(2004) Citizen Vince (8 page)

“Look,” Vince says. “All I’m saying is that you can’t blame people for getting cynical. It’s all a bunch of noise. It’s no different than selling cars. Or toilet paper.”

Aaron Grebbe’s face flushes. “I have humped across this district for eight months trying to get people to turn away from their TV sets so I can tell them what I would do if I’m elected. In”—he checks his watch—“one hundred and twenty-four hours, fewer than half the people in this city will vote. Half of those people will vote because it’s a presidential election. They’ll have no idea who I am and will vote for the other guy because Grebbe sounds like something their dog coughed up. They’ll have no clue about my ideas on economic development, on public works, on schools, on highways. They’ll have no idea what I plan to do first if I’m elected, even though I’ve been talking about it nonstop for months. No one cares.”

Vince remembers David saying the same thing:
No one cares.

“And now some
donut
guy wants to lecture me about all of these poor people waiting for political enlightenment? Okay. Take me to these hungry voters! I’m ready. Let’s go. Find me five genuinely interested voters and I’ll answer questions all night. But spare me the vague outrage from people too lazy to even know who’s running unless a campaign ad happens to run between
Hollywood Squares
and
Family Feud.
”

The two men stare across the small table at each other.

“You were in Vietnam,” Vince says.

Grebbe leans back and eyes Vince suspiciously. “What?”

“You just said you humped across the district.”

Grebbe stares.

“I had a friend over there,” Vince says. “He used to say humped, too.”

Grebbe takes a drink, says coolly, “Your friend, did he come back okay?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Vince holds up a
Vote Grebbe
brochure. “You don’t mention Vietnam in here.”

Grebbe stares, measuring.

“So what’s the thing you’re gonna do?” Vince asks.

“What?”

“You said ‘the first thing I plan to do.’ What is it?”

“The zoo. I want a better zoo in Spokane.”

“I can see that,” Vince says. “Yeah. I went to that zoo one day. It’s pretty bad.”

“You didn’t like the domestic cat exhibit?”

Vince smiles. “Gophers of the Northwest.”

“House of Roadkill.”

“Are you sleeping with Kelly?”

Grebbe doesn’t flinch, only pauses for a few seconds. “I guess I don’t…I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“No.” Vince sighs. “It’s not.” He sits back and picks up Beth’s wrap. He leans over into the booth and puts the wrap over Beth’s shoulders.

Beth’s eyes pop open and she takes a deep breath, looks around the bar, forests of beer bottles, gardens of cigarette butts. “Mmm. Are we done?”

Grebbe is putting his coat on, too, when Vince looks up at him.

“So were you serious?”

“Serious about what?”

“About talking to voters?”

Grebbe checks his watch. “You mean now? It’s almost midnight.”

“Yeah,” Vince says. “It’s early. But we can drive over there and wait.”

SOME NIGHTS YOU
can’t help wondering what’s going on out there, beneath all those lights. Some nights you can imagine life happening all at once, piled on top of itself, and you can imagine a city subdivided by regrets—neighborhoods of desire. Even a city this size, a couple hundred thousand people, it can be staggering, the marriage proposals and fistfights, kids stealing smokes from their parents, women praying that their drunk husbands go to sleep. You can see
it now, crosscut at midnight, buzzing across town in Aaron Grebbe’s brand-new Dodge pickup truck, Beth asleep on your shoulder while you argue politics across the bench seat with this guy who’s screwing the girl you had convinced yourself that you loved.

Maybe this is how normal people behave, staring straight ahead, not worrying so much what’s happening in the periphery, behind all those doors. At least that’s what you convince yourself. And so when Aaron Grebbe’s sparkling new pickup truck barrels past Doug’s Passport Photos and Souvenirs, you make a conscious effort not to look, to ignore all those things that usually get to you, the lights streaming past your car window, faces in windshields and on street corners. For once, you don’t get lost imagining the love affairs and breakups—all that lies behind those window shades, vicious acts of boredom and treachery.

But if you
had
looked—

The lights are on in Doug’s place. Doug is seated on a stool behind the counter, and Len Huggins and another man are on the customer side of that counter, a perfect triangle. Lenny has just introduced the new man, finished his little pitch, and replaced his sunglasses on his pinched, pocked face. “So what do you think, Doug? We in business?”

“I don’t know.” Doug chews on the side of his cheek and leans on the stool, arms across his gut like bandoliers of fat. “When would you want to do this?”

Len checks his watch. “We’re gonna meet him at Sam’s in an hour.”

Doug nods. “What are you going to do?”

Lenny nods. “First we’ll”—he glances at the third man—“persuade Vince to give us whatever money he’s been holding out. Then we’ll ask him for the name of the mailman. And then…we’ll just have to see.”

“I don’t know.” Doug keeps gnawing on that cheek. “What if he won’t give you the mailman’s name?”

Len looks over at the third man. “He will.”

“I don’t know,” Doug says.

“Look, that’s not your problem. You just have to decide. In or out?”

Doug sighs. “I don’t know.”

Lenny removes his sunglasses and tries to expand his little black eyes, but they don’t open any wider. “What’s not to know? Didn’t we go over everything?”

The third man just stands calmly, watching, ignoring Len.

“It just seems sort of drastic to me. I don’t—”

Of the three, Len is the only one who jumps at the pop. Doug simply slides off his stool and to the ground, the black cheerio in his temple smoking for a moment and then bubbling red and then bleeding outright, no expression on his face at all, just like it’s been wiped clean. His eyes are open, but one of them is lolling sideways in his rubber mask of a face.

“Oh my God!” Len stares at Doug’s body on the other side of the counter. “What did you do?”

The third man, Ray, simply puts the handgun back in his belt, pulls gloves onto his hands, and begins going through the cash register. He takes two twenties, gives one to Len, and puts the other in his pocket. He doesn’t bother divvying up the fives and ones, just puts them all in his pants pockets. Then he takes Doug’s wallet from his back pocket and slides it into his coat. He pulls drawers out and throws them on the ground, knocks over a stack of printed brochures.

“What…” Len sputters, “…the fuck?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

Ray looks up. “I’m making it look like a robbery.”

“No, I mean, why did you do that?”

“That?” Ray jerks his head toward Doug. His voice comes flat and unruffled, just a trace of South Philly. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”

Len can’t look away from the body. Already something is
changing inside him, his brain registering unheard-of levels of adrenaline and testosterone, and buzzing somewhere is a new perspective on power. “I…I don’t know.”

Ray looks back at the body as if it were a car he was considering buying. “Look, we don’t need this fat fuck. First rule: We only need as many guys as we need.”

Len steps closer, watches the blood pearl from the head wound, imagines Doug’s heart still pumping, and wonders how long that continues. He says, an afterthought: “But we don’t have anyone to forge the credit cards now.”

Ray looks from Len down to the body. “Oh yeah. That’s right.” He scratches his ear. “Honestly? I just couldn’t listen to him say
I don’t know
anymore.”

Len removes his sunglasses, crouches down, and stares into Doug’s lolling eyes. So easy. Just like that, like flicking a switch and bang. Gone. Move your right index finger a half inch and you can take away…everything. Goddamn. Goddamn.

Above him Ray takes a deep breath and steps in behind the crouching Len. “Yeah, sometimes I go too far.” He stares a hole into the back of Len’s head. “Live and learn.”

Len turns and looks up, wonder in his eyes. “Is it always like that?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” Ray says. “Yeah.”

“Goddamn,” Len says respectfully.

Ray grabs Len’s arm and pulls him away from the big pile of flesh on the floor. “Come on, chief. Let’s go see your buddy.”

1980 / October 30 / Thursday / 2:58
A.M
.

“So let me get this straight.” Jacks puts his champagne magnum on the table and leans forward on it like a short cane. “You’re saying the Ayatollah took our people hostage because America has too many lazy women on welfare?”

Aaron Grebbe laughs and shakes his head appreciatively. “No. Of course not. But I don’t think it’s ludicrous to imagine that these things are connected, that they might be part of a larger erosion, a loss of confidence that has infected America. Crime. Inflation. Forty years of failed liberal policies. And yes, a loss of stature abroad. A sense that we’ve lost our way.” His back is to the bar and his square, honest face is addressing the poker tables, where Vince’s regular game is on hold, the players listening with cocked heads as Aaron Grebbe explains why they should vote for him. “A country is like a woman. Who is going to respect her if she doesn’t respect herself?”

Hookers roll their eyes. Guys nod, mumble to themselves.

“What about the zoo?” Petey asks. “What did you say was wrong with our zoo?”

Grebbe takes another drink of his whiskey and points the glass at the questioner like he’s made an excellent point. “Well, Petey, let’s start with the name. Walk in the Wild? That’s not a zoo. A zoo should be called a zoo. The Spokane Zoo. What the hell is a Walk in the Wild? That’s a better name for
this
place.”

Grebbe pushes his hair off his forehead, but in Vince’s estimation it’s an unnecessary gesture; his hair hasn’t moved in six hours. He makes little karate chops with his hands, emphasizing his points. “Our zoo is
underfunded
”—chop—“
undersupported
”—chop—“and in the
wrong location
”—big chop. “But this isn’t just about a zoo. This is about economic development for the whole region. Our lousy zoo is emblematic of a city and a region afraid to succeed.”

Vince looks from Aaron Grebbe to the rapt faces of the poker players and hookers, and that’s when he realizes that Beth isn’t here anymore. He leans over to Angela, who is eating a chicken drumstick. “You know where Beth went?”

Angela shrugs. “Home, I guess.”

“Ah shit. How long ago?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Vince looks at the door and then to Grebbe, who has accepted a refill of whiskey from Eddie and moved on to criminal justice issues, his hands slicing in tiny drunken figure eights.

“My opponent claims that gun control will lower crime, but this is simply wrong. Gun control punishes law-abiding citizens, not criminals. It should be easier for an honest citizen to buy a gun for protection, not harder. It should be easier to protect our families, our property, and ourselves, not harder.”

Some of the men in the Pit nod in agreement.

“If we really want to stop crime, we must beef up the criminal justice system. Make sure criminals serve their sentences. Strengthen our court system. More prisons.”

Everyone in the Pit winces or shakes his head, but Grebbe
doesn’t seem to notice. Vince stands and leans into Grebbe’s shoulder, and barely misses getting karate-chopped. “…
more
jails,
more
prosecutors,
more
cops.”

“Hey,” Vince says. “This might not be your best issue here. We should go.”

“I don’t want to go,” Grebbe says, his eyes and lips well lubricated. “This is the best audience I’ve ever had. You go.”

“I don’t think I should leave you here.”

Grebbe turns to face him. “You don’t understand. This is exactly why I got into politics, Vince. I’m…I’m actually reaching these people. It’s invigorating. For the first time, I’m actually connecting with them.”

Vince backs away from Grebbe and calls out to the room. “Hey! How many of you are registered to vote?”

Grebbe looks up and sees what Vince sees. Not one hand goes up.

OUTSIDE, THE COLD
hits like a hangover. Fog clings to the ground. Grebbe pulls his herringbone jacket up around his neck and squints into the streetlight.

“Time is it?”

Vince checks his watch. “After three.”

“Jesus.”

Vince imagines this isn’t the first time Aaron Grebbe has come home late. And this makes him think about Kelly. He’s opening his mouth to ask about her when he hears a car door close behind them. He and Grebbe are halfway across the parking lot and he wonders why he didn’t look over his shoulder. Getting soft.

“Slow down, chief.” From behind.

It’s not so much the voice, but some quality within the voice
that he recognizes, some hint of common past—a set of rules. Outer borough. Or Jersey. No…Philly. And it’s not just East Coast; he hears that often enough in Spokane. No, it’s something more, something dark.

He does a slow turn. It takes a moment for him to comprehend that Lenny is the one who has gone against him, and even as he’s patting himself on the back for guessing he’d be the one, his eyes swing to the other guy and it’s clear: this is not about Lenny. This guy is from the world.

Fifty feet away and closing, Len takes off his aviators. “Hey, Vincers. We need to talk with you a minute. Ray and me, we got a few questions.”

Grebbe stops and looks back at the two men, his eyes sticking on Ray—everyone’s eyes sticking on Ray—the man’s gravity. “Everything okay, Vince?”

Vince does a quick scan of this new man, this Ray. He is a few inches shorter than Vince, and a few inches thicker, with huge black eyebrows, slick black hair furrowed back, and dark-lidded eyes—a face bored cold. He is wearing black slacks like Vince’s, a dress shirt without a tie, charcoal overcoat. Right hand in right coat pocket.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” Vince says. He doesn’t like the precariousness of his own voice, as if he’s just learning the language.

They are fifteen feet apart, the distance itself telling: too far for a friendly chat.

“This won’t take long,” Len says.

Even though Len is doing the talking, Vince addresses the new guy. “How about we do this tomorrow?”

“No, I think we better do this tonight,” Len says. The new guy sniffs and his upper lip twitches. The eyes close and open, slower and more measured than a blink.

Vince glances over at Grebbe, who seems to sense that something has gone wrong. “But my friend here—” Vince begins.

“Bring him,” Ray says, his first words. Takes a step forward, gravel crunching under his feet.

“No.” Vince can’t look away from the new guy. “That’s okay. I’ll come alone.” Vince turns to Grebbe. He can feel the sweat ring his hairline. “I’ll…uh…I’ll catch a ride with these guys. You go on ahead.”

Grebbe doesn’t say anything. Vince pats his shoulder and walks toward Len. Ray takes a step back and gives Vince a ten-foot berth and then falls in behind Vince and Len as they walk across the parking lot toward Len’s car, parked on a side street.

“It won’t take long,” Len says again, and tries a smile. “Don’t worry.”

Vince nods. His mouth is dry. He can’t see Ray, who is behind him, but he can hear the gravel crunching beneath Ray’s feet. Their shadows bleed out before them as they walk away from the streetlight.

“You win tonight at cards?” Len asks.

“Didn’t play,” Vince says. There’s something different about Len, a confidence he didn’t have before, bravado.

“That’s too bad,” Len says. When they reach the Cadillac, Vince feels Ray’s hand on his shoulder, then his waist—a casual pat down. “Front seat, chief,” Ray says—as if Vince needs to be told. Vince has never actually seen this part, not in person, but he’s imagined it, and it’s exactly as he’s imagined. A few of those sixty people he counted yesterday would’ve been told the same thing right beforehand:
front seat.

As he climbs in, Vince glances over toward Grebbe, but the candidate is already in his truck. He watches the red pickup pull away. That’s it, then. Vince sits next to Len on a big vinyl bench seat. Ray is behind Vince, in the darkness. Doors close. Len starts the car and blows on his hands. “Fuckin’ freezing, ain’t it?” They sit in the dark.

“Look, Len. Whatever this is—”

“I told you. We just need to talk. Don’t start getting all paranoid again, Vince.”

“Sure. Okay.” Vince looks around the parking lot. They are on the dark side street, a good forty yards behind the Pit, far away from the other cars. Nothing on either side of the car for thirty or forty feet. Even if he got the door open, he’d make it about ten feet before—

Len looks to the backseat. “See, Ray, didn’t I tell you Vince would be cool? Cool as a cucumber.”

Ray doesn’t say anything.

Vince stares straight ahead.

“Cool as a glass of water.”

Vince and Ray are silent.

“Cool as—”

“What’s this about?” Vince turns and catches Ray’s eyes.

Len puts his aviators back on and looks over the rims, his sideburns diving toward his chin. “Okay, Vince. Here’s the thing. You’re out.”

Vince looks from the backseat to Len. “Out?”

“That’s right. I know you’ve been holding out on me. You don’t pay me half what I deserve. I’m takin’ all the risk. It’s my stereo store.”

“So ask for more money,” Vince says. “I’ll give you more.”

“No, it’s too late for that. You’re out. And you can be out one of two ways. First, my way: pay me what you owe me for the last ten months. I figure fifteen thousand. Then introduce me to the mailman, give me whatever credit cards you got now, and you’re free. You can walk away. Leave town or whatever.”

That’s typical, too. Leave town. And it’s funny; you find yourself wanting to believe: Yeah, I’ll just give them the money and the mailman and leave town. They’ll let me leave town. But you know better. You’re not a kid anymore. “What mailman?” Vince asks, his voice raspy. “What money?”

Len rubs the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn it, Vince. Now
you’re just insulting my intelligence. I know you got money stashed away. I fuckin’ know it. No way you spend all the money we’ve been makin’ on this. Now come on. I said there were two ways. You don’t want Ray’s way. Trust me—”

Vince catches Ray’s eyes in the rearview and sees that he’s not listening to Len either. His eyes say that this has nothing to do with Len, that this is between the two of them. And that’s when Vince becomes aware of a car running outside. He looks past Len and sees a pickup truck creeping up darkly on the cross street, on the driver’s side of the car. Ten feet away the truck stops, a door opens, the high beams come on at eye level, and the radio blares (
“I believe in miracles! Since ya came along, you sexy thing!”
) All three men jump, instinctively cover their eyes, and turn toward the pickup truck’s lights.

“What the—” Len starts.

Ray speaks up from the backseat. “Uh, Len…”

There is a light tapping on Ray’s window, a clicking, metal on glass. While they were distracted by the high beams on the driver’s side, Aaron Grebbe has gotten out of the truck and run around to the passenger side of Lenny’s car. There he stands red-faced and slick with sweat, behind the long, slender barrel of a .22 rifle, pointed into the backseat at a spot between Ray’s big eyebrows.

“Easy, chief,” Ray says. “Easy.” Vince hears the thud of something drop on the back floorboard and Ray puts his hands up to show they’re empty. “It’s okay,” he says to his closed window. “Stop shaking before you hurt someone.” Then, to Vince: “Does your boyfriend know how to use that thing?”

“Looks like it.” Vince opens his car door and steps out. He can’t believe how good the cold air feels on his throat. He drinks it. Grebbe is staring down the barrel of the rifle, his feet shoulder width, like someone trained to shoot in the military. Hands are steady. He wipes the sweat from his forehead to his shoulder without looking away from Ray in the backseat, illuminated by the sharp headlights from Grebbe’s truck.

“Open the windows,” Grebbe says to Len. All four windows come down. “Now turn off the car.” The engine dies. “Now toss me the keys.”

Len throws the keys through the open window and they hit the ground at Grebbe’s feet. Vince looks in the backseat and sees Ray’s black eyes watching Grebbe closely, to see if he bends over for the keys. He doesn’t. His chin remains above the stock of the rifle. “Vince,” he says, but Vince is already bending to grab Len’s keys. He tosses them into the vacant field. They clink in the grass.

Grebbe gestures with the gun. “Now put your hands out the windows. Both of you. As far as they’ll go.”

They do, their arms out the windows to the elbows. Grebbe breathes in deep pulls. “Okay. Keep your hands like that.” He glances over at Vince and begins edging back around to his car, keeping the rifle in front of him. “Let’s get out of here before I piss my pants.”

IT TAKES VINCE
only a minute to talk Grebbe out of going to the police (“You really want to go in there and explain what you were doing hanging out with gamblers and hookers at three o’clock in the morning? And why you pointed a gun at someone who’s going to say he wasn’t armed? And you want to do all of this five days before the election?”) When Grebbe finally concedes, Vince sits back in the truck seat and rubs his temples, trying to figure out what to do next.

“I don’t want to know what you do for a living, do I, Vince?”

“I make donuts,” Vince says.

Grebbe drives down side roads, rubbing his jaw. “You know what the strangest part of it was?”

“What?” Vince asks.

“How badly I wanted to shoot that guy.” He looks over. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Vince says. “I just know he isn’t from here.”

“It looked like he was frisking you—”

Vince looks back at the rifle behind the bench seat, tennis balls jammed in the rack to keep it from rattling. “So you’re a hunter?”

“Not really. I’ve been bird hunting once or twice.”

“Could you have done it?”

Grebbe looks back at the road. “If you had asked me before, I would’ve said no. But…yeah, I could have done it. I
wanted
to do it.”

“In Vietnam? Did you ever—”

“It’s different. You’re watching a line of trees, a puff of smoke, a rise in the ground. You fire at movement as much as people. I was only in one firefight—and it was chaos, coming from everywhere, behind you, in front of you. Tracers and smoke. It doesn’t feel like you’re firing at anyone, just like you’re contributing, like you’re…spitting into a rainstorm. People fall, but it’s not like anyone caused it. It’s like you’re all in it together, all hiding from the same rain.” He shakes his head, snaps out of it. “How about you? You ever—”