Fifty Grand (13 page)

“What’s the matter with you? Are you retarded? Stop staring at that and help get the rest of the stuff back into the van. We’re contracted until midnight and I’m not paying overtime to anyone.”

Susan was a thirty-year-old American with an efficient black bob, a twitchy nose, a pretty face, and an unpleasant demeanor.

“Sorry,” I said in English.

“Sorry? Sorry? Fuck sorry. I didn’t hire you as a conversationalist. We don’t have time for sorry. Get a fucking move on. Come on.”

Close to midnight. The food portion of the party was over. Four hours had gone by slowly.

Paco and I had been confined to the kitchen, washing dishes, emptying trash, taking food and drink to and from Susan’s van. Her staff, white girls and boys, did the serving, and when they weren’t doing that they stood there gossiping and watched us at the mucky muck.

“This is how Spartacus got started,” I muttered to Paco as I picked up the fruit bowl.

“Who?”

A girl nudged me and I stumbled in the too big shoes. Gravity worked the fruit bowl, oranges, pears, and kiwis trundling over the floor. I bent down and started putting them back.

“Trash,” Susan said.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“
Basura
. Fucking
basura
. They’re soiled now. Put them in the trash,” Susan said.

“The bananas have a, uhm . . .” the word escaped me. “
La piel de banana
, it, uh, it protects it.”

“What’s your name?” Susan asked.

“María.”

“You I won’t hire from Esteban again. Now shut the fuck up and put the soiled fruit in the trash bags.”

Susan went into the living room and announced the departure of her catering team. There was a brief discussion before she came back into the kitchen.

“We’re done, but there’s some tidying to do in the living room, a spill. You, er, wouldn’t mind awfully staying until it’s done,” she said to me with bogus conciliation. “I’ll tell Esteban to come for you in twenty minutes.”

“Of course,” I said and added
“hacete cojer”
under my breath.

She and her minions filed out the back door and Paco and I went into the living room to look for the spill.

Dim lights, smoke, half a dozen men sharing a joint and listening to Pink Floyd on a gigantic silver stereo. The men were all in their thirties or early forties. They didn’t notice when we came in but I could see immediately why we were required. Someone had spilled red wine on a Persian rug. We went back into the kitchen and got a sponge and a bowl of hot water.

When we returned, the movie actor Brad Pitt was at the front door waving to the party guests.

“I can’t stay. I just popped in to say hi,” Pitt said.

“Oh, come on, man,” someone replied.

“No, no, I really can’t stay, I was up at Cruise’s and now we’re going to Vail. I just thought I’d say hi,” Pitt went on.

I stood there looking at him, covered in grime, dripping sweat, holding a sponge and a bowl of filthy water—the dissonance between this moment and the encounter of my fantasies was quite marked.

Of course, I had seen Brad Pitt many times on Chinese bootlegs.
Troy
was the last movie Ricky and I had watched together—that’s the one where Pitt plays Achilles, son of Zeus. Tonight he had a beard and was wearing an ugly wool hat, but he still looked like a god.

“What’s the matter?” Paco asked beside me.

“Brad Pitt,” I hissed.

“Who?”

“
Mierde
, haven’t you heard of anybody?” I muttered.

Pitt grumbled something, waved, and was gone. The rest of the men went back to their marijuana.

We started cleaning the stain but it was heavy going. The carpet was thick and it looked like a whole bottle had gotten spilled on it and soaked there for a while before anyone noticed.

When the music ended the men’s conversation drifted over.

“Where’s Doctor Marvin?”

“He’s gone.”

“Thank Christ. Shrink with a chip on his shoulder, last thing we need when Cruise comes in.”

“Cruise isn’t coming.”

“He’s coming.”

“Dude, it’s after midnight, Cruise isn’t coming now.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey, did I ever tell you that I was in
Mission Imp
—”

“Only a million fucking times.”

“Jesus, no need to jump down my throat.”

“Nice of Pitt to drop in.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. Probably the whole clan with him, out in a fucking minivan or something.”

“Spacey was here before you came.”

“Shit, was he? He’s the fucking bomb.”

“Jesus, update your slang, why don’t ya?”

“They were good together in that movie.”

“Yeah.”

The marijuana smoke came our way and I began to feel light-headed. It was strong stuff, much stronger than the black rope they sold on O’Reilly.

“Yeah, fuck Cruise.”

“Fucking Scientologists.”

“Hey, careful.”

“You never see that many Jewish Scientologists. Go to one seder and you’ll know why. It’s all about the dialectic, the interpretation; Jews ask too many questions.”

“Tambor.”

“Exception proves the rule.”

“Worse than the Scientologists are the fucking born-agains and the—”

“Oh, I saw this bumper sticker today, ‘Come the Rapture, Can I Have Your Car?’ ”

“Man, that’s funny, I got to get one of those.”

“No, dude, it’s only funny if you got a shitty car. You drive a fucking Porsche, that’s not funny.”

Paco looked at me. “We need more water,” he said. I didn’t answer. The pot was tripping me.

“María,” he said and snapped his fingers in front of my face, his gesture the reversal of me to him, yesterday.

“Sorry, I was listening to their conversation,” I told him.

“Dope bullshit,” Paco said with contempt.

Paco took my arm and helped me back to the kitchen. I opened a window and breathed cold air.

“Where’s the garbage bag with all those bananas and oranges?” I asked Paco.

“Why?”

“I would love an orange.”

Paco fished out the oranges, the kiwis, and the bananas and washed them off.

“Take them with us. We’ll have them later,” he said.

We went back into the living room with clean water and a new sponge. Two of the men had now gone and there were only four left. I recognized one of them from Ricky’s photographs. Jack Tyrone, a minor film star and, more important, someone on Ricky’s list. I wondered if this was his house. I looked around me. Was this the home of a movie star? It was hard to tell in the dim ambient light. It was certainly huge but weren’t all American houses huge? The apartments on
Friends
were fucking enormous.

Tyrone’s picture didn’t do him justice. He was more charismatic and certainly more handsome than Ricky’s snap, even now when he was stoned and obviously on the verge of passing out.

We got back to the stain. More snippets:

“Yeah, you don’t fucking know.”

“I do know. I am a connoisseur.”

“Just as Christopher Hitchens is no George Orwell, so Beth Gibbons is no Sandy Denny.”

“Yeah, the way Cruise is no Gary Cooper.”

“Shut up, he might still come.”

“Fucker’s not coming.”

“The way you talk, I should tell your mother.”

“My mother’s from Brooklyn. Outswear you any day.”

“Well, he’s no actor.”

“Sure he is. You ever see that Oliver Stone one?”

“He can’t be a good actor because he holds back. You gotta give everything. You gotta commit to the truth. If he’s gay and he’s not out how can he give us anything but a shadow performance?”

“That’s bullshit. Spacey’s not out and he’s a hell of an actor.”

“Dude, pass that over . . . thanks . . . Shit, can you get me some of that?”

“Maybe. What’ll you do for me?”

“I’ll get you a part in the new J. J. Abrams.”

“Really? I’d do anything to be in a
Star Trek
movie.”

“He’s shitting you.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Yeah.”

“You fucker. Christ, Jack, you’ve got more mood swings than Robin Williams backstage at an awards show.”

“Leave him alone, he’s just a kid.”

“Jack’s not that young. On his headshots he says he’s twenty-nine. And on Wikipedia it says he’s thirty, but really he’s thirty-one.”

“Damn it, Paul, you’ve got a big mouth.”

“I think that’s it,” Paco said, looking at the stain.

It
was
it. The stain was mostly gone. Baking soda might have done a faster job, but muscle and hot water can do just about anything.

We went back into the kitchen. Paco couldn’t stand to listen to any more of their dialogue so he closed the shutters to the living room. I sat on a stool at the marble breakfast bar and got a glass of water.

“What now, do you think?” Paco asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We killed ten and Esteban came in through the back door.

“All set?” he asked.

I could see by his watch that it was nearly one in the morning. No wonder Paco and I were both exhausted.

“We’re done,” I said.

“You did well, guys. I threw you right into the fire and you did well,” Esteban said with a wide, expansive grin.

“Can we go home now?” Paco said.

“Yeah. I’ll say our good nights.”

Esteban went into the living room and after a moment he came back with Jack Tyrone. Jack’s eyes were red and his face puffy.

“I want to thank you for helping out tonight. You guys were probably on the go from early this morning,” he said.

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

We nodded and Esteban said, “Well, good night, Señor Tyrone.”

But Jack wasn’t ready to let us go just yet. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, then yelled “Paul!” back into the living room.

Paul was another giant. This was the land of the giants. I wondered if this was Paul Youkilis from Ricky’s file?

If so—

“What is it?” he asked Jack.

“Tip?” Jack wondered.

“Oh God, yeah, fantastic job. Where’s what’s-her-name? Left already? You guys did the hard work, I’ll bet,” Paul said. Jack opened Paul’s wallet and gave us each a fifty-dollar bill.

“Oh, come on, Jack, a hundred bucks?” Paul complained.

Paco took the bills quickly. We nodded a thank-you.

“Job well done, even if fucking Cruise or Travolta didn’t show. Pitt came and he can buy and sell those guys,” Jack said and leaned against a door. He shook Esteban’s hand. “Esteban, is it?” he asked.

Esteban nodded.

“Yeah, I swear to God, I’m on your wavelength, man, Mexicans are just like us Micks, we’re Catholics, we have lots of kids, we’re religious. Difference is that you guys work harder and, truth be told, you have better food.”

Esteban faked a laugh and Jack started laughing. The laugh turned into a hacking cough. Paul got him a glass of water and led him back to the others.

“Let’s go,” Esteban said with disgust.

We grabbed the fruit and went outside into the cool mountain air.

At the side of the house I noticed a white Bentley.
The
white Bentley. No chills this time. Over that.

“Whose car?” I asked Esteban.

“Señor Tyrone’s, I think,” he said.

It was too dark to examine the paintwork but I’ll bet the garage had done a good job. Invisible mending. All traces gone.

“Home?” Paco said to Esteban.

“Wait a minute,” Esteban muttered, then took one of Jack’s fifties from Paco and pocketed it. “I take fifty percent of all tips. You two can split the other.”

Paco was too tired to complain. I was hypnotized by Jack’s car.

Esteban drove back to the motel and showed us to our room. Clean, small double with two beds, a shower, and a heater that you had to feed with quarters.

Beat as we were, we were too pumped and hungry to go to bed just yet and we found ourselves in the second-floor communal kitchen.

“Beer?” Paco asked and passed me a Corona.

I knocked it back in one and he cracked me another.

“What’s there to eat around here?” he asked.

“Let me see,” I said.

I opened up cupboards. An embarrassment of riches. Cilantro, chives, tomato, onion, garlic, peas, lettuce, peppers, and a fridge full of meat and cheese and beer. Like the house of a Party member.

I found that I wanted to cook for him, this kid, this man. I wanted to provide, the way you couldn’t in Havana.

“Put some rice on,” I told him. “And look for tortillas.”