both, I suppose, a little frightened.
Lureen swallowed the masticated ice cube and frowned, mightily. Well phoo on you then, on both of you.
What Lureen wanted, Maggie concluded, was to remember what it felt like to fall head over heels in lust for a new man. In some corner of her mind Jesus had not yet taken total control of, she yearned to live vicariously through her badass older sister. As if all that sanctimony had begun, at last, to wear off. She misses it, Maggie thought. Born again or not, she misses it.
As she cruised through town, Maggie spotted Dieter crossing the street in front of the Gibson. She slowed to a crawl, rolling down her window. Hey there, stranger.
Hey yourself. Dieter leaned over, nodding through the jeep’s open window at Maggie’s passenger.
Dieter, this is my son Hunter. Hunter, this is Mr. Dieter. Mr. Dieter’s a . . . he’s an old friend. Dieter poked a hand through the window, grasping the boy’s. Pleased to meet you, Hunter.
After a few minutes of careful small talk, Maggie waved goodbye and pulled away from the curb, failing to notice the man with stringy blond hair standing across the street in the shadow of an awning. The man had been watching them with great interest, noting how Dieter, while they talked, had reached out to rub Maggie’s shoulder, an unmistakable gesture of intimacy.
When Maggie’s jeep disappeared around the corner the man ambled down the sidewalk, pausing for a moment to peek into the window of the Blue Moon before stepping inside. He chose a stool near the door.
How you doin’, Gene?
With a tremor of alarm—that voice w
as unmistakable—Gene glanced up from the newspaper he had been reading. Hey, Teddy. Long time no see.
Teddy Mink took a sip of the draft beer Gene set down in front of him, wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of a sleeve. His expression was, as usual, unreadable.
Since the tavern was otherwise empty, Gene felt compelled to remain at his end of the bar even though he didn’t particularly want to. Teddy Mink made him nervous. He had a way of staring right through you, as if you weren’t really there.
Tapping the side of his pint glass with a manicured fingernail, Teddy asked about the new guy in town, the one they called Dieter.
Come in here much?
Comes in all the time, Gene answered. He’s stayin’ right across the street, matter of fact, at the Gibson.
Is he now? Teddy took another sip of beer. Over the rim of the glass his cold blue eyes never wavered, never left the bartender’s face.
Good customer? Big tipper? Good guy?
Yeah, he’s a good guy, Teddy. Dieter’s all right.
That’s what I hear.
Teddy swiveled around on his stool to scan the empty room. He let the silence build. By inquiring about Dieter he had made it clear that even if Gene would have preferred small talk—how about those Bucs, Teddy?—this was not going to be an idle conversation.
So how’s everything out—
Reason I ask? Teddy spun around to face the bar again. About this Dieter? Is I hear things, right?
Gene felt like a fish dangling on the barb of a hook. Things?
Yeah, you know, things.
The bartender hesitated, increasingly uneasy. Sorry, Teddy, guess I’m not following you.
Frightened by the drug lord’s steely gaze, by his long silences and that sinister soul patch he had recently grown beneath his lip, the bartender looked away. He wanted to man up, but guys like Teddy Mink had always intimidated him. Not the authority figures but the ones who made those authority figures dance. Not the puppets like Howard Simmons or Captain Pursley down at the precinct, but the one who pulled their strings, the one who was sitting right here in the Blue Moon watching the bartender squirm.
Fever Tree Page 13
