Double Take (15 page)

We are sharing a seat on the train, one of the old trains with cross-hatched rattan seats that look like they belong in Singapore. The seats are reversible, and ours is facing the wrong way so we are heading backwards. Perfect.

“It's good to see you, Cookie,” Sam says, sounding sincere enough. He smiles his old folksy, wary smile.

“I've been thinking about you lately,” I say like an idiot. I can feel him go on guard, but the transition is so subtle I almost miss it. “I mean, I've been thinking about Casa Sanchez and wondering, hey, whatever happened to that old gang of mine.”

“Seen anybody?”

“No. Yes. I saw Sebastian the other day.”

“Who?”

“Just an old friend of—of mine. Hey, you know, you really look different.”

“Think I'm gettin' on in years?” He smooths his more salt, less pepper hair with a wide, pinkish hand.

“Oh, no, you look great. Really.” Under the raincoat he's wearing a black three-piece suit with wide lapels and bell-bottom pants, a black shirt, a white tie, and a big gold medallion with what looks like his family crest. This is a far cry from the short-sleeved madras shirts and chino pants he used to favor, and it has totally transformed his appearance. He now exudes disco menace.

He is taking me in from the corner of his eye. “Same old Cookie.”

“You bet,” I say.

“Seen anything of Rat lately?”

“Yeah, I've seen Rat a few times. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered. I hear things. You're not, you know, keeping company with him are you?”

“With Rat? Lord no, not on your life. Actually, I have this boyfriend out in California.”

“Is that so? Is it serious?”

“Oh, it's serious all right. Serious as a heart attack. We're, um, engaged, actually, and I'm getting ready to go visit him.”

“What part of California?”

“Well, his parents live in L.A., so I guess I'll be going there, at least at first. He's on winter break, at least I assume he is. After that, who knows? Anything is possible.”

Sam turns to look at me. He appears interested, like I've just mentioned the White Sox. “You know, an old friend of ours lives out in California. You remember Fletcher, don't you?”

“Of course. Fletcher the cook. I heard he was in a terrible accident.”

“A tragedy,” he says with solemnity.

“Hey, why don't you give me his phone number and I'll give him a call while I'm out there.”

“I don't think so. He kind of keeps to himself. Anyway, he don't have a phone.”

“Well, give me his address. Where does he live?”

“You know L.A. pretty well?”

“Pretty well. I went to college there, you know.”

“He lives in Echo Park.” Sam's head is turned toward the window, his gaze focused on the lake. It's dark gray today with arcing white waves. Above it, the sky is as translucent as an eyeball. “You really want to see our old friend Fletcher?”

“Just to say hi. Friendly, like.”

He looks back at me for a long moment. Then he says, “How'd you like to do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“How'd you like to carry something out there for me?”

“What kind of something?”

“Nothing risky. Just a little bit of cash. I owe Fletcher some money, and he needs it real quick, and it's not the kind of thing you want to send through the mail.”

“Can't you just mail him a check?”

“He needs cash. You understand, at least I think you do, unless you've changed. You haven't forgotten all your old friends, have you?” He wheezes one of his dry smoker's laughs.

“Of course. I mean, of course, I'll do it,” I find myself saying. “Hey, it's no big deal, and we're old friends, and what are friends for?”

“You sure now? I don't want you to do nothin' you don't want to do.”

“Really, no problem. I'll be glad to help you out. And Fletcher. I feel really bad about his accident.”

“Well, I'll be sure to give you a little something for your trouble.” He looks out the window again. “Isn't this your stop? Give me your number, and we'll be in touch. When you leaving?”

“I'm not sure. But it's not too cool for people to call me—I'm staying with my parents. Give me your number and I'll call you.”

Sam looks at me like he is trying to figure out what I'm up to. Then he reaches for his wallet and pulls out a business card that says, “Ralph Nilson: Salvage.” “That's my office number there on the card,” he says.

“Who's this Ralph guy?” I ask. He laughs. The doors slide open. “I'll call you as soon as I make my reservation,” I shout back into the train. Sam nods.

I go home and tell my parents I'm taking a trip to L.A.

“Can we talk?”

“Of course.” Joey's voice on the phone is low and sexy. “You're the one that didn't want to talk to me.”

“Can you meet me in Bert's tonight?”

“Which room?”

“The back. Nine thirty?”

“First one there puts Miles on the box.”

Miles is running the voodoo down again, and Joey is at a table in the darkest corner of the room, a glass of Scotch in front of him and next to that, a bottle of Old Style.

“Maybe I switched to Heineken since I last saw you,” I say by way of greeting. “Maybe I quit drinking. I don't like to be so predictable.”

“So don't drink it.” He flashes his perfect teeth. I take a prim sip from the bottle and smile back at him. “How've you been?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. I guess neither of us wants to be the first to mention our kiss in the snow. I sure as hell don't. So I say, “I'm going to L.A.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes a sip of his drink. “You moving there?”

“No. Just a visit.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“New Year's Eve? That's a weird time to go.” He looks kind of sad.

“Well, I've got to work tomorrow.” Maybe he was hoping I had phoned him because I wanted to pick up where we had left off. “Jeez,” I say. “About the other night—”

“Hey, forget it.” He has clearly grasped the situation and is a couple of moves ahead of me. He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “We're old friends.”

I squeeze his hand back and we hold hands for a minute. “Hey, so something kind of funny happened to me three days ago. I was downtown and I ran into Sam.”

“You ran into him? What do you mean ‘ran into'?”

“I was in the Randolph Street station and I was walking along drinking a Pink Breeze when I saw him.”

“You were drinking a what?”

I explain to him what a Pink Breeze is. “So there he was.”

“Isn't this kind of an odd coincidence?”

“Not really. Synchronicity, maybe. He told me he works downtown two or three days a week. He's got an office in some building on Wabash. So he takes the train a lot.”

“It's pretty weird you'd just run into him like that.”

“What, you think he was following me? He's got spies everywhere, and when Marshall Field's phoned him to say I was exchanging a gift, he hurried right down there?”

“You never know with Sam.” He's not smiling any more, and I hope he's kidding.

“Anyway, I found myself telling him I was going to California. And the minute I said it, I knew it was the right thing to do. So we started talking about Fletcher—I guess
he lives out there now—and, well, the thing is, I sort of agreed to do a little favor for Sam.”

“You what?”

“It's not a big deal. He wants me to carry some money out to Fletcher. I wanted to see Fletcher anyway because I'd sort of like to ask him about Bando, so I said I'd do it.”

“You
what
?”

“I said I'd—”

Joey smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don't fucking believe this.” His voice is a serpentine hiss. “What the hell are you thinking? Jesus Christ, Rachel, these are dangerous people.”

“Oh come on, I was friends with Fletcher when we worked at Casa. And with Sam.”

“People like Sam and Fletcher, they don't have friends.”

“People like Rat don't have friends. And I notice you're calling me Rachel. Dumb old Rachel, college girl, no street smarts, she's going to go out there and—”

“Don't do it,” he says, grabbing my wrist.

“Ow. Cut it out.”

“Say you won't.” He squeezes harder. “Say it.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “I'm doing it.”

He drops my wrist, leans his face close to mine, and hisses, “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“I just want to talk to him. He was one of the big five dealers, he was Brunette's buddy. I want to ask him what he knows.”

“About Bando?”

“Right.”

“God
damn
it.”

“What? What's the big deal here?”

“I would never have told you about Bando's murder if I knew this was going to happen. I thought you deserved to know because you were his friend. I didn't realize you were going to start some fucking personal crusade.”

“It's not a crusade.” A crazy laugh bursts out of my mouth. “I just want to know, that's all.”

“What good will that do you? Get a life, move on. Show's over. You don't have to bathe in other people's misery.”

“It's like—I can't really explain it. It's like ever since Bando died I've been in this weird state. Like I'm underground.”

“Underground.” His voice is withering.

“When I thought it was suicide, I blamed myself because I wasn't here, like I'd deserted him. I knew he would never have killed himself if I'd been there to stop him. I know, that's classic survivor martyrdom, but I couldn't help it. So in a way, when I found out he was murdered I felt better for about one second. Because it wasn't my fault. But then when you said maybe it was Brunette that killed him—”

“You figured out a new way for it to be your fault. What are you, the fucking Wizard of Oz? You don't control everything.”

“Neither did the wizard. It was an illusion, remember? ‘Ignore the man behind the curtain'—that's my favorite part of the movie.”

“Bando was a drug dealer and he got himself killed. It was nothing to do with you. And Brunette is dead now, so let it go.”

“I am letting it go,” I say in my cheeriest voice.

“Rachel, for fuck's sake, go to L.A., have a good time, go to fucking Disneyland, but stay the fuck away from Fletcher. I've heard shit about him—since the accident he's like some kind of nut case, went totally psycho and moved to L.A., locked himself away like a crazy hermit because he couldn't stand to have people see him like that, all his skin burned off and shit. He's some kind of freak now.”

“I want to ask him about Brunette,” I say. “I want to know the truth about Bando. Then I can let it go.”

He shakes his head, looking sad. “Girl, you know what you are? You're a pighead. You're a fucking pighead.” He smiles suddenly, a flash of white teeth. “Just like me.”

Outside Bert's, a car inches down the frozen street, its wheels making a whirring sound like they're spinning out of control. My teeth are chattering as we stand there.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“Don't forget to call me before you go see Fletcher.”

“I will.”

“You will what? You'll forget?”

“I'll call you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He puts his arms around me. I slide my arms inside his coat and lay my head on his shoulder.

The heavy wooden door has a frosted pane of glass that says “Ralph Nilson.” I open the door and see an outer office with a secretary's desk, but no one is in there. Beyond the desk is another door that is slightly ajar. “Sam?” I call.

The door swings open, and Sam spots me and says, “Come on in.” Today he is wearing a black double-breasted suit with a gray shirt and a black-and-white patterned tie. He leads me into a small, bare room with a big desk. On top of the desk is a pile of money, more money than I have ever seen at one time. He sits on the edge of the desk and counts out loud to ten thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, then puts it in a big padded envelope, staples it shut, and hands it to me. “Don't lose this,” he says, his raspy laugh like sandpaper on my nerves. “I'd hate to have to make you pay me back.”

“No sweat. You know what a responsible employee I am.”

He counts out five more hundred dollar bills and puts them in a smaller envelope. “This is for you.”

“No, thanks, I can't.”

“Take it. I pay my people.”

“I don't want to be paid.”

He looks at me. His round face has rosy cheeks, and for a moment he seems as benign as a disco Santa Claus. “Why are you doing this?”

“It's no big deal, I told you, I want to visit Fletcher anyway.”

“Fletcher ain't up to no social call. He's been through a lot since his accident and all. Just give him the money and leave him be.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Look, honey, I appreciate this.”

“Hey, we're all old friends.”

“Gettin' older all the time,” he says with an air of false joviality I remember well from Casa. His expression is inscrutable. He stuffs the smaller envelope into my purse, then writes out elaborate directions to Fletcher's house in Echo Park and steers me out the door. “Give me a call if you have any trouble,” he says, then hands me another business card. It is not until I am on the way down in the elevator that I notice the card says, “John Robertson: Fine Jewelry.”

It's snowing heavily as I rush past the public library and down the steps to the train station. The floor of the tunnel is covered with dark puddles of slush. Halfway down the tunnel the blind man sits on the ground playing the blues. I pass him and then, as an afterthought, I back up and put the smaller of Sam's two envelopes into his hat.