And that was the moment, seeing how badly Vern was screwing up, that Derek stopped believing Vern would ever get him a horse.
Derek did not tell Vern about the following-man when Vern staggered out of bed and plunged into the bathroom they shared with the room next door. Derek has learned not to tell Vern bad news. All Vern does when confronted with a problem of his own making is to yell and spit right onto the floor, to ball his fists and blame Derek for everything. Sometimes he even cuffs Derek on the side of the head. Derek takes it because he needs someone to make the plans, and for now that is Vern, but the taking of it does not mean he likes it. And it does not mean he is not thinking of some way to cuff Vern back.
Derek is sitting on the stoop across from the hotel the day after, sitting there because Vern is lying on the bed watching TV in their little room. Vern always turns the volume so loud that it hurts Derek’s ears. And there is the matter of the fleas that live like fat guests in their room. So Derek is outside, not thinking much of anything, just sad about the horse, when he sees the following-man again. The sharp-faced man walks into the hotel and a few moments later walks out of the hotel. He sees Derek watching him and he waves. Derek waves back and gives his grin. The man smiles at him before walking up and down the block, walking around the building, looking up to the top of the hotel. Then he comes over to Derek’s side of the street, comes over, in fact, to a spot right next to Derek.
Derek is not so much afraid as he is curious. What is the following-man up to? Derek gets a closer look at him. His nose is long and narrow, his eyes are wide, his mouth is small, his hair sits up like fur. He almost looks like an animal, sharp and cuddly at the same time, like a dark-brown hamster, or a rat. Yeah, like a rat. Derek likes rats, feeds them when he sees them in the hotels that Vern picks. The man leans back against the wall with one leg propped behind him and his hands in his pockets.
“Hi,” says the man without looking down at Derek.
“Hi,” says Derek.
“What are you doing sitting out here?”
“The TV’s too loud inside,” says Derek.
“And it’s quieter out here in the street?”
“Except when a truck goes by. But I like to be outside. I like to see things.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Derek.”
“I bet you don’t miss much, Derek.”
“I just sit and look.”
“And see things.”
“Sometimes.”
“How about an old man, thin, his yellow hair combed back. You ever see him?”
“Tattoos?”
“On each forearm.”
“Yes.”
“I’m impressed. You must have really good eyes, Derek. He’s staying in that hotel. Did you see him today?”
“Not today.”
“He got in late last night, so he’s probably still inside.”
“Are you a friend?” says Derek.
“I’m like a friend, but not really.”
“What’s that?”
“More like a relative, maybe. The kind that you only see on Thanksgiving.”
“I loved Thanksgiving.”
“But not anymore?”
“Vern doesn’t do Thanksgiving.”
“Who’s Vern?”
“The man I live with.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s very nice.”
“He used to be,” says Derek, “but not anymore.”
“You staying in there, too?” says the man.
“Yes.”
“The Parker Hotel. I’ve heard stories about the Parker. Do you like it in there?”
“There are fleas.”
“I bet there are.”
“You bet a lot,” says Derek.
“You want to know something funny? You just figured out the biggest problem in my life. How’d you get so smart?”
“I do not try to be smart.”
The man laughs. “That’s your answer right there. Do you want to see a trick?”
Derek smiles eagerly. He loves tricks. “Yes, please.”
The man reaches into his pocket for something and then sits down next to Derek. “My name’s Cody, and I’m pleased to meet you, Derek.”
Cody holds out his hand to shake, and Derek, wondering if that is the trick, holds back for a bit. Cody keeps smiling warmly, baring his teeth like a smiling rat, and Derek finally puts his hand in Cody’s hand. Cody takes hold of it, but not roughly like Vern would, trying to control everything. He takes it gently, gives it a quick shake, and then turns it so it is faceup. When Cody removes his hand, Derek can see something in his own palm.
“A penny,” says Derek. “That is a good trick.”
“That’s not the trick,” says Cody, with a sly smile. Derek likes the way Cody talks to him, like Derek is an old friend instead of someone to shout at. A lot of people speak really slowly and raise their voices, as if Derek is deaf. Vern used to talk to him as nicely as Cody before he upped his drinking and turned mean.
“Now keep your hand outstretched,” says Cody. “I’m going to try to take that penny from you, and you’re going to try to stop me, but you can’t close your hand or take it away until I make my move. Okay?”
“Okay,” says Derek.
Derek holds his hand open with the penny in it, his tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration. Cody cups his hand with his fingers pointing straight down so their tips form a circle around the penny.
“Are you ready?” says Cody.
“Ready.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“You sure you’re sure?”
“I am sure I am—”
Just then Cody’s hand darts down so that his fingers tap Derek’s palm. As quick as a snake, Derek snatches his hand away and forms it into a tight fist. And when he feels the penny still in his hand, he starts laughing.
“What’s so funny?” says Cody.
“I have the penny. You did not get it.”
“You sure?”
“Sure,” says Derek as he lifts his fist and opens it in front of Cody to show that he still has the—wait, wait—what is that in his palm?
“That looks like a quarter to me,” says Cody.
“How?”
“It was just a trick.”
“It is a good trick,” says Derek, offering the quarter to Cody. “Here.”
“Keep it,” says Cody. “The old guy you spotted. Do you know anything about him? Does he hang out with anyone?”
“There sometimes is someone with him.”
“Who?”
“Just a guy. Strong.”
“Muscle, huh? That’s good to know. Does the old man leave the hotel the same time every day?
“He goes out at night.”
“Where does he go, do you know?”
“Out to drink.”
“Anyplace in particular?”
“Down the street, that way. It has a name.”
“A name.”
“Like a person’s name.”
Cody turns his head to look down the street the way Derek pointed and then nods. “Dirty Frank’s.”
“Yes.”
“Does he go with the muscle?”
“No. Alone.”
“Do you know when he goes?”
“Only after it is dark. He does not like going out in the day. But when he comes back, it is late and he sometimes falls down.”
“You think you could find me his room number?”
“Maybe. How did you do that trick? How did you change the penny into a quarter?”
“Want me to show you?”
“Are you allowed?”
“Sure I am, Derek, if you promise not to tell any other magicians. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”
“I promise.”
“Okay. Let me teach you.”
Cody then teaches Derek how to do the trick. He first shows Derek how to pick the penny out of someone’s palm with one clean move. And then how to hide the
quarter in the cupped palm. And then how to do the switch. He goes through it slowly, carefully, making sure that Derek understands each step, letting him practice the moves after each piece of the explanation. Cody makes what seems complicated into something very simple, and Derek likes that. And the whole time he speaks to Derek, he never raises his voice or slows his words.
“Now you have to practice,” says Cody after he’s shown him everything. “It takes a lot of practice.”
“I will, I promise.”
“Take the penny along with the quarter,” says Cody. “I’ve got plenty of other tricks to teach you once you master this.”
Derek looks at the following-man’s rat face and feels something blossom in his chest, some certainty. This Cody does have tricks to teach him. Derek loves learning tricks. And Derek likes the way Cody talks to him. Much nicer than Vern. More like Tree, who Derek had liked the most of all the men who had taken care of the details, until that job in Harrisburg went bad. He missed Tree.
“Do you like animals?” says Derek.
“I love animals,” says Cody.
“I like horses. I always wanted a horse. I would take such good care of a horse.”
“I bet you would,” says Cody. “Keep dreaming, Derek. Something will come up. It’s amazing how many dreams come true.”
“I know a trick,” says Derek.
“Really, what kind of trick?”
“I can open doors.”
“That’s a good trick.”
“Any door.”
“I guess you can, so long as it’s not locked.”
“It does not matter.”
“Even if it’s locked?”
Derek just shrugs.
“Can you show me?” says Cody.
“If you want.”
“Let’s go,” says Cody.
Around the block from the hotel is a maze of narrow streets, with some businesses, some houses. Cody walks slowly enough for Derek to walk beside him as Cody takes them through the neighborhood. He is looking for something, and on Manning Street he finds it. It is an old street, almost too narrow for cars, and the end of the block butts up against a building, so there are no pedestrians walking along the street. Cody walks up to the entrance of one of the houses and knocks on the door. No answer. He knocks again. No answer. He tries the doorknob. It will not turn.
“Okay, Derek,” says Cody. “Let’s see your trick.”
As Cody backs away, Derek steps up to the door. It is an old door, with a deadbolt and a lock on the knob. Derek shields the lock with his body so Cody cannot see him work. It is a trick after all, and he does not want to give away all his secrets just yet. Working as quickly as he can, he picks the deadbolt pin by pin before turning it with the wrench and then brushing open the flimsy lock on the knob. When he is finished, with the door still closed, he backs away from the door.
“Done,” says Derek.
“You’re crapping me,” says Cody.
“I do not need to go to the bathroom.”
Cody looks at Derek, at the door, back at Derek. Then he steps up to the door and takes hold of the knob. It turns easily. And when Cody pushes, the door swings open. Cody ruffles his forehead as looks again at Derek and then peeks his head inside the house.
“Nice,” says Cody. “A flatscreen on the wall, a chandelier in the dining area, and some paintings of old dead people probably worth a load.”
When Cody closes the door again, he looks at Derek but does not quite look at Derek. It is like he is looking beyond Derek, at something in the distance, even though all that is behind Derek is a brick wall.
“Hey, Derek,” says Cody. “You ever just go in and just take stuff?”
“That would be stealing,” says Derek.
“Yes, of course. You’re right, that would be stealing. And you’re too good a kid to do something like that, I can see that.”
“But that is just me,” says Derek. “You can do what you want.”
Derek watches Cody’s expression as it changes from puzzlement to surprise to calculation before he turns back to look at the unlocked door.
22.
GIMLET
Annie Overmeyer was drunk. Again.
She didn’t mean to be drunk, again. That wasn’t her intention, ever. Her intention, always, was to be the kind of girl she had thought she was destined to become as she stood awkwardly in the overheated hallway of her high school, disappearing unnoticed into the pale green of the wall tiles, clutching her books tight to her chest. Like all young girls misfitting their way through high school, she had dreamed of the kind of woman she would grow into, sharp and funny and supremely competent, loyal to her friends, hip enough to be cool without being ridiculous, beautiful beyond belief and desired by all yet too preoccupied with her important and meaningful life to notice. But most of all she wanted to be good.
What did it mean to be good? Well, for starters, it didn’t mean being drunk, again. Good women didn’t get drunk. Oh, maybe they got a bit tipsy as they sipped Champagne at an art opening with their fashionable boyfriends or loving husbands. But not drunk, no, not liquored up by a pawing out-of-towner trying to get a little action while his wife knitted back in Ottumwa. And it’s not like the red-faced conventioneer had to try so damn hard, like she was an ice princess up on her pedestal waiting to be thawed by a precise magical invocation. These days, give Annie anything with vodka and a little sophisticated patter and it was enough to raise her skirt. But this evening’s stiff couldn’t even follow that simple a script. It was all maudlin and sad, the rough economy, the frigid wife, the boy in the wheelchair. And have another drink, sweetie. And another. And why don’t I get us a bottle?
She had put a kibosh on that one, not quickly enough to avoid the steady stream of Vodka Gimlets that sent her senses swirling, but quickly enough to avoid the rest of the pathetic playlet. Last thing she needed was to be in an overheated hotel room with a bottle of cheap liquor and some middle-aged man in his drawers blubbering about his son in the wheelchair. Maybe the photograph worked wonders in Ottumwa, but that was only one more reason to stay the hell out of Iowa.
So she was walking home alone, thank God, staggering a bit what with the heels and the alcohol, but on her way home. Which she never should have left that night. It hadn’t seemed so wrong at first, she’d just had to get out of the apartment, couldn’t stand another night of Lifetime, with the plucky heroine finding her inevitable redemption in the least likely of men. But she’d had no plans, no one special to meet, nothing definite on the horizon, and nights without plans these days almost always ended like this, with Annie drunk and the lingering scent of some slobbering out-of-towner on her neck.
Except this one had a coda that was worse than most.
When she bid her adieu to the gray hair and jowls, said good-bye abruptly and a bit too loudly, what with all the drink, said good-bye despite his protestations and the grip on her arm that she had to pry off finger by finger, she saw something painful in his eyes. Not the disappointment over thwarted lust she had expected, but something else, something worse: the sweet bath of relief. Like all along it hadn’t been him trying to seduce her, but her, the big-city temptress, leading a God-fearing man of the heartland down the lascivious path toward hellfire.
Sometimes you only saw yourself clearly in the eyes of those you’ve left, and what you saw was a horror.
If she hadn’t been drunk, she might have tried to figure out how the girl in the high-school hallway, who always intended to be good, had let her life slip so brutally away from her. But that was the question she had been drinking to avoid, and now, drunk and tired, avoidance was successfully achieved. No questions to be asked, no answers to be sought. As she approached her apartment building, a converted town house on Pine Street, she looked forward to nothing but the oblivion of a dreamless stupor-like sleep. She would lurch through the foyer and up the steps, scrape her key into the lock, kick off her heels the moment she stepped in the door, and collapse gratefully atop
her king-sized bed, only to awake in the morning still in her skirt and shirt, with a line of drool marking the pancake on her cheek. Her life was too marvelous to—
“Annie. Finally. Where have you been?”
It took a moment to shift her focus from anticipation of the sweet relief of sleep to the man now barring her from her building’s door, a small, fastidious man with pale skin and rimless glasses.
“Gordy,” she said in a light, slurry voice. “I mean Gordon. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. Wondering where you were.”
“I was out.”
“Tramping around, no doubt.”
“Don’t pout, Gordy.” She closed her eyes and waved her hand at her mistake, remembering that Gordy didn’t like the diminutive form of his name, being diminutive enough as it was. “Gordon. Pouting is unbecoming a man of your position. Yes, I was out tramping. Lawyers lawyer, doctors doctor, tramps tramp. None of us can help ourselves.”
The man twisted his thin lips in disgust. “You’re drunk.”
“You think so? By golly, I was wondering why the world was spinning right around me, as if it were an amusement ride designed to make me throw up. Can you feel it? No? Then I guess you’re right, it is only me. Funny, I only went out for a drink and here I am drunk. How does that happen, do you think?”
“I’ve been calling you over and over. Why don’t you return my calls?”
“Because you’ve been calling me over and over.” She looked a little more carefully at his neatly cut hair and his handsome face, lost her balance for a moment and regained it, saw the pain in his eyes and was strangely glad. Why should she be alone? “You’re a sweet man, and we had fun, but we had this scene already, didn’t we? And I’m of the opinion that the first is always the best. I’m moving on and you’re going to go back to your wife, we both decided.”
“You decided.”
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous?”
“My wife won’t have me back. She’s filing for divorce.”
“It seems to happen more and more. A plague of divorces spreading about me like…like the plague.”
“She says she can never forgive me and it’s over. And she’s right, it is over. I don’t want her, I want you. I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you feel and smell, the way you—”
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