In Dark Corners (5 page)

Ian stood and almost fell over. Man, he was really in the bag.

Still, he managed to make his way from the kitchen and into the rec room. The room was empty, the TV staring back blankly. The clock on the VCR read: 10:30 pm. She must've gone upstairs, Ian thought, making his way up the staircase.

Sadie was in the master bathroom getting ready for bed. She was wearing her leopard-skin shorty nightgown, and that almost made Ian groan when he saw it. Her special signal. No, not tonight, he thought, sitting down on the edge of the king size bed. "Hey, Hon, can we talk?" he asked, speaking in a measured way.

She leaned out of the bathroom door and gave him her fake smile. "Sure can," she said, winking. "Not exactly what I had in mind, but what's up?"

"Well, it's about something funny happening to Dana—"

"You mean this wedding thing," she interrupted impatiently, turning back to the mirror, sitting down on her stool, and starting her face cleansing routine that prevented wrinkles. "What about it?"

"Well, you know, a Ugandan, a black?" he said, but realizing after he said it, that wasn't the immediate thing bothering him. Jesus! Dana's voice had faded out—

"For crissake, Ian," she chastised him, "don't be so melodramatic." She shook her head, standing up off the little stool, smoothing out her nightgown provocatively and glancing out where he sat. "Dana's not going to go through that whole process, including the questioning by immigration, for some black kid she hardly knows. It's a passing thing, like most of her big plans." She stared at him with that look: Don't you dare disagree with me.

He froze for a moment or two, his mind going blank, the alcohol adding to his focusing problem.

"I'm not so sure," Ian finally said, attention redirected now. "She sounded pretty committed to me."

"Uh-huh," Sadie nodded, giving him a derisive look. "How about the Peace Corp thing in her freshman year or quitting school and joining Greenpeace last year? She sounded serious then, too, right?"

Ian thought for a moment, realizing his wife might be right about their daughter…But what about the rest, the fading out business? What about something being physically wrong with him? He stared at her, collecting his thoughts, trying to think of some way to introduce the subject without sounding silly. But his mind was fuzzy, his tongue too thick. So he just nodded. It was easier to just agree with her.

Sadie shrugged, dismissing the subject, then smiled and licked her full lips. "Hmmm, time for bed, don't you think." She came close to where he sat, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, then made a nasty face. "Yuk, how can you drink that terrible stuff?" Despite the continuing frown, she kissed him again, forcing her tongue into his mouth. Then she helped him undress.

Ian knew it was too late now for any more discussion.

Naked on the bed, they wrestled for several minutes, Sadie not giving up easily, but working up nothing more than a little sweat. It was no use. Ian couldn't get an erection.

"Hey, Hon, I'm kinda in the bag, you know," he finally said, the weak apology heavily slurred.

Silently, Sadie got up, slipped on her nightgown, trod back to the bathroom. After snapping on the nightlight, she stood framed in the dimness, her chubby body only a hint through the thin negligee. After a moment she nodded. "Guess I won't be needing my diaphragm, tonight," she said, not even trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She glanced his way. "You know, Ian, I haven't needed it but once or twice since the layoffs. Three months. I'm still a fairly young woman, only forty-one. And you're not really an old man, but you got to do something about your problem, and the drinking isn't helping either. You know?"

Ian knew. And he knew she was right. But it was much more than the drinking. He wondered if now was a good time to tell her about Denny and Liam fading away, and what happened on the phone with Dana? That maybe he had something wrong with his eyes and ears…or maybe all of his perception of reality.

No, he could see Sadie wasn't in the mood for a serious discussion about his problems. She was more concerned about her own needs at the moment. So Ian said nothing, just nodded his head again. Then he stared with disbelief at what was beginning to happen to his wife.

Sadie seemed to be coming unglued, her image in the doorway blurry, dim, as if she were shrouded in fog. Ian blinked, trying to focus clearly, as the now familiar neon-blue light framed her outline—

She had flipped the door shut.

Still completely naked, Ian jumped up and cried out in a panic, "No, no, wait, Sadie."

Unsteady on his feet, he reeled across the room, his pulse racing, and grabbed the knob. Then he hesitated, afraid of what he would not find in the bathroom.

"Sadie?" he said, his heart sinking.

No answer.

Of course, like the others, she had faded out, too.

At that moment Ian Sullivan realized the truth. He knew now this was really happening. People close to him were disappearing, right after they said something he didn't want to hear, almost as if he were willing them out of his life.

They were all gone!

Minutes ticked by…

Numbed, defeated, and exhausted, Ian finally let his hand slide weakly from the doorknob, sighed deeply, and shuffled back to the bed and his clothes.

In a kind of dazed stupor he dressed.

On automatic pilot he left the house, driving slowly through a thickening mist toward the waterfront.

***

Tug's was still fairly crowded but kind of quiet, subdued, the jukebox not even playing.

Eerie.

Ian managed to find an empty stool near the picture window at the left end of the bar. Coming in he hadn't seen Denny or anyone he knew; but then he really didn't care. Maybe it was better if he drank alone tonight, thought things out. After he ordered he glanced at the headline of today's
Times Herald
lying on the bar top:

IT'S OFFICIAL: MARE ISLAND TO CLOSE

Jesus, no wonder everyone is subdued.

Ian glanced out the window, but could see nothing in the fog. It was gone too, like everything else. The Yard, his job, his wife, his kids, his friend. He drained the double in one belt, the whiskey burning his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. Then he took a long pull of Bud to dull the hurt. But he could think of nothing to cure the pain in his chest.

It was like he was living in a kind of mirage or dream. Yeah, a dream. Nothing was real. It was all an illusion.

He twisted left and stared out the window into the night again, searching, hoping to spot something over there, anything to anchor reality. But the thick fog shrouded even the lights of the Yard.

Ian shrugged and ordered another drink.

Then a revelation hit him.

Maybe it wasn't the others who were gone after all. Maybe the problem was really only him.

He wasn't a flange turner any more. He was nothing. Maybe he didn't even really exist.

Sure that was it!

He grinned wryly to himself and glanced up into the mirror behind the bar, knowing what he would see now. With a sense of acceptance Ian Sullivan lifted his shot glass in a mock toast to the neon-blue light beginning to outline his shimmering reflection.

[Transcript washed]

Yeah, Eric White, that's my real name. But most folks, those on the street anyhow, just call me Smooth. Probably don't even know my official payroll name—'n the truth is I ain't made any payrolls for a long time, you unnerstand. Let's see, I guess it goes all the way back to when I first come to the Coast and started hustling. 'Bout all I had back then was a gift for bullshit and my looks—wasn't quite so scuffed-up then, you know. Anyhow, started steering johns for a couple of hookers in the Tenderloin.

[washed]

Nah, man, a steerer and a pimp is different. Steerer, he just works for a kinda finder's fee, you might say—small change and freebies. Don't run no mommas.

Anyhow, the black pimps kinda liked my style—in their line, style is everything. They used to laugh and say:
Tha' white boy be runnin' his own line a mommas soon cuz he one slick-talkin' muthah-fuckah, he smoover 'n silk and tha's a fac'
. Well, Smooth stuck, but I never did move up to pimping. Uh-uh. Too hectic, you know, with the ass-kickings, drugs, busts, and all. Truth is I didn't cotton to no dude cutting off my johnson for rustling one a his ladies. And, man, some a them black cats wielded a mean razor. So, I usually ran a lower-key scam of some kind or another, you know—finding T.V.s or V.C.R.s that fell offa trucks in South S.F., or selling fake mass transit fast passes downtown, or even playing my guitar for hat money where the tourists wait for the trolley. Stuff like that.

[washed]

That's right, by myself until me 'n Frankie hooked up. Yeah, ole Frankie Thunder—is that a great name or what?

[washed]

Yeah, I am pretty sure it was his real one or maybe short for Thunderbird, or something like that. I guess I ain't real positive, but I know he came from Seattle and was Indian. When I first met him he was still fighting in the ring, but at the tail end of his career. The fight guys said he was good way back—once put Bobo Olson on the seat of his pants. Anyhow, we started hanging out, shooting pool, going to the track, stuff like that. He always attracted the babes, and he sure wasn't cheap. But all of a sudden the State Commission suspended his license 'cause Frankie failed a physical. And some a the fight guys said it was 'bout time—that Frankie had fought a few rounds too many. And he did have this kind of trembling in his hands that came and went, and sometimes his speech was funny, like he'd been drinking or was loaded even when he was stone-ass sober. The fight guys said he was the same way as Ali, you know—whatta you call it, Parker's? Something like that.

So there he was, thirty-four years old, no money saved, no straight skills, no future...We became partners.

[washed]

Nah, I didn't feel sorry for him—I hadn't felt sorry for anyone since I'd taken my first ass-kicking back there in the Tenderloin, trying to pull a murphy on the wrong john. And it wasn't true what the fight guys said, not exactly anyways, 'cause when we was running a scam, Frankie's hands were as steady as your landlord's counting the rent money, and his speech as sharp as the crease in a car salesman's pants, if you know what I mean. So me and him been making it for eight years or so, lots of different deals—'cept for the time he pulled a six-spot in county for B 'n' E. Boy, I was damn lucky that time 'cause, just before The Man slammed Frankie, I done my Carl Lewis outta there, you know. Some folks'll tell you that's typical, Frankie taking all the chances, me taking the big half a the pie. But that's weak chicken, man, 'cause me 'n' Frankie have always been equal partners, fifty-fifty right down the line. But it's true, he's usually the arm, I'm the brains—

[washed]

Okay, okay, yesterday morning. Let's see...

We was out at the track, Golden Gate Fields, running a shuck 'n dip—

[washed]

Well, that's usually two dudes, one doing the shucking, you know, keeping the mark's attention, while his partner's doing the dipping, picking the mark's wallet...you unnerstand?

Anyhow, before we left the City on the early bus, I invested in twenty copies of
Earl's Picks,
a tout sheet you can buy at The Cigar Stand, 'round the corner from where we live above Biltman's Billiards on Divisadero. Got all the pre-race odds, picks, 'n other track bullshit, you know. Then we took the Track Express across the Bay Bridge to the Fields, getting there before most everybody.

Now the way we work the shuck 'n dip is I sell the tout sheet to someone in the crowd, who pulls out his wallet to pay. Then, as I keep up the shuck, Frankie lifts his wallet. Course, you unnerstand, timing is everything: hitting the right person in the crowd coming in the gate, being sure his wallet pocket is accessible—none of them suit-with-a-breast-pocket dudes.

[washed]

Nah, ninety-nine outta hunnerd never guess until later they been dipped.

They say that vice never suffers during good times or bad. Well that ain't exactly true, 'cause things been thin at the track lately. Guess Golden Gate Fields is suffering right along with most working class in the Bay Area—shit too high. Usually, the parking lots would be full 'bout half an hour after we got there on the early bus, a steady crowd coming in the gate. Just a matter of picking your mark. But lately, the closest parking lot to the main gate is only a third full, and me 'n Frankie have to work the buses, 'cause they're the only groups coming through the gate—you need to work inna group, for cover, you unnerstand.

Anyhow, it was getting close to the first race, and we'd hit only three dudes. I'd got rid of about half the
Earl's Picks
—doan always dip ever one, you know. Just then, two buses dumped at the same time, a good-sized crowd busting through the front gate.

"Hey, hey," I shouted, holding up the tout sheets, "get your
Earl's Picks
. Eight outta ten winners, yesterday. Right here!"

I was checking the crowd, when I spotted this dude coming right at me, and he was wearing a long duster, all gray.

Anyway, when he got a little closer I saw he was really weird-looking

[washed]

Well, he had a little dude body, but a big dude head. And it was hard to tell his actual age, 'cause he had them wide-open eyes, big and bright like a little kid's, but deep crows-feet radiating from the corners. Normally, 'cause of the long coat, I wouldn't even tried to set him up for Frankie. But he stopped right in front of me, so I lay on my shuck.