The Last Bender, Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

          “They got dental!” Church said, applying margarine pats to a corn muffin, subjecting both to a furious scrutiny. His round cheeks retained their rosy gloss, even in the consumptive fluorescent light. Even without a beard, he was one angry Santa.

          Needles said, “Yeah so what. They got dental. Do they got prescription lenses?” He pushed the glasses up his nose and raised his eyebrows, wrinkling the smooth, terra cotta skin of his forehead.

          “I don’t wear no lenses,” Church said and his wet, bulgy eyes swelled out of their sockets as if someone were slowly squeezing his throat.

          “Well you ain’t everyone and anyway, it’s still a supermarket. You wanna work with fruit? What if they put you in the deli?”

          “Needles is right, Church. All day long you’re gonna slice cheese in that uniform just to get dental?” Sidestep asked.

          Church bit the corn muffin, fastidiously brushing the crumbs off his tie. “I got bleeding gums disease. Dentist says it’s a thousand bucks minimum. I say we point out to them that even the, the fucks who bag groceries, got dental. It ain’t right that we don’t.”

          Needles slammed down the newspaper. “My father bagged groceries! Thirty hours a week, his whole life! My father wasn’t a fuck.”

          I popped a lemon drop sucker in my mouth and tried to hide by the machines. Stitch got up from the table and puffed on her hand rolled cigarette. Her short, rat colored hair stood up in carefully deranged spikes. She said, very softly, so the words seemed lost in her long throat, “Damn machine doesn’t work right.”

          It worked fine for me and I said so.

          “And I say it don’t work right. Remember this number.”

          She repeated it twice. I got all mixed up. The forty-one forty-one wasn’t hard but the six six five was brutal. And what Stitch meant by it was hard to figure.

          “Morning ladies and gents,” I said sitting down next to Banger.

          The conversation stopped and the newspaper became inordinately interesting. So much so it didn’t even stimulate the usual analysis of the day’s penetrations. “Anyone seen Juice?” I asked. Ahems, murmurs, loud sniffles. “I guess not. Is he sick?”

          “He might be,” Church said.

          “Is he dead?” I asked.

          “Whuddya ask that for Jack?” Needles asked. “What Jack? What?” He put his feet up and sneered at me over his cheroot.

          “I’m gonna go look for him,” I said, gulping down half a cup of mint-praline.

          “You do that, Jack,” Cherry said from the doorway.

          Banger looked at me nastily and bit her nails, spitting out the skin. Sidestep stirred his coffee slowly. Church and Needles read the paper. Cherry blocked the door and stared at me. Ozzie Bond sat twitching, eyes screwed out of place. The only sounds were of humming machines and Sidestep’s spoon, turning in the cup. Stitch cleared her throat and said, “Laraby wants you in his office. He said first thing.”

          “Thank you,” I said and left them, unsure if I should show my back. But the knives were already in. They were just waiting to materialize.

         

          Laraby buzzed me into his office. The city was a rinsed out grey. Rain fell into patches of fog and clouds covered the tops of tall buildings. Bright yellow cabs were threaded on the mute procession of umbrellas and cars below.

          I said, “David Watts wasn’t in the lab Saturday night. He was out all week. His sister Wanda says he’ll give up St. Claude for six million in cash.” I paused. “The cops are onto us. They know about the smart drug, and they know about Watts. Let’s pay up and turn St. Claude over. It’s time to cut losses.”

          Laraby considered me from his remote perspective. “That’s not good enough,” he said, and his purple head darkened a few shades. “Look out the window Jack. What do you see? The best. Nothing but the best. It’s beautiful. It’s lights. We are the luckiest bastards in the history of world, and it’s all because of guys like Hubble Watts. It’s our job, Jack, to serve and protect Mr. Watts. Not persecute him! He has nothing to do with this, hear? Nothing. I drop his name. He doesn’t exist.”

          “Come on Laraby. This guy snuggled up to you from behind and took it. He took your smart drug too.”

          Laraby picked up his phone and said, “Send in Hubble Watts.” He looked at me. “Thought you should meet the man yourself.”

          He was tall and thin, with a deeply tanned face. His hair was all white and his eyes were weak, just lifeless nubs of blue, floating in bloodshot. He wore a cream colored suit, with an apricot cravat, and a soft driving hat. When he shook my hand a slight shit smell came off of him. I couldn’t tell if it was coming from his mouth or his butt. Maybe he wore a bag.

          “Who is Helen Stark?” he asked.

          I looked at Laraby. Was he nuts? Was I supposed to let this old boozehound grill me? I didn’t read that in any job description.

          Laraby said, “Answer the question Jack.”

          “Who the hell are you again?” I asked. Watts didn’t answer and he didn’t stop smiling. Laraby tried to pin me full of holes with his eyes and his pencil. “She’s the detective investigating those murders.”

          “She’s coming to see me this afternoon. I want you to know I’ve got nothing to do with this. If my children think they can play me off of Monozone, then they’re worse than I thought. I don’t need to be involved in harebrained schemes. I have assets. Do you know what assets are Mr. Bartell?”

          “Ain’t that something you do at the gym?”

          “I hope there won’t be any more mix up on this.”

          “Don’t worry Mr. Watts.”  

          Hubble Watts nodded at us and walked out the door.

          Laraby’s lips were bunched into a gross little smile, his only true display of mirth. “Didn’t I say so? You tell your pal Helen Stark to get her ass outta my face. You tell her I got a call in too. I want her investigation squashed. If she gets any nearer I’ll stop her buck. Next, you never told me about the goddamn poke.”  

          “What poke would that be?”

          “He’s like a hemorrhoid. Johnny Braque. Why are you protecting him?”

          “What are you afraid of? He’s nobody.”

          “Good. Take care of him too. As for the pay-off, screw that. You’ve seen the old man. He’s a tough piece of meat. He won’t play. Better yet, let’s teach that socialite sausage stuffer a lesson in poke she won’t forget. I’ll let her fucking oil out. Now, I’m going to get you six million in counterfeit bills. They ever spend a penny of it they’ll hang. Not even Watts‘ll be able to buy ’em twenty years in chains for that.” He paused and looked thoughtful. Short term planning was his forte. Laraby loved a crisis.

          “I talked to Barnes at the POST,” he continued. “He’s gonna write a column on corruption in Special Investigations, accusing Bunuel of running a kidnap ring, quoting an anonymous source in the department. That source turns out to be our man Michael Einzer. Einzer’s handlers call for an investigation and Bunuel’s ousted. Einzer gets Bunuel’s job and calls St. Claude’s disappearance a kidnapping and murder, engineered by Bunuel and associates. Meanwhile, you get St. Claude where he’s holed up, give the six mil to the Watts kid. Einzer picks up Watts with the money and busts him. Take Stronghole in with you. Tell Stronghole to hit St. Claude once you have the lab notes, and any material they have. Secure that first. Then Stronghole does who ever’s left alive. Then you take out Stronghole. Stronghole lost control, see? You had to shoot him. Bunuel will commit suicide in his cell. You got all that? I don’t wanna repeat myself.”

          After a few minutes of watery eyed staring, while a fly buzzed around our noses and the rain ran in light smearing streams down the windows, I said, “Give me a few days to straighten things out, all right? Just a few days.”

          “I could have given the whole job to Stronghole, Jack. Then you’d be lying in your own brains in some room. I’m giving it to you. Think of it as a promotion. If it’s money you want, take a cut. Or do you wanna work freelance? We can do that too.” He swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. “A man like you is hard to read. So much ambition, so thickly disguised. Safe in some ways.” He faced me and leaned back in the chair, looking reflective. “You love your friends. Don’t feel bad about it, most people do. And there is the matter of your wartime service, before the surrender and the camps.” He laughed a little. “Shooting a man off his horse. Take a day to think about it.”