The Old Turk's Load (17 page)

The serious bugs didn’t arrive until later. Not until after he’d gotten in the fight with Bruno, who had no mescaline to offer, but with whom he did a few lines of coke.The problem was it turned out to have been bad shit, cut with something searing and horrible and causing him to threaten Bruno’s life. Bruno got his back up and his knife out, and this was scary. Frightened, suddenly—crying, for Christ’s sake, because everything was jolting in and out of blackness—he started to freak when the bugs tunneled into the skin on his forearms. He knew that if they reached his brain, it was going to be a very bad scene.

been trashed. He grokked right away that the bad guys had done this, that they were after the smack. They’d probably nabbed Kelly. Had he been asleep on the couch when they showed up? Where was Helen? He knew he needed downers. Took a slug of the rye he’d gotten out for Kelly the night before. Retched. The bugs were all over him now.

All of a sudden his clothes caught fire. This got him to the tub, where he furiously ran the water, got in, and began scrubbing at the bugs. Then the bath went cold and he pulled the plug. But before he could reach for his towel he had a seizure—though what it actually felt like was the deepest sensation of cold, as if his core had been injected with slushy ice. He was overcome with violent shivers, teeth-clacking shudders, and he hunched in the fetal position there, in the tub, just trying to take his next breath.

Which was when the power went off. The blackout plunged him and his speed-wracked psyche into a darkness so profound, he could feel it pressing down upon him, then
into
him. It evacuated whatever had been there before, replacing it with pure emptiness. Against which the thought of the Mailman, the heroin, Kelly, the Mafia, his ruined apartment, his life with Helen—the whole panorama suddenly seemed no more than an illusion. A mental trick. In a piercing, soul-rending insight it came to him: THIS was the true reality. He was the brain.This was the jar.
He was the brain in the jar.

He whimpered, empty and trembling in the bottom of the tub, too weak to resist. He was the receptacle, what it all was rushing into. All the signals from the other computers, the ceaseless clatter of money being transferred, of airliners being routed, stocks traded, trains switched. Endlessly, with no rest, ever. The orders from ’Nam, calling in fire, dispatching more stainless steel choppers. The mangled bodies, oozing brains. Firebombed babies. Napalmed Cong. Grunts in death agonies. Saigon whores in micro-miniskirts freebasing, going up in flames. It was the drugs.The drugs were the circuits pinning him here. Now he understood the trap he was in, the true nature of the jar. He writhed in his tub. The core of him was twisted so tight, and it kept getting tighter. It hurt so bad. He was so thirsty.

t was just past midnight. The blackout still held Manhattan in its grip, but traffic was beginning to clear up. Kelly, fueled by half a dozen shots of Wilson’s, was walking again, pounding down Hudson. Where to go? A passing headlight illuminated the street sign for Bank and he took a left. He was riding the current now. Gloria’s place, south side of the street. Flash of sitting in the car with Jarkey, outside the apartment, Jark explaining things.That seemed a long time ago. Then it didn’t seem like time at all, just jumps. He went up the stoop and stood at the building’s main door. First this reality, then the next, then the next.The door was mangled around the lock. Almost looked right, but . . . He pushed against it and it opened. Same with Gloria’s apartment door. Someone had been there before him.

He held his Zippo aloft, scanning first her big front room, then the hallway, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. No bodies, but the place was a wreck. Just as the lighter started to burn his hand, he spotted two candles amid the kitchen mess. He lit these, stuck them on plates. If you thought about it, a proper search required method. It didn’t look as if that had been part of the game plan here, though. He suddenly flashed back to his captors placidly driving him to where they could torture and kill him. He understood he was now safer here than he would be walking around.

In the bathroom he cleaned himself up until the hot water was gone from the tank. He’d come through pretty well, with only a few cuts on his shoulders and right forearm. His coat was shredded, but overall, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Why did they package so many women’s bath products in milky-white containers?

Suddenly weary, he took the candles into the bedroom, put the mattress back on Gloria’s bed, and cleared a space around it. In the course of this activity he discovered an old letter file, a flip-top cardboard box covered in green patterned paper, whose contents were on the floor. Letters, of course and—
hmm
—two college yearbooks. Both Bryn Mawr, 1964 and 1938. Sure enough, one was Gloria’s and the other belonged to her mother. The letters were from Agnes to Gloria, and from a friend named Ruth Warfel, a ’38 classmate. She’d become Dean of Women at Bryn Mawr and appeared to be writing to Agnes about Gloria. Other letters from Agnes to Warfel. Family crises and fond recollections. Kelly realized he’d hit the jackpot, if only he could decipher it.

Then he thought about the bathroom window, which opened onto an alley behind the apartment. He took a candle into the bathroom and made sure the window was unlocked, and whether this way out of the building would be available if he needed it. He returned to the pile of letters, eager to read them more closely, and immediately fell asleep.

In his dream Kelly was heading downtown. Instead of wearing him out, the whole wild night had jolted him into preternatural alertness. The Wilson’s pulsed through him like high-octane fuel. Even the sewer stink, now in full bloom, was a part of his power. The oncoming stream of pedestrians parted in front of him.

He reached Lloyd’s apartment, his head on fire. Someone had jammed the downstairs door open with a newspaper. He went up the two flights and knocked.

“Who is it?” Helen’s voice.
“Me. Kelly. Let me in.”
“Kelly!”She opened the door, flashlight in hand.“What’s that

awful smell?”
He stepped inside. “The Mob tried to kill me tonight.” She stared at him for a second, disappeared into the darkness,

came back with a bottle of rye. He took a long swig and immediately felt calmer, stronger.
“How’s that.”
“An improvement.”
“Can you be moved?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“We’ve got to get you cleaned up. That smell is unbearable.”
“Twenty-Four Hour Protection. Hey, better than Dial. They can’t get close enough to shoot me.”
“Come with me.” She helped him to the bathroom. Looking around, it was clear the goons had tossed the place when they nabbed him. “There’s a fresh towel on the rack. I’ll see if I can find some of Lloyd’s clothes for you.”
When he came out she was cooking something by candlelight in the kitchen. “I hope you like hamburger.”
He found two glasses and filled them with the whiskey, watching her from behind as she worked. She seemed smaller than usual, stooped or in some way compressed. Kelly looked more carefully. Yes, something was wrong.
Helen put a plate in front of him. “I couldn’t see very well what I was doing. If you eat with your eyes closed, we’ll be even.”
“If I closed my eyes I couldn’t keep them on you.”
“Wow.”
“I’m trying to win your confidence.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’ve told you about my adventure. Let’s hear yours.”
She tossed her head and tried to smile, but her lips made a tight line. Her eyes were brimming.
“Come on, Helen.”
“It’s just so—”
She began to cry, making an unpleasant, arduous sound. He stood behind her. Smoothing her hair, rubbing the tightness out of her neck. “Easy, baby.”
“It’s just been so shitty with Lloyd. I don’t need to tell you what’s going on with him.”Then she told him. It took quite a while. His ankle began to ache, and he sat across from her again, poured them another round. She paused, sniffled. “I watched him change until the Lloyd I fell in love with didn’t exist anymore. Now it’s like I’ve lost him, even though he’s still around.”
The high cheekbones were what fascinated him. Half concealed by the fall of her hair, offset by the hurt pout of her lips, they made her seem violated yet intact. “You’ve been through a lot, Helen.”
Suddenly they were standing. “I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad you’re here.” Her hands were on his hips, her head tilted back. Her lips parted. He could feel her breasts against his ribs. For an instant he was afraid. Then it was sadness. This was going to be their night, the finish of the old dream. They kissed. The sadness left. Kelly became anxious for the finish. Already he was thinking of finishing twice.
They took the bottle into the bedroom and found a nesting spot.They touched, spoke softly. Kelly began to unbutton her shirt. She arched her back. He untucked her shirttails and parted the material. She turned each breast to his touch. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, fragrant and soft. He could feel the heat it radiated against his cheek.That belly—so wide, enclosed by those long hips, its perfect bulge punctuated by the mysterious navel—disappeared discretely beneath the soft silk of her panties.
“Don’t stop.”
His balls ached.
She made noises, twisted beneath him like a cat. He slid the panties down and she kicked them off. The curve of her belly and the lines of her hips converged. He kissed and kissed that place where they came together. Her knees moved around his head, her hips surged at his touch. He was inside. Her flesh was all around him. She was the ocean. He was swimming in her promise.
Then, just as he began to come, he heard it. He recognized the tune the guy’d been whistling—it was the first few notes of “Tequila,”over and over—d’
do
do do do d’
doohd
oo. His brains were the only part of him that made it through the window, splattered by Woody’s bullet onto the lawn below.

Kelly woke screaming.The candles were guttered in their plates and the first hint of dawn leaked through the bedroom window. He got his breathing under control and went back in the bathroom to towel the sweat away. He saw, once again, that an exceedingly thin, porous membrane separated dreaming from reality. He understood how careful, how aware of the always-flowing currents he needed to be at all times. One silly little incident, helping a German tourist, say, or the intention to cuckold a friend, could, with no warning, knock him off course. Fatally. The thought lingered.

Eventually, strengthened by his musings, he buttoned his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, gathered the letter box and its contents, and took the D train to Bensonhurst.

Aunt Kay greeted him at her door, a loving smile creasing her aged features. “Kelly!” Then a momentary frown. “What’s that awful smell?”

he Mailman didn’t even stop to pee. His mouth hurt from all the coke he’d gummed, and he swiped a 7UP from the cooler out front of the station in Connecticut where he gassed up. Leaving the engine running, he slapped a sawbuck in the sleepy attendant’s paw and peeled out before the guy could even give him shit for not shutting his car down. He was totally jacked on Lloyd’s speed, and even more cranked at the thought of—the
feel
of—the old Turk’s load in the door panel beside his left elbow. His ticket, his future. No more bullshit schemes for him. From the first moment Kelly had popped that suitcase open on Lloyd’s couch, he’d known exactly what he was going to do.

There were some nervous moments, however. Outside of Beverly, just half an hour from home, the car began to overheat, lost power, bucked, and coughed. He figured he’d blown a valve, maybe the head gasket, and his heart started hammering so hard, he thought he’d black out. He rolled the windows down, turned the heat on full to help the cooling system, and nursed it the rest of the way in the breakdown lane, letting it coast down hills in neutral. He didn’t think he’d make it up the incline to his driveway on Webster Street, but the old girl gave it everything she had, rolled to a stop, sighed, and erupted in billows of steam and burned-oil stench. He took the suitcase of Fitz Hugh Lanes from the backseat, locked the car up, and walked down to the Historical Society. It was seven a.m. The streets were his, just like the old days.

Soon the paintings were right back at the end of the bench, in their foam padding again, everything tidied up. He should have been exhausted—in fact, he did feel raggedy underneath—but he was just so damned glad to be in a mode where he was in control again. He savored that sensation, locking the building back up, standing on the sidewalk across from the Elks Club feeling the morning sun on his face, waving at Officer Randazza making his morning run down to Dulie’s Dory for doughnuts.

He walked slowly past Mr. Manson Patillo’s handsome Civil War–era house, inhabited now by his crazy great-greatgranddaughter and her fifteen cats, down to Main, recalling that the post office had once dominated the corner of Main and Pleasant, before Brown’s Department Store took over that key spot. It wasn’t until the Depression that they built the new one,
his
post office, on Dale Avenue, as a public works project, Gloucester stonemasons doing all that lovely granite work.Those vaulting thirty-foot ceilings, like nobody knew enough to save space or heat in the Depression. Whenever Denny Mears crooned his doo-wop arriving, still drunk, for the morning shift, it echoed through the vast sorting room like he was singing in the shower.

Down eastward, the morning sun shone stronger now, where urban renewal was destroying the funky old waterfront in the name of bogus chamber of commerce visions of yacht slips and seafood restaurants. Past the head of the harbor and the Main Deck, remembering June and the ump and all of it, just as if he’d straightened out and moved away and grown up and was coming back clean on a sparkling morning, walking the streets and recalling his youth. Up the Wall Street hill overlooking the harbor. Past Manny Perry’s elephantine tenement—three floors of apartments at $125 a month, with a view of the harbor that you couldn’t get in a millionaire’s house, to the chicken coop of a dump on Amero Court, across from Perry’s place. Up the rickety wooden fire escape, into Langer’s fetid drug den to cop a set of works. Langer was curled in a sleeping bag under the front window.