Carry Me Home (65 page)

“Penis.”

“Pe—” Ty broke into a laugh and Olivia laughed with him.

“Let’s do another line.” She rolled off him, stood. “Then I’ve got a word for you.” She shimmied.

“Umm?” He sat on the edge of the bed, placed his hands on her thighs, ran them up over her hips to her waist. She grabbed them, arched her back. He rocked forward to kiss her stomach.

“Hooters.” She jumped back.

“Who-dares?” He laughed, rose. “What are who-dares?”

“You’ll have to catch me to find out.” She ran to the door, glanced back, saw him, his eyes revealing he was ready to take up the chase. “You can’t catch me,” she squealed, bolted down the hall toward the living room. He sprinted after her. She darted to the far end by the archway to the dining room. He stood, poised to move either through the kitchen to capture her in the dining room or lunge straight through the living room. She too tensed, ready to move opposite him. Then she quickly straightened, arched her back, shimmied, sang out, “Hooters,” disappeared into the dining room.

Ty froze. She couldn’t see him. He could hear her. He crouched, silently edged into the kitchen.

“Where are you?” Olivia sang sweetly.

Just then he lunged, burst through the dining room door, his arms extended to tackle her. As he lunged his foot caught the carpet. She was at the far side of the table, pulling her bra straps off her shoulders, teasing. Then, BAM! His face, his mouth, the entire mass and force of his movement, right into the table edge.

“Oooph! Shit!” Garbled. “Shit.”

“Ty. Oh Ty!” Olivia came to him. He was on the floor, a hand covering his mouth. “Are you ...” She could see blood behind his hand. “Let me look.”

Ty tilted his head down, dropped his hand. Amid the splatter of blood were two ivory tiles—his upper incisors. “Shit. Lthk at thhis! Shit!” He covered his mouth, looked up at her. “So what are who-thares?” He chuckled. Then he groaned.

“Would you talk to him?” Peter asked.

“I didn’t even know he was living there.”

“But you do now. There’s going to be incidents. I don’t want it to get ugly.”

“What do you want me to say to him?” Bobby was miffed. According to Peter Wilcox virtually everyone else in the office knew that Ty Dorsey was living in Golden Vista.

“Tell him it’s for his own good. And Lloyd will make it worth his while.”

“You’re fuckin crazy!”

“You brought him out here,” Peter said. “You’re partly responsible, you know. If they burn a cross on his lawn or something, San Martin will suffer. The town will be in every newspaper in the country. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t put that shit on me, Peter. I just came down to see Al. If Ty’s living there, if he bought that place, that’s his business. He’s got every right to live there.”

“Yeah,” Peter scoffed. “Some friend he is of yours. You don’t even know....”

“Know what?”

“Forget it. That’s his business too, I suppose.”

It was rainy, cool, gray. Inside, even with the bathroom light on, it seemed gray. Ty Dorsey, wrapped in a towel, stood before the sink, leaning in, one hand on the sink back, the other holding his upper lip, leaning in close to the mirror inspecting his new gold caps, real gold, gleaming like his grandfather’s one incisor had gleamed when Ty was small. There were other teeth, too, that came to mind—incidents, intrusive connections that hit him the moment a month earlier when he’d looked down and seen the white chips amid the red splatter. He’d told himself it was nothing. Don’t mean nothin. Drive on! Don’t mean nothin. Those fuckers were dead. Dead meat. Dead meat don’t hurt.

Ty stood straight, used both hands to raise his lip. Then he let his lip go, experimented with different smiles, different facial expressions. This one got too much teeth, he thought. Not enough, he thought of the next. He practiced a demure smile he found visually pleasing, professional.

When Ty was satisfied with his appearance he retreated to the bedroom. He glanced through the glass slider at the drizzle, at the gray-green of the fourteenth tee. “Dead meat don’t hurt,” he muttered. “What the fuck he mean, sixty-four grand!” Ty sat on the bed, pulled on a gold-toed sock. One good thing, he thought, one good thing about smashin my face—he leaned back slightly, caressed the mattress where Olivia had spent the night—she’s got a debt attitude. Ha! Like Bobby and those goddamn shopping list pads. She owes me. But I don’t owe him nothin. Nothin. Nothing. Don’t talk like trash. Sixty-four thousand dollars. Get yo black ass ... your black ... being ... out of the country club. Fuck you, Lloyd. I can’t believe ... For Madeleine, my ass. Needs her own space! That bimbo wouldn’t leave sugar daddy for all the tea in China. I can-fuckin-not believe he asked. We’ve been partners. We’ve had deals. I’ve put a quarter of a million dollars out through him.

As Ty dressed for his appointments in Oakland anger touched off anger—thoughts of Olivia, of his new gold caps, no match for the realization of what had happened. He had taken Lloyd Dunmore at face value, had told him he’d consider it. He’d told Olivia about the offer.

“They want to buy you out.”

“No. Not Lloyd. We’re tight. Really. Something to do with Madeleine needing to find herself.”

“Get real. There’s eight homes in Golden Vista on the market. There’s a beauty on Silver Spoon that backs up to the course. And it has access to the open space slope and riding trails of North Peak. And a pool. For sixty-one nine. Why would they want yours?”

“Maybe my financing’s better.”

“If he asked you to secure him a second on Silver Spoon, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of cour—”

“See? I can’t believe you’re being so naive.”

Naive! It was her word. He had never seen himself as naive. Not Ty. Not Tyrone Blackwell-Dorsey-Wallace. Not Mr. I-won’t-play-games-with-you. It took time to settle. Naive. Get the nigger out of the country club. For God’s sake! This wasn’t the South. This was California! This was 1972! He’d been an American soldier! He’d fought for The Man. And there were laws. Laws! Laws to protect him. He steamed inside. But I—I couldn’t go to ... They’d want to know who I am. And who the fuck am I?

In January Lloyd Dunmore made Ty Dorsey a new offer. This time he attempted, after beating around the bush during another Sausalito luncheon, to be up front. “Ty, I’m getting lots of
flak
.”

“About what, Lloyd?” Ty flashed his demure golden smile.

“You.”

“Me?”

Dunmore tucked his chin, glanced up. “I don’t want to do this. I like you. We’re friends. And I’m not a racist.”

“What’s happening, Lloyd?”

“Ty, it’s for your own protection.”

“What is?” Ty acted concerned for Lloyd Dunmore, acted as if he wished to help the older man. Beneath, he laughed. Naive, my black ass. Squirm, honkey.

“Ty, I’ll buy your place for ... I’ll give you seventy-four. That’s twenty thousand more than you paid. People up there are really upset and I’m taking the heat.”

“Is my yard maintained okay?”

“Of course.”

“And the house?”

“You know that’s not it.”

“Am I dirty?”

“Ty! Don’t make it hard on me.”

“How can you offer me this and say you’re not a racist?”

“Because I wouldn’t offer it to you if it were only me.”

“So, you’re fronting for racists.”

“Listen, damn it. I’ve been protecting you. I got you started. Tyrolian Financial’d be nothing if I didn’t ... Damn! And I know you’re balling that white woman. They’re going to lynch you. Or burn you out. Besides ... I know, I know you’ve got cash-flow problems. This’ll solve it. You can’t afford—”

Ty glared. He’d heard enough, had let Lloyd talk enough. “Who?” he demanded.

“Seventy-four thousand. That’s my final offer. Move into the Miwok eight-plex. No one will bother you out there.”

The two sat silent except for Lloyd’s heavy breathing and the ticking of Ty’s right foot. Lloyd kept his eyes down. Ty stared past him, out a window to the boat slips and across the bay to Angel Island. For minutes on end neither spoke.

The waiter came. “Are you finished, Mr. Dunmore? Mr. Dorsey?” Both nodded.

Finally Ty broke the impasse. “I’ve got to get down to San Bruno,” he said. “Tell them not to do it. Tell them Blackwell says there’s more trouble in it for them than for him.” Ty stood. His heart was racing, his legs felt weak. “And Wallace and Dorsey agree. You guys can’t afford my house.”

“Hey, you look different.”

“Naw, same old me.”

Bobby cocked his head. “No, there’s something different.”

“Just serve the ball.” Ty laughed, turned away from the net, then turned back. “You any good at this?”

“No.” Bobby chuckled too. It was late June. School was out for the summer. They were on one of the green-painted asphalt courts of the school complex between Sixth and Seventh streets. “This is only my fourth time. How about you?”

“You’re up on me by one. Olivia needed somebody to beat!” Bobby and Ty were now next to each other, the net between them. Olivia was back at the baseline, stretching.

“I didn’t know you guys knew each other,” Bobby said.

“Yeah. I bought a couple of houses through her. You know, they say you’re not there anymore.”

“Aw, you know, a little. I’m trying to line up something with the regional planning board. I ... I guess I’m really not much of a saleman.”

“Oh Man, Bobby, I know you were good.”

“Maybe. But ... Ah, hey, you know, this with Olivia, it’s awk—”

“No big deal, Man. You guys dated some, huh?”

“Yeah, a little.”

Ty laughed again. “We’ll just volley, Captain.”

“Hey. Maybe after”—quietly—“just us”—then louder—“a few beers up at my place.”

“Gotcha.” Ty chuckled, flashed his smile.

Through an hour of volleying, of laughs, good-natured taunts and quips, of Bobby and Olivia carefully not looking at each other, Ty laughed. He laughed openly and happily. He’d beaten Lloyd Dunmore. He’d beaten Bobby Wapinski. He had very simply, in his own mind, won on every level. Even Ty’s tennis gear, Pallucci clothes—presents from Olivia—were better than Bobby’s cutoffs and sleeveless sweatshirt. By the gods, he said to himself, I am happy. And to it all Ty added, in his own mind, his own clean arms (Olivia’s pressure—she found the “works” repulsive so they only snorted and smoked), his legal registration of Dorsey Financial Services, and this beating of Bobby’s ass on the court. Ty’s laughter rolled, his smile glistened. Bobby too, even confronted with this ex-girlfriend, looking battered and broke, seemed happy. Only that bugged Ty.

“You know what it is with those two fuckers?”

“Take it easy, Dirk.”

“I’ve had it. I know how to come down on those sons of bitches.”

“Dirk, why don’t you—”

“Peter, nobody humiliates me. I was going to let that bastard run my company. And that nigger! Every time I approach that tee, I can smell him.”

“I don’t even know he’s there.”

“That’s because you don’t live down here.” Now Dirk Everest jabbed Peter Wilcox in the chest with an index finger. “You know what it is? That jackass and that jigaboo, they were in Viet Nam together. Goddamned losers.”

Throughout the first eight months of 1973 Ty Dorsey adjusted his portfolio. To his numerous unsecured notes he added mortgage liens secured by property whose value was highly inflated. To his real property assets he had added the Fifth Street triplex, and in April he included a duplex on Second Street that huddled in the shadow of Bennett, Bennett and Bennett’s eight-story financial complex. In short, on the day the OPEC ministers announced their agreement that became the Arab Oil Embargo of 1973, Ty Dorsey’s financial summary, had he been honest with himself, would have looked like this—Assets: Real property (liberally) valued at $432,100; Cash: $16,050; Notes owned: $86,600; Drugs: $1,000; Vehicles: $1,600; and personal property (including two-dozen fine suits): $6,500. Total: $543,850. Ty’s liabilities: Loans against real property: $373,000; Unsecured notes owed: $266,000; Unpaid taxes, fines, etc.: (est.) $50,000; Miscellaneous debt: $10,000. Total: $699,000.

Worse, his yearly cash flow from rents, loan fees and points, and interest on notes owned, minus expenses to interest, taxes, and insurance, was a net negative of nearly $20,000. Indeed, the only way Ty Dorsey was staying financially afloat was by using monies collected by Tyrolian or Dorsey Financial and purportedly loaned.

Southeast Asia was dropped from the news. All U.S. troops were out of Viet Nam. U.S. bombing of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia had come to a legislated halt. Despite numerous omens and perhaps because of that long conflict, most Americans were caught off guard. Still, war triggered it. War in the Middle East.

The first Arab oil embargo hit in the late summer of 1973. In San Martin the Shell gas station on Third and Miwok was the first to run dry. Then the Mobil station a block away. Then the Stop-n-Go pumps next door to the Safeway. Lines formed. September ’73 was hot, dry, nice weather for cruising with the top down but too warm to sit and bake and not know if there’d be gas when one’s turn finally came. Tempers flared. Fights broke out. Dozens of out-of-gas cars lined the shoulder of Highway 101 through town; hundreds sat in garages or driveways.

The biggest problem, even though two of every three working townspeople commuted to San Francisco, was not gas but the new local cost of living. By November the initial impact of high energy costs was followed by a loss in San Martin of 17 percent of the town’s appeal as an All-American bedroom community, as measured by the average sales price of a home. Those who were caught financially extended or overextended, found their worlds quaking.

By December ’73 capital had dried up. Those who had, held on. Those who had lent, demanded their due. The financial rains stopped. Ty’s outgoing cash depleted his reservoir. And someone, somewhere was watching.

“What the fuck!” His voice was loud, booming, angry. Even cushioned by the dense vegetation and towering redwoods the sound reverberated in the canyon. He hollered it again. He stomped the broken macadam of Miwok Road. He jumped, turned, kicked a clod of dirt that had fallen from between the treads of the D-7 Cat. “No fuckin way!” He gritted his teeth, seethed at the building inspector, the three policemen, the city’s wetland’s officer. Only a half hour earlier he’d been home, with Olivia, doing a few lines, laughing, when the tenant called. “Impossible,” he’d said.