The Art of Disposal (42 page)

“What country?” I said.

“Argentina,” Jody said.

“No, no, no,” Eddie said.

“I like Argentina,” Jody said, lowering her glasses and staring at me. “I like the way it sounds.”

“It sounds like a place for Nazi war criminals,” Eddie said.

“He's pushing for Nicaragua.”

“They make good cigars,” Eddie said.

“And coffee,” I said.

“Argentina,” Jody said, her eyes seeing lush forests and warm blue seas.

“Odds are, we'll go to Costa Rica,” Eddie said. “I know a guy who knows a guy. He's big on Costa Rica. Can't say enough about it.”

“They got cigars?” I said.

“Sure—but not like the ones in Nicaragua.”

We finished our meals. Eddie ordered three slices of rhubarb pie without even asking me and Jody what we wanted, or if we wanted dessert at all.

“What if I wanted apple pie?” I said, when the waitress walked off.

“Rhubarb's the best,” Eddie said. “You got that whole sweet and tangy thing going on.”

“You can't just order for people,” Jody said.

“The hell I can't,” Eddie said. “I'm paying.”

“It's on me,” I said.

“What part of
I'm paying
don't you understand? You so much as reach for your wallet, and I'll cut off a finger.”

The waitress brought the pie, and we ate it, and it was good.

“See,” Eddie said, dropping his fork onto his empty plate and sliding it away. “I knew this place would have a good rhubarb pie. That shit grows in the country, and country girls know how to treat it. You give a city girl a bunch of rhubarb and she'll think it's weird looking celery.”

Eddie picked up the check. I made a joke of reaching for my wallet, and Eddie grabbed his butter knife and told me to back off. Then he put on his reading glasses and studied the bill, like it was some important historical document.

Eddie walked up to the cash register and paid the bill. He said something to the waitress, and she laughed. He said something else, and she reached up and played with a lock of her hair. I could imagine the things he was saying to her.

He walked back to the table and laid down a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Then he placed his coffee mug on top of it, like a paperweight.

“Big tipper,” Jody said, crossing her arms.

“Good waitress,” Eddie said.

“Oh, I bet she is,” Jody said.

Eddie said they were tired of driving, and could they find a halfway decent room in this town to spend the night. So I rode with them out to the L&M Motel. I helped them carry in their bags, and Jody flopped down on the bed and spread out like she was about to make a snow angel. Then Eddie gave me a lift back to Blind Shannon's house.

We stopped off at a sad little gas station. A kid wearing a paper hat stood behind the counter.

“That hat part of your uniform?” Eddie said.

The kid said yes.

“Your boss: he makes you wear that hat?”

The kid nodded.

“What a dick,” Eddie said.

The kid laughed. He had those tired eyes that you get from drinking too much, staying up all night, or having a chronic illness. I felt bad for the kid. His Adam's apple was way too pointy, his neck was too thin, and it looked like no one had given his face the news that it was a little too old for so much acne. They say that women have it rough—and they do, no doubt—but it's no picnic being a man. Women expect a lot from you. You have to be soft, but not too soft. You have to be tough, but not a total jerk. You have to know when to bring flowers, and when to walk away. And you can't, under any circumstances, look or act like this poor sap here, working at the local yokel filling station.

“What cigars you got?” Eddie said.

The kid pointed awkwardly at the rows of Swisher Sweets and Garcia Vegas.

“Anything else?” Eddie said.

The kid held up a three-pack of cigars with artwork showing Pilgrim-looking guys in black-buckled hats.

“Dutch Masters?” Eddie said, like it was the name of some jungle disease that makes your fingers drop off.

“My Duh-Dad likes 'em,” the kid stuttered.

“Of course he does,” Eddie said. “Gimme two of the Garcia Vegas.”

“Six suh-seventy-five,” the kid said.

Eddie put a ten on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Kuh-can't accept tips,” the kid said.

“You got a girlfriend?” Eddie said, unwrapping the cellophane from one of the cigar packs.

The kid blushed. He looked away, smiled, looked back at us.

“You like girls?” Eddie said.

“Yuh-yuh-yes,” the kid said.

Eddie took out his silver money clip, opened it up, and peeled off a hundred dollar bill. He threw the bill on the counter. “You take that to the nearest whorehouse. Ask your old man. I bet he knows where it is.”

“Kuh-can't accept tips.”

“It ain't a tip,” Eddie said. “It's a charitable donation. I'm gonna tell my tax lady all about it.”

We drove along the back roads. We talked about the way things used to be, and the way things were now. Eddie talked about Irene; about that book on quilting that featured a full color photograph of her prize-winning quilt. I listened. Sometimes the best thing you can do is keep your own mouth shut. Then he talked about Tall Terry: how he was one of the best guys he ever had on his crew, and how he could collect without ever breaking a nose.

“Just the sight of him. That was enough to get a guy to pay.”

“Shame he died so young,” I said.

“Big tall guys—they're always dying young,” Eddie said. “What they gain in space, they lose in time.”

I told Eddie how that was a pretty damn good insight.

Then we talked about Thin Y No, and how he died a rotten lonely way from the booze; and Eddie got serious and gripped the steering wheel, and said how that could have been him, right now, over these last few weeks, if it weren't for Jody.

“I miss Barney,” Eddie said. “I loved that pug.”

“Me too.”

“I done some bad things. Some of 'em, I regret. But Griffin Shaw?—that no good hillbilly dog killer? Eye for an eye. That's what my old man always said.”

“You know how you always say that kids and animals should be exempt?”

“I do?” Eddie said. “Is that what I say?”

“One time, when I was maybe nineteen or so, I found a flyer on the ground. One of those Jehovah's Witness deals, but geared toward kids. Had a little bird on a blank sky. I opened it up, and guess what it says on the inside? It says how the bird is special, but not as special as
you
… how God loves
you
more than the little bird. What a crock, I thought. God—or whatever you want to call it—loves his birds as much as his people.”

“So that means a guy who kills an innocent dog; he's no good, right?”

“That's what it means,” I said.

Eddie looked satisfied. He loosened his grip on the wheel and pointed at a ragged line of far off geese, writing themselves from one side of the sky to the other.

The next morning I met Eddie and Jody again at Nick's Diner. I invited Shannon, but I was glad when she turned me down. She said she'd best stay home and help her sister. I asked Eddie if the room was all right at the L&M, and how did he sleep; and he said with his eyes closed.

We sat and talked for so long they could have charged us rent. Eddie ordered another piece of rhubarb pie, and Jody made fun of him, asking was he still a growing boy?

“Like I'm gonna find rhubarb pie in Costa Rica,” Eddie said.

“They'll have other things,” Jody said.

“Like Hepatitis A,” Eddie said.

“What are
your
plans?” Jody said to me.

“Driving south.”

“When you stopping?” Eddie said.

“I'll know when I get there.”

“Watch your back,” Eddie said.

“I got immunity.”

“Oh yeah? From who?”

“Carlino,” I said.

“Ha,” Eddie said.

Eddie took a big bite of pie. Chewed it. Held a finger up to let me know he needed a second to get it down. He took a swig of coffee.

“Uh-uh. It ain't gonna happen, Champ. Someday
somebody's
gonna want to have a little talk with you. You know too much. You done too much business.” Eddie pointed his fork at me and lowered his eyebrows. “Watch your back.”

“I will,” I said.

“And what's with Bullfrog? Carlino ain't exactly the poster-boy for the United Negro College Fund. Why put up with that shit?”

“Eh. Carlino's all talk,” I said. “And Bullfrog gives it back, too.”

“Ying and Yang,” Eddie said.

“
Yin
and Yang,” I said.

“I hope that kid'll be all right in New York. I like Bullfrog.”

Eddie silently offered me the last bite of rhubarb pie. I silently declined it.

“Suit yourself,” Eddie said, and he gulped it down and ran the tines of the fork around on the plate to pick up the crumbs.

Outside, we stood by the Cadillac and hugged. Me and Eddie; me and Jody. Then Eddie lit one of the Garcia Vega cigars and shook his head in disgust after puffing it a few times.

“I never thought it would come to this,” he said. “Drugstore cigars.”

“It can't be that bad,” Jody said, rolling her eyes.

“I should smoke the box instead.”

“What a drama queen,” Jody said.

“You see how she treats me, Champ?”

“You're lucky she'll even have you,” I said.

Eddie walked over and gave Jody a kiss on the cheek.

“Ewww,” Jody said, pinching her nose. “That does smell terrible.”

“I told you,” Eddie said, puffing on the cigar. “I brought a little something for you, Champ. It ain't much, but it's something.”

Jody reached in the backseat of the Caddy and grabbed a paper grocery store sack. She handed it to Eddie. Eddie opened it up and pulled a carefully folded quilt out of it. It was yellow and blue, and each square had a fish on it. Tiger barbs, angel fish, and some saltwater clown-fish.

Eddie held the tip of his tongue on the edge of his front teeth, his mouth open. The cigar in his hand sent up lines of smoke that the wind quickly pulled away. He closed his eyes and stayed that way for a second, like he was going over a prepared speech.

“She made it for you: Irene did,” Eddie said. “She always liked you. It was the last quilt she ever made. It was s'posed to be your Christmas present this coming year.”

Eddie laughed, and snorted, and closed his eyes again for a second.

“Well, she was real proud of it, but one night we sort of got into it, and I decided to really lay into her. I told her it was a terrible idea. I tell her 'Ronnie don't want no quilt. What kind of man wants a quilt?' And she says, 'but ain't it pretty though? And Ronnie likes fish and it's got real pretty fish on it.' So she holds up a section of it, proud as a kid who just drawed a picture. And I say, 'that's the dumbest thing I ever heard, woman.'

“She cried. I put on my coat and went out for the rest of the night. Stopped by the Totsy and played cards with George T. and Mac McDyer. But I kept dwelling on it. All night. How I squashed something good. I felt bad. Real bad. Had to practically beg her to finish it. She finally did it, but she didn't have that same look of joy on her face no more. I took that from her.”

Eddie looked down at the ground and shook his head. Then he kicked the toe of his shoe into the loose gravel and sent some pebbles flying. Jody stroked Eddie's arm. I took the quilt and held it up and studied a section of it.

“It's nice,” I said. “And she had a good eye, too. These fish are accurate—not like cartoons or anything. She must've used pictures of real fish.”

“She did,” Eddie said, looking up, smiling. “She was the best. She won a prize once, you know?”

“I love it,” I said. I folded it up and put it back in the paper bag. “When I get a house and a couch and all that stuff again, I'm gonna drape this baby right over the back of it.”

“That's hand-stitched, right there. None of that machine-made garbage,” Eddie said, pointing to the stripes of an angel fish.

I felt lousy, because I didn't have anything for Eddie. My forehead flushed, and the more I thought about it flushing, the worse it got. Then I remembered the pocket watch, wrapped up in a sock in my glove box.

“Wait here,” I said, and went and got it.

I held up the gold watch, and it shined like a precious coin in the morning sun. Eddie took it, held it up to his ear, and smiled. He took one deliberate puff on his cigar.

“They don't make 'em like this anymore,” he said.

“It's a hundred years old.”

“I'm starting to feel like
I'm
a hundred years old,” Eddie said. He held the watch in his thick, calloused palm and ran his thumb over the crystal, like maybe a genie would show up and grant him three wishes.

“Where'd you get it?” Eddie said.

“It was payment. For a job.”

“It runs real good,” he said, staring at the blued metal hands.

“I had it fixed up nice.”

“How often do you wind it?”

“Once a day.”

“What happens if you forget?”

“It stops.”

“For good?”

“Of course not, Eddie. All you gotta do is wind it up again.”

He took another few puffs on his cigar. “Beautiful watch, Champ. But I can't take it.”

“Why not?” I said.

“I'd just forget to wind it.”

“So it sits in a book-case, unwound.”

“In South America? And who takes it when me and Jody are gone, huh? Some Costa Rican nurse: that's who.”

He handed it back.

“All right,” I said, nodding, wrapping up the watch again. I knew Eddie wouldn't take it. That was one of the things I liked about him. Pragmatic to the core.

Eddie shook my hand a final time, and I hugged Jody again, and then they were off. I stood and watched the Caddy shrink and climb a gradual hill until it caught up with a lumbering dusty truck, the kind that's just a big box to haul rocks and such; and the Caddy followed it for a few seconds, and then pulled out left and passed it; and I could imagine Eddie in the passenger seat telling Jody to go ahead and pass the damn truck already, and it made me smile. Then the Cadillac disappeared over the crest of the hill, and Eddie Sesto was gone.