Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (4 page)

The den is his first stop when he arrives home. It always is, at least when he’s got cash on him, which is nearly every trip. Most days, Roy comes inside, throws his jacket on the hook, and walks right into the back bedroom. But these days, since the doc left town, there are extra steps.

First, Roy steps inside his house and closes the door behind him. He turns the deadbolt, locking it up tight. Then he unlocks
it and turns it again. Unlocks it and turns it again. Unlocks it and turns it again. Four times, and now it’s locked. No doubt about it. Little doubt about it.

He places his jacket on the hook by the door, then moves it down a peg. Up a peg. Down a peg. No way to know if the first one was sturdy enough. Searches through the pockets to make sure he hasn’t missed any cash, then searches again for good measure. Yesterday, he searched a third time just to be sure and found a twenty-dollar bill hiding among the folds of cloth. Today he searches a third time, and though he doesn’t find anything, he thinks it might be a good idea to add this third search to his daily regimen, just in case.

By the time he reaches the den, Roy has already placed his shoes back inside their shoe boxes on the third shelf of his closet, and wiped his socks on the tile a few extra times. Might be residual dirt to scuff up the carpet. He steps through the door, skirts the couch, and attends to the horse.

The ceramic head is heavy in Roy’s arms as he slides it up and off the body. Rests it on the floor below, taking pains to balance it just right. Roy reaches into his pockets and pulls out the day’s take.

After splits with Frankie, Roy’s got almost seven hundred dollars in cash. Small but easy haul, an hour’s work at tops. He prepares to reach down into the statue, through the horse’s neck, in order to gingerly place the rolled-up money atop the stacks already inside, but there’s no need to go through that. The cash is piled up to the brim, the ceramic statue nearly overflowing with bills of all denominations. That happened quickly.

It is probably time to take another trip to the Caymans, Roy thinks. The last time the horse got this full, he was eighty-nine
thousand over the amount he allowed himself to keep in the house. The
safe amount
. The
cash allowance
.

But the beach and the sun and the noise of the islands are too much for him to contemplate right now. The world is too bright down there. Not now, but soon. It can wait a spell. It will have to wait. Now all Roy wants to do is put the horse’s head back where it belongs and crawl into bed. To sleep until the sounds and the pressure and the pain go away. To wake up and find out that Doc Mancuso has moved back to town and is happy to supply him with the soft pink pills once again. To cover his head with the blanket, tuck his knees under his chin, grab a handful of hair in each fist, and blot out the sun.

F
rankie is banging on the door. Roy can see him from the den, make out his weaselly features through the thin sheets hanging over the front windows. He’s only got one eye open, but he can see Frankie standing on the stoop. Pounding with his little fists. Kicking out with those little feet. Roy would laugh, but he’s worried he might throw up if he laughs. That’s a new one. Two days old now. He was lying down in the recliner, head back, eating a can of tuna, and he thought,
What would it be like if I throw up now? Would I choke on my own vomit? Would anyone find me before I died?
Since then, it hasn’t been far off his mind.

“Roy, goddammit!” Frankie is yelling, his voice muted through the wooden front door. “I know you’re in there!”

Roy doesn’t believe that Frankie really knows he’s in the house. Frankie bluffs, but he’s bad at it. Roy taught Frankie how to bluff, long ago, but Frankie didn’t want to learn about the tells. How to hide ’em, how to spot ’em. He just wanted to go right on bluffing his way through everything. Frankie needs Roy for the cover. Roy knows it.

“I’ll call the cops, I’ll do it,” threatens Frankie. He pounds a few more times. “I’ll put all my shit where they can’t find it, I’ll call them and they’ll come down here and—well, hell, I’ll call them, that’s all I’m saying.”

Roy knows Frankie would never do such a thing. He hates the cops. Paranoid about them. Thinks they have scanners, ways of knowing if you’re lying to them. Frankie can’t be on the same street as a cop. But the mere threat makes Roy move. For Frankie to even threaten that … To call the police. The police. To have to
talk
to them, to
speak
with them … Moving slowly, deliberately, being careful not to scuff the carpet, Roy lifts himself off the recliner and shuffles to the front door. He keeps the latch on tight as he releases the deadbolt and pulls at the knob.

Frankie’s nose pops through the opening, lips following. “Jesus, Roy, you had me scared. Open up, lemme in.”

“Take off your shoes,” says Roy.

“What? Why?”

“Dirt. Take ’em off, or you don’t come in.”

“You gotta be kidding me. C’mon, it’s me, open up.”

“Boots. Off.”

Frankie pulls his nose back, sticks an eye in its place. Scans what he can see—the living room, part of the dining room, Roy, the eyeball dancing up and down as it soaks in the picture. Frankie steps back. “You stopped taking the pills, didn’t you?”

“Are you taking off your shoes or am I closing the door again?”

Roy can hear muttering from behind the door as Frankie struggles with his boots. He wants to laugh again, but stops just short as he feels the bile rising in his throat. He doesn’t want to vomit. Not here, not on the carpet.

Frankie comes in holding his boots. His socks have holes in
them. Thousand-dollar boots and forty-two-cent socks. That’s Frankie. He’s got doughnuts in the other hand. “Breakfast of champions,” he says. Tosses them on the kitchen table. He looks around the place, walks through the living room.

“Looking for something?” asks Roy.

“My partner. You seen him?”

Roy falls back into his recliner. “Came all this way to make jokes?”

“I been calling for five days, a guy gets worried.”

“I go places. I go outta town.”

Frankie shakes his head. “Not this time, you didn’t. You been right here, I can see your lumpy ass print on the couch.”

Roy shrugs. “Been busy.”

Boots still in one hand, Frankie crosses the room and pulls open the front window shades. Sunlight streams in, slapping Roy’s face. He winces, covers his eyes with a thick forearm.

“What’re you,” Frankie says, “a goddamned bat?”

“You’re very loud.”

“That’s just ’cause you ain’t heard normal speech in a week. This is what real people sound like, Roy. Real people in the outside world.”

“You’re still very loud.”

Frankie looks at his partner hard. Roy glares back. “You take your pills?” he asks Roy.

“Fuck off.”

“Did you take your pills?”

“I answered you already. I said fuck off.”

By way of answer, Frankie throws his boots on the carpet, dirty side down. Before they’ve even hit the fibers, before they’ve
made a mark, Roy is out of the chair. On his knees by the door, grunting, grabbing for the boots. Holding them aloft, away from the carpet. Inspecting for dirt, for a stain. His fingers probe every strand, searching for filth and grime.

Frankie is down next to him, hand on his partner’s back. Roy feels like he’s going to vomit right here, right on the carpet. The stain will never come out. The thought makes him gag, stings his throat.

“What happened to Dr. Mancuso?” Frankie asks, his voice low. Kind.

Roy can’t get it out. His throat is closed. The noises coming out are tight coughs, clipped breaths. Frankie sits on the floor, grabs his partner’s head. Takes the boots away, shows Roy the clean carpet. Looks in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay. Tell me what happened to Doc Mancuso.”

Roy takes a breath. It goes down hard. “He left,” Roy says. Panting.

“Left the practice?”

“Left town. He left town.”

Frankie nods. “He go far?”

“Chicago.” Easier now. Air coming through.

“Far enough. When?”

Roy thinks back. “Eight weeks ago. Give or take.”

“Jesus, Roy …” Frankie stands, pulling Roy to his feet. One hand beneath the bigger man’s armpit, trying to help him balance as they rise. “So you been outta pills for how long?”

Roy isn’t sure anymore. He stopped counting a while ago. “A month, maybe.”

“So we gotta get you a new doc, that’s all.”

Roy shakes his head. The motion makes him dizzy. “Doc Mancuso—”

“—isn’t around anymore. I know you got along good with him, but that’s … that’s not an option anymore. We can’t—you can’t do this. You gotta be well. You gotta function. We got jobs to do.”

“You do ’em,” says Roy, turning away.

“
We
do ’em. You still run this thing. Might not look like it now, but you’re tops of the pops. Two-man operation, pal.”

Roy can’t think about running games. He can only think about getting back in his recliner. Sitting down. Safe there. He stands, shuffles across the room.

“Okay,” Frankie says after some thought, “I know a guy.”

“A guy.”

“A doctor. Good guy.”

“Diverter?” Roy asks.

Frankie stands, shakes his head. “Nah, he’s a straight arrow. He’s the guy I took my ma to when she was having them visions.”

“I’m not having visions—”

“Not saying you are. But he’s a shrink like any other shrink, and he can give you the pills you need.”

Roy doesn’t want to argue. Arguing means talking. Talking means saliva. Saliva means bile, and bile means vomit. He nods instead.

“Go take a shower,” Frankie insists. “I’ll make a few phone calls, see what I can set up.”

On his way into the bathroom, Roy turns around and finds his partner on the phone. “Frankie,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You wipe that thing down when you’re done with it?”

“Go take that shower, Roy.”

Roy sits in the passenger side of Frankie’s new sports car, wedged into the leather bucket seat. The options alone cost more than Roy’s entire Caprice. The music blasting over the premium sound system is loud but tolerable. Old standards. Ella scatting at eighty decibels.

“Secretary said there ain’t a lot of crap to fill out,” Frankie tells Roy as they pull into the parking lot. “But we gotta get there a few minutes early.”

“You give my real name?”

“Yeah, sure. You’re the real you, ain’t ya?”

Fourth floor, suite 413. Dr. Harris Klein and Associates. Inside the sparse, white-walled lobby, Roy fills out a series of forms. Name, address, medical history. Under occupation, he writes “Antiques Dealer.” This is the standard front. There are enough ugly pieces of art in his home to qualify for the distinction.

“You want me to go in with you?” Frankie asks. “What’re you, my mother?”

“Just asking. I’ll stick out here. Read some of these magazines.”

When they call Roy in a few minutes later, he hands his forms to the secretary and makes his way down a short, wood-paneled hallway. A door at the end is open. He pauses.

“Come in,” he hears a voice call out. “Come inside, please.”

Dr. Klein waits for Roy inside his office, standing in front of a
thick mahogany desk. He’s short, thin. Hairy. Curly mop up top, glasses perched on the pert nose. Dress shirt, slacks, no jacket. Rolex on the right wrist. Slight bulge in back pocket where his wallet would be. Roy decides not to pickpocket the doctor. Degrees and plaques line the walls, interspersed with family photos and whimsical caricatures. The carpet is a dark, fruity red, like it’s been soaked in wine.

“How do you find stains?” Roy asks.

The doctor is confused. “I’m sorry?”

“On the carpet. It’s so dark. How do you find the stains?”

Dr. Klein grins and holds out his hand for Roy to shake. “I don’t worry about that much,” he says. “We don’t have a lot of food in here.”

Roy wants to tell him that it’s not just food. Stains can come from anywhere. Bleach. Blood. Urine. But he maintains. Shakes the doctor’s hand. Takes a seat like he knows he should.