Blues for Zoey (5 page)

15

What It Said
in the
Chronicle
r
Article Taped
to
the Inside of Dave Mizra's Window

* * *

Indie Rocker Visits Local Shop

It's not every day an honest-to-goodness rock star stops
by, but for David Ibrahim Mizra, custom jeweler and the owner of Mizra's F
ire & Ice, that day was yesterday. The rocker in question? Veronica
Heller, lead vocalist with indie rock darlings Wild Blue Bounce. The band will be playing a show at Foo Bar in
July.

“I was just opening my shop when she walked right in,” Mizra, 45, told the
Chronicler
. “I recognized her from photographs, but she was much taller than I thought.”

The
Chronicler
earlier reported that Heller would be in the city's Evandale district to shoot material for a new video.
In recent years, film and television crews have been drawn to the neighborhood's gritty, inner-city atmosphere, not readily a
vailable in more gentrified boroughs north of Steinway Avenue.

“She told me she had heard that there was a famous jewelry designer in this area,” Mizra said with a proud grin. “Of course she meant me.”

When asked what the singer had purchased,
Mizra was tight-lipped. “She was interested in many things, but all I will say is that perhaps you will see them soon at one of her concerts.” Mizra also hinted that H
eller wasn't the only celebrity to frequent his store. “Oh, yes,” he added, “my shop is doing very
well!”

Neither Ms. Heller nor her management were available for comment.

* * *

16

Nobody
Gets Carded in Evandale

It took me
all day to convince Nomi to sleep over
at a friend's house. After that, I called the hospital
to check on Mom. She was still sleeping. The person
I spoke to told me not to worry, but
this is why we have the expression “Easier
said than done.” Later, when Calen pulled up in
front of the Sit 'n' Spin, he was surprised to see Nomi standing beside me.

“Thought you said she was sleeping over somewhere.” He stepped out of the car and slung both arms flat across the roof, drumming his hands and bobbing his head. If anyone else did that, it would have looked dorky, but not Calen. He made it look natural. It was how his body worked (i.e., not like mine). He was one of those guys who can play any sport like a pro. Even car-roof drumming.

I explained that Nomi'
s friend lived in Rosemount, pretty near Toph's place, so we could drop her off on the way.

“I don
't know.” He poked a thumb at the back seat. “It's pretty tight in there. Like only room for one.”

“Lemme quote
you: ‘Dude, your sister is. Like.
Tiny
.' Remember that?”

“I'm the third-tallest girl in my class,” Nomi informed us.

In the passenger seat, Alana was listening. “Not a problem,” she said through the window. “She can sit on my lap. There's tons of room.”

It was true. Calen had this thing about skinny girls and Alana fit the bill. She was nearly as small as Nomi, but there was no mistaking her for a child. She was pretty, too, in a cheer
y-cherry-cheeks kind of way. She always looked like she was on the way to audition for a part in a movie in which the recurring motif was pixie dust.

“She'll fit no problem,” she said.

Calen responded with a stern look. “Wait, it
's not cool. We still hafta get—
you know what
.” He mimed drinking from a glass. “W
e thought we'd stop down here because we figured, well—nobody gets carded in Evandale, right?”

I did
n't love that my best friend thought I lived in a place where alcohol flowed in lawless torrents through the streets, but I kept my mouth shut.

Alana laughed. “N
ot like in
Rosemount
. Before we drove down, Cal got carded—at three diffe
rent places.”

At least now I knew what was bothering Calen. He had failed to procure
the requisite booze for tonight. You couldn't sh
ow up at Toph's without at least a six-pack.

“I don't get it,” Calen said, genuinely pissed. “My brother even lent me his ID, which w
e all know he
never does,
and look.” He pointed to his mouth. “I grew a moustache and everything.”

I
recognized this moustache. It was a pathetically wispy
rip-off of the already pathetic one his brother wore around.

“I don't have
to go to the Czerneckis', you know
,” Nomi announced, sensing our hesitation. “Katie's not even my best friend anymore. It's
Jennifer
no
w. She's in fourth grade
and
she plays the violin.”

“That's nice,
but you're staying at Katie's tonight,
okay?” I helped-slash-pushed her into the front seat with Alana.

When we arrived at the liquor store, Calen eyed me nervously in the rear-vie
w mirror.

“Don't worry,” I reassured him. “It
'll be cool.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Nobody gets carded in Evandale.

Except Calen.

When he came out again, we didn't need to see he was empty-handed to tell he
'd been shot down. His expression did the job just fine.

“Yeah, so that didn't work out like I planned.”

Alana snorted at him as he climbed back into the ca
r. “It's the moustache.”

Calen ignored her and turned to me. “You wanna try?”

“No way
. They know me in there. I'm the
kid who works at the laundromat.”

Alana sighed. “I get car
ded buying rum balls. You'd have better luck sending Nomi in.
”

Calen's shoulders drooped. “You know any other places?”

I looked out the window, as if helpful ideas might be wandering around the parking lot. In fact, that's exactly what I saw. I pointed across to the rear of the Super Center. “Take us over there. We can ask him.”

Sitting against the wall was a thin man dressed for winter, even though it was the
dead of July. He wore baggy camouflage pants, unlaced wo
rkboots, and a hooded bomber jacket. He gestured wildly with his hands, as if he
was in the middle of an argument with himself. Which he probably was.

“Dude
,” said Calen. “You realize that's a homeless guy.”

“He's
not homeless. He sleeps at the Emerson Center,
this rooming house near where I work.”
I bit my lip. “He's sort
of a friend-of-a-friend.”

“You
know
that guy?”

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.

“Dude, that is messed up.”

“Just drive over to him. I have an idea.”

Calen turned around in his seat, looking at my sister. “Is he serious? You guys really know that guy?”

Nomi nodded. “It's B-Man.”

17

You Can't Have a B wit
hout an A

Nobody knew what the
B
stood for. It was simply what ev
eryone called him. Most of the time, B-Man stumbled around Evandale muttering to himsel
f. All year long, no matter the season, he always dressed like it was Christmas. He was never
without a hood pulled up over his head. When you
put it all together—the stooping, stumbling gait; the bulging layers of clothes; the fur-fringed hood that kept his face in perpetual shad
ow—he looked less like a human being and more like a creature from under a bridge. If that wasn't enough to spook the locals, there was always Razor
, B-Man's dog.

Razor was a big, meaty, chocolate-colored mutt. By the looks of her,
she had genes that ran the full range of
bull
—bulldog, pit bull, bull terrie
r. Needless to say, she came out looking fairly nasty. Despite the ferociousness of her face, however, it was the dog
's other end you had to worry about. Razor was a
relentless
farter
. The only person who didn't mind the stench, of course, was B-Man (probably because he
reeked so bad himself).

“You sure about this?” Calen asked me.

We had parked close (but not too close) to the wall of the Super Center where B-Man was pacing. Calen had cut the engine, but we just sat there.

“If you know that guy, go talk to him. Not me. Looks like if he breathed on you, you'd get AIDS.”

Alana rewarded Calen's crack about AIDS with a slap to the back of his head.

“Ow!”

Sometimes, you
can talk to B-Man and it's like
talking to a regular person. There's a certain
logic to the conversation, or something approaching logic. Other times—or rather,
most
of the time—i
t's gibberish.

I got out of the car and walked ov
er to him. I had a feeling it was a gibberish day. B-Man was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself
, Razor following at his heels.

“Solid ground. Fuckers always keep it shifting.” At least that's what I think he said (apparentl
y, but not necessarily, to his dog). “You find some solid ground,
and you stick it.” To demonstrate, he stabbed the
air, fingers sharp as a blade. “Never kno
w what's coming. The machine'll fuck ya ev
ery time. Cuz there's ghosts in there.
Echoes! Wheels within wheels, man, wheels within wheels!”

“B-Man?”

He stopped and looked at me. Razor toddled over and sniffed my
crotch. When I shoved her head away,
she blasted out a fart.

“Gross!”
was Alana's response, through the car window.

I stepped around the dog and the cloud of fumes. “B-
Man? What's up?”

He didn't answer because he was too busy muttering to himself. For a second, I thought it was a mistake coming over. Maybe I should have done what I usually did when I saw B-Man:
Ignore him
. Instead, I went a bit closer.

“I'm looking for A-Man. He around?”

B-Man paused for a second, then went on pacing. “If you know where he is, could you tell me?” More pacing. More muttering.

“B-Man? It's me, Kaz. From the Sit 'n' Spin. I work for Mr. Rodolfo, remember?”

The moment I said “Mr. Rodolfo,” B-Man flinched. I had his full attention. But instead of telling me where A-Man was, he charged at me.

Nomi yelled from the car. “Kazuo!”

I turned to run, but Razor already had a whiff of B-Man
's rage. She was between me and the car, barking and farting for all she was worth. Before I could get away, B-
Man grabbed hold of my T-shirt, pulling my face right inside
the mouth of his hood. His breath in ther
e was almost as bad as what spewed from Ra
zor's ass crack.

“You tell John,” B-Man
said through gritted teeth, “that A-Man has the money.”

“What are you talking about?” John was Mr. Rodolfo's first name.

“Money. From the poker.”

I heard Calen start the car
, and for a second I thought he was about to bail on me. But he didn't. He gunned the engine and drove toward
us. B-Man's eyes bugged out, and
even Razor was shaken. She let out a skittish stream of little
putt-putt-putt
farts. Calen screeched to a halt and climbed out. He raised his hands to sho
w B-Man they were empty.

“
Hey, guy, we're not looking for any t
rouble, okay? Let go of my friend and we'll leave you alone.”

He started to come around the car, but Ra
zor growled at him. Meanwhile, instead of obeying Calen and letting go of me, B-Man re-tightened his grip on my T-shirt.

“Cool it, B,” said a voice. “Kaz do
n't know the first thing about it.”

It was A-Man, B-Man
's only friend (no one knew what the
A
stood
for, either). They were both ex-soldiers and they had
served together in Afghanistan. Going over ther
e shattered something in B-Man, or maybe he was
already cracked to begin with. Anyway, neither one of them fared well after the big pullout. Now they both live full-time at the
Emerson Center.

A-Man strolled out from the far side of the Dumpsters, zipping his fly. He had been back there the whole time, taking a piss.

“I told
you before,” he said to B-Man.
“It's all cool with me and Rodolfo. You
gotta quit making such a big deal about it. Besides, I got
till the end of the month to pay him.”

“You do?” B-Man looked confused. It was possible he didn't know what month it was.

“It's
really nothing.” A-Man ambled over to
us. Seeing the two of them side by side, you really got a sense of what opposites they were. B-Man was a short, squat, muscly white dude, while
A-Man was tall, spidery, and black. One
thing they shared, however, was a penchant for headgear. A-Man topped off his bald head with a kufi skull cap. It had once been white (I assume), but he wo
re it so often it was turning more the color of—well, me. Kind of
yellowy-brown.

“Let go of him, B. He's just a kid.”

B-Man obeyed.

“Wha
t's going on?” A-Man asked me. He pee
red into Calen's Volkswagen.

I explained how we'd been shot down trying to buy beer for
a party, and I thought maybe if we
gave him the money, he could buy it for
us.

A-Man had a thick black goatee around
his mouth. He rubbed it thoughtfully. “Who's the kid?” he asked.

“That's my sister.”

“
Okay, well, it's not like I'm above buying booze for a minor, but c'
mon—not
that
minor.”

“Don't worry, she's not coming. We'
re dropping her off.”

A-Man gave his goatee another
rub. He had the sort of ey
es that were always still, his lids always heavy and half-closed. It didn't give the impression he was bored or half-asleep; more that he was calmly considering something. He looked ac
ross the parking lot at the liquor store.

“Okay, I'll do it. But you have to understand that what yo
u're asking me to do here is break the law. So I think some compensation is in order.”

“Yeah,
” said B-Man, who had obviously caught on.
“Twenty bucks!”

A-Man agreed. “Sounds about right.”

“You mean twenty bucks for the beer, and then y
ou guys keep the change?”

A-Man smiled at me like I was a child.
“I mean you give me the money for whatever
moonshine hooch you kids drink these days, and for the service of me buying it, you give B-M
an and myself twenty bucks. Ten each, okay?”

I looked over at Calen. “You
got ten extra bucks? I'll split it with you.”

Calen shook his head. “He wants
twenty bucks
?”

“It's your fault,” I told him. “You never should'v
e grown a moustache. I mean,
tried to
.”

He sneered at me. “This was your idea. If you want to get this guy to shop for us, then y
ou pay him. I'll pay for the beer, that's all.”

“Tell you what,” said A-Man. “
We'll roll for it.”

I knew this was coming.

Calen squinted at me. “What does he mean, ‘roll for it'?”

“Dice,” I said. “It's how A-Man decides everything.”

“
Die
,” A-Man corrected. “It only takes one.”

He turned to B-Man, who reached into a zippered pocket in his bomber jacket. His grubby hand came out with a little white cube.

“
Put out your hand,” A-Man told me.

I did, and B-Man dropped
the die into the pit of my palm. I was surprised to see that the pips on each side were
n't simply spots. Each one was a tiny black-and-white whorl, a yin-yang symbol.

“Whaddaya want?” A-Man asked. “Even or odd?”

“Odd.”

“You got it. If y
ou roll an odd number, you win. I'll buy you whatever poison you want for free. No sur
charge. But you roll an
even
number, and it'll cost you the extra thirt
y.”

“Wait, before you said twenty.”

A-Man nodded slowly. “I did, but the machine craves balance.”

“The
what
?” Calen asked.

I shrugged helplessly. “The machine.”

It
was A-Man's pet name for the whole uni
verse. To him, we humble humans were nothing
more significant than dust, falling between the gears. I think this was his way of making sense of the randomness of
life, the fact that there doesn't seem to be any clear pattern to anything. But A-
Man took the idea way too far. Basically, he didn't
see the point of making rational decisions. Instead, he rolled a die.

“Balance?” I asked him. “Did
n't you tell me once that the machine doesn't
want
anything, so why does it care about balance?
And
, how is it balanced if you suddenly charge us another ten bucks?”

A-M
an considered this with his usual calm. “All machines crave balance. An unbalanced machine stops wor
king.” He tapped his chest with four long fingers. “I'm giving you something here: a chance. The original
twenty was for the service, but now, by rolling for it, you get a fifty-fifty shot at beating
the machine. To get something for free. That
'll cost ten more. Total of thirty. Fifteen for me and fifteen for B.”

I felt the twinge in my gut that always came from parting with hard-earned cash.

“Twenty-five,” I said.

A-Man shook his head. “Just roll the die. Let the machine decide.
”

“Fine, whatever.”

I crouched down (dangerously
close to Razor's unpluggable sphincter). I sensed Calen and
Alana, even Nomi, craning their necks to watch me.
I wanted to put them out of their misery.
I also wanted to stand up before Razor let one rip.

So I rolled.