Past Due (21 page)

I took a step back from the photographs so that the whole array became visible at once. The legs, the torso, the sweet thin arms, the neck. The beauty mark on the edge of the areola of the right breast.

And as I stared at the whole of it, once again the photographs all came together for me, once again all the varied parts of that miraculous body melded into one another and became as one, a vision standing out from the wall, separate now from the individual photographs that inspired it.

Except, this time, there was a difference.

This time I began to see a face, the mysterious missing face. The features weren’t yet clear, the contours of her jaw, the shape of her eyes, it all wasn’t yet clear, but it was slowly crystallizing for me. And damn if she wasn’t starting to look like Chelsea.

“B
ACK IN THE
day, Dude,” said Lonnie Chambers, his eyes wide with excitement, “when the business was really churning, we had us some parties. Girls, booze, spreads to make a sheik sweat. Shrimp, you never saw so much shrimp. Piles. Mountains. Dude. And that was just the shrimp. You should have been there.”

“Were you there?” I asked Chelsea.

Chelsea smiled, gave an expression of fake shock. “No girls allowed, at least no girlfriends allowed.” She sipped her blue martini. “A regular boys’ club.”

We were at the bar of the Continental, a smoky, swanky restaurant carved out of an old chrome diner. I knew the old place, I had eaten there, and generally to see a diner tarted up as some swank joint for a swank crowd made me angry and sad, but this diner had actually been foul, nowhere near as swell as the diner that still parked across the street. And so, as much as it pains me to say it, the Continental, with its power crowd and neon lights, with its padded walls and skewered olive light fixtures and frou-frou food was, actually, an improvement.

“The parties,” said Lonnie, jabbing at me with his lit cigarette, his rough voice rising above the hum of the crowd, “they always started with the cars. Long black limos the twins, that ran the thing, they rented to pick us all up. Each one stocked with alcohol, some
powder, and a girl. A sort of stewardess who would plump your pillow, get you comfy, pour your drink, unzip your fly.”

“Lonnie.”

“Victor here asked what it was like back in the day, so I’m just telling him. Drinks, drugs, a long-legged girl with a mouth like a washing machine. And that was just the car. We had it going, Dude. And the chicks at home, they never knew a thing about it.”

“Don’t be stupid, Lonnie,” Chelsea said, standing from her stool at the bar. “We knew everything.”

“No way. No frigging way.” He tilted his head. “How?”

She picked up her glass by the stem, stretched her lovely neck, drained the last of her martini, placed the glass back on the bar. “We paid one of the regular whores to tell us.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to make a call.”

Lonnie’s forehead creased in puzzlement as she walked away from the bar, past the tables, toward the restrooms. She was tall and her back was straight when she walked, but, in the way she gripped her elbows as she moved, there was a sense of her holding herself together, and in her lovely eyes there had been the lovely sadness I had noted before. We both watched her go and then Lonnie shrugged, took a last drag of his cigarette, squashed it among the accordioned remnants of his priors.

“Could be. There wasn’t much they wouldn’t do for money.” A hearty laugh. “Wasn’t much at all. Dude, you really should have been there.”

“Lonnie, what would I have been?” I said. “Ten maybe?”

“Hell, it’s not like you needed a driver’s license. What with the limos driving us down the Black Horse Pike. Others would fly in from all over the country, from Boston, from Miami, from Phoenix. All coming to the same place to celebrate. There’d be a reason, usually a bachelor party, but I’ll tell you this, it was, all of it, just an excuse. Hell, a lot of these guys just got married so we could have the party. Wild times, man, wild. You want a bone?”

I declined. Lonnie shook another Camel unfiltered from his battered pack, lit it with a Harley-Davidson lighter. Lonnie smoked with the unconscious determination of an old lady playing the slots, one pull after another after another.

“The twins, they would put money in the casino cage for each of us, so as soon as we arrived we could stride onto the floor, tap into the account, and start throwing the dice. Some of the guys, they played blackjack, but I always liked the dice. It’s quicker, Dude, if you know what I mean? I figure if I was going to win I was going to win, but if I was going to lose, fine, let’s get it over with so we could get it on.

“Upstairs, the twins, what with all the money they was putting into the cages, would get comped a huge suite with all kinds of connecting doors. We called it the Elvis Suite. Fancy furniture, mirrored ceilings in the bedrooms, TV the size of a bull. There’d be about twenty of us up there, along with the food and the coke, ’ludes, dope, whatever, and anything we wanted to drink. And after all of us, we were jacked to the stars, the twins, they would stand up on a table with a bottle of champagne in each hand and make pep talks about the pots of money we were all going to make in the upcoming year. And then they would get to shaking the bottles with their thumbs over the tops and spraying us all. And we’d all start cheering and howling and barking like dogs. It would get louder, wilder, we’d be ripping our shirts off as we barked away. And then the girls would arrive.

“A dozen of them, really prime, you know what I mean. Not like the skanks for sale in Philly, no way. This was Atlantic City and the twins knew how to get the best. Dancing, stripteases, lesbian love, whatever game you was into. The music would be pumping, the girls would help themselves to the drugs, the clothes would come off, the shrimp would fly, things would spiral way out of control. And, Dude, it would go on and on and on. The secret was meth, a little meth you could go all night, and I used to score that myself for the boys. That was my special thing. And with enough drugs, after a while you wouldn’t know who you were screwing and you wouldn’t care. We would go on all night, dancing and screwing and getting high, until everything just collapsed like a burst balloon.

“In the mornings after, Dude, it was like a tornado had run through the place. Shrimp on the curtains, roast beef hanging from the chandelier, champagne sprayed over everything. Blood and semen, condoms on the ceiling. The guys would be asleep, sprawled
under the table or half-on half-off the couch, pants down, drool and coleslaw falling from their mouths. And there was always a girl, picking her way among the fallen soldiers, looking for pieces of her clothing.

“I remember one of the twins taking me aside after one of them parties and saying, ‘You know, Lonnie, we just want to give the boys a memory they’ll have for the rest of their lives.’ And they did, those sons of bitches.” His eyeballs, red already, grew glassy with emotion. “And I miss it, all of it, every day. It was the time of my life, Dude. Yes it was.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“Ah, you know,” he said, wiping a hand over his eyes and squashing his cigarette flat. “It was business. Business goes bad, that’s the truth of it.”

“Who were the twins?”

“Just two guys ran the business I worked in then.”

“Brothers?”

“Nah, just friends, They didn’t either of them look anything alike, but they always said they was Fric and Frac.”

“I’ll get the next round.”

“Not for me. I got to go. I got a meeting.”

“Motorcycle business?”

“Something like that. It was good talking to you, Dude. I’m glad we set this up.”

“So am I.”

“You find anything more about that dude you told us about? What was his name? Tommy something.”

“Tommy Greeley. Yeah, I did.”

“Good. That’s good. But be careful, Dude, it’s a scary world out there.”

He slapped me on the shoulder, slapped me so hard I almost fell off the stool. And then he left, just as Chelsea was walking back. They met away from the bar, talked, Lonnie turned his head to look my way as he said something, and then he was gone and Chelsea was walking toward me.

S
HE WAS STUNNING
. I’ve said that already, haven’t I? But it was especially so in that place, with its sharp-suited crowd of striving professionals, each wearing the latest fashions, the latest shoes, keeping their eyes ever on the prize. Chelsea was a complete contrast. She wore old jeans, a gauzy shirt, her hair wasn’t permed or styled, it just fell straight, with a lovely sheen. She wasn’t the latest anything, yet still, she had the freshest look in the place. Everything I suppose comes back again, or maybe some people never go out of style. And I didn’t have to imagine the magnificent body beneath the clothes; I had the pictures, didn’t I?

I caught the bartender’s eye, ordered the blue curaçao martini for her, the usual sea breeze for me. Weren’t we a festive pair?

“Lonnie tell you all the sordid details?” she said as she slid back onto the stool.

“The good old days.”

“They weren’t that good.”

“Lonnie seemed to enjoy them,” I said. “He couldn’t stop laughing as he told me his stories.”

“You could hear him all through the restaurant. A doctor in a back room thought he’d have to perform the Heimlich.”

“You don’t laugh much, I noticed.”

“Not anymore.”

“It wasn’t as fun for you, the good old days?”

“No, it was more than fun. It was perfect, like we were blessed.”

“You were young.”

“We were young and pretty and rich. But sometimes endings matter, don’t they? The difference between a comedy and a tragedy is the last page.”

“So it didn’t end well?” I said and she looked at me with a glint of disappointment in her eyes, disappointment not just then at her past, but at me for acting like I didn’t know the answer. Because I knew the answer and she knew I knew the answer.

“We’ve been told we could talk to you,” she said.

I lifted my head at that. “You’ve been told?”

“Well, you know, you’ve been asking around about the past. But it’s not your past, is it?”

“I’m trespassing, is that it?”

“Sort of.”

“So you had to get permission.”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

“He wants to know what you’re really after.”

“What does he think I’m after?”

“He asked around about you. Sent out his scouts. The word came back that all you care about is money.”

“Is that the word?”

“Is it true?”

“I’m a professional. That’s what it means to be a professional.”

“So what he wants to know is, where’s the money for you here?”

“Where does he think it is?”

“He has some ideas.”

“Do they involve a missing suitcase?”

She picked up her martini, looked at its brilliant blue, took a sip. “I don’t know why I drink this. I like the color, I suppose.”

“And when you hold it like that, it makes you look like Judy Jetson.”

“Is that good?”

“Oh sure. Judy Jetson is way hot. Or will be.”

“I don’t think it’s only the money you’re looking for.”

“Maybe not. My client was murdered. I have to do something, even if it’s just to ask as many questions as I can and piss some people off.”

“How are you doing?”

I touched the cut on my forehead, thought about Manley’s squeeze play. “Oh, I’ve hit the jackpot there, yes I have. But I especially love the way everyone’s eyes flutter when I mention the suitcase.”

“Did mine flutter?”

“A little. It was charming.”

She laughed, tucked her chin into her shoulder.

“I suppose all the boys wanted to kiss you,” I said.

“Enough.”

“Lonnie?”

“I would hope so. We were married.”

I jerked back at that. “Really? When?”

“Toward the end, but before everything collapsed.”

I suddenly wondered why Tommy Greeley had naked pictures of a married woman in his pocket on the night he died.

“What happened to you and Lonnie?” I said.

“We were going downhill anyway, and then we drifted apart.”

“Different interests?”

“More like different sentences. No hard feelings though. Still the best of friends.” She took a sip of the martini. “I’m supposed to find out if you know where it is.”

“And all this time I thought you were here because you liked me. If we decided to kiss, would you need permission for that too?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get it?”

“Not on the first date.”

“But this is the second date. The first date you pulled me bloodied and beaten off my vestibule floor.”

“That was romantic, wasn’t it?”

“You weren’t just walking by, were you?”

“We were asked to say hello.”

“Your friend is being right neighborly, sending out the welcome wagon.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. Not at all. I’m very grateful, actually. So the suitcase, who did it belong to?”

“The twins.”

“Let me guess. Tommy Greeley was one, and the other, the guy who gave you permission to speak to me but not kiss me, is his old business partner, Cooper Prod.”

“I called him just now. It’s phone time at his penitentiary in New Mexico. He gives his regards.”

“But not permission to kiss.”

“No.”

“He’s the one who said that the past can be dangerous territory.”

“Yes. And he wanted me to tell you that the only thing more dangerous than someone else’s past is your own.”

“Maybe, but I’m not getting beat up over my past. Tell me about the suitcase.”

“It was all coming to an end, and everyone knew it. The business had just happened, had grown beyond anyone’s imaginings, and we hadn’t really thought about it much except for some pathetic rationalizations. But right then we all knew it was coming to an end. There were searches, seizures, this creepy little FBI guy was going around asking everyone questions. You don’t know what it’s like when the law turns against you. It’s on your mind every minute, the fear is constant. Every time the phone rings you cringe. Someone knocks on the door, you hide. It’s like you’re waiting to die. We didn’t say anything, none of us, and for a moment it looked like we might work our way through it. And then we heard that sleaze-bucket Babbage had started talking to the grand jury. The twins knew it was the last chance for them to save what they could. Tommy said he had a contact with a boat who would take care of it.”

“Who?”

“An old friend, he said. From out of state. So the twins got hold of everything that was lying around and put it in the suitcase.”

“Just the odd scraps lying around? It doesn’t sound like much.”

“You don’t understand, do you? How much business they were doing. How everything was in cash. How hard it is to do anything
with cash, especially if you can’t prove where you got it. When it comes in like it was coming in sometimes you just stuff it into drawers and deal with it later.”

“And later had arrived. How much?”

“It seemed like more back then. It seemed like an impossible amount, now baseball players make ten times as much. Still.”

I did the math. Alex Rodriguez gets twenty-five mil a year to play shortstop for Texas. A tenth of that, she said. My heart ticked a little faster.

“Who knew about the suitcase?” I said.

“The twins.”

“Anyone else?”

“Lonnie.”

“Why Lonnie?”

“He was the guard. That kind of delivery, there was always two. Cooper trusted Lonnie completely and he had the gun.”

“So, Lonnie was the guard. What does he say happened?”

“He doesn’t remember. One moment he was with Tommy and the suitcase, heading toward where Tommy was supposed to hand it over, and the next he was in the hospital with the back of his head split open. He lost so much blood there were doubts as to whether he would survive. Sixty-seven stitches. He was the last one of us ever to see Tommy or the suitcase.”

“And now Cooper Prod wants it back.”

“He’s just curious. It’s a loose end. He wants to tie up all his loose ends before he gets out.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said. “Who knows about it now? Other than Cooper and you and Lonnie and me and the guy from out of town who was supposed to pick it up, who knows about it?”

“A lot. Everyone. Right after the arrests came down, people started talking about it, the suitcase full of money. It was just a rumor, but a rumor people listened to.”

“And where did the rumors say it ended up?”

“The bottom of the lake in Roosevelt Park. The top of a church steeple. In a secret space at the law school. Buried under a tree in the backyard of the apartment building where Tommy lived. There have been fools caught digging around that tree, but they’ve found nothing.”

“The mysterious missing suitcase. What would you do if you found it?”

She looked at me as if I had just said something incomprehensible. “I’d give it to Cooper,” she said. “It’s his money.”

“But he’s in prison and the money was drug money.”

“Why would I steal from a friend?”

“Why would you sell drugs?”

She turned her head quickly, as if she had been slapped, then took hold of her drink and swallowed the rest. The lemon twist sat forlornly at the edge of a spent blue pool. I motioned the bartender for another. We sat and waited as he filled the mixer with ice, added the gin, vermouth, and blue curaçao, shook it vigorously, bruising the hell out of the gin, and then poured it through the strainer into a fresh frosted glass.

“I guess I was out of line,” I said.

“Yes, you were. But it’s not like you think. It’s nothing like you think. I skipped college to go out on my own, a small walk-up the size of a closet, waitressing. There was a guy with money and charm who showed interest in me and at that age, for me, that was enough. He was educated, arrogant, clever, and he had all these amazing friends. His world was magical and he invited me in.”

“Tommy?”

“Yes. We were together before I married Lonnie. We took great vacations, we had great parties, we drove a great car, had this great place to live. We seemed blessed, that’s all I can say.”

“Tommy Fucking Greeley.”

“It was the happiest time of my life.”

“But the engine of it all was his drug business. Didn’t that matter?”

“No, not really. It made it more exciting, sure. Getting a load in, doing the breaks, getting it sold, getting the money together for the next round, it was all part of it, but just a small part. Everything else was bigger. The whole society of it. And even when Tommy dropped me for someone else, for Sylvia, he was still sweet to me, allowed me to remain in his world. That’s when I hooked up with Lonnie, as a way to stay connected. But it wasn’t the drugs that kept me there, it was the excitement, the camaraderie, the lifestyle, the love.”

“I can see that,” I said. “Except when you get right down to it, the charm, the car, the vacations, the fawning friends, they were all about the money, weren’t they?”

“I suppose.”

“And the money, it was all about the drugs.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sometimes it is.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t. At least finish your drink.”

“Screw yourself.”

“All righty,” I said.

I watched her as she slipped off the stool without glancing my way and headed out the door, tall, slim, clutching at herself as she hurried away. I didn’t chase after her. I wanted to, I wanted to so badly, to chase after her and grab her by the arms and apologize profusely and fall to my knees and abase myself before her, to do whatever I needed to do to get her to smile at me, to get her to let me get closer to that body, the images of which I had pinned with obsessive care to my bedroom wall and to the plane of my desire. But I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t. I turned back to the bar and finished my drink, paid my tab, took a taxi home.

My clothes smelled like they had been cured in some sort of barbecue pit. I could only imagine the state of Lonnie’s lungs. I stripped and put everything, suit included, in the hamper and then showered to get the smell off my skin and out of my hair. Clean and bristly, towel around my neck, I stepped out of the bathroom. The bedroom was dark, but through the slats of my blinds the streetlights imprisoned the pictures pinned to my wall in bars of light. I stepped toward the wall. A leg was illuminated, a hand, a knee. I gently rubbed a finger across the smooth arch of a foot.

I had been flirting with her, all the time feeling some deeper connection grow. And then, and then, and then I had pushed her away, like I was Cagney with a grapefruit. I suppose I was tired of hearing how wonderful things had been twenty years ago, how wonderful had been the parties, the cars, the society of young and beautiful friends, the money, the very life, how wonderful had been Tommy Greeley. They were still in the middle of it, Lonnie and
Chelsea, Cooper Prod, even Eddie Dean, who was somehow involved in it all, somehow, and I had just then a very strong idea how. They were all still living it as if it had all been so wonderful, as if it had all been so proper and so swell. A life distant yet still alive, a life that could never include me. I felt like I was back in high school, pushed to the side as the cool kids strode like kings through the hallway. The hell with them.

And yet here, on my wall, was part of it too. The pictures, the body, the emotions. Her neck. Her shoulder. The bend of her elbow. The curve of her wrist. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it was me. Maybe I had pushed her away because I was afraid. Afraid of getting too close to this, of getting consumed, or maybe of being consumed with disappointment. Answer me this, when had reality ever lived up to fevered expectation? Barely touching the paper I traced the bulge of her calf, the curve of her knee, the smooth inside of her thigh.

The phone rang.

I spun around. I snapped the towel off my neck and tied it around my waist.

The phone rang.

I panicked for a second, thinking it must be her, it had to be her. What should I say? How could I apologize? What were the magic words? There were always magic words.
I’m a fool. Forgive me, please. You’re so so special. You frightened me, that’s what it was.
Or the old standby,
Did you know I can lick my eyebrow?

The phone rang.