The Art of Disposal (37 page)

He dug into his pocket, pulled out a five dollar bill, held it up between his hands and snapped it from loose to taut a few times, so the guy could see that it was a fiver; then he crumpled it into a ball.

“This is all yours,” he said, “but don't come back. And don't touch me.”

He threw the crumpled bill. The dirty man shuffled after it, picked it up, and walked off into the darkness.

“My Auntie says it don't do no good giving money to the homeless. They just use it for drugs and booze,” Bullfrog said.

“I don't care what he uses it for, as long as he don't touch me.”

We sat for a while. The moon was big and bright, cut in half, and its craters looked like age spots on a snow white hand. I asked Bullfrog and Carlino if they would ever go out into space, given adequate training and the chance to do so.

“Uh-uh,” Bullfrog said. “I don't even dig on planes. If God wanted men to fly, he would've gave 'em wings.”

“I'm with him,” Carlino said. “Not 'cause I'm scared to do it, not that—but it just ain't right. One little thing goes wrong with your suit—one little thing—and you're a freeze-dried spaceman, floating out there forever.”

“I'd go to the moon,” I said. “Look around for Alan Shepard's golf balls.”

“They ain't there. We never went,” Carlino said.

“Here we go,” Bullfrog said, shaking his head.

“They filmed that shit in a studio,” Carlino said.

“Someone would've talked by now,” Bullfrog said, lighting a cigarette.

“You think the Conese Family's scary? Try getting on Uncle Sam's bad side. They'll suicide your ass. The CIA? NSA? Hell, they'll off a whole family. Women. Kids.”

“You can't fake something that big,” Bullfrog said.

“How's about it, genius?” Carlino said, looking at me.

I shrugged. “Anything's possible.”

“But there ain't no proof,” Bullfrog said.

“Sure there is,” Carlino said. He stood up, animated; his hands became the living parts of his sentences, stabbing at, or smoothing out, the moon-mountains of his mind. “First off, the shadows are all wrong. Some go this way; some go that way.”

“So what?” Bullfrog said.

“Multiple light sources.
Multiple light sources
,” Carlino said, like a lawyer resting his case.

“Eh,” Bullfrog said.

“And how's about the wind? When there ain't no wind on the moon. But when they plant that American flag, it's waving all around like it's down here on the Fourth of July.”

“Vibrations,” Bullfrog said, “from the flagpole.”

“That's what NASA wants you to believe. And how's about that rock, Sam?”

“What rock?” Bullfrog said, and he glanced at me and smiled.

“There's a picture of a moon-rock, with the letter C on it,” Carlino said. “A perfect C, plain as day, just like a movie set prop.”

“Could be a c-shaped hair when they developed the film, and it ain't even really on the rock,” Bullfrog said and folded his arms.

“A c-shaped hair? A c-shaped hair?” Carlino said, huffing. “Well, there's a lot more to it than that. Weird reflections in one of the astronaut's visors; the same exact mountain backgrounds in two different missions, supposedly miles apart!”

Carlino sat down again.

“You ever notice it's always white guys into conspiracy theories?” Bullfrog said. “I bet you got one of them bunkers, too, right? Preppin' for the end days. Heritage seeds and shit. Canned beans, toilet paper. A tin-foil hat.”

“Yeah, right,” Carlino said. “And this from a guy who's scared of an owl.”

“Owls are bad news, son.”

“You're bad news,” Carlino said.

I could hear the faraway sounds of a boat-horn, calling out like a spirit from the netherworld, and I thought of Charon, the aged boatman who rows dead souls across the river Styx, but only if they've been buried with a coin under their tongue to pay the fare.

We walked the last few blocks to Calasso's in total silence. Bullfrog kicked a stone, and when he lost it after a few kicks, I walked over to it and put it back into play. Carlino saved it once, and we managed to kick that stone right up to the front stoop of Calasso's. The curtains were drawn, and a CLOSED sign was up on the glass door, but the antique yellow lights were on above the bar.

Carlino knocked a few times. The curtain opened. I saw Mudcap's strange marble eye, glistening like a piece of volcanic glass. The lock flipped open.

“Guns?” Mudcap said, as we filed in.

“You think we're dumb?” Carlino said.

“Yeah,” he said.

Mudcap checked us one by one, patting us down like he was a TSA agent and we were the Muslim Brotherhood. Dante Delgado was perched on the edge of a table, holding a Glock 9, but not really aiming it at us; just letting it rest on his leg and do the talking for him.

“Why'd you side up with this wair-o?” Dante finally said to Carlino. “Now I'm gonna have to eighty-six you. Comprend-ay?

“Who says I did?”

“Frank.”

“Yeah, and Frank knows everything?”

“Sí-way, cabrón.”

I heard Frank's low voice, rumbling, chuckling, like a bassy stereo speaker from the back room. I got quite nervous. I heard him say, “Goddamn it!” and “Slow down!” and “That's right, get in there you piece of shit!”

Did he have a small army back there?

Leila stood at the bar and did her best to look natural, but it was a poor performance. Her eyes skipped up, caught mine, looked away. Mudcap and Dante walked us down the hallway, we turned left, went down a small flight of stairs and right to the very back of Calasso's. Mudcap pushed open a faded red door, and there was Frank Conese.

Alone. All alone. It was one of the sweetest things I'd ever seen. Frank had one of those Nintendo Gameboys, an older model, drab and gray. He cursed and yelled and tapped his thumbs on the buttons.

He looked up at us. “Tetris,” he said, and turned off the machine. “My grandson left it at the house. Who knew stacking bricks could be so much fun?”

“It's more fun skimming the union dues,” Carlino said.

“Why the hell is he here?” Frank said, looking at Bullfrog.

“Moral support,” I said.

“Funny,” Frank said. He stared at Bullfrog like he was a piece of gum that he'd found stuck on the bottom of his shoe. “You know where Eddie Sesto is, boy?”

“Don't call me boy,” Bullfrog said.

Dante Delgado chuckled.

“Hmmmph,” Frank said. “And you,” he pointed at Carlino, “don't even get me started on you.”

“Big misunderstanding, boss.”

“Not what Jack Lomand told me. You think you were all alone down there with Eddie? It wasn't some vacation. You weren't s'posed to side up with them; start slinging crack with this blue-gummed baboon turd.”

Bullfrog's eyes glowed with hate. “Fat, greasy, wop,” he said.

“Whoah!” Dante said. Then he unleashed a slew of his heh-heh-hehs. “You want me to shoot blackie?”

“Nah,” Frank said. “The kid's got balls. Maybe later tonight, we'll cut 'em off.”

“Boss,” Carlino said, smiling.

“Shut up and sit down,” Frank said.

Mudcap and Dante had been standing behind us, in the open doorway, and they nudged us into our seats (cheap, fold-out ones like you'd find at a church luncheon). They walked around the table, and sat down on the edge of the low bookcase along the back wall; one on each side of Frank Conese like ugly bookends. A single light bulb hung over the round card table, and it made me think of Eugene the Ukrainian's basement. But this room was cheerier. Business-like. Those ubiquitous workplace motivational posters with eagles soaring, and waterfalls falling, and one bold word like AMBITION or TEAMWORK were hanging three in a row on the wall behind Frank Conese and his goons. The one in the middle showed a close-up of a hand moving a chess piece. DECISIONS, it read. Frank saw me looking at it, and he said, in a slightly embarrassed tone, “Gift from my brother-in-law. Had to put them somewhere.”

“What about that?” Bullfrog said with real curiosity.

“What?” Frank said.

Bullfrog pointed at a shelf along the back wall, where I saw a golden statue of an owl, about the size of a large coffee mug.

“Got that in Peru,” Frank said.

“Gold?”

“Brass.”

“It's an owl?” Bullfrog said.

“It sure as hell ain't a duck,” Frank said. “Now, have we all admired the office décor enough, or shall we discuss the color of the walls?”

“I heard how blues and pale greens are soothing colors,” Mudcap said.

“Maricón,” Dante said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Frank said.

“Boss,” Carlino said.

Frank gave Mudcap a subtle look, and Mudcap got up from his seat, walked over to Carlino, grabbed his shirt collar and punched him in the eye, hard, pop-pop, like an angry drunk might do to his wife. Carlino, who'd clearly taken more than a punch or two in his life, didn't say a word. He just wiped his face with his shoulder as Mudcap returned to his seat. Carlino's eye swelled up and turned black and blue, fast, like you were watching a time-lapse video.

“We clear?” Frank said.

“Clear,” Carlino said.

Leila walked into the room, and her head dropped to one side, and she put on a smile like you'd see in a magazine.

“Drinks?” she said.

Frank ordered his usual espresso, with a shot of tequila on the side. Mudcap and Dante ordered Modelo beers in bottles. Bullfrog and Carlino ordered Heinekens. I ordered a San Pellegrino. Frank shook his head and said I might just die tonight, and didn't I want something a little bit stronger; and I told him I wasn't planning on dying just yet—there'd be plenty of days left for me to drink whatever the hell I wanted.

Leila nodded and smiled, and looked like a bad extra on a movie set, trying her very best to act like this was any other day.

“You all right honey?” Frank said. “Just some old friends talking. Nothing to worry about. Come here for a second.”

She walked over and stood next to him. He put his hand along the small of her back, and then let it slide down over the curve of her right buttock. I watched her eyes roll upward, and she swallowed and gritted her teeth. When he'd had a good long feel, he gave her butt a pat. “Now get us our drinks, sweetheart.”

“Yes. Sir,” she said, and flared her nostrils.

“I pay her a lot,” Frank said when she was gone. “Who says money can't buy happiness?”

But it doesn't buy loyalty.

Frank opened a silver cigarette case and fitted one into his plastic holder, and I thought of Hunter S. Thompson and wondered why he blew his brains out. Mudcap struck a match and held it to the tip of the smoke, and Frank puffed away. In the small orange glow of the dying match flame, Mudcap's marble eye turned into the iridescent yellow eye of a cat.

“You've got half an hour to sell me your version of the story,” Frank said. “And if I'm not buying it, you're all going on a long ride, out to a lovely rock quarry. Kind of barren. Lonely. And just so we're clear: that's a one way ticket.”

“You think I'd turn on you?” Carlino said.

Frank smoked and stared at Carlino, and didn't say anything.

Leila walked in, confidently, carrying the tray full of drinks. Now she seemed like a leading lady instead of an extra, and a damn good looking one at that. For a minute she reminded me of Marcia, but only in her boldness and mesmerizing gait; Leila was younger, somewhat androgynous, and far more exotic. She went up to Mudcap and Dante, behind Frank's chair. When I glanced at Mudcap, his one good eye was working its way from her feet right up to the chainlink silver belt that hung loosely on her miniskirt.

“Like what you see?” she said.

“You make me wish I had two eyes,” he said, and took the Modelo beer from her hand.

“What turned you dyke, anyway?” Dante said.

She set his bottle of beer on top of the low bookshelf he was leaning against.

“Dumb macho beaners like you,” she said.

“Ohhhhhh!,” Carlino said. “Ka-bam, ka-boom.”

“Watch it, poot,” Dante said, looking at Carlino with narrow eyes. “You ain't part of the club no more.” Then he looked back at Leila. “I bet I could flip you back the right way,” he said, and touched her arm.

“Hands off,” Frank said to Dante.

“Your hands wasn't off.”

“My hands are more important,” Frank said. “Leave the poor girl alone. One creepy old man's enough for any broad to endure.”

“Amen,” Leila said.

Everyone laughed, but on our side it was quick and nervous.

“Anything else?” Leila asked, looking around the room.

She stared right at me, and I saw an actual shine to her eye, and it said, “it's done, it's done, I did it. Let's pray it works.” She couldn't wait to see the painful fruit of her labor.

“We're good,” Frank said. “Beat it.”

She did, and she closed the door behind her. I watched and listened to Mudcap's thumb, tapping on the edge of the bookcase like a dull slow heartbeat.

If you've ever been on a job interview—the kind with multiple stiffs seated around a table asking why you'd be right for the job and saying
tell us a little bit about yourself
, and the air feels thick and the conversational pauses are way too long, and you can feel your forehead starting to sweat—then you know what it felt like to be in that card room at the back of Calasso's.

I listened to Frank, but barely heard him. He was saying a whole lot of this and a little of that: about how he'd trusted me and been good to me, and how I'd failed him at the only job that really mattered; and how could he have a guy like that working for him? He couldn't, that's how. No, I'd picked my side, he said, and after he'd been so kind as to give me an easy way out of the whole restructuring mess with Eddie Sesto's crew.

He should've just sent Carlino and Max Finn to wipe out the whole lot of us, he said. Yeah. Now look at the mess he had to deal with. It's not easy running a business like ours, he said. If you had to do it for a week, you'd be dead or you'd run away screaming from the stress of all the boneheads that spilled shit and waited for you to come by with a broom and a mop to clean it up.

Then I heard that guy who sounds a whole lot like me—muffled and as wet as a fern—and he was answering Frank's inquiries, and he was doing an all right job of it, saying how he simply waited a little too long; Eddie got the slip on him; the Sesto house was empty when he went over there; and as far as he knew, Eddie Sesto was either dead or three states away by now.