by Paul Monette
“You do good on this, there’ll be other things.”
“How much is in it for me?”
“You’ll be real busy for a couple weeks,” said Frank. “Why don’t we say fifty grand? You pay your partner here outa your pocket.” He puffed on his cigar and watched the smoke drift up toward the ceiling. “Now that’s enough business. Why don’t you dance for a while? Then I’ll order some steaks.”
Tony was about to protest that he didn’t need to dance, meaning he didn’t want to dance with anyone else but Elvira, when he noticed Frank exchanging glances with a Mafia type at the next table. Tony was being dismissed for the sake of a high-level meeting. He stood up from his chair and decided he’d go play pinball. He didn’t want to pick up a chick right now, and watching Elvira was driving him crazy. Manolo stood up to follow Tony—anything not to have to sit by Omar.
Frank called out as they left the table: “Hey, Tony, cut in on her, willya? She’s had enough fag-talk for one night.”
Tony nodded. He made a move to walk down to the dance floor when Manolo gripped his arm. “What the hell are you doin’, chico?” Manolo asked sharply. “You gonna mess with the boss’s wife?”
“He asked me to dance with her. I just do what I’m told.”
“Dance with her, chico. Not too close. This is our big chance, you dig?” Manolo’s eyes swept the room. He was dazed by the flash and power of it all. “Don’t start walkin’ no tightrope, Tony. Life’s dangerous enough as it is.”
They split off in different directions, Manolo to one of the dusky bars where the girls were bored and ready. As Tony walked onto the dance floor, he glanced around to see if Frank was tracking him. But no—Frank sat huddled with the hood from the next table, figuring something out on a piece of paper. Tony strolled across and tapped the shoulder of the elegant man dancing with Elvira. He looked up with an expectant smile.
“Piss off,” said Tony.
The young man paled. Though he squirmed at the thought of a fight, he did not let go of Elvira. He made a move to put her behind him. She laid a hand on his arm and purred: “It’s all right, Jason. He’s one of Frank’s thugs.” Jason’s lip curled with disdain. He murmured something to Elvira that Tony didn’t catch, then clicked his metaphorical heels and melted into the crowd. As Elvira raised her arms to Tony she said: “So you can dance, can you? I thought all you could do was kill people.”
In fact he was no great shakes as a dancer. They swayed to a Billy Joel beat, but they didn’t move very far. They were staring into each other’s eyes again, both of them smiling ironically. “Who said I was a killer?” asked Tony.
“Nobody, I just guessed. The hot-looking ones are usually real good with a gun. But maybe you’re just another dealer, huh? Another dumb-ass dealer.”
“Elvira what?” asked Tony.
“Elvira Saint James.”
“Sounds like somethin’ you eat in a fancy restaurant. Where you from?”
“Baltimore,” she drawled with a sleepy smile.
“Where the hell’s that?”
She cocked her head and studied his face, to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. She laughed deliciously. “It’s in the northeastern United States, about four hours from New York. You’ve heard of New York?”
“Yeah, once or twice.”
“My ancestors disembarked in Baltimore in 1689,” she said, her voice gone singsong now, as if she were teaching grammar school. “You know—on one of those quaint sailing ships. From England.”
“Kinda like Columbus, huh?”
“Yes, kind of like that.”
“What’d they come over for?” asked Tony. “They owe money?”
Elvira shook her head. The diamonds on her neck shone like sunlight on the sea. The perfume she was wearing drove him nuts. Like roses and lemons mixed. “Religious persecution,” she said.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, as if he’d just put it all together at last. “Ain’t that a coincidence. That’s just what I was thinkin’ when I met you. I says to myself, I bet she’s a victim of religious persecution.”
“Mm, and you look like you work for the White House.”
He grinned and moved in closer. He didn’t bother to look again in Frank’s direction, since Frank didn’t watch Elvira. Maybe that was the problem between them. Tony said: “Me, I’m just like your relatives. I come over on a boat too.”
“Oh, so you’re part of the Cuban crimelift, are you?” She shook her hair, and her eyelids drooped with irony. “As if Florida needed more scum.”
Tony’s eyes went hard for a second. He knew it was only a brutal joke. From the moment they met, they’d agreed implicitly to say just what they pleased. Besides, she’d made it clear a moment ago, talking about Baltimore, that class meant nothing at all to her. Yet he saw how far he had to go to acquire the kind of power that would draw her to him. He didn’t doubt he’d get it eventually, but he wasn’t sure if she’d wait. That he simply had to have her he’d known for an hour now, since the second he laid eyes on her. He wished she wasn’t a junkie, but it didn’t matter. Having her was what mattered.
“Put it this way,” Tony said. “I came here for political reasons. Like I want to be king, and you can’t be king of a communist country.”
“You can’t be king of America either,” retorted Elvira dryly. “I think maybe you need a few history lessons. The county probably has a night school. Lots of chiquitas, I bet.”
“You don’t know nothin’, honey,” said Tony, grinning tightly, one hand gripping her waist as if he would lift her off the ground. “There’s hundreds o’ kings in America. You married one, for Christ’s sake.”
She jerked in his arms. He thought she was going to stalk off, but she didn’t. “We’re not married,” she said. “I don’t believe in marriage.”
“Baby, what have you got against the world? You look like a million bucks. You got enough bread to pick your nose with. Don’t you get laid or something?”
Now she tried to pull away, to haul off and belt him. This was a little more tricky. A scene might make even Frank look up. They were dancing close to the band, and Tony glimpsed a side door, the musicians’ entrance. He whisked Elvira out, waltzing her even as she beat a fist against his chest. Suddenly they were out in a quiet corridor. She fought like a cat, snarling and scratching.
“Easy, easy.”
“I get laid when I like,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “But I don’t fuck ex-cons.”
Now Tony was laughing. “I think we were made for each other, baby.”
She was furious. Her green eyes flashed with contempt, and she tossed her head with huge disdain. “You know, you’re even stupider than you look. Let me give you a crash course, José, so you know what you’re doing around here. First of all, who, where, and how I get laid is none of your goddam business. Second, don’t call me baby, I’m not your baby or anybody else’s. Third, there’s no bread. My parents pissed it all away. Why else do you suppose a ninth generation Baltimore junkie would be living with a spic Jew drug king? And dancing with jerks like you. You got the picture now, José? Good, now buzz off.”
She slammed his chest a final time and turned and stormed away. Tony chuckled with pleasure as he followed her. She headed past a bank of slot machines, paused for a brief second at the entrance to the restaurant, then changed her mind and headed for the ladies’. Tony didn’t think twice. As soon as he saw her disappear through the restroom door, he headed in after.
A woman fixing her lipstick in the mirror gave him a bored, dead-eyed look. On downers probably. Elvira was just going into one of the stalls when she caught sight of Tony. She groaned with exasperation. Grinning, Tony strode across the white-tiled room and prodded her into the stall. She was laughing in spite of herself, but she was still angry. He crowded inside with her and latched the door.
“Can’t you take a hint?” she asked.
“Guess not.”
He sidled close and stroked her hips, but she hardly noticed. She was
reaching down the front of her dress, from which she drew out a small brass vial the shape of a rifle bullet. She tapped it against the palm of her hand, then flicked the top and pushed it up his nose. He snorted. She poked his other nostril, and he inhaled even deeper. Then he watched her do herself, as casually as if she were touching up her makeup. The stuff was so pure he could feel a throb of numbness just behind his eyes. He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her neck.
“There,” she said. “You satisfied now?”
“Are you kidding?” he mumbled, his tongue against her throat. Already he was pulling her dress up her legs. One hand groped between her thighs. She scrambled away, but the space was tight in the stall, and he wouldn’t quit.
“No!” she seethed, once more trying to beat him away with her fists. But he had her pinned to the wall now, one hand gripping her hair as he kissed her, the other hand grazing the mound of Venus. Outside the stall they could hear two women, laughing as they entered from the club. Elvira grunted and struggled, but she didn’t cry out. She leaned forward, gripping his head, as if she was going to whisper a curse in his ear. She bit it instead.
Tony howled and leaped away from her, crashing against the side of the stall. She shook the dress so it fell to her knees again. She tossed her hair, then tucked the vial of coke back in her bra. Tony stood there watching her, stunned, one hand cupping his ear. She pulled open the stall door, took a step out, then stuck her head back in. Haughty and hard she said: “Don’t get confused, Tony. Rule number three.”
She slammed the door and left him in there. He rubbed his ear for a moment, turned around and unzipped his fly, and urinated loudly in the bowl. He didn’t bother to flush it. Then he pulled the door open and stepped out of the stall, only to find the two women washing their hands at the sinks, trying not to look at him in the mirror. Elvira had vanished. Tony sauntered across to the outer door, saluting the women as he went.
He wandered from room to room till he found Manolo, who’d wedged a girl in at the end of one of the bars and was putting the moves on. Tony tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to follow. They went back to the table and sat down to eat their thirty-dollar steaks. Frank wanted to hear all about Cuba, and Tony obliged him, spinning out a good anti-communist line. He kept one eye on Elvira the whole time, as she picked at her food and pushed it around her plate. She appeared to listen to nothing that Tony said, laughed at none of the jokes, and barely looked up when Frank addressed her. When a girlfriend stopped by the table to chat, she turned her back on all the men. Then a few minutes later she escaped to powder her nose with a couple of other girls, not even bothering to excuse herself.
Tony nodded to Manolo, and they said a brief goodnight to Frank. He wanted her to come back to the table and find him gone. That way they would avoid a stiff and public goodbye, and maybe she’d be a little hungry to see him again. Frank didn’t seem to mind their sudden leaving. He was accustomed to men who had midnight appointments and other fish to fry. He clapped Tony warmly on the back and welcomed him once again into the organization.
“You remind me a little of me, Tony, when I was your age. You’re always thinkin’, aren’t you?” Frank laughed and shook his head with obvious affection. “I like a man who never stops. I think we’ll be doin’ a lotta business, you and I. Take care now.”
Tony and Manolo shook Frank’s hand. Nobody shook Omar’s hand. Then they left quickly, Manolo giving one last lingering look around at the Babylon and its smoldering women. They got into a cab and headed back to Brickell Avenue, to pick up the Monte Carlo. Manolo waxed eloquent about the club and the girls, imagining what it would be like when he and Tony could go there on their own.
Suddenly Tony interrupted. “How ’bout the chick, huh?”
“How ’bout her?” Manolo asked cautiously.
“Hey, she’s in love with me, chico.”
“Bullshit. How you know that?”
Tony grinned as he watched out the window, where the palm trees and the big pastel estates of Coral Gables passed before them like a dream come true. “The eyes, Manny,” he said. “Them green eyes don’t lie.”
Manolo grew tense. There was a thin edge of hysteria in his voice as he reached over and gripped Tony’s arm. “Forget it, pal, okay? That’s Frank Lopez’s lady. You stay away. You wanna get killed?”
Tony shook him off. “What are you, kiddin’? Can’t you see how soft he is? Too much booze, too much blow. He lets a cuncha tell him what to do.” He shrugged and grinned again. “Frank Lopez, big fuckin’ deal.”
They were silent after that, as they retrieved the Monte Carlo and headed home to the dead hooker’s apartment. They hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and now they crashed for twelve. Their dreams were palpable matters now, specific and gaudy and finally there within reach. For Manolo it was the big bucks and the power to spend them at the Babylon, with a gorgeous woman draped on either arm. For Tony it was his princess, come to life at last. They slept as if they needed all the sleep they could get, for they knew what they wanted now, and they knew they would have to fight like hell to get it.
Suddenly tomorrow was a whole new deal.
She was telling the truth about the nine generations. Her Saint James ancestors had fought in the Revolutionary War, right alongside George Washington. For a while after the War of 1812, they had owned about a quarter of Maryland, which they farmed like proper gentlemen, keeping about three thousand slaves. Later on there was a Saint James in Lincoln’s government, an Undersecretary of State for European Affairs. This Abner Saint James explained to the family in no uncertain terms that the three thousand slaves at Summerset, the Saint James farm in Maryland, stood in the way of his own advancement. Thus were the slaves freed a good two years before the Emancipation Proclamation.
Unfortunately, the farm fortunes dwindled accordingly. Vast tracts of land had to be sold off. Worse still, Abner’s sons were aesthetes. The elder one exiled himself to France, where he squandered huge amounts putting on ballets that kept the people away in droves, mostly because the prima ballerina had no talent except of the carnal sort, which she only revealed in the confines of Mr. Rufus Saint James’s bedroom. The younger Saint James poured all his money into founding the Baltimore Symphony. By the turn of the twentieth century the Saint Jameses were the poorest rich people in America.
Luckily, the next generation produced a winner. Mortimer Saint James graduated from Johns Hopkins, set up a small laboratory on the much-diminished family farm, and tinkered away for a couple of years. He emerged one morning shouting “Eureka!” He’d invented a completely new steering pin for the automobile, stronger and tougher and cheaper, and within six months he had sold the patent to Walter Chrysler of Flint, Michigan, thus ensuring a new lease on the Saint James fortune. Mortimer retired at the age of twenty-five, married a second cousin, and tinkered purposelessly for the next half century.
He produced one daughter, Alice, the first girl child in the Saint James line since the Revolution. This Alice was blonde and had green eyes. As soon as she was old enough she moved from the dreary hills of western Maryland to New York City, where she settled in Greenwich Village just after the Second World War. She had obviously inherited something of the impresario urge from her Saint James forebears, for she soon became involved in the theater, with a vengeance. She married a passionate drunk named Edgar Vale, who believed it was his mission to bring the avant-garde to the masses.
Alice and Edgar mounted two or three productions a year, hugely elaborate and rococo, of plays so obscure and Rumanian that even the translators didn’t understand them. Nobody ever came to see them either, but nobody ever said art was easy. Alice and Edgar produced and drank, produced and drank, till they’d finally exhausted all the steering pin money. The morning after the flop of their final production—While Nero Fiddled, nine hours long, with a cast of sixty-six, in which the only line of dialogue was “Lost, all lost,” in a hundred and nineteen languages—Alice and Edgar limped home to her ancient ba
ronial lands in Maryland.
Which lands were mostly suburbs now, and mostly in the hands of others.
With what little remained of the family fortune, Alice and Edgar settled down in a lopsided stone house on the western edge of Baltimore. The house had once been part of the slave quarters of the Saint James plantation. And there Alice and Edgar produced their truly final production: a child they called Elvira. After that, they turned all their considerable creative energy to drink. They drank whole vats of gin and lay abed for days at a time, while the last of the Saint James monies evaporated into thin air.
Somehow Elvira Vale managed to grow up. She toddled off to the public school, not feeling very different from her friends, some of whose blue-collar parents were as drunk as her own. She did not pay much attention to her mother’s incoherent tales of the previous eight generations. All she knew was this: she would flee the gray suburbs of Baltimore as soon as she could; and no matter what, she would never marry. Elvira Vale, growing up as she did tough and lower-middle-class, was not really aware of the three things rooted in her blood.
First was the desire to flee Maryland, which her people had been doing for generations. Second was the love of the theater, which had funded all those ballets and wrong-headed plays. Third and most significant was the love of intoxication. The Saint James family had been drinking for three hundred years.
Yet the day that Elvira left Baltimore and went to New York, she was eighteen years old and was sure she had no past at all. As if life were out to prove this point, Alice and Edgar had died within six months of each other. Liver complications. As soon as Elvira had buried them, there seemed no reason to finish high school. She had a friend who’d gone to Manhattan to be an actress/model, which meant Elvira not only had a place to stay but an in in the business as well.
She worked as a waitress for about a year, first at a Walgreen’s in the garment district, then at a late-night hangout on 45th just off Broadway, where most of the waitresses hooked on the side. Everybody hooked on the side, Elvira soon found out, including her girlfriend from Baltimore. It turned out a girl made better connections hooking than she did in a dim-lit restaurant, though the chances of being “discovered” were about equal in both professions.
