The Last Bender, Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

          He led me out the back of the bar and into the women’s room. There wasn’t much space for the two of us and he grunted that I should climb out the window and hop down into the alley. I did it and it was tough getting through. The rain didn’t make it down directly but splashed off the fire escapes and trees. It wasn’t possible he could fit through the window; it would be like pissing out a marshmallow. Incredibly, he got his head and shoulders through and then, wriggling and sucking and breathing heavily through his nose, he made it. He was rather agile and leapt down to the pavement.

          He wiped his hands together and grumbled, “Don’t look so surprised, bub. C’mon.” I followed him down the alley and into a courtyard, through a red door into one of those buildings built secretly against code. From there we exited into another courtyard, which gave onto an alley, which we took to a door. We hoofed it up six flights of squeaky tenement steps. By now the guy was winded but we didn’t stop to rest and I was worried about his ticker. He said, “Don’t worry. Clock is fine. I’m a little asthmatic’s all.”

          We hit the roof practically running, leapt over a sickening drop to the pebbled roof of the next building, where we picked up a fire escape, which swayed and shuddered us down.

          “Keep going, boy,” he growled, when I hung briefly by the armpits to catch my wind. The fire escape terminated in midair, ten feet off the ground. I swung by the hands and dropped into another alley. Here we took a door that led to a basement. He stopped in front of a gold door with a big red ribbon attached to the peephole. “This is it,” he said.

          “Yeah? Do I have to take a pill to make me shorter?”

          “Smarter will do, slim. Sing Poke Your Jonson in the Bow and quit the dicker. I’m a busy guy.”

          The bow hummed and clicked; then the door opened. The man followed me into a dim basement office decked out for New Year’s. Strings of colored lights along the walls blinked off pink and white streamers. A ceiling light shined down on a wooden desk and empty high-backed chair. There were a bunch of wooden chairs arranged in front. I looked around and said, “So where’s Juice?”

          “Jack baby, he’s right here, right here!” Juice said, bouncing in through a different door. He slapped my back and danced around like a rooster.

          “Juice,” I said.

          “Sidown sidown.” He snapped his fingers. “Edsel, get ‘im a drink. Cola, right? With a lime, Edsel. No ice.”

          “I haven’t seen you much at work. What’s up?” I asked. We sat facing each other over the desk. The man what brung me to the dance stood at the entrance and Edsel busied himself fixing my drink behind Juice, at a little portable wet bar.

          “Hey, you ain’t gonna write me up, arya? Buddy? Haha!”

          We obliged him with enthusiastic ha-has.

          “No no, I just needed your advice. A friend I can trust. I missed you Juice.”

          “Oh, Jackie-o, I missed you too. Ain’t that right boys?”

          All agreed by acclamation. Edsel shook up a margarita and strained it into a small martini glass with a salted rim.

          “Jack…. I know you’re a busy man. And I don’t wanna do this…this….” He looked around and Edsel, setting down our drinks, completed his sentence: “Bullshit, boss.” Juice smiled. “That’s right,” he said over a short sip, making that tingle face of the day’s first drink, when it’s a little harsh on the tongue but warm to the heart. “Ahhh…that’s the number Edsel. Better mix up a buncha these and have one yerself. I don’t needa tellya what yer missin’ Jack. Yer a better man than I am.”

          “Forget about it. I’m happy.”

          “So should we all be.” His face briefly erupted into twitches till he pulled it into shape. Then he looked like he was about to cry. “Jack. I got a pain in my heart,” he said, pointing to his chest. “It’s that cheap motherfucker we work for called Monozone. I feel like I’m on the wrong side here. Like in the war sometimes. When you got some guy in the chair and you tell him his life is over. You don’t say the words, everyone in the room already knows. But you give him a chance to help his family out of a jam. Thing is, till you came along, his family, they weren’t in a jam. Jack, I see an opportunity here. How d’ya like the office?”

          “A nice set up. A nice set up.”

          Edsel, his face in shadow, said, “He’s right boss. It’s sweeter than incest.”

          Juice nodded his head at the obvious. “I been using profits from the job to set up my own business. I been waiting for an opportunity to leave and cash in. Edsel? Tell Stitch she can come in now.”

          Edsel led Stitch in, tall and angular, her hair like tweed. Between here and the office she had changed from her grimy Monozone threads into a pencil-stripe three-piece and mahogany high-heeled boots. We all shook hands and she sat down next to me and crossed her pegs.

          “The hoppin’ john is bad at home,” she said, rolling and lighting a cigarette. “We was wondering where you stood.”

          “Upright,” I said.

          Juice twitched and then erupted. “That’s it in a nutshell!”

          “Yeah, well it’s kinda hard to tell right now who works for who,” I said.

          “These are hard times,” Juice agreed. “That’s the time to fall back on your own.”

          Stitch said, “We got a plan.”

          Juice calmly sipped his drink and fussed with his navy blue suit, smoothing out the shimmering, peacock tie. He asked, “What if we go after St. Claude ourselves? Deal him to the highest bidder?”

          I laughed. “Oh yeah? And who might that be?”

          “That’s where you come in,” Stitch said. “Who’s after him?”  

          Juice snapped his fingers and Edsel leaned into the light, his ear like a dried up sea sponge sucking up to Juice’s lips. Edsel nodded and walked off grimly. I had to think before talking and I had to talk as if I weren’t thinking. “Who isn’t? First you got Laraby, who is probably getting down for someone else. Stronghole smells Defense. I get the same whiff he does.”

          “So all we do is enforce the contract.”  

          “Right. It’s Monozone finance; they own a piece of everything St. Claude thinks. Then there’s homicide. They don’t know why they’re dead, or who killed them, but they know they’re dead. There’s a hot rod named Helen Stark who scratched it up. I had to give her something. If we don’t get to St. Claude first, then we lose our balls. That’s where the kid comes in.”

          “The kid?” This alarmed Juice. “What kid is that?”

          “Relax Juice, I’m getting to it. First we gotta talk about Braque, that private dick.”

          “That dick don’t have the kind of bucks to play, unless he’s working for someone big,” said Stitch. Edsel entered the circle of light carrying a steel bowl with a big plug and coil of heavy-duty wire hanging out the back. I tensed up and looked around. The man was still by the front door. His expression hadn’t changed. But Stitch’s breathing changed. Edsel set the bowl on the table.

          “That’s right,” I said. “But he’s a thistle, he won’t let go.” Edsel was absorbed in his operations. He poured a golden liquid from a little jar into the steel bowl and plugged it in the wall. What the fuck, I thought. What demented project has Juice cooked up here? Then Edsel opened a tin and dumped popcorn kernels into the bowl, covering it with a domed glass top. Soon it was popping up a storm, filling the room with steam. The relief was palpable. Even the man showed it. Juice was fixated by the popcorn. The meeting went dead while he watched it pop, not blinking once. Stitch rolled a smoke and tried to hide her boredom behind thick bitter clouds. Edsel did the stone thing, as if they made gangster mannequins to prop up in the front seats of limousines. I pictured him strutting down the runway in a white dinner jacket and black shirt with pink leather tie, turning this way and that, emcee describing duck duds in goofy detail. When it was finished popping Edsel broke plaster and removed the lid. Juice grabbed a handful and started to grind and crunch it up with those white teeth of his, offering some to Stitch and me with his eyebrows. There was no waiving him off; we each munched a handful of hard, salty kernels without enthusiasm.

          “David Watts is the son of Hubble Watts,” I said, letting the names dangle like pieces of meat. “Hubble Watts is in with St. Claude. He’s protecting him as far as I can tell but his kids, Wanda and David, are ready to sell him out for six bagatelles. Laraby’s plan is to bust ’em for the snatch if we find St. Claude. I’m supposed to snip Stronghole.”

          “Sounds like we got a lot of customers,” Juice said. “Sounds like Watts Senior will pay to get him back if we make the grab.” He snapped his fingers again and again Edsel leaned forward. This time he went behind us and I heard the front door open and close.

          “Yeah, he might. But then you got the DOD and Monozone after you. Plus there’s this cop Bunuel breathing in our ears.”

          “Him we know,” Stitch said.

          “Not for long you don’t, not if Laraby gets his way.”  

          The door opened again. Juice stood and said, “I don’t know about that, Jack.” He bounced on his toes, twitching in and out of a smile, eating popcorn one kernel at a time. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

          I moved to get out of the chair. “Don’t stand up for me, Bartell,” Bunuel said.

          “I thought by now you’d be a movie of the week,” I said.

          He wadded up my throat like a paper cup; Juice started to sputter. Bunuel, through spit and teeth, snarled, “You can tell your boss what I think of this piece of shit!” He turned around and pointed to a man gagged and bound to a chair with black leather belts. The man applied a huge dollop of shaving cream to his head. “Kinda figgered if they were ready to let this snot eater sit in my chair it might be worth looking in to. Long as I’m running a kidnap ring I might as well cash in.”  

          He let go of my throat. When I was done gasping and wheezing for breath I hit him in his solar plexus with my elbow. He gasped and wheezed and turned all kinds of purple and blue. I slapped his face and kicked him to the ground. He was a huge hunk of punching bag, not used to going down. I stood over him, ready to kick him some more and said, “I ain’t takin’ it from you. What makes any’a’you so sure Laraby’ll deal for St. Claude?”

          Bunuel coughed and salivated on all fours. The man shaved the guy’s head. Stitch lit up another smoke and looked interested. “What’s your point, Jack?” she asked.

          “He doesn’t care about St. Claude anymore. He’s after the stuff.”

          “What stuff?” Juice asked.

          Bunuel got up slowly and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Juice said, “You two make up now, O.K.? Lt. Det. Bunuel is a very special friend of ours. It’s better not to mess with him. We’re partners here.”

          “See he don’t touch me again,” Bunuel said to Juice, recovering his chilly, jugheaded grandeur, in a voice no one who knew anything about Juice ever used.

          Juice asked, “Is everyone all right here?” We all three nodded. “O.K. then. Sit down.” He threw popcorn up and caught it on his tongue.

          “Tonight I meet Wanda Watts. She can set me up with David, who knows where St. Claude is.”

          Juice beamed and slapped the desk. “Hey! Di’n’I Tell ya Jack was the kicker? We’re on our way to three squares a day. All we got to do is go in, snatch him and bring him back here.”

          “You don’t understand. He’s useless.”

          Stitch lost her nut and asked, “How can that be?”  

          “It’s about the patents. Research. Stronghole put me on it first. St. Claude’s not important. Any monkey on the drug can do the work. See? Laraby wants lab notes and the drug.”

          The man in the chair struggled. I turned around. He moved against the straps, blood streaming over his roughly shaved head.

          Juice looked at him, smiled and said, “Relax Buddy, you’re goin’ home. Soon everyone will know you by your shiny rat head.” Then to us, “Either Watts has the man, or he wants him. That much we know. So we go in for Laraby’s pills and papers and snatch St. Claude who we sell off to Watts. Sounds like a plan. Pills and papers. A four way split. Everyone agreed?”

          Stitch nodded; Bunuel said, “Yeah.” Then they all looked at me. I was still looking at the man in the chair. I asked who he was.

          Bunuel stood up. “Don’t you know? This puke’s name is Michael Einzer. Your boss’s hand just folded all by itself. Tell him I said to go fuck himself the dry way.” He hit Einzer’s eyes with the same inquisitorial glare he had used on me. The grey watered slightly. He didn’t blink his bricks once.

          We all stood. “Well, let’s end the meeting,” Juice said. He dumped the popcorn in the garbage and wiped the pot clean with a handkerchief, spiral cord bouncing around. The man gnawed at the rubber gag, and shook his head frantically about.

          “Shut up,” Bunuel said, slapping blue jelly on his skull. Then Juice strapped the popcorn pot onto his head and plugged it into the base of the chair, which had a set of wires running from it to the wall. The steel bowl covered his eyes. Without saying another word or even pausing, Juice flipped a switch on the chair back and the man’s fingers curled and his whole body bucked and went stiff. He made this hideous grinding noise and started to burn. Smoke poured out of the bowl. It smelled like burnt chemicals and meat. The whole thing lasted for three terrifying, interminable minutes. Juice bounced on his toes, visibly excited while Bunuel gazed dispassionately on. I stared at my toes wondering how long will I have to stand around the smoking torso of a man, as if he were a goddamn campfire. Juice shut it off. The man’s lips were fixed back off his teeth in a smile. Juice undid the straps and Einzer dropped to the floor. The man and Edsel brought in a bag. I grabbed Juice’s sleeve. My forehead was damp with sweat and I felt cold. Juice became animated, directing everyone around him, toying with the metal pot and its bouncing wire. He loved to be in charge. Although there was ample room, Edsel and the man couldn’t get Einzer in the bag. Bunuel stood to one side, saying things like, “Push him in head first or you’ll never do it,” while Juice issued contradictory instructions on how they should conduct the project, saying, “Don’t listen to a copper! Feet first! I say. Feet first. Aw no. Not the fucking head, you cocksuckers!” Bunuel and Juice alternated like that and their minions, unable to fuse the directions, began to bicker back and forth till everyone was shouting but Stitch and me. Stitch was gasping quietly in a corner but had recovered enough from the show to yell, “Stop!” Her red angular face and vocal authority gave off such a strong pulse that everyone shut up and faced her. The lull lasted long enough to generate some enthusiasm for a group effort. Again I tugged on Juice’s sleeve and, now that work was proceeding apace, he admitted me to his manic orbit. “How’d you like that? Remind you of the old days? The guy calls up and we reverse the charges.” I asked if we could talk alone. His face sagged and he looked around. “Sure, why not. Step into my office, this way.”

          We went through the door and into a very dark room painted the color of an artichoke. I sat in a maroon barkalounger and leaned back.

          “Try the massage button, Jack. It’ll really shu-shu-shake ya up.”

          He sat down on an ivory leather divan and hit a button on a remote control. I expected the chair to start vibrating but instead he ordered a drink and a cigar. A tall, awkward woman with short black hair in jeans and a T-shirt came in a minute later and handed him both. Juice smiled at her and touched her hand. She blushed and left.

          “You don’t mind, Jack?” he asked, puffing on the cigar. I had to repress a gag. The whole world at that moment seemed bent on choking me in its smoke. I waved him off and he asked, puffing, “So what’s on your mind?”

          “Who offed the Zamboni guy?”

          “Church. And the night guards. He also shot Peter Torvino when he found out he’d spoken to Stronghole. Laraby’s got Church cleaning up behind you. Church hires outside help. It’s thick Jack. Thicker than even you know. You got to be careful.”

          “I want Stronghole in. I’ll pay him from my share.”

          “No can do.”

          “Come on. Cut me here.”

          He shook his head and made a sour face. “Nah. I won’t serve bad chowder to my friends, Jack.”

          “He’s clean. You got my guarantee.”

          “Our associates won’t go for it. No Stronghole.”

          “Then at least let him walk away from it.”

          “I’ll see Jack. That’s the best I can do.”

          He put down the cigar and walked me to the front door. “I’ll have Edsel drive you to your car. Are you in with us?”

          I told him yeah, I was in, and Edsel drove me back to my car. I asked him where he was headed and he said, cocking his thumb at the trunk, “To drop our friend off with your boss.”

          All I can say is that I looked forward to seeing Evalyn St. Claude.