Spinning Dixie (21 page)

August 1980

Petie yelled upstairs for Six to turn down his stereo. It was Lou Reed's Velvet Underground hammering “Waiting for the Man.” I was disappointed when the volume dropped. The song made Rattle & Snap less imposing. I could envision Mickey and Indy connecting on the familiar challenge of raising teenagers.
What are you gonna do
…

“They're here,” I hummed minutes later in a singsong way that would soon become associated with the little girl in the horror film
Poltergeist
.

“Waaahoooo!” Six shouted. I knew he wanted to meet a real gangster.
May it be everything you hoped for, kiddo,
I thought.

“Already?” Indy Four said, strolling from the living room in quasi-military khakis and a blazer with the Polk family crest. Claudine, divine in a white sundress, brought out a pitcher of iced tea. Petie followed cautiously with the glasses.

I was perspiring terribly, or at least I perceived that I was. I inspected myself for signs of injury from J.T.'s attempted putsch in Columbia. Outside of a few scrapes that I'd attribute to conventional labor, I looked all right. The royals and I awaited Bonnie and Clyde on the front portico beside the columns. I felt better next to my beloved columns. Forget the mansion, hold
me
up.

Mickey's Buick was furiously kicking up dust as it rolled toward the house against Lou Reed's angry beat. Once the wind blew away the dust, Mickey stepped from the passenger seat of the Buick. Carvin' Marvin had been driving. Mickey wore a seersucker suit with a crisp white shirt and a red, white, and blue bow tie, perfectly knotted. He was tan, which sharply offset his cotton hair. I was actually proud to show him off. He would have been pegged as an adorable old Good Humor Man peddling chocolate éclairs. Nowhere in his appearance was there a hint of what the newspapers said he was.

Now to Deedee.
Yaa
. Her red dress was simple enough, but it was hiked up far shorter than one might have expected from a woman in her midseventies. She could carry it off, though, in a Boris and Natasha kind of way. Her hair was a few shades less red than her dress and lipstick, and she wore a hat of a diameter upon which the Marines could have landed Chinook helicopters. Deedee's massive, black Jackie Onassis sunglasses slid down her nose as her eyes vacuumed the mansion. Petie Polk's eyes were frozen on Deedee's trademark legs.

“A lot like our first place in Ventnor, Moses,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

Indy Four loved the comment, laughed like a madman. He trotted down the steps, took Deedee's hand and kissed it. “Mrs. Price, welcome to Rattle & Snap. I'm Indy Polk.”

Deedee removed her sunglasses and gazed wide-eyed up at Indy. She smiled broadly. “Moses,” she said to Mickey, “I've met someone.” Deedee eyed his Masonic ring. “That monstrosity better not be my engagement ring. I'm into subtle.”

Indy said, “When I tell you the whole history of this ring, I'm sure you'll wear it with pride.” Indy took a Gulliver-sized leap toward Mickey and said, “Mr. Price, welcome. We can duel later.”

Mickey shook Indy's dinosaur hand and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Mr. Polk, I surrender already. I know true love when I see it. Besides, it wouldn't be the first relative I've lost to a Polk this summer.”

Indy said something about having arrived in time for the annual dance at Rattle & Snap. Good. A crowd equals camouflage. I hugged my grandparents as Carvin' Marvin unloaded the trunk of the car. I noticed an unfamiliar chest, but Carvin' Marvin closed the trunk before I could inspect further. Indy complimented Deedee on the luggage. “It's the nicest stuff we've got,” she responded, “After all, we've had to use it enough.” A dig at Mickey for a life on the lam.

“I'm glad you made it okay,” I said.

“You hook a right at Canaan, and
badabing!
you're here!” Mickey said.

Even Petie appeared to be charmed by my grandparents, or perhaps they just validated her thesis that we were all mutants. Petie was somewhat taken aback, I thought, when I kissed Mickey. Claudine kissed Mickey and Deedee. Their familiarity thrilled me.

Deedee eyed Petie, impressed. “You've got some figure, sweetheart.”

Petie pointed to herself, as if to inquire, “Me?”

“Oh, absolutely. Now I know where your daughter gets it.”

“Well, thank you…. You really have lovely skin, Mrs. Price.”

“It's all moisturizer and makeup, believe me. I
love
this new compact I got.” Deedee removed her makeup from her purse and held it up. “It's called ‘C'mere Rouge' or something.”

Petie and my mouths fell open as if on cue.

“Khmer Rouge?”
I asked.

“I'm not sure exactly what it's called, love,” Deedee said, oblivious. “I know I heard that somewhere,” she said, still holding out the compact, which Petie politely studied.

“Deed,” I said, “The Khmer Rouge were Cambodian communists who killed like three million people.”

“Look, sweet knees, I didn't ask the woman at Saks who made it!”

 

As we entered the mansion, Six reviewed the freak show the way one would expect a kid to review one—he gawked. Deedee handed Petie a giant tin of saltwater taffy and promised that there were more goodies “on ice in the trunk.” Petie winced. Corpses perhaps? Mickey withdrew a suitcase, and gave Indy Four several volumes of Walt Whitman's poetry, explaining, “Whitman lived in Camden, where Jonah was born. He was a nurse during the Civil War who saw the horrors.”

“I know he did, and I'm grateful for these.” He held the books tight against his chest.

Mickey, still holding his suitcase, stopped cold at the portrait of George Washington Polk. He moved reverently toward it and put on his glasses. This image registered with me at a seminal and poetic level: Mickey in his seersucker and bow tie, carrying a suitcase—not a gun—and adjusting his glasses trying to figure out what the hell was standing before him. This
was
Mickey Price.

Claudine eagerly took Mickey's arm and explained the portrait to him.

“Union soldiers had been ordered to destroy all of the plantations they could,” Claudine explained.

“Sherman, right?” Mickey said.

“He was the worst,” Claudine said, “that's right. But another man, Buell, was in charge of Tennessee, who also happened to be a Mason. He gave his captain orders not to destroy Rattle & Snap. He said, ‘You are not to destroy the home of a Mason brother.' All of the Polk plantations were spared.”

“There were others?”

“Yes, Ashwood and Hamilton Place are nearby.”

“That was one heck of a general, that Buell, huh, sweetheart?”

“He was criticized for being too soft overall and was relieved of his command soon after,” Claudine explained.

“I'm sorry to hear that, honey, but I'm not surprised,” Mickey said. “It's nice that some men believed in brotherhood. There's not much of that anymore.”

I followed them to the scowling portrait of Colonel Will Polk, who had won the land for the plantation. “Colonel Polk was a toughie,” Claudine said. “He was shot in the face when he was young and lived to be an old man.”

“Every way of life has its enforcers, doll.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“My father was always talking about the gentry we Polks became,” Indy Four said, having snuck up from behind. “I was always more interested in the highwaymen that got us here.”

“Well, Indy,” Mickey said, “then you'll get a bang outta me.” Mickey glanced around the formal room. “This place would make a helluva casino.”

Oooof.

Indy stroked his mustache, as if considering it.

We withdrew to the huge living room. Indy Four asked Mickey how he felt about the news.

“What, you mean the shah?”

“Yes.”

“Dies in Egypt of all places, Mr. Polk. In the last few centuries, only a couple of Persians died at home in their own beds. Most died violently at the hands of their own people. Why should this one be any different?”

“Ah, leadership is overrated. You know what General Patton said—the reward for excellence is a little less punishment.”

“That's about it.”

I left the room for a moment to make certain Jimmy Hoffa wasn't lying on the floor of Mickey's car. A copy of the
Atlantic City Packet
was on the backseat. The headline asked: “Has Price Been Tagged?” According to the article, “Gambling czar Mickey Price has vanished.” The reporter had virtually no other information, and compensated for this failure by rehashing everything that was known about the Bruno hit.

In the kitchen, Elijah was preparing a quickie dinner for Carvin' Marvin, who drank lemonade beneath the portrait of one of the vaguer Polks. Marv's eyes strained up at the painting. Elijah pointed to the portrait with a spoon and said, “Don't worry, Marvin, the old buzzard stares at Jonah and me, too.”

“You'll get used to them, Marv,” I promised.

Things were safe here. Okay then.

There had been no massacres back in the living room, either, so I paced the room a few times, feigning interest in the fireplace mantels. During a pregnant lull in conversation, I offered to take Deedee and Mickey to their rooms, my first foray into preventive damage control.

Mickey and Deedee's rooms were adjacent to mine. One for Carvin' Marvin was nearby. “Okay, Pop,” I said, “how do you feel about sleeping where the old slave quarters were?”

“Marvelous. Gimme some time and I'll build a pyramid.”

I slept well that night, all being comparatively well in my world, and dreamt of Claudine cantering on Spilled Kiss. I awakened to the sound of Elijah throwing
The Tennessean
against my door and twisting visions of men dressed like painters on the streets of Columbia.

“I slept like a hog,” Mickey announced when he opened his door the following morning.

“Don't you mean a log?” I asked.

“Logs don't sleep, they just fall down in the woods. I slept.”

I waved Mickey and Deedee to follow me down to the church. I wanted them to see all that I had done. Unfortunately, they had not seen what a mess it had been when I arrived, so they had no benchmark for my progress.

“My grandson the manual laborer,” Deedee said. “In a church, no less.” She made a swatting gesture toward the cemetery. She wasn't very interested in the church's history, but Mickey was. I gave him the same tour of the church and graveyard that Claudine had given me. Deedee tended to her makeup for a few minutes in the shade—I think the gravestones creeped her out—and she said she would head back to help prepare for brunch. My heart skipped a dozen beats as I imagined her in the same kitchen with Petie. Forget it, I thought, she was who she was. I quickly aborted my philosophical kiss-off: I was scared to death about what she might say, and hoped that Indy Four would be nearby to distract her.

I was proud of everything I showed Mickey, as if Rattle & Snap had been my own personal achievement. He was impressed by my ability to recall the details associated with those who were buried in the graveyard, ranging from George Washington Polk to Mammy Sue. Mickey was riveted by the tale of Colonel Beckham, the innovator in horse-drawn artillery.

“Why does everything come back to how well you can kill people? Do you ever wonder about that?” Mickey asked.

“Sure I do. How are things back home, Pop?” I asked in the shadow of Claudine's father's grave. “I saw that newspaper headline about you being missing.”

“A guy doesn't show up for his morning bagel, this means he vanished? This is the same newspaper that said I'm a drug smuggler. Yeah, I smuggle Maalox. Ah, we've got some things going. It was good for me to get out of town. Just for a week. What happened with you and those gorillas was good timing. Your grandmother doesn't know. You're all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“Still got the piece?”

“Yes.”

“Indy called me aside. He apologized like the whole thing was his fault. He doesn't like that kid, J.T.”

“Then why doesn't he stand up to him?”

“That Smoky Hilliard's no Mouseketeer. And the son, he's soft.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we deal with the father.”

“You know, Pop, there's strange stuff going on around here. I went out for a walk one night when I couldn't sleep. I saw lava or something falling from the sky down in the valley behind the plantation.”

Mickey's eyes hardened. “Listen, Magellan, leave the exploring to others. Do your job, be careful with that girl, and don't go looking for any more lava.”

“I don't know what it could be.”

“Well, neither do I, but save your curiosity for college, you hear me?”

I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of a direct response. “What else is going on back home?”

“What, we need something
else?
” Mickey flicked me away. “We've got heartache with Ange, that's the big thing now.” Clever, Mick. Divert attention from one battlefront by raising a scarier one. I sensed I couldn't press him right now on the Hilliards, but they were sounding less and less like Ashley Wilkes every day.

“Do you know who killed Mr. Bruno, Pop?”

“Yeah, we know.”

“Who was it?”

“Engelbert Humperdinck.”

“So you're not telling me. Are they after Atlantic City?”

“These things don't always have one cause. Things come together and then
boom
, you know?”

“I know.”

“No you don't. Are you being careful with this girl?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you're doing with a girl like that?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Heh-heh. Good, you're honest. Fifty years with your grandmother and I still don't know what the hell I'm doing. But a girl like Ava? The real deal.”

“I can't figure her out. She runs hot and cold. I told her I loved her.”

“Didja now?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And what did she say?”

“She seemed a little freaked out. I don't remember what she said.”

“Did she say ‘I love you' back? Do you remember that much, Warren Beatty?” Mickey slapped me on the forehead the way Moe always slapped Curly. I was fast getting the impression that my intellect wasn't universally admired.

“No, she didn't say it back.”

“You recognize you're a world-class schmuck, don't you?”

“What exactly is the difference between a schmuck and a world-class schmuck?”

“See this place?” Mickey asked. He waved his hands mystically across the plantation's grounds. “This is a world-class place, which makes you a world-class schmuck. Do yourself a favor and don't tell your grandmother about this I-love-you business. She'll wipe out all of 'em, make the Civil War look like a pillow fight…. Ah, I've seen it before, though, but you're smarter than he was.”

“Who's ‘he'?”

“Ben Siegel. Yeah. This Virginia Hill he had,
kenahora
. She had him spending money, running some of it to Switzerland. God, it was a—” Mickey glanced heavenward for divine inspiration, and he found it. “Death ballet.”

“Death ballet?”

“Yes. It's a death ballet with gamblers, alcoholics, addicts, the love-poisoned. It ends in destruction, but there's a beauty about it—the thing the mark goes through before it's over. I used to never understand people who go to theaters, ballets, because you know what's gonna happen. But as I got older, I understood.”
Unnerstood
. “Even if you know how it ends, it keeps your eyes open because it's beautiful. Anyhow, we could all see it with Benny. Benny became the mark when he should have been the dealer. He borrows, he builds, he hits her, she hits him, he hits her harder, they collapse, she steals. Then they get up and do it all over again. What do they call the guy, the sissy, who arranges the dancing up on the stage?”

“Choreographer.”

“Right. It's all very predictable and human and sad, but if you're an oddsmaker, you can bet on it every time if you can spot a mark with a circuit that works that way—that insane hope that keeps bringing you back to the thing that will kill you. An obsession is a transaction where the property acquires its owner with counterfeit bills forged to resemble love.” Mickey laughed. “We pump that hope in through the vents.”

“So, who killed Benny?”

Red snake eyes from Mickey. I wasn't trying to be a smart aleck, it just came out. “We did everything we could to save that kid. Everything! It couldn't be stopped. It was bigger than we were.”

“Sorry, Pop.” I stiffened. I had been stupid and I knew it. “Let's go up to the house and see what's going on.”

“You should see what we brought in the icebox.”

Holy Moses. “What did you bring in the icebox?” I asked like a prosecutor.

“Whitefish, Nova Scotia salmon, cannoli, pizelles. A smorgasbord. Wait until the Polks see it!”

 

Brunch
. A synthetic word that means “the end of civilization.” Here is what was on the brunch table in the dining room of Rattle & Snap: grits, Nova Scotia lox, pancakes, smoked whitefish, bread pudding, ham, cannoli, challah, biscuits, pizzelles, pickles, rice, pumpernickel bagels, egg bread, mint juleps, blintzes, stuffed bell peppers, sweet potato pie, and pumpkin bread. I was confident that at no time in the history of mankind had a meal like this ever been served.
The buffet heard round the world
.

Petie and Six surveyed the table as if Buddy Hackett had descended onto the stage of the Grand Ole Opry (“A rabbi goes into the cotillion with a pig…”). Indy Four and Claudine, however, were engaged by the sociological experiment. Elijah appeared confused, perhaps validating his suspicions that white people were psychotic. Carvin' Marvin shrugged philosophically.

Deedee strode proudly into the dining room with an apron around her waist, which obscured whatever she was wearing, thank God. She held her hand to her chest and pointed to Claudine, who was wearing shorts.

“
Legs!
She's got legs like a showgirl, that one,” Deedee said, as if the Polks would want to merchandize this.

Mickey had on a polo shirt with the Golden Prospect logo, beneath which read his embroidered job title: “Moses—Bell Captain.”

“You know, Mick,” Indy boomed, “We used to have Kefauver parties here.”

Oh, my gentle Jesus. He starts with
this?

“Kefauver!” Mickey shouted, a hemorrhaging blintz on his fork. “You had Kefauver parties?”

I prayed that a character like Q in the James Bond films would emerge to give me some gadget with which I could propel myself into the carriage house with Claudine. But, alas, no.

“You bet. We used to get together and watch the hearings on TV. That's how I first heard about you.”

“That man was the biggest hypocrite who ever lived. A degenerate gambler and womanizer!”

“You're not kidding!” Indy shouted gleefully. Mickey turned mauve. Indy Four seemed oblivious to the fact that Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee had been the first to brand Mickey a gangster (and his associates as “low-down rats”), which triggered law enforcement's obsession with him. Prior to Kefauver's hearings on organized crime, no one outside of gangland and the Delaware Valley had ever heard of Mickey Price. Anonymity had made Mickey's fortune; notoriety had stripped much of it away.

“I used to play cards with Kefauver,” Indy continued. “He used to talk about you. He gambled at cards all the time.”

“I know,” Mickey said, “He just didn't want me dealing.”

Indy cackled, still not understanding that for Mickey this era had not been amusing.

“Deedee,” Indy Four asked, childlike, “what did you make of your husband's career?”

“He always provided,” she answered. “I just could never stand the shooting in the early days. One day, you're dishing a guy some
kugel
and the next day he floats up in a barrel. I mean, honest to God.”

“What are you gonna do?” Mickey said, calm again, jabbing at grits.

Petie's jaw was at its highest torque. Claudine took it all in like a Steel Pier freak show. Indy Four was living out a carnival fantasy. My inner organs heaved. Someday, I reasoned, all of this will be in the distant past. Six just said, “This is so cool!” and asked nobody in particular what Al Capone had been like.
Don't answer!

“Oh, honey,” Deedee answered, “like a big teddy bear.”