Property Of, the Drowning Season, Fortune's Daughter, and At Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  The curtains were drawn. No electricity shone, yet the apartment was bright: sunlight filtered in through the covered windows, and the living room was decorated in white. I sat on a white couch and unzipped my boots. I could no longer feel my feet. Baby Perez stood behind a bar mixing drinks. His face was sallow, his hair long and wild. He wore a dark mustache and beard, and pierced through one ear was a small gold hoop.

  I stared at the black-and-white silk shirt. “Who is this Perez?” I whispered to McKay.

  “Who is Perez?” Perez said. “Baby Perez is a gypsy, and good at whatever he does.”

  McKay laughed and told me that Perez’s lawyer had pleaded a habit to get him six months at Omen House rather than several years upstate. Perez, however, was and always had been clean. He was a dealer, not a user, and had people working for him in Brooklyn and the Bronx. The only clients he dealt with personally were—Perez now interrupted—“rock stars and rich bitches.” Once again McKay laughed.

  “The money you sent?” I said.

  “An advance,” McKay said, and he smiled at Perez. “We’re going into business.”

  Perez smiled at me. Some of his teeth were gold. I was not impressed.

  “What business?”

  “Darling,” McKay said.

  “We going to take the Avenue by storm,” Perez said.

  “You don’t know the Dolphin,” I said.

  Perez shrugged. “A fish.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “But I do,” McKay said, and I was silent. “We’re going to take over. Perez becomes the connection for the entire Avenue, and we take over.”

  “We have to go through this again?” I said to McKay.

  “Again and again,” he said.

  “Do what you want.”

  “Do what I want.” He laughed softly.

  Perez handed me a double scotch and water, and McKay walked to the bar and returned sipping from a bottle of Chivas Regal. We drank the afternoon away.

  “I’ve got business to attend to,” Perez said finally. He was indeed a hustler: a weekend pass and all Perez could think of was dealing. He tossed a key to McKay and said, “Later.”

  “Later,” McKay said, and Perez sauntered out of the apartment. McKay and I were left silent and alone amid the white decor. I sipped scotch until I could feel the warmth down to my feet and then I turned to McKay.

  “You’re insane,” I said to him.

  “Tell me about it.” He laughed.

  But I would not tell him about it. I would not mention death, the Dolphin, or the needle. I shook my head and refused.

  “I’m no frigging idiot,” McKay said softly. “I know the Dolphin’s tricks, but I’m going to get him.”

  “Honor,” I said.

  “Honor, like hell,” said McKay. “Just a little no-good nastiness.”

  “You couldn’t fight the Dolphin before.”

  “Bullshit. I didn’t know how pure that junk he gave me was.”

  “McKay,” I said. He lied; I knew he lied. In the alley behind the Orphans’ clubhouse, McKay had committed suicide. I had touched the coldness of his body, had heard the labored breathing.

  “Don’t give me any crap,” McKay warned, and I let it be for a while. We kissed like strangers and drank more scotch.

  “You’re straight?” I asked and McKay sighed. “Are you going to be straight?”

  “I’m going to be smart.”

  “Oh shit,” I said. More war and more dope, and more waiting.

  “Let’s drop it,” McKay said. “Let’s drop any talk of the Avenue.”

  McKay walked across the room and turned on a stereo. I counted the ribs of my turtleneck sweater. When he returned to sit near me, he said, “So, what’s the story with the Orphans?” He looked unconcerned, lit a cigarette.

  “I don’t see much. I don’t hear much.”

  “What do you know?” he insisted. “Who do you see?”

  “I’ve seen Tosh.”

  “He wears my jacket?”

  I hesitated. “He wears your jacket.”

  McKay cursed.

  “Tony’s around. He’s putting the money down on the Chevy now. He thinks you’re going to race again.”

  “What makes you think I won’t when all this is over?” McKay said. “In the spring, maybe in the spring.”

  When all what was over? Did McKay believe there would be an end to a war he would not allow to end?

  “Irene,” I said. “And Starry.”

  “Starry, what do you need her for?”

  I told McKay about Starry, hoping that if he heard her troubles, how bad her habit was, and that she hadn’t enough money for an abortion, he would feel easier about our friendship. But he only scowled.

  “Cut that girl loose, you hear? I don’t want you with trash.”

  My seeing Starry, even hearing her name, brought back the Orphans, brought back honor, and memories McKay did not want, and so I was silent.

  After a time McKay said, “And Jose?”

  “What do you mean, Jose?” I said, turning my head and fumbling with the liquor bottle.

  “Fucking a cop?” he said. “No discretion.”

  “You left me alone. What did you expect?”

  “More,” he said.

  I had expected McKay to know better. I touched his shoulder. “We’re better with silence,” I said, and he smiled.

  We went into the bedroom. As we did I was afraid that between the sheets in an unknown bed in this white apartment I would suddenly realize that this was not McKay at all, that the man I made love with had simply stolen McKay’s smile and eyes and was only a pretender. When we passed by a gilded mirror that hung in the hallway I did not recognize McKay’s reflection.

  “Your hair,” I could not help but say.

  McKay ran one hand over his head. “Me and Tosh could be twins now.” He laughed.

  “Never,” I said.

  “It’s this behaviorism shit they do at Omen House. You fuck up, and they shave your head to let you know if anyone is boss it sure as shit ain’t you.”

  In the bedroom the curtains were drawn. McKay reached his hand out to switch on the light. I stopped him.

  “In the dark?” he said. I was silent. “You can have it any way you want it,” McKay said. I touched my finger to his lips and felt the curve of a smile.

  I undressed in the dark, dropping my clothes in a heap on the thick white carpet.

  “About Jose,” I said as I lay in bed and watched McKay unbutton his shirt. Should I say that each time I lay with someone else I was only imagining McKay? Would he believe me if I said I was always waiting for him?

  “I don’t want to know,” he said, and he sat on the edge of the mattress to remove his boots, and then his jeans.

  “McKay.”

  “Listen. Is it still going on?”

  “No,” I said. I would call Jose the next day and inform him that McKay would soon be free from Omen House.

  McKay nodded. “Then there’s nothing to know.”

  That was not true, but I did not say a word. He was touching me, and he seemed less and less a stranger and so I did not say another word. For six months I had waited for McKay, for six months I had not made love, I had only tried with another body not to be alone. The touch of a hand moving down my back, the rhythm of our breathing, and I felt, finally, after six months of waiting, that I could again move as a lover.

  I forgot the Avenue. I forgot its addresses and faces. Kid Harris and the Dolphin had never been. Starry was miles away. And there was no particular way I wanted it; I only wanted McKay. I wanted him inside me. I wanted not to be waiting and alone. When I lay on my side, I felt the cold silver of the locket between my breasts and was for a moment reminded of the power and spells of the Avenue. I tasted the liquor on McKay’s tongue, and I forgot once more. I wanted him to move faster; I did not want to wait. I moved my legs around McKay’s; I touched my finger to his skin; I felt his whisper, but I did not hear any words. After h
e came, we lay close; my legs were around him still; I listened to the silence of the room. I did not feel cold any longer; and although I tasted scotch I did not feel drunk. My thighs were wet, and I lay in silence; I still felt as if I was waiting.

  “McKay,” I said. He did not answer. He may have been asleep. I did not know if he dreamed of the Orphans; his breathing was deep. Lying in the white apartment, listening to silence, I did not think he dreamed of me. I tried to sleep. I counted, made lists, recalled song lyrics and correct spellings. Each time I fell into a dream, I woke. Each time I woke, I heard a clock, hidden somewhere in the bedroom, tick louder. I could not sleep.

  In the morning, I watched McKay until he opened his eyes. When he smiled I did not fear the beat of a clock quite so much. With McKay awake, I did not want to leave the bed, but I knew he had Perez to meet. He had to sign in to Omen House. I dressed and went into the kitchen to boil water.

  I was standing with a white coffee percolator in my hand when McKay followed and told me we had no time for breakfast.

  “No time?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “Not enough.”

  “There’ll be time,” McKay said. “I’m out for good in two weeks, and then there’ll be time.”

  In two weeks there would be more meetings with Perez; there would be the Dolphin and the Avenue to be dealt with; there would be dope; there would be the Chevy; and there would most certainly not be enough time.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “Believe me,” he said.

  What could I do? I said I believed him. I followed McKay from the apartment; he locked the door and then slipped the key underneath so that it rested on the thick living-room carpet. We went outside and stopped at a corner. McKay held a lit cigarette inside one coat pocket to warm his hand; his other hand held mine.

  “Last night,” he said. “About last night.”

  “Last night?” I said.

  The Sunday traffic was light, but the few cars skidded gently on the icy streets. Near us a newspaper vendor was selling thick, heavy papers. McKay backed into a shop doorway. He signaled me to move with him. We stood very close.

  “Was it good for you?” he said.

  He had never asked me before and I regretted that he asked me now. It was better, yes, than before, because making love with a junkie was hardly anything at all. Last night had been better, but not good.

  “Yes,” I said, and McKay smiled.

  “It’s gonna get better. Everything is gonna get better.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” McKay said. “There’s a shitload of money in cocaine.”

  Cocaine, cocaine—one white powder was the same as another.

  “You gonna meet rock stars and rich girls,” I said.

  “You wait,” McKay said. “You wait and see.”

  I saw Baby Perez walking down Jones Street toward us. “You don’t have to go back to the Avenue,” I said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Perez glided on ice toward us.

  “You like cocaine?” I said to McKay.

  He shrugged. “It’s fine, but not the best.”

  “You’ve been doing cocaine while you’re in the House?”

  “Doing it?” McKay said. “I been selling it.”

  I meant to laugh, but no sound came from my throat. “You got a way about you,” I said.

  McKay’s eyes spotted Perez. “Two weeks,” McKay said. “Wait two more weeks.”

  I looked into McKay’s eyes, eyes so dark they could almost make me forget I would be waiting as long as I was with him. With McKay I would wait for something that would never, could never, come.

  I smiled, and then watched McKay walk away from me. He and Perez shook hands and disappeared together through the doorway of Omen House. I waited until I could no longer see them, and then turned toward the subway station.

  TEN

  PLANS AND MORE OF THEM

  1

  If McKay had attempted to call, he would have discovered the phone had been left off the hook; I did not check the mailbox for letters; and carrier pigeons landing on our window ledge would have found their beaks up against glass, chipped paint would have caught between their talons, and feathers would have fallen past the auto repair shop garage door to coat the icy Avenue.

  I was thinking, and did not wish to be disturbed.

  I had already telephoned Jose to call off whatever had been between us. He was not distressed. Jose had a badge and connections to the best marijuana in New York City; he would never have to spend a night alone; he would never have to search far for an ear to listen to his babblings. But he gave me a warning: Baby Perez was a no-gooder, and McKay was asking for trouble. Jose himself was finished with McKay. He advised me to do the same.

  I listened to Jose, but I really did not wish to be disturbed. I listened instead to the fall of snow. I drank wine, watched TV. When the doorbell rang it would be only Tony with questions about McKay and the Orphans which I could not, or did not want to, answer. For two weeks I sat alone thinking how much I did not want to be alone. When the apartment was too quiet, I turned up the volume of the TV and listened to laugh tracks and commercials.

  He suddenly arrived very late one night. Oddly, I had forgotten the date of his release. It seemed that he had never been gone, that I had never been alone.

  McKay stood in the open doorway. “McKay,” I said.

  “Were you expecting anyone else?” he said.

  “Only you,” I said, but I had expected no one. I expected to be alone.

  McKay shut the door and walked immediately to the phone. I had expected as much; I had expected to be alone. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Trying to get the old guard together.”

  Could he believe such a thing as an old guard existed? After T.J. and Gina excused themselves from Orphan activity, after Jose refused any assistance, after Viet Nam refused to grant Irene access to the phone, McKay called for a drink.

  I found a bottle of Gordon’s gin Jose had received as a Christmas present from a liquor store on his beat and poured two glasses full of gin.

  “Zero,” McKay said. He stood with his hand on the telephone. The heavy winter coat he wore fell to below his knees. He removed his leather cap and threw it to the floor. “Zero,” he repeated.

  I allowed myself to hope that perhaps the fight against honor would be stillborn.

  “Perez will know what to do,” he said finally.

  “McKay,” I said, “if you don’t know, how the hell will Perez know?”

  He ignored my words and dialed again. But he came to sit with me on the bed as he spoke with Perez. McKay moved his hand under my blouse. His fingers played with the silver locket and I did not listen to a word he said. When he hung up the receiver he said, “We’re going to enlist the Pack.” And then he was dialing again, ordering Tony to arrange a meeting with the Pack.

  I moved away from him. “You’re fucked up,” I said, when he had finished speaking. Would the Pack rush to the aid of the one who had pulled the trigger, whose .22 had sent a bullet between the shoulder blades of their President?

  “You say that to me again, and you’ll be weeping.”

  “You’re fucked up,” I repeated.

  McKay drank gin, and then more. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked softly.

  I nodded.

  “Look,” McKay said, “the new Pack Prez don’t care for old revenge. The dude’s so happy to be President of the Pack I’m surprised I ain’t received any complimentary gifts for wasting Kid Harris.”

  “When do you meet with the Pack?”

  McKay hesitated; then he said, “Tonight.”

  “Tonight,” I said and silently recited Jose’s telephone number. McKay’s eyes were their darkest; around them were the lines of sleeplessness. He had no one else to call on the phone, no one else to summon.

  “I’m going with you,” I told him.

  “Dangerous,” he sa
id as he lit a cigarette.

  I understood that, but I did not care because, as always, I believed it was more dangerous to be without McKay, more dangerous to be alone.

  “The Chevy is ready,” I said. “It’s no beauty, but it’s yours again.” McKay smiled. From a dresser drawer I retrieved two keys: one for the garage door of the auto shop, the other the Chevy’s.

  We walked arm in arm into the night. Waiting in the street while he entered the garage, I heard the strain of the engine, then saw the headlights shine through the garage door. Before we picked up Tony, we drove down the Avenue once more, parking at the subway station to wait for Perez. There was little traffic, only an occasional patrol car driving slowly by. The side streets were dark, and around the street lamps were halos indicating snow.

  “The hotshot doesn’t have a car?”

  “He’s got a car,” McKay said. “He’s got several cars. But the subway is the way to make sure you ain’t being followed.”

  “What crap,” I said.

  “You can’t take a little intrigue?”

  I thought I would like to have a list of every rock star Perez considered a customer, would like to view the statistics on how many “rich bitches” had fallen for his line. I didn’t believe the numbers would be high.

  Perez came up the cement subway stairs, then stood in the reflected light of a single street lamp, lighting a cigarette and exhaling smoke into the cold night air. On his head of wild hair Perez wore a suede Western hat, and around his shoulders was draped a maroon velvet cape whose neck was trimmed with muskrat fur. His corduroy slacks were tucked into high brown boots.

  Perez nodded familiarly to a patrol car as it passed by him for the second time. McKay shifted gears and we pulled up at the curb beside Perez, who opened the back door of the Chevy and got in.

  “Brother, brother, brother,” he said to McKay. “I do not like waiting on anyone, even if it’s you, McKay. I got deals to make; I got business to attend to.”

  “Sure,” McKay said to the man of business.

  Perez removed his hat and lit a reefer. He passed the joint to me. I took it and inhaled, but McKay waved it away. He drove down the Avenue, stopping at the Tin Angel Bar.

  “What’s this here?” Perez said.