He looked up from his beer and his ruminations about his boots when he saw Rose come in. The sight of her perked him up. He liked Rose, and missed seeing her at the Anchor, waitressing every morning. She was an easy-tempered, warm-eyed woman who knew when to pour a man a cup of coffee and how to set down a plate of eggs, a rare combination.
“Hey, Rosalie.” He always called her that although her name wasn’t Rosalie, just plain Rose.
“Hi, Schiff.”
“You going to brighten up my afternoon?”
“Why, do you need cheering up? Is something wrong?”
“Nah. Just the four o’clock Thursday blues. I got sick of the office, I’m in trouble at home, I’m getting old.”
Rose hopped up on a barstool a couple down from Schiff and his tidy pile of clean-picked chicken bones. “Why’s Carla mad this time?”
“Oh, hell, it could be lots of things. I didn’t get her the sofa she wanted. I came home late from work two nights in a row. I smiled at a girl on the street because she was so ugly I thought she probably needed it. God only knows.”
Rose chuckled. Most of the time Schiff was a little too much of a strong flavor for her taste, all sex and big talk and buffoonery, but then he’d go and have these little lapses of honesty.
Schiff washed the grease off his fingers delicately with a paper napkin dunked in a little beer. That done, he dug his hands deep into his pants pockets and looked at her pleasantly.
“Do you know of any job openings?” she said.
Schiff raised an eyebrow and smiled the slow, infinitely suggestive smile that had gotten him into so much trouble, welcome and unwelcome, over the years. Rose snorted. “I swear I don’t understand why no one’s shot you yet,” she said. “Not for me, for Eddie Coolbaugh.”
Schiff sobered; he wasn’t one to make light of another man’s troubles. “They having it kind of tough?”
“They’re okay but, you know. He needs to find something. Has he talked to you already?”
Schiff shook his head. “I saw him here the night he quit the mill, though. He was really toasted, he kept saying how Petie wanted him to get a job as a writer, no one could understand what the hell he was talking about. I’ve probably seen him a couple of times since then down at coffee but he hasn’t ever said anything to me. Tell you the truth, I figured he was waiting for Christie to come home and work something out for him. Or that maybe he had something else in the bag. He was talking about buying one of my bikes. For his boy, he said.”
“Oh.”
Schiff sold things on the side, property, vehicles, stereo equipment, it didn’t matter what, he loved the patter and the conquest. Over the years he had sold Eddie a lot of his old stuff: dirt bikes, a camp trailer, once a pickup that lay down and died three months after he bought it. Schiff set him up with a good buy now and then to keep his spirits up.
“Don’t sell him anything right now, Schiff, please?”
“On my honor,” he said, and then, seeing her face, “Hey. Give me a break. On your honor, then.”
“All right.”
Roy, the afternoon bartender, came out from the back and extended a remote phone in Schiff’s direction. “Carla,” Roy mouthed, looking skyward.
“Hi,” said Schiff, already patting his pockets for his car keys. “I know. I was just leaving. Nah, it’s real quiet. A couple of the guys were here, but they just left. Five minutes.” He hung up the phone and gave Rose a puckish smile. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”
Rose nodded. “If you hear of anything, Schiff, let me or Petie know, would you? Or let Eddie know.”
“You got it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Schiff shrugged on his leather jacket and watched Rose turn back to the bar. She was the sort of woman he could imagine rolling around with nice and slow in a big soft bed. He had been with a woman like her for a while after he came back from Vietnam years ago. She had been one of the nicest women he’d ever known, and he’d treated her badly; he’d seen someone else on the side the whole time, a stripper in a club, a low-challenge kind of good-time gal who hadn’t gotten in the way at all until he forgot which night he was supposed to see who and the whole thing had turned to crap. He couldn’t remember the nice woman’s name anymore, but she had told him right up front she didn’t care what he did with his own time, just as long as he came home to her at night. He’d sure fucked up with her. He sometimes wondered if Carla was some kind of payback.
ROSE ORDERED a beer for Petie just as the front door opened and Petie rushed in, brushing her hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. Without a word she sat down, picked up the cold beer Rose pushed towards her, and drank half.
“Eddie was bitching because he wanted to go out himself, and then Ryan got worried and wanted to come with me, which got Loose started chanting Fraidy, Fraidy. I told them I was going out to buy a gun.”
“Oh, Petie.” Rose chuckled and took a long drink. “Schiff was in here just now.”
“Oh, no,” Petie said. All the years she had known him, Schiff had driven her crazy. Old Man used to say, I got no use for salesmen or fools, and on that one point Petie totally agreed.
“He said Eddie’s been talking to him about buying one of his bikes,” Rose said.
“If Eddie buys one of Schiff’s bikes, he’ll be wearing it next time you see him.”
“I talked to Schiff a little bit and he promised he wouldn’t sell Eddie anything. He said he’d let one of us know if he heard about any jobs.”
“Well, I picked up a copy of the paper on the way. Maybe there’s something in the job listings.” She slapped the paper on the bar and leafed through rapidly, pausing over a half-page advertisement for Souperior’s that listed all the soups, breads and desserts for the coming week. Soup’s on at Souperior’s, it read. Bread and dessert, too. Like you wish your mother had made.
Petie pulled out the want ads. It was a skinny section; not much around.
“God, these are the same jobs Eddie didn’t get last week. I mean, there’s zip.” Petie looked over the section twice to be sure, and then drained the last of her beer. Rose noticed little slack places by the corners of her mouth she’d never noticed before; her jacket collar was too big, as though she’d lost weight. Rose knew people who didn’t like Petie, thought she was mean-tempered and hard as a bone. Nadine, for one, was scared to death of her. But Rose thought of Petie, with wonder, as a woman who’d crossed a landscape barren as a salt flat and come out the other side no tougher than she’d had to, and sometimes softer than she could afford.
“Hey,” said Rose. “We’re doing Connie’s barley beef in the morning, so get some rest.”
“I’m not brewing the herb stock ahead of time,” Petie said. “I’m telling you that right now. She can just go and fuck the herb stock.”
“No,” Rose soothed. “I think we can skip that part.”
· · ·
EDDIE COOLBAUGH should have been home already; the boys had usually finished eating and gotten into the tub by now. Petie had finally given up five minutes ago and fed them; they were so hungry they hadn’t even objected to soup again, and anyway Petie had begun to buy their cooperation with day-old Souperior’s desserts, the richer the better.
Loose was telling Ryan about a rat one of his friends claimed his father had seen the night before on the bay front over in Sawyer.
“It was this long,” Loose said with gusto, spreading hand and spoon twenty inches apart, dripping soup on the floor. “And that’s without the tail. Creechy’s dad said it was so big it didn’t run, it just turned around and hissed at him. He said its eyes were red. Cool!”
Ryan shuddered faintly and stopped eating.
“Give us a break, Loose,” Petie said. She was pacing from her stove to the window to her soup pot to the back door to her stove. She was worried that something had happened to Eddie. They couldn’t afford for something to have happened.
“But Creechy’s dad said—”
“A
ll right,” said Petie. “We heard what Creechy’s dad said. Eat your dinner. And you better watch where the soup goes. In your mouth, not on the floor. Ryan, you eat a little more, too.”
“Then tell him not to talk about rats anymore.”
“Loosey, don’t talk about rats anymore.”
“Baby,” Loose said to Ryan. A vicious foot scuffle broke out under the table.
Petie sprang at them and brought her fist down so hard on the tabletop that Ryan’s milk sloshed out of his glass.
“Okay,” she said, blowing on the side of her hand. “Now finish your dinners. It’s late.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“If I knew that, wouldn’t I have told you the last five times you asked? Give me a break, Loose, all right? He’ll be home soon.”
The boys finished their meal quickly and in silence. The phone rang as Petie was clearing the table. It was Eddie.
“Hey, nice of you to call,” said Petie. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Chill out, Petie. I was talking to Roy about anything he’d heard might open up.”
Petie softened. That was important. “Anything?”
“No,” said Eddie. “But he said he’d let me know if he hears about anything.”
Petie waited silently.
“I’ll be there in a little while,” Eddie said.
“What do you mean, a little while?”
“Roy said he’d seen Schiff, and Schiff said he had something for me. I’m going to see if he’s at the Anchor.”
“Don’t go talk to Schiff, Eddie. He’s just going to try and sell you something. Don’t let him sell you anything. Eddie?”
He had hung up.
Petie cleared away the dishes, washed down the table and counters, got ready for tomorrow’s work and then sat at the table and put her head in her hands. She could feel her blood throbbing in her neck, as though her arteries were too tight. If Eddie didn’t find a job by Friday, she would have to ask their landlord for an extra few weeks on their rent. By Friday, when their electric bill came due, they’d be totally broke. Unless, of course, they went broke sooner. If Schiff pulled a fast one, for instance. Or if Eddie did something stupid. Petie had seen the dirt bike lying dead on the lawn. She knew what was what. That bike’s riding days were over for good, which meant that Eddie was probably keeping his spirits up by shopping around for another one. Cutting some stupid deal with Schiff for when he had money again.
It was suddenly too much. With fury, Petie headed for the telephone, grabbed the receiver and the phone book, and flipped to the S’s.
RON SCHIFFEN had just poured a nice little Jack Daniel’s for himself, lowered himself into his recliner and switched on the network news. He’d started to go by the Anchor for a quick one on his way home but found too many tourists hanging around the lounge. Sometimes it was a kick to mingle—one time he and Carla had been set up for some pretty kinky stuff after an evening of drinks and racy cross couple flirting, until Carla figured it out—but tonight he hadn’t been much in the mood. For one thing, he’d taken a fall back in the hills behind his house while he was dirt-bike riding yesterday, and now he had a gimpy leg that would never have slowed him down even five years ago.
Connie Chung came on, and Schiff kicked back and put his boots up—the old ones, welcome as house slippers after another day in Foo-Foo Boot Hell. Schiff watched for a few minutes and thought again what he always thought: Connie Chung was one fine-looking lady. Too bad about her and Maury Povitch not having any luck with kids. Connie Chung was pretty old, though. Imagine wanting kids at that age. Schiff had had himself fixed a long time ago so he’d never have to worry. He had a stepkid he hadn’t seen in twelve years. And then there was Randi the Makeup Queen, sixteen and sweet as cheap syrup when she needed something, biting as turpentine when she didn’t. Carla’s daughter.
When the phone rang, Carla yelled at him to get it. She was always yelling at him. He got it.
“If you talk to Eddie, I’ll wring your neck,” a furious little voice said in his ear.
“Huh?”
“This is Petie Coolbaugh. Eddie’s out there right now looking for you because Roy told him you said you had something for him. Schiff, I swear to God if you sell him your dirt bike, or if you even talk to him about the possibility of selling your dirt bike, or if you so much as say you’ve got a dirt bike to sell, I’ll break your knees.”
Schiff smiled a happy smile, switched off Connie with the remote and swallowed some of his drink. “Now, that’s interesting. Would you actually know how to break my knees? It’s not that easy, you know.”
“Shut up, Schiff.”
“Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you try. You always were cute when you got mad. You get this little twitch in the corner of your mouth. I bet no one’s ever told you that.”
“God, Schiff. How can anyone stand you?”
“Because I’m cute. And I’m easy. Not cheap, never cheap, but definitely easy.”
“Where’s Carla, anyway?”
“Out of earshot.”
“I could have guessed that.”
Schiff chuckled silently and let Petie swing in the silence for a couple of minutes before he said, “Would you like to start this conversation over now that your hairs are back in place?”
Petie sighed deeply on the other end of the line. “Would you listen if I did?”
“Yes, I would. I’m a good listener. You should try me. So to speak.”
Petie hesitated. “Just don’t sell Eddie a dirt bike, Schiff, all right? Or make any deals for a future sale? I’m afraid he’s going to try to work something out with you, and he can’t right now. He just can’t. That’s all. We can’t afford it, Schiff, all right?”
“You should trust me more. I already promised Rose I’d keep the bike away. I don’t break my word.”
“So you weren’t going to try and sell him a bike?”
“No.”
“Then why were you trying to find him?”
“Actually,” said Schiff, beaming into the receiver, “one of my drivers quit this afternoon. I was going to offer him a job.”
“Oh.”
“G’night, Petie. And hey, thanks for calling.”
He hung up the receiver gently, a happy man. Well, well, well. He’d flustered Petie Coolbaugh. God, but he’d always wanted to.
AT ONE time, after he got back from Vietnam, Schiff had worked as a carnival roustabout. It was a hard life, full of bad food, dirt, physical hardship, tents-for-two when the weather was good, a few hours’ sleep grabbed in one of the mechanical trailers when it wasn’t; always moving on. That was the draw, too—no threats, no roots, no carryover.
And of course, there were the girls. The carnival traveled Oregon’s small-town circuit, and wherever they went there were girls cruising the midway in tight jeans, slinky skirts, oversized jackets, smoking cigarettes and talking about whether or not to punch another hole in their ears for just one more stud, half-moon or imitation diamond chip. The shy ones stayed beyond the range of Schiff’s ring toss booth, watching him; the bold ones came right up with their slidey eyes, hip-shot walks, blowing smoke, lifting their hair high and slow in their hands to cool off. So many girls coming and going, orbiting around him because he looked so good: lean and hard from hoisting Ferris wheels and fun houses around, easy with a smile, always clean even if it meant bathing from the sink of a filling station restroom: no grease under his nails, always careful with his hair.
At the end of the evening some of the girls usually stayed to take him out. There’d be a few hours of hanging out in some church parking lot that stood in for a cruise strip, or at some tired A&W drive-in where they didn’t serve the cars anymore but people brought their stuff out and ate in them, anyway, local habit. And by the end, when everyone else was giving up and heading for home, there was usually one girl who had fallen for him hard enough to think she understood him, or that he understood her, who’d take him at last in a backseat or on the couch of a borro
wed living room at a brother’s girlfriend’s place. Some of them were good girls, not as tough as they wanted him to think, scared that they were actually doing what they’d only meant to think about doing. These girls he took great care with: whispered to, held hands with before and after, protected with a condom even if they said they were already on something (and this was before AIDS, so it was sheer courtesy).
And then, inevitably, there were the other girls, the hard girls who were using him to get back at a boyfriend, a husband, a mother or stepfather. As long as he kept on his toes, these girls made simple good-time lays, more like sporting events; these girls tended to be the biters, the hair-tossers, the athletic types who expected him to step lively even after fourteen hours of carnival labor and heat and dust.
Once they’d been in a small town in central Oregon, someplace Schiff couldn’t remember the name of anymore. It had been June or July, just another hot day cooling into a high-desert night, except that a strange girl had come and stood on the outer fringes of his area, watching him work the girls cruising his booth. She had had a farm tan and thick, deep red hair—the red of heat, of temper—pulled back loosely with the twist tie from a bread bag. Her face was thin and cagey like a fox, and she was smiling. She looked poor and smart and a little bit dangerous.
“Hey, cowboy,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest, crossed her thin legs at the ankles.
“Hey.”
“You’re pretty good at that,” she said.
“At what?”
She looked a passing girl up and down, and then turned back to him. For a second he panicked, wondering if she might be the kid sister of some girl he’d laid in another nearby small town, out to avenge her. But he’d have remembered anyone with family coloring like that, plus this girl looked too amused. Family members did not find him amusing. He winked.
“Move on, cowboy.”
Stung, he said, “What makes you think I’d make you an offer?”
Going to Bend Page 4
