Those bright, mulchy mounds, they looked so full of life, the excess of life.
Cassandra had described herself with the usual telephonic vagueness, blondish this, bluish that. I had a corner table, a good view of the café, so I jumped when I felt a hand on my neck.
“It’s me. Cassandra.”
She was a less delicate version of her brother. A much older man in a charcoal suit stood beside her.
“Hi,” I said, half stood. “Please, have a seat. How did you recognize me?”
“Wasn’t hard.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Cassandra. “This is Timothy. He’s our editor in chief. When I told him about your idea, he really wanted to come along.”
“The more the merrier!” I said.
“Hello,” said Timothy. He spoke tightly. I sensed awkwardness between them, perhaps a dispute about who would bask longer in the reflected glory of my publication.
Cassandra ordered iced teas.
“So,” she said. “About this book thing.”
I knew this was my moment. This was the way of the world, the opposite of the way of our apartment. You had to speak your dream. It wasn’t enough to do a thing. You had to sell the notion of doing it. This was what they meant by the marketplace of ideas.
“The book,” I said. “The book. It is for children, as you know, for all children, but with an emphasis on the boy. Because there are no stories for the boy. Stories for the girl are too sweet and sticky. Everything’s a colossal lie about bunnies and rainbows and butterflies. But the boy needs the truth of us as meat, to bathe in the blood of our meat war.”
Timothy squinted in his ice-cream chair.
“I think I know what you mean,” said Cassandra, “but I’m not sure I would put it that way.”
“You’re the expert,” I said, drank down the rest of my Irish coffee. It really didn’t compare.
“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I am.”
“I’m just the lowly writer,” I said. “The humble scribe. But I do know one thing. Marvelous Marvin Hagler is somebody the boy would do well to remember. As an exemplar. Hagler grew up poor in Newark, New Jersey, where he witnessed the ’68 riots firsthand. A social worker helped move his family to Brockton, Massachusetts. Do you know who that social worker was? The mother of the revolutionary poet and playwright Amiri Baraka. How is that for doozy-grade historical confluence.”
“Amiri Baraka?” said Cassandra.
Timothy looked rather ashen.
“These are the facts. That’s all. I went to the library. They’ve got something called microfiche. One night in Brockton young Marvin is beaten up by a local tough named Dornell Wigfall. The next day, Marvin goes to the gym. The rest is legend. He shaves his head and becomes the fighter nobody wants to fight. Finally he gets his title shot, from a Brit called Minter. Minter says no black man will ever take his belt. So Hagler flies to Albion’s shores and gives that limey a New England beat down. The crowd throws bottles into the ring. Hagler flees for his life. It’s victory, but a tricky kind of victory. He has many more celebrated bouts. Sugar Ray Leonard. Roberto Duran. His third-round KO of Thomas ‘the Hitman’ Hearns, the Kronk Gym prodigy, is considered by many to be—”
“Stop!” cried Timothy. “What are you doing?”
“Daddy, please,” said Cassandra.
“I can’t fucking listen to this anymore. Have you seen Leo today?”
“Leo?” I said.
“John’s cousin,” said Cassandra.
“Yeah, I saw him. Not today. Wait, I don’t understand.”
“What are you kids doing to yourselves?” said Timothy, his gray eyes greased with tears.
“Daddy,” said Cassandra.
“That’s great,” I said. “Father and daughter working at the same publishing house.”
“I’m a lawyer,” said Timothy.
“Sorry?” I said.
“We’re planning an intervention,” said Cassandra. “For Leo. We’re gathering information for it.”
“How much is he doing?” Timothy said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really know the guy.”
“He talked like you were close,” said Cassandra.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” I said. “I’ll help any way I can.”
“Help yourself!” said Timothy. “Save yourself, young man. Dear God, go to your family. You are about to die. Don’t you see this?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
The man shook and crossed his arms.
“Daddy,” said Cassandra. “Daddy, we can go now.”
“What about the book?” I said.
“The book.”
“The advance?”
“The advance,” said Cassandra. “Here’s your advance.”
She pulled bills from her bag, tossed them onto the table.
“Pay for the drinks. Whatever is left is your advance. But don’t ever contact me again. And stay away from Leo. Seriously. You are never to be in his presence again. My husband works for the district attorney. Don’t cross me, or people will put you in the river. Let’s go, Daddy.”
My editor led her sobbing father away.
“One more thing,” she called over her shoulder. “Boxing is barbaric, and you are a sick little parasite. What do you know about sweat and blood? Bet you’ve never even been punched in your life. I’m serious about Leo. Stay away!”
* * *
I scored down at Fanny Packs and headed back to the apartment. Gary and John and John’s cousin had gathered on the futons.
“I saw your sister,” I said to John’s cousin.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You gave me her number.”
“Right. For your book.”
“I was robbed!” said Gary, giggling.
“He did lose one bout,” I said to Gary. “Early in his career. Lost it fair and square. To Willie ‘the Worm’ Monroe. The Worm took him in Philly.”
“The Worm!” cried Gary.
“The defeat was soon avenged,” I said. “And here’s one more thing, and then I’ll shut up. They did an MRI on Hagler’s skull. It was abnormally thick. It was basically a helmet.”
“Cool,” said John.
“My sister likes your idea?” said John’s cousin.
“I don’t think so. She’s got some other things on her mind.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.”
“Me?”
“She’s going to intervene. Your dad, too. They’re planning the big ambush. They’ve got the maps out. They’re watching you through scopes. Somebody will give the signal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re Leo, right?”
“Of course I’m Leo.”
“The van will pull up. Men will pour out. Or maybe your sister will just take you out for a nice meal. All the people you’ve ever felt judged by will be there.”
“What?”
“You’re going to rehab, Reverend.”
“I was rehabbed!” said Gary.
“Shit,” said John’s cousin. “Not again.”
“What about me?” said John.
“They didn’t mention you,” I said. “I think you’re on your own.”
* * *
Supplies ran low, and I went back to Fanny Packs. The big guy was gone. There was police tape across the doorway, a dark, wet splash on the wall. I hit other spots, blocks and blocks away, but they were closed. The Laundrymat: closed. Pillbox: closed. Rumpelstiltskin: closed. Scooter Rat was nowhere. Ditto the Old Lady of the Sealed Works. That left Cups.
Cups was near the river in a crumbly walk-up. The light was on in the hallway and I could see people huddled near the banister. I started up the stoop when a hand shot out and grabbed me.
“Hey.”
He was a big kid, lumpy in the folds of his sweatshirt. He rubbed his stubble-covered head.
“I’m stuck here, bro,” he said. “I’m on lookout. I need a bag, you know? Just buy me a bag while you’re in there.”
He pressed a ten-dollar bill into my hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Yeah, you know. Just get me a bag.”
“Boy?”
“What? Get me a bag of dope.”
“Okay,” I said, shrugged, went inside.
I waited behind a man who stank of subway station elevators and a soulful-looking woman in fishnet sleeves. The thing about Cups was you never saw the guys with the cups. They stayed upstairs, invisible puppeteers. The Styrofoam containers bobbed down on strings. The lookouts on the stoop and the rooftops called their codes, for the cops, for the all clear.
“
Gato!
” they’d shout, and I pictured jaguars with badges in their fur.
Maybe I pictured that now as the cups came down. I put the lookout’s money in with mine in the cup marked D, watched it go up. The cup started down once more, but there was something wrong. The lookouts shouted, the cup swung hard, bounced off the stair rails, tilted, tipped. The lights went out.
I groped the scummed tiles for my bags. Broken bottles pricked my palms. I heard a burst of siren, then more shouting, then nothing at all. My hand brushed something, one of the tiny glassine envelopes. I scooped it into my fist. The lights came on. The lookout stood in the doorway.
“Got my bags?” he said.
“Bag,” I said. “One bag. You only gave me ten dollars.”
“I gave you twenty, motherfucker. You trying to rip me off?”
“No, man.”
“You little fucking junkie, trying to rip me off. Just give me what you’ve got.”
I walked toward him, opened my palm. We both sort of gasped when we saw the flattened cigarette butt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I’m sure it’s over there near the stairs. Come on, let’s look.”
I wanted the lookout to follow me the way a father would, reserve judgment until it was clear a misdeed had occurred, maybe the way my father used to follow me when I was a boy, for he was a reporter and his job was to seek the facts, even if it was just the fact of who won a ball game or who’d ripped the sofa or stained the rug. My father always wanted to know what was truly happening.
Except maybe once.
There had been a big snowfall, and we stood in the driveway we’d just cleared, leaned on our shovels, sucked icy air.
“I remember,” my father said then. “I remember when you were a little boy. You had some words here and there, but you hadn’t really spoken a sentence yet. We were all waiting for your big first sentence. We were eating dinner and I was having my wine. I get up for some bread and knock over the glass. Wine spills everywhere. Stains the tablecloth. You know how your mother was about stains. We’re all sitting there afraid to speak, and you know what you said?”
“No.”
“‘I’m sorry.’ That’s what you said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Hah. You were always like that.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Listen,” said my father. “I need to tell you something. I don’t love your mother anymore. I’m seeing somebody else. Somebody I love. I care about you, but I can’t live with your mother right now.”
“She’s really sick.”
“I know. Believe me. That’s what makes it so hard.”
“You fucking bastard,” I said.
“Okay,” said my father. “I’m not going to let you speak to me like that too much. But right now is warranted. Give me what you got.”
I stood there, stared at him.
“That was it?” said my father. “Come on, take a shot. Sock it to me. Haymaker express.”
I cocked my fist, studied the salt bristles in his chin.
“Lay me out, baby,” said my father. “Onetime offer. Put the old fuck on the deck. Don’t be a damn pansy! I’m leaving your dying hag of a mother!”
I turned hard, took a few steps, and threw a huge hook at the garage door. We both heard my hand bones crack. I slid to the pavement, squealed.
“Oh, Christ,” said my father. “No good deed.”
He clutched me up and rolled me into the car, drove us to the hospital.
* * *
It was true about no good deed, or even bad deed, same as it was true about fathers and how they forget to love you, but it’s more that they’ve forgotten everything.
Maybe it’s just a classic American condition.
None of it mattered now. The lookout’s eyes filled with this silvery hate and he gathered up the collar of my shirt and commenced what people who have never been punched, people like me, call fisticuffs. He threw hard, perfect crosses, and my legs fell away and the blows did not cease. I could feel them, not feel them, their smash and wreck, the splintering of bone, feel my blood, this warm, barbaric blood, so rich and parasitical, pour out my nose and sluice out my mouth and down my throat and choke me with the shock of something terrible and unendingly foreseen.
When he was done, the kid leered down at me.
“Had enough?” he said.
“Yes,” I lied.
EXPRESSIVE
Folks say I have one of those faces. Not just folks, either. People say it. You have one of those faces, they say, a person can tell what you are feeling. Mostly what I’m feeling is that I’ve just farted, but I nod anyway, twitch up my eyes, my mouth, all earnest and merciful. It’s called
Joy Is Here (So Don’t Be Such a Prune-Hearted Prick)
, or at least that’s what I call it. If you know how to work your face, you can make people think you feel anything you want, and with that power you can feel up anything you want.
Example: this chick, Roanoke, I meet at the Rover. She’s kind of dykey, the way I like them, has her own darts for the dartboard.
I buy her a beer.
“You’re kind of dykey,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says, in the tone of her generation.
Roanoke rolls the dart in her hand. I glance off, swivel back with
Harmless Fool / No Strings Attached / Penis as Pure Novelty
, which sounds easy but requires most of the human face’s approximately seventy-three thousand muscles.
Next thing we’re back in her efficiency and Roanoke’s moaning with her hand on her mouth. She’s worried we won’t hear the door if the girlfriend comes home. We do hear the door, but that’s not the problem. The problem is efficiency. The apartment is laid out perfectly for dykes to discover they’ve betrayed each other and their way of life. A curtain around the bed might help.
I give Roanoke one more look before I leave her to the business of ducking creamers, ramekins. I call it
Remember, the World Is Not Broken, Even If Your Crockery Is
.
* * *
Folks, people, like to ask what you would do in a moment of great moral confusion. Would you save that burning portrait of Hitler painted by Rembrandt? Who cares? The serious question is what are you doing right now. Do you have time for another drink?