“Don’t scratch my records,” Otis yells.
“Stick it up your arse, Otis.” She pushes Otis again and Bisquick goes after him.
“Fuck off, Bisquick.”
Now,” Margot says, adjusting herself in the seat. “I’ve got a few choice words for all of you out there. First,”—she lets out a raspberry— “that’s for the idiots sending me hate mail. And for those of you supporting me, learn to spell, for God’s sake. I’ve read about fifty different spellings of inalienable rights. It’s spelt the way it sounds. Mothers, feed your babies in private. You’re just begging for attention. And as for the people at City Hall? Set up feeding areas. All it takes is a partition. Isn’t that better than the shit you caused today?”
The screen fills with blogs and emails. Bisquick flies back and pecks at the monitor. Margot puts on her bifocals. “For heaven’s sake,” Margot says, “Nobody’s subjugating anybody, Lilly. Does anyone have anything constructive to say, or are you all—wait, here’s something. A woman in Rockford designed a shirt with vents just for breastfeeding. Slip the baby through the vent, let him feed. That’s a wonderful idea. These shirts are available on the web.”
Ping.
“Not here, on the web.”
Ping.
“What did I just say?”
Ping, ping, ping, ping.
“Look, all of you, go to Babyshirts—one word—dot com. I said, one word. Don’t you people listen? Here, I’m writing it down . . . see?”—She holds up a piece of paper—“For Pete’s sake, people. Mavis, if you’re watching, I got twenty orders. I’ll forward them in a minute. One last time. Send your orders to Babyshirts.com. Attention, Mavis Doolittle.”
The pings continue and Bisquick keeps pecking the monitor. Margot lets out another raspberry and Otis farts.
Fifty thousand views.
Chapter 58
“I don’t get it,” Riley is saying. He and Pam are there by the cabana, looking at the bald spot in their hedge. “Why would they pull all the plants out by their roots?”
“Probably teenagers,” I say.
“I thought it was you at first, Sam.”
“No, I was out like a light last night.”
“Still seems strange.”
“Who knows what goes on in the minds of teenagers? Probably pool hoppers. Sorry, folks. I guess that kills the grass brownies idea. I’m sure Muller can do something else.”
“We were really looking forward to grass brownies,” Pam says.
“How about bunuelos?” Muller suggests. “It’s kind of a fritter.”
“Bunuelos?” Riley says.
“With raisin sauce and chilies,” Muller says.
“It sounds delicious,” Pam says.
“Give it some thought,” I say. “Nice raisin sauce on top. Trust me, your guests will be over the moon.”
Riley’s still staring at the holes in the ground. “Probably a professional job,” I say. “Some of these teenagers are devious little pricks.” Muller digs his toe in the grass.
“Damn shame,” Riley says.
In the car, going across West North Avenue, Muller sits there, looking all glum. His hair sticks out in wild tangles around the rim of his baseball cap. “I still feel bad,” Muller says.
“Why?”
“I feel like a thief.”
“It’s grass. It’s not a riding mower.”
“If you say so.”
“Stop saying, if you say so. And stop looking so guilty. We’re saving Riley from a big insurance risk. Stoned people don’t float.”
“That’s not true.”
“Okay then, picture Judy and Mary face down in the pool.”
“It wouldn’t come to that.”
“It could.”
“I think you’re exaggerating, Sam.”
“Am not.”
Chapter 59
“Degenerate bastards,” Margot screams. “Is nothing sacred anymore?” She thinks the whole universe needs a good spanking. “What’s the world coming to? It’s like stealing a farmer’s corn, for God’s sake.”
Max wants to scout the neighborhood, looking for kids riding erratically. Otis thinks Riley should call the cops.
“You’ve got the brain of a flea, Otis,” Margot says. Margot goes downstairs and lambasts some guy who just came out of the closet. “So you’re out,” she says to him. “Whatdya want? A float?”
Ruby’s not too bothered about the grass. She’s more worried about getting our latest house painted. As soon as she’s finished her coffee, we head out. She has to pick up some paint, so Muller and I go straight to the house. Along the way, Muller starts whining about stealing the grass. “Cut the crap,” I say.
“I still feel lousy, Sam.”
“Look, you make a bunch of great food. Add some pitchers of margaritas, salt the rims, everybody’s happy.”
“I guess so.”
“Let’s give the car another wash on the way home.”
“Why?”
“Because, it still smells like a bloody grow-op. Mary’s not an idiot. She already suspects something. Let’s just hope Riley doesn’t go blabbing about those stupid pot plants.”
“Maybe you should just tell Mary.”
“Tell her what? That we’ve been getting stoned all this time?”
“Judy’s done pot before.”
“Well, Mary hasn’t. Latin dancing’s bad enough. I don’t want her any more stimulated. She’s been eyeing me like I’m a squeeze toy.”
“Judy’s been wonderful lately.”
“Glad to hear you’re back on good terms.”
“I mean wonderful in bed.”
“Shut up!”
We give the garage over on Cedar another coat of paint. Then we stop at the car wash on the way home, wash out the trunk and the mats. Muller starts telling me his plans for a themed catering business. “You choose your country,” he says. “Everything’s authentic. Fixed pricing, too.”
Mary and Judy are meditating in the sunroom when we get home. Spaghetti sauce bubbles on the stove. Muller lifts the lid, takes a long sniff, and adds some pepper. We eat dinner and watch the news.
Before going to bed, I check the sliding doors in the kitchen. Riley’s standing there in his shorts and flip-flops. “What’s up?” I say to him.
“Here,” he says, handing me a baggie. “I remembered I had some drying in the cabana. Tell Muller to work his magic.” He disappears around the side of the house.
“Who was that?” Mary asks when I come in the bedroom.
“Riley. He dropped off some ingredients for the party.”
“What ingredients?”
“Oregano and tarragon.”
“He’s bringing over spices at midnight?”
“I’ve decided to stop judging people, Mary.”
“When did this start?”
“When I realized life’s a carnival and I’m a piñata.”
“Carnaval. Why don’t you take Spanish lessons with us?”
“Two Spanish speaking people in this house are plenty.”
“Un español llamado.” Mary’s hand snakes across under the covers. “Sam, you’re enormous.”
I realize the baggie’s stuffed down my underwear. “I have to pee.”
“Hurry back.”
I run to the washroom and put the baggie behind the toilet. Be prepared for major shrinkage, Mary.
Chapter 60
I wake up with a sinking feeling. Meek and Beek come flying down the hall in a state of confusion. Then a cupboard door slams. I lie there taking inventory of all the things I’ve done these past few months. Any one of them could put me up shit creek. I go to the washroom and hear Mary say, “I will talk to him . . .” and then she’s standing at the washroom door. “Sam,” she says “Get in the kitchen this minute.”
Muller’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking like he has friction burn. Judy’s next to him. Mary’s standing by the sliding doors leading to the deck. There’s a baggie in her hand.
&
nbsp; “Riley just dropped this off,” she says, tossing it on the counter. “He said to add it to the pile. What pile is that, Sam? Maybe it has something to do with this?” She takes the brownie out of her dressing gown pocket and bangs it down on the counter. “Are you going to say anything, Sam?” Then she storms down the hall, slamming the bedroom door. Meek and Beek zoom past me. Then the door opens again, and Mary says, “Sam, get in here.”
She’s standing by the bedroom window with her arms crossed. “Now, explain yourself,” she says, “and don’t give me any more lies. What were you doing the other night when you said you were going for burgers? Was it a drug run? Is Riley some big dealer? Are you a mule?” She picks up a hairbrush. “The truth, Sam, I mean it.”
“I’m not a mule, Mary.”
“What are you then?”
I sit down and rub my head. There’s no point lying anymore. She has the hairbrush in a throwing position. I describe how it started, Max offered me a joint the last day at work, Muller baked grass brownies. “It’s just been recreational,” I say. “A brownie here and there after work. Nothing serious.”
“And everyone’s stoned over at Otis’s house?”
“Not all the time.”
“What does that mean?”
“I stole Riley’s plants to stop the supply.”
“You stole his pot plants?”
“I had to, Mary. Riley wants grass brownies for his party.”
“Why do you care?”
“I was worried about you and Judy.”
“You stole the plants so Judy and I wouldn’t get stoned?”
“Exactly.”
“And Riley isn’t a drug dealer?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What about Margot? Is she stoned, too?”
“Out of her gourd.”
She takes the baggie out of her dressing gown. “Is this the last of it?”
“There’s another ounce behind the toilet.”
“For God’s sake, Sam.”
“I can’t destroy it, Mary. I already stole Riley’s plants. He’s going to figure something’s up.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m out of ideas.”
Mary sits down on the bed beside me. She squeezes the baggie between her fingers. “I need you to level with me, Sam,” she says. “I want the truth.”
“Sure.”
“How good are Muller’s brownies?”
“On a scale of one to ten? Probably ten.”
“You’d better give this to Muller, then,” she says, handing me the baggie. “This party’s the last?”
“It is for me.”
“And you’ll wear your silk shirt when we dance?”
“Every night.”
“No complaining? No more snide remarks?” I try to pull the baggie gently away, but she hangs on. “Promise, Sam. I’m not kidding.”
“I promise, Mary. Scout’s honor.”
I was never a scout.
Chapter 61
Muller stirs in time to The Rec Room of Sound. Everything’s there on the counter: flour, corn meal, more peppers than a salsa factory. Pam’s over every hour. “You’re a wonder, Muller,” she says
Mary and Judy give Muller the ingredients, reading off measurements from the cookbooks. A teaspoon of this, a dab of that. Muller doubles and quadruples, sometimes grabbing fistfuls of things. Everything smells like a cocina, as Mary would say. I didn’t know so many ingredients went into Mexican food. With a ladle to his lips Muller tastes, shakes his head, then adds something else. It’s a marvel to watch, even if it is Muller. Recipes are made, plates are covered with cellophane. Some are put in coolers while others go next door.
The phone rings. Max is calling. “I’m having no luck,” he says. “I can’t find grass anywhere.” It’s a nervous bunch over there at Otis’s place. Margot’s turned her show into a one-sided shouting match. Otis is strung too tight for words. Tears flow without any feeling.
Meanwhile, Muller sweats, steam rises from pots on the stove. The brownies are left until last. I’m working on the margaritas downstairs. The icemaker on the fridge is turning ice into slivers that I put in freezer bags and hustle next door to Riley’s bamboo bar. A stack of sombreros sits on a chair, tilting in the wind, while mariachi music plays through outside speakers. At the bottom of the pool, the vacuum goes back and forth in methodical lines.
The phone rings again. I take it in the bedroom while I put on my new Hawaiian shirt. Max is on the other end, telling me Margot’s got her head in the toilet. “It’s not pretty here,” he says.
“Can’t talk right now, Max,” I say. “We’re catering a party next door. Guests are starting to arrive.”
“I think Margot’s going to do something drastic.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. She keeps eying the deodorizer puck in the toilet. We have to do something. Otis is threatening to put a call out for grass on his show. Doesn’t Riley have any connections?”
“Christ, no.”
“I don’t know how long I can keep Otis off the air.”
“Okay,” I say. “Listen carefully. And don’t repeat this to anyone else, okay? Not even Ruby, understand? You know the old wiener van at the office?”
“Yeah.”
“I stashed some pot plants in the back.”
“You have pot plants?”
“They’re Riley’s. I stole them.”
“You stole a guy’s pot plants?”
“I’ll explain some other time, Max.”
“Can Muller come over later?”
“We have to stay at the party. Hold on until tomorrow.”
“Easier said than done.”
I hang up, grab stuff out of the freezer, and run out the door. Voices come from the side of the house. Car doors slam. People are standing around the pool drinking margaritas and eating tamales. It’s like they’ve never seen a Mexican staple before. I put ice behind the bar and go back for more tequila. Muller’s in the kitchen, dumping brownies out onto plates. We carry the brownies over to the fence, handing them to Pam. Orange and yellow cloths cover the tables. Drinks are consumed. Salt builds up in the corners of peoples’ mouths.
“Come have a swim, Sam,” Riley says. “Everything’s going great. Muller’s an artist. You taste these tamales?”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say.
Mary and Judy appear at the pool gate wearing bathing suits with sarongs tied around their waists. Mary gives me a pinch as I go past. Back at the house, Muller’s dumping more brownies on the counter. It’s his last dish of the night. The man’s a sweat machine. “They’re going through the food like bandits,” I say.
“Banditos,” Muller says.
I go down to the basement for more ice. My cell phone rings. Max on the other end. He’s over at the wiener van. “Jesus, Sam. There’s enough for a hundred brownies here.”
“Couldn’t you have waited until dark?”
“I know the security guard. We’re having a toke while I speak.”
“Damn it, Max.”
“Relax. Zack’s helping me get the plants.”
“Don’t let anyone see you, for chrissake.”
“It’s the weekend. Nobody’s around.”
“I gotta go.”
“How’s the party?”
“Everyone’s wearing sombreros.”
“Don’t do any pressed hams.”
I hang up and run upstairs. The kitchen is empty. Pots and pans fill the sink. Sombreros bob up and down on the other side of the fence. I go around to the gate and find piles of clothes, chairs overturned, people in all stages of undress. A splash sends water up into people’s drinks. Muller come to the surface with a wild mass of hair in his eyes. Streamers cover the water, wiggling towards the filter.
“Join us, Sam,” I hear Riley say. He’s sitting on the pool steps, naked. Mary’s next to him. She’s munching away on a piece of brownie.
“Mary,
what the hell are you doing?”
“Get those stupid things off,” Mary says, pulling my shorts. “Quiero cierto libro.”
“I don’t know what she’s saying,” Riley says, “but I like it.” Mary’s beyond giddy. I sit down and watch my shorts inflate. “So, Sam,” Riley says. “Mary tells me you’re an advertising guy.”
“Was an advertising guy, Riley.”
“Anything I might have seen on TV?”
“Q-tips.”
“That one’s funny.”
“What line are you in, Riley?”
“Law.”
“Criminal or civil?”
“Criminal.”
“And you grow pot?”
“Who watches lawyers?”
“Other lawyers?”
“That’s actually true, Sam. Very good.”
“How many infractions have we committed here?”
“Many, Sam, many.”
“Sam is no es gracioso,” Mary laughs and slips underwater.
“Is she coming up?” Riley asks.
We both look at Mary’s hair floating. We reach down and haul Mary up by her elbows. She bursts out laughing again. “Fantásticas,” she howls.
“I take it that’s good,” Riley says.
It is if you’re an Argentine.
Chapter 62
A gunshot goes off out front. Hands rise instinctively in the air. I grab a towel and rush past two people doing a merengue. Not a good caza between them. A small crowd is standing in the driveway in soggy sombreros and sarongs with donkey prints. Under the streetlight, I see Frank’s one entrepreneurial failure. It’s the wiener van.
Max and a security guard come across the lawn. It must be Max’s friend, Zack. Two people immediately assume the position up against the fence. Max and Zack are obviously stoned. I cut them off at the front of the house. “Hey, Sam,” Max says. “We got the wiener van started.”
“How?”
“Zack made a call. His brother’s a mechanic. It only cost us an ounce. Pretty cheap, considering. Even got a license plate—”
“Where the hell’s your car?”
“Ruby’s got it. Zack doesn’t drive, so we had to make do.”
A line is forming by the wiener van. People want hot dogs. They’ve already eaten ten platters of tamales and enchiladas.
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 17
