Running With Monkeys: Hell on Wheels

by Diane Munier

  The gal in the picture. “Did it help?”

  Isbe looked off. “You just wanted a sandwich, remember?” she said. She went underwater then, escaping his hold. She broke the surface, turned around and swam away, very little splashing for all her kicking. She was graceful. More athletic than he’d first realized.

  He took off after her. “Hey, Esther Williams.”

  But she pushed off the end of the pool and swam its length, and he was beside her, at first swimming easy, and she was digging in, and soon he was swimming hard to keep up.

  Audie joined in too and it got heated then, the three of them back and forth, back and forth, and Isbe bowed out at some point and it was him and Audie, back and forth, until Audie quit, hanging on to the side gasping, and he said to Jules, “I gave it to you, ass-face.”

  Jules turned onto his back and floated while he caught his breath. After a few seconds, he said, “She’s got neighbors,” cause Audie staying quiet when he won or lost anything was nearly impossible. “And I beat your ass. Take it like a man.”

  Isbe swam between them then, to Jules, putting her arms around him. “My hero.”

  “Oh shit,” Audie said, moving toward Francis. “I could have had him, baby. I beat his ass all the time. If I hadn’t been drinking…”

  “Sure, tiger,” Francis said. She was sitting on the stairs in the shallow end smoking a cigarette. “I’m getting eaten alive out here. I’m going in.”

  She got up and climbed out of the pool, cigarette in hand.

  “Whoa, baby, I don’t feel like such a loser now,” Audie said at the edge, looking up at her.

  Francis put the cigarette in her mouth as she tightened a towel around her hips. “You haven’t exactly won anything…yet,” she smirked. She walked the small distance to the house.

  Audie was out quick, snatching a towel off the chair and going after her.

  They were alone. “You and me,” Jules said to Isbe, pulling her close, and to his delight she wrapped her legs around him and held onto his shoulders, and they were in their own little world, and water dripped down her chest to all the places he wanted so badly to see.

  “Saw your picture in there…Annie Oakley,” he said, pretending to be sweet.

  “Oh yeah? That’s me. Esther. Annie. Isabelle.”

  “Yeah, you look like your mom.”

  “I look like my dad,” she said, less enthused.

  “How come you don’t have some guy hanging around here? You’re beautiful, smart.” She had a swimming pool, for shit’s sake. Then it slipped out—like bad food—it ejected. “So, who’s Jerry Blake?”

  Some long seconds passed, and he stared at her, at the droplets of water sitting fat on her skin, at the long, slow drips that rolled. He stayed easy and calm, but he was stupid to bring this guy up.

  “He’s a friend.”

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  Why did she look so damn guilty?

  “Is he your guy or something?”

  She splashed him. “No.”

  “Yeah?” He was moving them around in the shallow end. “What about guys? There’s three of you here. No boyfriends? No sons of the women you work with?”

  “I told you right off…mama’s boys. So, what about you?”

  “I’m just wondering. I saw that guy’s name on that board in your kitchen. Little Timmy’s, too,” he said, trying to be funny with that last part, but Isbe didn’t laugh.

  “What are you looking for, Jules?”

  Pretty soon she was going to figure him out. “I’m looking to get kissed,” he said.

  She kissed him then, and he found his feet real quick and stood and lifted her out of the water some, and they kissed like that; not a first kiss, a familiar kiss now—they leaped right there, and she gave it right back. He’d brought her heat into him because he grabbed her thighs, and talk about satisfying and exciting…touching her so slick and perfect, it came natural to him to pull her in tight. He literally felt the top of his head open like a gun turret while his brain fired to the moon. He was soaring.

  But he was the one to think about it. “Isbe,” he said, breathing like he’d swam against Audie again, “Girl…”

  She eased back in his arms and put her feet on the pool’s bottom, too. “I guess I can’t blame the booze anymore. You’ll probably not respect me…if you ever did.”

  “Hey,” he said, pushing a long strand of hair plastered against her face back toward the rubber cap that looked adorable on her with her little stick-out ears. “It ain’t like that. I know you’re a good girl. I know…”

  “And you’re not so good?” She had raised one of her perfect brows, and she was smiling, thank God, cause no, he wasn’t good.

  “Hey, I’m a guy. We’re supposed to be pigs, right?”

  She laughed now, and he dropped into the water, and there was her beautiful lower half, and he pulled her to him, and her hands went to his shoulders, and he nuzzled her stomach and came back up, slicking his hair back with his hands, then putting his hands on her waist. He was laughing and so was she, and she broke away from him and swam to the deep end, and like a cannonball, Audie was back, jumping over her head almost to the center of the pool.

  Big splash. Jules went under and swam below to where Isbe was. He bobbed up on the wall beside her, Audie’s waves still slapping at them.

  “Ignore him,” he said. “I do.”

  “Can he be ignored?”

  “Takes practice,” he said.

  “I heard that, lover boy,” Audie said. “Hey Isbe, what’s black and white and red all over?”

  “A newspaper,” she said, proud.

  “Bloody nun rolling down a hill,” Jules said.

  “Both wrong,” Audie said, floating on his back. “It’s a sunburned zebra.”

  “Bloody penguin,” Francis said, walking to the edge of the pool in her robe.

  “Baby, come back in,” Audie whined.

  “I just brushed my hair,” Francis said. “And you asked me to tell you when it was one. It is.”

  “Oh, hey, baby, can I get dressed at your place?” Audie said, hurrying to the side and climbing out.

  “I guess,” Francis sighed. “But what kind of job do you interview for at two in the morning?”

  “The kind that pays real money, darlin’,” Audie said, toweling off. “Hey, Jules, we need to roll in ten.” Audie followed Francis through her back door.

  “Ain’t you gonna ask?” Jules said, moving close to Isbe.

  She shrugged. “Do you want me to know?”

  He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t want her to know…he didn’t know himself. Was it shady? Probably. She knew that. This girl wasn’t stupid.

  She was climbing out. He wolf-whistled, like Audie. He had to laugh after. She shook it a little on the top stairs, and she had a big smile. Then she pulled off that cap, and her hair tumbled down her back, and she bent over some and picked up her towel off the chair, and she shook it out and wrapped it around her slim self.

  He got a mouthful of water and had to cough.

  He heard her laughing as she went into the house. He had to wait a couple of minutes to go after her.

  Chapter 9

  Audie’s uncle by marriage was Cabhan Daire. They’d been driving around in his Buick all evening. He claimed he wanted to do what he could for his nephew, and the boys just home. That wasn’t uncommon, not at all. People bought them drinks, paid for their meals in a diner, invited them home for supper. He never went to their houses cause then the questions would start, but he’d learned not to argue when they paid for stuff. He’d learned to say thanks cause money was always tight and these were working people—his people.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave Isbe. He’d never been with a girl for that long and not wanted to get away from her yapping or her perfume, or the sharp corners on the pocket book she flung around while she yammered, or the sound of her clicky heels as she stumbled against his arm, or her shrill laugh. Even
if they’d messed around, especially then, it didn’t slow him down—he spilled his seed, then he wanted to escape.

  It’s like he couldn’t breathe. He had to know he could move.

  He never asked girls out. He picked them up—or more honest—he got drunk and let them pick him up. If they were willing, he’d play it out. That was enough, except in France…that time.

  Then he’d get the hell away. That’s it. That’s how he’d been before the war. Now that he was home, it hadn’t changed.

  But with Isbe, he’d seen himself on her couch…he’d done that. The room was narrow, and there were the doo-dads everywhere, but not too many, and he could almost relax. He imagined he could.

  And when he left her, she didn’t trust him. She’d said, “Well, take care of yourself.” Then she’d smiled and added, “hero.” She looked like a kid, standing there in her nightgown and her robe, her slippers. Her hair was pulled back again. She looked purely beautiful. And pure was—wow. She was undiluted. That’s all he knew, and he was sober when he knew it.

  “I’ll call you,” he’d said because he had big thoughts, and then his words were always shit. But he knew her number.

  “You don’t know my number,” she said.

  He didn’t argue. He’d made his point. That was it. He knew the damn number. He couldn’t encourage this second-guessing. When he said something, he meant it.

  So it had been rocky—their parting. He forgave her enough to kiss her, but he felt angry for some reason. He hated leaving her. But he’d put on a face cause… why not? It had been good between them. He wasn’t a broad, sappy that way—dramatic. He had to go. Did everything with dames have to be so hard?

  And he wasn’t wearing underwear. They’d been wet. Like Audie, he’d thrown his in the trunk. But the girls had helped them get ready. Isbe had combed his hair, put some shit on it that smelled like he had problems with little boys or some shit. He kept touching it and smelling his hand.

  He wondered if the monkeys could smell it.

  “Bobbyo, I’m talking to you,” Jules groused in the mirror.

  “What?” Bobby said without opening his eyes.

  “Smell my hair.”

  “Hell no,” Bobby answered, turning away and not even bothering to open his eyes.

  Audie leaned over and sniffed, close enough Jules imagined his ear was wet. He hit at that gorilla, and his fist connected.

  And it was pretty much like that all the way across town to the tavern where Cabhan held court.

  Mel’s. Everyone knew it, hole in the wall, dark, couple of pool tables in back, further back, in the room, a never-ending card game the coppers pretended not to know about, corned beef sandwiches on Thursday night for the regulars. A pot of ham and cabbage on Saturday, the long, shiny bar, the tables for four between the stools and the wall, a latrine that looked and smelled like five guys died in there yesterday.

  That was where Cabhan had his meets.

  Jules wasn’t impressed by this, even though he kind of loved it, cops and robbers. These kinds of bars, mafia-run, gang-run, thug-run—law and order, baby. You could drink with no hassle from punks, none at all. You could gamble, you name the game—buy something, a radio, a suit, a leather purse, a set of ladies’ underwear in a jewelry box—seven pairs for seven days, the days of the week stitched over the crotch—rings from someone’s grandmother, sausages, hams, maybe a parrot.

  Leave your money on the bar, walk away and shoot pool, come back, and there was your money.

  “Let me do the talkin’,” Audie said, holding the door for him and Bobby, then getting ahead of them and leading them to the back where Cabhan sat. Two guys stood behind the boss, and another was seated before him, gathering some papers. He was older and just leaving, and he maneuvered past them giving them looks of distrust and pity, and Cabhan called after him, “I mean Friday, you sausage-licking greaser.”

  With that poor moog out of the way, Cabhan watched their approach. Of course, they’d been spotted while parking the Buick. One of the guys out there had said he’d take the keys. Audie knew that brick shithouse with the heavy burr like right off the boat. He threw the keys to him.

  Those hubcaps would be in place when they left, and the chrome would be shining. See, that’s how it was. Now they might be taking the bus, but the car would be sterling.

  So they filed toward Cabhan’s table.

  Cabhan wore a nice suit, brown with a stripe. His white shirt was crisp, his red and gold tie was perfect. Jules moved his feet, trying not to burst out laughing to think him and Audie had no skivvies. This guy wanted respect…he should know they were each swinging a big bat.

  And then he had a crazy thought of the many burgomeisters they’d had run-ins with in Germany. In Mel’s, Cabhan was burgomeister. Yeah, it all had a certain charm.

  “Here they are…our boys…back from kicking Kraut ass all across Europe,” Cabhan gushed.

  They grinned. Funny thing, Bobby was German, Jules was some. If someone wouldn’t have come over on the boat fifty, a hundred years ago, maybe they’d be Hans and Heinrich about now.

  But being the big-headed bastards they were—they never expected to lose that war. They only went there to win. They were the U.S.

  Not to say he didn’t notice things over there. When they got into Germany, Jules could see it, the difference. It was cleaner in Germany. Things were made better—the buildings—just better than what he’d seen before. The Germans were strong. But they were wrong.

  The Jews…he didn’t want to think about them here. Why did his mind do this, go all over, especially when he was warning himself to pay attention? That was like open season then, and his thoughts went wild.

  The Jews…those poor people. The camps they liberated. The Jews…

  “Jules,” Audie was saying as he made the introductions.

  Then a couple of guys patted them down.

  “What’s this?” Audie said, laughing, but not really.

  “A welcome home,” Cabhan laughed.

  Uncle Cabhan didn’t shake hands. That was fine. Jules kept his deep in his pockets…near his privates.

  The guy had blonde hair, this finger wave in front, smooth skin, like there were no whiskers, and blue eyes that showed up like two points of ice, even in this seedy light.

  He stood, Cabhan did, and he grinned. “My nephew Arthur.” He came around the table and put a hand on Audie’s shoulder, and with the other cigar-holding hand in the air, he said in a loud voice to the various citizens standing around, “His battalion shot down two hundred and three, four—”

  “Sixty,” Audie interrupted. “Two hundred and sixty…German planes.”

  Cabhan’s cigar was burning away between his fingers. He stuck it between his lips and sucked on it, quiet then. He went back to his chair and sat. “What about that Buick? Bet you never rode anything so smooth,” he said, all smiles again.

  “It was great,” Audie said. “Better than the one Uncle Sam gave us.”

  Bobby and Jules laughed. Their M-16 tanks were Buicks—coffins on wheels, to be more exact.

  Cabhan didn’t laugh. But he did suck on that fat smoke.

  Jules said, “It’s runnin’ rich. Your carburetor needs adjusted.”

  Cabhan chewed on the cigar. “You’re the buddies. Bobby, I seen. You’re the one from St. Louis.”

  Jules didn’t say anything. He’d been in here before, but not when Cabhan was here. Cabhan kept staring him up and down. “Shake their hands, boys.”

  The two big thugs behind Cabhan stepped forward and shook their hands, and a few others around the bar. Irish thugs, a couple of punks, all out to break your hand.

  He didn’t like the way it felt, the looks on their faces—he didn’t hate it—but he’d learned to pay attention; he always did, though being home had made him sloppy. There were guys he could see, and guys he could feel. He didn’t like that.

  He’d been keyed up about this meet-up all day long, and Isbe, she’d calmed him down, and he�
�d bird-dogged on her, and it kept him pleasantly distracted, too much so. He was dull as shit. He didn’t even know if he wanted this and Cabhan knew it. His ice cubes kept landing on Jules.

  He stood straight and looked the big cheese in the eye. He had some change in his pocket, and he kept sifting through it, making noise, so he stopped that. He didn’t even blink.

  “You looking to make some dough?” Cabhan said, his fingers making a tipi. They were too clean, those hands.

  Jules nodded a little. He didn’t want his voice on it yet.

  “Man of few words…or you don’t know many?” Cabhan laughed at his own joke.

  Jules didn’t feel pressed to answer.

  “Not easily provoked, or hard of hearing?” Cabhan said, a little less friendly this time.

  “There gonna be a test?” Jules said, and Cabhan and the goons oohed and aahed then, laughing and adjusting their feet, Cabhan’s fingers tapping against one another.

  “A wise guy,” Cabhan said, all toothy.

  Jules took his hands out of his pockets, widened his feet, and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “No better guy than Jules, Uncle Cabhan,” Audie said, glancing at Jules. Jules knew Audie had just told him to keep his mouth shut. But what was there to lose? A job he wasn’t sure he wanted? Screw Audie and his Uncle Cabhan.

  “You guys want a beer?” Cabhan said.

  For once, they didn’t. A bed sounded better. But it was tricky to refuse a drink.

  “Some other time maybe,” Audie said.

  Cabhan turned to the guy on his left. “You think we can trust guys can’t drink a beer?”

  The big man shrugged, his eyes on Jules.

  “Well…meet’s over,” Cabhan said, straightening his tie. “I’ll let you know. Say hello to my sister-in-law. She says you never call,” he said to Audie.

  “I call every Sunday,” Audie defended himself. “Or a couple of them…or once…she saw me when I came home.”

  Cabhan ignored this. “Wayne, see them out.”

  A couple of them found this funny. Forget this. Jules was eager to get the hell out of here. This moog hadn’t said shit about an actual job.