‘So?’ Carnes said stiffly; he stood about five-eight himself.
‘So he’s got a Napoleonic complex, man. His dick’s on the line with the goddamn team. He could give a shit about ’em really, but ’long as they win, sure, he’s gonna throw ’em a bone now and then.’
Carnes muttered something and went back to reading. The silence oppressed Penner. Carnes’ conversation had stopped him from thinking about Barbara. It struck him as an irony that Carnes could in any way be a comfort to him. In high school fifteen years before they had taken an instant dislike to one another. Since that time they had maintained the scantiest of relationships, this only due to the fact of their having roots in the same neighbourhood, the same gang. Both men had been in the process of being groomed for positions in the Irish mob. Providing cheap muscle, running drugs. After high school Carnes had continued on this track, whereas Penner, dismayed by the bloody requisites of the life, had attended Boston College and then gotten into real estate. Yet here they were. Partnered once again by hard times and a common heritage.
‘You still root for the ’Niners, huh?’ he asked, and Carnes said, ‘Yeah,’ without glancing up.
‘How come you root for a team like that, man? Fucking team’s gotta quarterback named for a state, for Chrissakes! Joe Montana! Sounds like some kinda New York art faggot. Some guy takes pictures of dudes with umbrellas stuck up their ass.’
Carnes blinked at him, more confused than angry. ‘Fuck you talkin’?’
‘Man was named for another state, I could relate,’ Penner went on. ‘Like New Jersey. I could support him maybe, he was named Joe New Jersey. Maybe he’d play a little tougher, too.’
‘You’re fuckin’ crazy!’ Carnes looked alarmed, as if what Penner had said was so extreme, it might be symptomatic of dangerous behaviour. ‘Joe Montana’s the greatest quarterback in the history of the NFL.’
Penner gave an amused sniff. ‘Yeah, he’s history, all right. Sorta like the Red Sox, huh? What’s it they lost now? Six in a row? Seven? The tradition continues.’
Carnes glared at him. ‘Don’t start with that shit, okay?’
Penner fingered out a pack of Camels. In school, he had delighted in mind-fucking Carnes, pushing him to the brink of rage, making the creepy little mad boy twitch, then easing up. Pushing and easing up, over and over, until Carnes was punchy from surges of adrenaline. The Red Sox, to whom he was irrationally, almost mystically devoted, had been a particular sore point.
‘’Course,’ Penner went on in a lighthearted tone, ‘soon as Clemens comes back, he’ll make it all better. Isn’t that right, man? Ol’ Rocket Roger! This redneck with the IQ of a doughnut, guy doesn’t have the brains to lift himself from the game when his shoulder blows up the size of a watermelon, he’s gonna walk on water and win three in the Series.’ He shook his head in mock sympathy and lit up a Camel. ‘Don’tcha ever get sick of it, man?’
‘I’m fuckin’ sick of you, that’s for sure.’
‘Naw, I mean doesn’t it ever sink in that the guys own the Sox, they’re never gonna put out the money y’need to have a winner. Alls they care ’bout is the stadium’s full. Else why’d they pass up grabbin’ Willie McGee off the waiver wire. See that fat fuck Gorman on TV the other night? “Where would we play McGee?” he’s saying. Right! Like where we gonna play a guy steals you fifty bases and leads the National League in hitting?’
‘It’s easy for you talkin’ this shit!’ Carnes said angrily. ‘You’re just a frontrunner, man. You don’t know how it is, you grow up with a team, you follow ’em your whole life.’
‘Bullshit, I’m a frontrunner!’
‘Hell you ain’t! Every team gets goin’ good, you jump on the goddamn bandwagon. First you’re a Lakers’ fan. Then the A’s start winnin’, and…’
‘I told you, man, I lived four years in Oakland.’
‘Big fuckin’ deal! I lived in Houston, and I ain’t no Astros fan.’
‘What’d be the point? They’re even more pathetic than the Sox.’
‘Goddamn it! I don’t hafta take this crap!’ Carnes pounded a fist against the dash. ‘I told McDonough I couldn’t work with you, man! You ain’t professional! Fuckin’ guy’s gotta be crazy thinkin’ I can spend a coupla hours in a fuckin’ car with you!’
This broke Penner’s mood. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said, remembering McDonough in the lamplit gloom of his study, his white hair agleam, patrician features seamed with anguish, noble head bowed under the weight of a daughter’s dishonour. His pain, or rather Penner’s sympathy with it, had glossed over the illogic of McDonough’s proposal that he and Carnes become partners in a proxy vengeance. And yet afterward he’d had the thought that the scene seemed posed. Too perfect a setting, too splendid a grief. A cinematic version of Celtic woe.
‘“Maybe”, what?’ said Carnes fiercely.
‘I just can’t figure it.’
‘What? What can’t you figure?’
‘Everything, man. Like why’d the man pay us so much? And in advance. He coulda hired somebody half the price. Less, even.’
‘He’s always doin’ shit like that. Remember when Bobby Doyle’s kid needed a new liver. Fuckin’ McDonough, he don’t ask for no collection. He just digs down in his pocket. Like the man said. We help him, he helps us. We whack out the guy did his daughter, he takes care of us. That’s how he’s always been.’
‘Sure, he’s a fucking saint.’
‘Hey, man! He’s a mick’s got some power in the state house and ain’t forgotten where he comes from. In Southie that amounts to the same thing. You spent more time in the neighbourhood steada hangin’ out with those guido fucks in Back Bay, maybe you start thinkin’ like an Irishman again.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why he’d put the two of us together.’
It appeared that Carnes was about to speak, but he remained silent.
‘What were you gonna say?’ asked Penner.
‘Nothin’, man!’
Penner, edging toward paranoia, could have sworn he detected the beginnings of a smirk.
A Grey Lincoln Town Car came quiet as a shadow past them; it pulled into a parking space thirty feet farther along. Carnes’ hand went inside his jacket. A cold, crawly trickle inched down between Penner’s shoulder blades. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. His fingers looked oddly white and unreal the way they pushed and worked at the butt, like the segmented parts of some weird animal. Please God, he said to himself, unsure whether he was praying for strength or permission to chicken out.
‘Just you get in back of him.’ Carnes’ voice was tight. ‘I’ll handle the talkin’.’
They waited until Milchuk started to climb out of the Lincoln. Then they walked rapidly toward him, their breath steaming white. Milchuk was bending down into the car, fussing with papers in a briefcase. He straightened, looked puzzled. He was younger and bigger than Penner had figured. Early thirties. Six-three, six-four, maybe two-twenty. His handsome, squarish face had a rosy-cheeked pallor. His black hair and moustache were neatly trimmed, but his jaw was dirtied with stubble. He had on a very nice herringbone tweed overcoat, the kind with velvet on the lapels. Penner himself owned a similar coat, though it was several years older and far more worn. He felt a measure of resentment toward Milchuk for inadvertently showing him up.
‘’Scuse me, Mister Milchuk. We have a minute of your time?’ Carnes took a stand that forced Milchuk to turn his back on Penner.
Milchuk made an impatient noise and said, ‘I got an appointment.’
When Penner poked him with his automatic, he stiffened but did not turn his head to try and see the gun as someone might who had never been that route before. Penner could feel Milchuk’s pulse in his gun hand, he could feel the whole breathing mass of nerves, bones, and meat. In the chill air the man’s cologne had a stinging, astringent scent.
‘Awright, be cool, guys,’ Milchuk said. ‘I got a coupla hundred in my wallet. Inside pocket of the overcoat.’
‘How �
��bout you takin’ a stroll over to the car,’ Carnes said. ‘The blue Caddy back there.’
‘What?’ said Milchuk. He snuck a peek at the car, and Penner, in a sympathetic reaction, had a peek along with him. With its vanity plates that read SOX FAN 1 and the Red Sox logo painted on the hood, the Caddy had an absurdly innocent look.
Carnes let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Hope you ain’t gonna give us no trouble, Mister Milchuk, ’cause this is a very simple deal, what’s happenin’ here. Now I wantcha to get in the back seat of the Caddy with my associate there, okay? We’re gonna drive you down the Cape a ways to where a man’s waitin’ for us. He’s gonna talk to ya, tell ya a few things. Then we’ll drive you back to Hyannis so’s you can have your breakfast.’
Milchuk darted his eyes from side to side. Searching for police cars, brave strangers. ‘You guys workin’ for Masacola?’
‘Masacola?’ Carnes said. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Listen,’ said Milchuk, talking fast. ‘I dunno what this is alla ’bout, but we can work somethin’ out, you guys and me.’
‘Either get in the fuckin’ car,’ Carnes said flatly, ‘or swear to God I’m gonna knock you cold and throw ya in it. Now I’m very sincere about this, Mister Milchuk. Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen ’long as you don’t give us no shit. Little drive in the country, little conversation. But dick us around, man, I’m gonna put lumps on your lumps. Okay?’
Milchuk drew a deep breath, blew it out. ‘Okay,’ he said, and took a step toward the Caddy.
‘Hey!’ Carnes pulled him back. ‘You gonna leave your car wide open! Your briefcase just lyin’ there?’ He seemed appalled by the prospect.
Milchuk glanced at Penner, as if seeking a form of validation. Penner tried to keep his face empty.
‘Lock the bitch, willya?’ Carnes said. ‘If you want, take the case with ya. You leave a fuckin’ car like that unlocked, man, some nigger’s gonna be ridin’ it around Roxbury.’
This solicitude was a beautiful touch, Penner thought. Extremely professional. He could not help admiring Carnes for it. Milchuk collected his papers, locked up the Lincoln. And as they walked to the Caddy, Penner could tell by the firmness of his step that the dead man felt much better about his future.
Ten minutes out of Hyannis, heading toward Cotuit, and the overcast started to break. There was the merest line of blue above the islands, and directly ahead, a blare of silvery sunlight in roughly the shape of a cross seamed the division between mountains of black clouds, making a dark and mysterious glory of the eastern sky. Now and then Penner saw flashes of sun-spattered water between the sparsely needled pines along the roadside. Despite the tackle shops, the clam shacks, motels and souvenir stores, there was something eerie and desolate about the Cape, a fundamental emptiness. It was a flat, scoured jumble of a land, flat rocks and flat fields, thickets and stunted trees, moors punctuated by the blue dots of glacial ponds, sloping shingles figured with capsized scallop boats, cork floats, torn fishing nets, all surrounded by the dreary flatness of the sea. Penner found it more than usually depressing.
Static burst from the radio as Carnes spun the tuning dial, settling on a talk show—some asshole with a sardonic baritone goading housewives into bleating out idiot opinions on the economy. Penner kept his gun pressed against Milchuk’s side and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He halfway hoped Milchuk would try for the gun. But Milchuk sat like a man in a trance, holding the briefcase to his chest, staring straight ahead. Once he asked how far they had left to go, and Carnes, with folksy amiability, said damn if he knew, he’d never been out on the Cape before, but it couldn’t be much farther.
The talk show host began discussing the Red Sox, their recent decline, and Carnes said over his shoulder, ‘Ever play any ball, Mister Milchuk? You look like a ballplayer to me.’
Milchuk was startled. ‘I played in college,’ he said after a second.
‘I thought so. What’s your position? First base? Outfield?’
‘Rightfield.’
‘So I guess you a Sox fan, huh?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Follow ’em your whole life, didja?’
Milchuk said yes, yes he had.
‘Then maybe you can explain to my pal there what it’s like to be a true fan.’ Carnes filled him in on the argument they had been having about the Red Sox and their alleged penury.
Penner did not think Milchuk would respond, but it may have been that Milchuk, like Penner, was using the argument to escape the turmoil of his thoughts.
‘Seems to me he’s gotta point.’ He spoke dully, as if it were a litany in which he no longer believed. ‘Lookit how they let Bruce Hurst get away. You gotta lefthander wins nineteen in Fenway, you don’t just let him walk.’
‘Hurst was gone no matter what they offered,’ Carnes said. ‘Guy’s a religious fanatic. He didn’t go for all the shit about Boggs porkin’ that cunt what’s-her-name.’
‘That’s just the excuse Gorman used.’ Milchuk shifted forward, warming to the subject. ‘Truth is, they just didn’t wanta pay him. Same shit they pulled when they let Fisk jump. They claimed it was a fuck-up, they sent him his contract late. But they just didn’t wanta pay the man. They couldn’t say that ’cause they didn’t wanta look bad, but that’s how it was.’
The tension in the car had dissipated to a small degree. Penner maintained vigilance, but with part of his mind he slipped beneath the moment into a warm, nurturing place. It seemed he had been liberated, that the extreme nature of what he was about had freed him of the past. His life was a transparency. It could take on any colour, any condition, No longer was he required to be hopeless Penner, bankrupt Penner, pitiful, pussy-whipped Penner. He was blank, empty, a hollow shell fitted with a few basic drives. He could be anything he chose. He could escape the noose of circumstance and drive to Florida, catch a plane to Rio, grow grey-haired and eccentric on some isolated beach, companioned by canny parrots and foolish women. He could divorce not only his wife, but also his feelings for her; he could spit them out like a mouthful of tepid beer. Yet as they drew closer to the turn-off, to the place where they were to kill Milchuk, his daydream began to fray and he became less and less capable of avoiding the issue at hand. Panic grew large in him. He considered murder charges, the plight of his immortal soul, and he threw himself into the baseball argument with uncharacteristic vehemence.
‘You take Burks, now,’ he said. ‘He’s gotta be one of the fastest guys in the league, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Milchuk, nodding vigorously. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘So what is it with him? He gets on first, he looks lost. What’s he got now? Seven or eight stolen bases? You figure they’d hire somebody to teach him how to steal, wouldn’tcha? But naw!’ He tapped Carnes on the shoulder. ‘What’s that all ’bout, man? They just too damn cheap? Or is it ’cause they’re fuckin’ prejudiced? Maybe they’re trying to make Burks look so bad they’ll hafta trade him, then they can have the only all-white team in the league.’
‘Sox ain’t prejudiced against niggers,’ Carnes said; from the hunched set of his neck and shoulders, Penner knew that he was fuming.
‘Hear that, man?’ said Penner, giving Milchuk a nudge. ‘They ain’t prejudiced against niggers.’
Milchuk grinned, shook his head in amusement.
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t prejudiced, motherfucker!’ said Carnes. ‘I said the Sox wasn’t.’
‘That’s garbage!’ said Milchuk. ‘Check out the fuckin’ record. If Jim Rice played his career in New York, they’d make a fuckin’ statue to him. Here they just tell the guy, “See ya later.” And even before that, the sportswriters are on his case day in, day out. I admit the guy wasn’t hittin’. But Yaz, man, whenever Yaz didn’t hit, the fuckin’ writers acted like all they wanna do is hold the guy’s prick and make him feel better.’
‘Damn straight,’ said Penner. ‘Fuckin’ town’s built on prejudice. Take what happened to Dee Brown the other day. He’s
the Celtics’ number one pick, right? So he’s sitting out front the post office in Wellesley with his fiancée. He’s in his car, reading his mail. He just picked it up, see. He’s got an apartment not too far away. Next thing some broad in the bank across the street spots him and says, Holy shit, a Nee-gro! Why that must be the same Nee-gro robbed us a few weeks back. Makes sense, right? I mean what would a Nee-gro be doing in Wellesley he wasn’t there to rob a bank? So here come the cops. Eight of ’em. They roust Brown and his girlfriend, and force ’em to lie face down on the sidewalk for twenty fucking minutes. At gunpoint, man! Twenty fucking minutes! You believe that?’
‘No shit!’ said Milchuk. ‘That’s what happened, no shit?’
‘It don’t matter,’ said Carnes. ‘If you’re a true fan, none of that crap matters.’
‘True fan!’ said Penner disparagingly. ‘What the hell’s that mean? The Red Sox front office screws everybody over. Fans, players. They’re no different from the government, man. They do just enough to get by, just enough to confuse people into thinking it’s all gonna be okay, when the fact is the storm’s coming and ain’t no roof on the barn. They’re not gonna be able to re-sign half their fucking players, their best pitcher probably needs psychiatric help. Their manager looks like an old alcoholic and talks about his freaking vegetable garden whenever you ask him ’bout his problem at shortstop. You hafta go back to prehistory to find when’s the last time they won the Series. Nineteen-fucking-eighteen! And the Celtics, man, they’re just watching their players grow old. Fucking Larry Bird’s starting to look like Freddy Krueger with a limp. And the Patriots…Jesus Christ! Only thing they’re good at’s waggling their dicks at female reporters.’
They were almost at the turn-off, and a terrifying hilarity was mounting inside Penner. He heard the reediness of fear in his voice, yet he had the idea that if he kept on ranting he might accidentally work a spell that would abolish the need to kill Milchuk.
‘And still you people keep going to the goddamn games,’ he went on, his voice shrilling. ‘You support this crapola. I mean nothing stops you. The fact that these assholes in three-piece suits are selling your dreams down the fucking river, it just doesn’t sink in. Here they go gettin’ rid of your best reliever ’cause he’s black, pickin’ up white guys with bad backs and dead arms, and you think it’s wonderful. They lose your best pitching prospect ’cause they forget to put his name on the protected list. And whaddaya do? You boycott? You try and change anything? Fuck, no! You go on buying your dumb hats and your T-shirts, your shamrock jackets. You make stupid into a religion. Stand around chanting, Ooh, ooh, ooh whenever the team wins, like those pathetic rejects on Arsenic Hall. You don’t even notice the whole thing’s going down the toilet. You just sit there and babble about next year, while everything turns to shit around you. True fans, my ass! Fans appreciate the game, they can argue the finer points, y’know. They wanta win, but they don’t act like lobotomy cases when they lose. They understand when they’re getting jerked around. But you guys…Jesus Christ! All you guys are is a buncha fucking lemmings!’
Barnacle Bill The Spacer and Other Stories Page 22
