These boys were a handful. She hoped her bruised tummy would turn vivid colors; she'd walk around naked so the little killer could see what he did. But she would never say a word about his punching her. Never complain, never explain. Words of wisdom from Henry Ford II.
Now they were in bed naked, propped up with pillows, Cundo, a Cuban cigar clamped in his jaw to foul his breath, Cundo swirling a snifter of cognac, Dawn, snuggled close to him, sipping a tall bourbon Collins, thirsty after the workout.
She said, Hon, if you're not careful you're going to spill cognac all over Ricky.
It was Ricky limp, Ricardo when it had grown to its playing size. Cundo loved it that she gave his pecker a name. He said something, talking with his mouth full of cigar, maybe in English, maybe not. Dawn said, If it burns I'll have to make it better, won't I? He seemed in a good mood, pleased with his performance. She took a sip of her drink, put the glass on the side table and lighted a Slim.
I want you to know, Dawn said, I completely forgot the painting was here.
Cundo puffed on his panatela looking straight ahead. He said, Yes ?
Sweetheart, I've been living in the other house. The only time I came up to this room was to hang that painting. I didn't expect what's his name, Foley, coming and I forgot it was here. Jimmy wanted to take his work to the beach and sell it, he said for a lot of money. I said, Are you out of your fucking mind? This is for my darling. I said it's why you did the painting, don't you remember?
I told Jimmy I wanted to surprise you. Then what's his name, Foley, almost gave it away, telling you about it. He wanted to have Jimmy paint a bathing suit on me.
What did he say when he saw you naked?
Foley? The first thing he said was, 'Is that you?' I said of course not. But I could tell he didn't believe me. He said, 'I thought that might be my neighbor in the bed.' I wanted to take the painting down, store it away until you came home. Foley said I might as well leave it, it'll only be a few more days. He said, 'Even if it isn't you, I know Cundo will love it.'
Cundo turned his head to Dawn, the cigar pointing at her now. He said that, Jack Foley?
He knew it was for you who else? I mean even before I told him. I did not leave it here to turn him on, I swear. He's your friend, Dawn said, he'd never do anything to hurt you.
Make me look foolish, Cundo said. Well, I already forgive you. I like your dark hair too, the natural shade for Navarro, yes? You not some blonde. What else you want?
You, Dawn said. I want you to love me and trust me. She thought of saying if he didn't believe her and kicked her out well, there'd be nothing left for her to do but swim out in the ocean as far as she could, and not come back. Except the little bugger might say, Oh, you want to go swimming? And she'd have to melt all over him with love. It was work.
He was swirling his cognac again, tilting the glass over his sucked-in loins. Dawn said with her sly smile, You're trying to spill some on little Ricky, aren't you? I hope it doesn't burn.
It does, Cundo said, you can make it better, uh?
Dawn stubbed her Slim in the ashtray and turned to Cundo again with her sly smile.
I can, Dawn said, her lines committed to memory, but we'll be telling little Ricky so long, see you later, buddy.
She had Cundo grinning at her, eating it up. Then wha' happens?
Dawn said, You don't know? her eyes open wide to show surprise. Times like these she felt like an idiot, but managed to keep her chin up.
I like you to tell me, Cundo said.
Well, then, before we know it, Dawn said, getting ready to go to work, we'll be saying hi to your one-eyed buddy Ricardo.
You kill me, Cundo said.
If it were only that easy. Jesus, keeping the little guy entertained while dying to know what Foley was up to.
Foley was in Cundo's house across the canal, the pink one. He wasn't familiar with the layout, the rooms, he hadn't poked around yet or been upstairs. He had Mike Nesi on his back, the baldheaded hard-on sitting in the living room with him, not a bad-looking room, brown walls and the chairs and sofa in soft colors, Foley in a big pale yellow chair across from Mike Nesi on the sofa, drinking beer from a clear bottle, the glass-top coffee table between them, Foley listening to Mike Nesi telling him it was a good life if you didn't weaken and start taking shit from people trying to tell you what to do, was his drift. He was on his fourth beer.
Foley had had a couple of shots of Jack Daniel's. There would be a silence. Foley couldn't think of anything to say to this dumbbell, but could listen to him and at the same time wonder what he was doing here and how long he'd stay and if he owed not owed, if he should think of Dawn if he got ready to do something different. Find out where he was in his life. If he was still any good.
He liked where he was ten years ago, before the two falls. But then thought, No, you don't go back, you go straight ahead. He was still the same person. Age had nothing to do with it; he was fine. And Cundo was Cundo. But it was different now. He should wait for Dawn, talk to her.
Mike Nesi had his feet resting on the oval edge of the coffee table. Foley saw he was wearing work boots with metal toes, before he said, Mike, would you take your feet off the table? He almost said please but changed his mind in time.
Mike Nesi said, The fuck you care, it ain't yours.
It belongs to the guy who's paying you.
See if that moved him.
Cundo don't care where I put my feet.
Yeah, but I do, Foley said. I'd like you to take your feet off the table. Then waited as Nesi took a swig of his beer and Foley said, What're you wearing the shitkickers for? knowing they were a skinhead weapon.
Nesi said, My feet feel at home in 'em.
Would you mind taking them off the table?
I don't, what're you gonna do, hit me with something? He looked around. There's a brass candleholder over there. Let's see if you can get to it.
Why would you and I, Foley said, want to have a fistfight?
Hell, knives, baseball bats, you name it.
I'm asking why, Foley said. I'm not gonna get in an argument with you, it would be the same as banging my head against the wall. You and I hold different views of life's fundamental truths. I don't want to argue or fight with you. I still want you to get your feet off the fucking coffee table.
I don't know where your head's at, Mike Nesi said, but soon as you stand up I'm gonna knock you on your ass and show you what my shitkickers are for.
Or, Foley said, we could go down to the beach and shoot some hoops. Even play for money.
They drove to the courts in Mike Nesi's pickup, the skinhead saying it was getting dark till they came to the beach and saw the wash of light out on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Foley, his basketball resting in his lap, said no, there was plenty of time. He said, How about taking the ball out at midcourt and show what you've got, shoot a jumper or drive to the basket. He said, Not having a ref doesn't mean you're gonna foul me every chance you get, does it? Foley showing Mike Nesi a grin, maybe kidding, maybe not.
Mike Nesi said, You mean they's rules? Like I can't hang on to your shirt or stomp on your tennis shoes I get the chance? As I understand the way the game is played, you want to put the ball through the hoop and I want to stop you from scoring, right? That's the game of basketball. But if they's no ref, we don't have to worry about rules, do we? We put up a hunnert each and play to twenty-one. How's that sound? First one to score that many points takes the pot. Foley asked if he'd ever played with black guys. Mike Nesi said it wasn't ever done in his recollection. The niggers play their show-off, shoot-from-anywhere game, while us white folks like to take the ball directly to the basket.
They got on a court and warmed up shooting jump shots, Foley swishing half of his from outside the circle, Mike Nesi dribbling in with a heavy hand, pounding the ball on the concrete before pulling up to take a shot. They flipped a coin. Foley took the ball out and swished a three-pointer, Mike Nesi's hands in his face.
Mike Nesi t
ook it out, fired his ponderous jumper and missed.
Foley took it out, head-faked Nesi on his way to the basket and got caught from behind, Nesi hanging on to his back pocket and Foley lost the ball.
Nesi took it out. Foley saw him getting set to drive and gave the big skinhead room coming straight at him, Foley staying close and stuck himself to Nesi going up to stuff the ball, Foley reaching to swat it off the backboard and got hold of Nesi's wrist, held on and brought it down on the metal rim of the basket, Nesi screaming in pain as they fell with Foley on top, Nesi hitting the concrete floor on his shoulder, his arm under his body. It brought out another awful scream of pain.
He lay on the concrete now looking up at Foley.
You broke my fuckin' arm.
I didn't break your fuckin' arm, Foley said, you broke it.
And broke my fuckin' collarbone.
I think you separated your fuckin' shoulder, Foley said. Gimme your arm, I'll yank on it, see if we can put it back in place.
Don't touch me, Nesi the Nazi said, holding up his broken arm, nasty-looking, to keep Foley away from him.
He was inhaling now and letting his breath out trying to settle down, his compound-fractured left arm resting on his stomach, Mike Nesi trying not to move his fucking shoulder that must hurt like a son of a bitch.
He said to Foley, Jesus, who you been playing basketball with?
You said no ref, no rules, Foley said. That's what we were playing.
He felt better than he had in a while. He felt a lot better, acting in a familiar way now, his old self once again. Or maybe a new version of the old self looking at where he was.
He said to Mike Nesi, What do you want me to do with you?
Chapter SIXTEEN
LATER IN THE EVENING FOLEY SAT WITH CUNDO IN THE front room of his white home, alone with him finally, photos of Dawn in lamplight watching him from three walls. Cundo had hugged him saying, We made it, we got out with our lives, the way we want to be, to do what pleases us. They raised their glasses of table-red from Australia Foley had bought at Ralphs and Cundo said, What's that bad boy Mike Nesi doing?
I had to take him to UCLA Medical, Foley said, in Santa Monica. We were fooling around shooting hoops and he injured himself.
Cundo grinned. You faked him out and he twist his ankle trying to catch you. I can see it.
Foley said, Actually he's out of action for a while, couple of months.
Cundo wasn't grinning now. He said, You decide I don't need him, uh?
Not anymore, Foley said. I'll give you the parking ticket for his truck, at the hospital. I told them you were his employer and would take care of the bill. I asked if the white-power brotherhood had group insurance and he said he didn't think so.
Now Cundo was grinning again. You still a smart-ass. You stop talking for a time looking at the thirty years, but now you back to life with the smart-ass things you say, but very quiet. I already tole you that. Miss Megan brought you back from the living dead. Listen, I hire the dum-dum because I don't know what you going to do.
You knew you were gonna hit her. The painting had nothing to do with it. You came home to put on a show, hit Dawn in the gut and forgive her what a sweet guy but forgive her for what?
See, you don't want to start talking about that, Cundo said. Tha's why I forgive her and is done. No more talking about it, okay? Ever again. Or thinking about it. Thinking too much can fuck you up.
How's Dawn, she all right?
In good spirit now, very entertaining, yes, showing her love for me. Everything, Cundo said, is now as it should be. Am I right? Tell me how you think about it.
I'd like to know what you're gonna do with the white-power freak, Nesi.
Can he drive?
I don't know. If both his arms are in casts it might be hard.
Man, what did you do to him? Cundo said, but didn't seem to care. I'm not going to worry about him. I'll fire him, let him pay the fucking hospital. Listen, Dawn has an idea, how you can be in one of her skits.
That's what she calls them?
Her shakedowns. Get a woman's dead husband's ghost to leave her alone, kick him out of the house and charge a lot of money for it.
She mentioned it to me.
I was going to be the ghost expert, but Dawn say you be better at it. Good-looking guy, the woman falls for you, she's happy again and pays whatever Dawn says.
After that, I don't see her again?
The woman? No, is done, is over.
She's back where she started.
Yes, you broke her fucking heart.
How old is she?
I don't know, I think she's middle age. Listen, you can't pull off this kind of grif', man, and feel sorry for the woman. This one I know has all kind of money to make her happy.
But you say I break her heart.
It can happen, yes, but she can find another guy. Her money, she attracts guys like flies.
You ever work this with Dawn?
Man, where was I until today? We only talk about it. The woman was Cuban, Puerto Rican, sure, I could be the guy knows about ghosts, throw in some Santeria shit. This one Dawn say is tall. I forgot her name, very rich woman.
I don't care much for the idea, Foley said. I get her to like me and walk out on her?
You don't know, Cundo said, she gonna fall for you or not. Maybe she's glad you don't come back.
After I spent time being nice to her?
Man, you got some opinion of yourself. You believe the only thing can happen, you going to break her heart? Foley kept quiet this time, but shrugged. Your wife divorce you, didn't she? Yeah, but she's still, you know, fond of me.
Man, what you need is a woman to leave you flat. Be good for you.
You ever have one walk out on you?
One time, yes, Cundo said, when I was fifteen years old. But I think it was her old man made her stop seeing me.
Her father, Foley said.
No, man, her husband.
Now I'm your straight man, Foley said.
When you want to be, Cundo said. You listen to what I'm saying, and then you tell me something I have to think about. Is why I like you, you keep me thinking. My friend, is my pleasure to be with you again. You always make me feel good.
Cundo nodded his head.
Foley nodded his, thinking, Shit.
Thinking, You got to get out of here.
He took the VW to Ralphs to buy provisions for a few days, a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a case of beer. A fifth would last him three days, almost. He'd need another one or two if he had company, if he ever saw Dawn or Cundo, or if Tico happened to stop by. Or Lou Adams have a talk with him, if he had to go out and find him. Tell Adams he'd be leaving soon and not say where he was going, since he had no idea. Or maybe tell him he was going back to Florida.
What Foley did, he picked up three fifths of Jack Daniel's he'd bring out for company. How about a glass of Old No. 7? He felt at home with it.
The third day of his return to the world Cundo crossed the footbridge and sat down with Foley for a drink and to give him Dawn's notes on observing and dealing with ghosts. So you can become the expert.
You believe in them? Foley said.
You die, Cundo said, your body is no more but your spirit is still alive, is alive forever. Okay, it heads off to the light, the one I saw when that fucking Joe LaBrava shot me three times. Or the spirit stays for a while or comes back to tell you something or fuck with you. You learn a ghost has no power over you unless you give it an advantage, show you're afraid of it.
Foley said, You aren't spooked by the idea of ghosts in your house, even if there aren't?
Read this, you'll know more than I do.
But you believe in ghosts?
You look for them you find them.
How?
Read what Dawn says, you want to sound like you know what you talking about. Listen, Cundo said, the white-power asshole went home lives somewhere on the Westside, but say to tell you he's coming back to tea
ch you a lesson, when he gets his cast off.
Just one?
For the fracture of his arm. The other arm is tape to his body so he don't move his shoulder. He say his hand sticks out the front of his shirt, so he can hold a piece when he comes to see you.
I'll be gone by then.
What are you talking about? Cundo sitting up straight and frowning, telling Foley, You got a cool place to live, all those rooms with high ceilings done up the way Dawn wants them that don't cost you nothing. Man, we out of prison, now we have a good time. Make some money you feel better.
I don't think this grift idea, shaking down some old lady, is the kind of work I want to do.
You want to stick up a bank?
I haven't had a good feeling about it lately, Foley said, like I'd jinxed myself and wouldn't be good at it anymore. But I got over it. I could do a bank this afternoon and take five grand, but I wouldn't get the same kick I used to. I want to do something I can throw myself into.
Some kind of robbery.
No, it can be legal.
I give you a gun, Cundo said. Zorro holds mine for me. Do a bank with a gun, uh, what do you think? It would give you a different feel. But you don't want to be caught with a gun, anybody has done serious time. Tha's why this grif' could be what you looking for. Take this hex woman for fifty-k, you and Dawn split it down the middle. You think you break the woman's heart? Listen, you show her she can be happy again taking a stud like you to bed. You turn it on, man, put on a good skit and make twenty-five-k, or more than that, easy.
Dawn, a new Dawn, came to visit this morning of Cundo's fourth day home, Dawn in tan warm-ups and tennis shoes and stood in his doorway smiling.
I'm dying to know if you feel you have enough of a handle on ghosts to play the expert, the new Dawn turning to glance across the canal. I know what you're going to ask. Why are ghosts always portrayed as spooky when in fact the attitudes they affect are the same ones they had when they were embodied? And with much the same personalities. Unless of course you show evidence of being afraid. That gives them an enormous advantage and they may try to spook you out, even if it's just for fun. She smiled again.