Going South Read online

  McCabe rattles his stool and when Harry looks back Fearless is gone. Ned mutters something and an uneasy silence descends, the silence of three guys contemplating violence.

  “Well, you know what they say?” McCabe finally breaks it.

  “What do they say?” Harry looks him in the eye.

  “They say,” McCabe hunkers over his drink, “that the only place left in the world where they still speak the language of the Bard is in the deepest hollows of Appalachia.”

  Harry considers this.

  “What do you make of that, friend?”

  Harry harrumphs, “I think a little knowledge is a pain in the ass.”

  McCabe howls and hammers the bar.

  “And what’s your pleasure, pardner?”

  Harry runs a hand over his face. “Maker’s Mark.”

  McCabe slips from his stool, circles the bar and grabs the bottle.

  “It’s a funny thing about language, how it gets spread around,” he settles onto the stool next to Harry. “Oh, the eggheads know the migration routes, how what tribes got where, but what they can’t account for is the roustabouts. No one ever can.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “For instance,” McCabe pours a round. “The coastal clans of Greenland and the head hunters of Borneo have the same word for fish.”

  “Fish.”

  “Fish. Of course it could just be coincidence, but I’m thinking some old Norsemen saw more of the world than anyone knows.”

  “Well, you know what they say?”

  “What do they say?”

  Harry smiles. “It takes all kinds.”

  “That it does. Take yourself, for instance,” McCabe bobs his head at the door. “You hate the sight of that little blowhard, but it bothers you that I insulted him in front of you.”

  “Not that much.”

  “The difference between me and you?” McCabe looks straight ahead like he’s reading a cue card.

  “I couldn’t find Borneo on a map?”

  “You don’t like to be cruel.”

  Harry doesn’t know what to make of this so he says nothing.

  McCabe slaps the bar and spins around. “Look at us! Sittin’ in a gin mill watchin’ the rain fall, just like our dads. Makes you wonder if there’s anything to that theory of evolution.”

  Harry taps the big guy’s Rolex. “What is it Jack, you been dipping into the trust fund again?”

  “You’ll love it. I got hit by a Brink’s truck over in Queen Village,” McCabe holds the watch to the light. “They’ve been very sympathetic.”

  “You look okay to me.”

  “Tore up my shoulder,” he holds his arm straight out. “That’s as high as it goes.”

  “That’s as high as anybody’s goes.”

  McCabe shrugs. “Go figure.”

  They drink together until McCabe gets rammy. Harry can hear him laughing and breaking things in the pisser. Ned’s nowhere around so he leaves a few bills on the bar and steps out into the dark. Spots a parked BMW with JackyMac tags and nails it with a nickel as he rounds the bend. He can walk okay, but no way will he fool Lena. Not that she’ll bug him about knocking back a few, but twice in three nights is pushing it. Definitely pushing it. The upside is he won’t have to explain coming home early.

  The bus rolls in lit up like Walmart. Harry sits at the back staring at his reflection in the window. Mass Transit, the last place to be on a full buzz with a dull pounding in the brain stem. Jesus, he looks like his Uncle Jimmy.

  He sees an ad for Bally’s and thinks, for the hundredth time, about cashing in and letting it all ride, one roll of the dice, as good a way to go down as any. He even pictures himself, what he’d be wearing, the gray slacks with the black silk shirt. Sees the chips sliding over the green. Go for the load, just to be done with it.

  “You okay, Harry?”

  “Pete . . . hey. I guess I was nodding off.”

  “You look like you were dreaming.”

  “Dreaming, right.” Harry jabs his chin at Pete’s plastic cooler. “Yo Pete, what’s the deal? Every hard hat in the city has one. The orange boots and the little cooler, what is that?”

  “What can I tell you? It’s a fashion statement, Harry.”

  Harry points to an empty seat. “Take a load off, Pete.”

  “I’m just going a couple of stops. You still working downtown?”

  “Yeah, yeah, three years now.”

  “Three years?” Pete goes wide-eyed. “That’s a record for you, ain’t it?”

  “My fault, right? Three shops in a row go belly up and I’m the bad guy. Half the places I worked are long gone.”

  “Must look good on the old resume, eh?”

  “What about you, Pete?”

  “Right now I’m at the new Marriott. But I gotta have surgery on my knee next week. After that I’m done for the year.”

  “Surgery? Tough break.”

  “Oh yeah, I get to lay around all winter while Lottie waits on me hand and foot.”

  “Still, surgery.”

  “I get to collect my disability check and watch television while Danny Blake lays tile in 137 bathrooms. Tough break, alright. If it was up to me I’d have the doc lop it off at the knee.”

  Harry smiles and shakes his head. “And they say the American worker ain’t what he used to be.”

  Pete leans in. “Yo Har, you hear about Walt Sandusky?”

  “What about him?”

  “Died last Thursday. He was down at Margate fishing and just slumped over dead,” Pete shakes his head. “Forty-seven years old.”

  Harry sits stunned. The Sandusky crew grew up on his block. He can remember the day Walter was born.

  “Doctors say it was a blood clot. And he just bought that new boat.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t hear anything. How’s Sherry?”

  “Not so good. From what I hear Walt’s insurance company went under. She’ll have to sue, and even then it’s first come first serve.”

  “They can do that?”

  Pete huffs. “Hey you buy a piece of the rock, they tell you to bend over.”

  “I can’t believe it. The man was in great shape. You can see some guys, but not Sands.”

  “Hey Harry,” Pete steps to the door as the bus eases in. “Take care of yourself, will you?”

  ***

  The house is dark when he gets there and he has to light a match to fit the key. Lena’s way of saying he’s pushing it. Harry feels his way through the living room to the kitchen and stands at the window drinking from the bourbon bottle. The news about Walt hit him harder than he would have thought, the front line boomers poised at the edge. And he’s not kidding himself for a moment either. It’s his own sorry ass he’s mourning.

  Blood clot. What would it feel like? The heart locks up and the lights go out. No time to even miss anything, just panic and pinwheel, maybe your head hitting something on the way down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The wipers beat the hood like a drum, still Lena can barely see, just blurred taillights and puddles thudding the floorboards, rain like pebbles off the roof and hood. The car ahead tails the car ahead all the way up the line. If the lead guy drives off a cliff they’ll all be along directly. Jaws of life, she can’t stop thinking. Jaws of life doing whatever they do, ripping and prying. Oh spare me, Jesus. Spare me the jaws.

  “So, those bazooms . . .” Shock Jacques pauses for effect. “They are real, no?”

  “That’s right. What you see is all me.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “I am madly een love with them. Especially thees . . . no, thees one.”

  Lena turns it up a tad. She’s been listening for over a year, casually at first, but now she hates to miss him. It’s not something she’s proud of, but a little titillation seems to suit her in the morning, that there are women who will do that sort of thing on the radio. Somehow the rad
io makes it steamy.

  “And your husband, he does not mind that you bare your breasts for lecherous strangers?”

  “On the contrary. It really turns him on.”

  A trucker blows past in a rolling fantail; Lena bids him a fiery death. Another mile and she exits at the hospital. The old trees cut the rain to a trickle.

  “And when I get home, you know what’s the first thing he’ll want to do?”

  “Tell us, my leetle cupcake.”

  Lena parks in her spot and listens to the radio until the commercials. Turning it off is like breaking a spell. As she stares out at the puddled grounds a wave of weariness washes over her. Six years Lena’s been at the psychiatric hospital and nothing she’d walk into would really surprise her. Then it’s out the door and heels crunching across the lot. She tries to conjure a tranquil scene, but she’s tried that before and it never works. Up the front steps at a perky trot, through the doors and into bedlam.

  “So you can march his ass right back out of here,” Alice goes hands on hips at a cop who looks like she’s just out of junior high. Behind them two more cops wrestle with a huge, frothing black guy. To their right Big Dot yells into the phone, face knotted in fury. Patients mill around in varying degrees of agitation and behind them a maintenance crew gathers outside looking in.

  “Lutheran says they’re full up,” the young cop sputters. “What am I supposed to do, chauffer him around all day?”

  “What’s the problem?” Lena steps up to the plate.

  “This one wants to kill his brother,” Alice rolls her head to frothing guy. ”Some hanky-panky goin’ on, but I can’t make sense of it.”

  “Get a hold of Doctor Herbert,” Lena pushes through. “Tell him it’s an emergency. Does he have a medical card?”

  Alice breezes past with a snicker. “Piece of the Crock. You know, with the fool coverage?”

  “Sentinel? Jesus, okay, call to clear admission and have his records sent over. Anyone know what he’s on?”

  “Had a pocketful of these,” Dot holds out a half dozen rocks of crack.

  Lena takes kiddie cop aside. “Tell me officer, what exactly did Lutheran say when you brought him in?”

  “The usual, short-staffed, no beds. Nobody wants the bruisers.”

  “And they told you to bring him here?”

  “They suggested it. You’re on the list.”

  “I wonder if you could do me a favor on your travels today? If you should run into any more people with obvious mental health difficulties,” Lena touches a finger to his wrist. “Just look the other way, could you do that for me?”

  The young un swallows a grin. “Be a pleasure, ma’am.”

  Lena takes a clipboard from the desk and hands it to Dot. “Have them take big guy to the green room and stay with them until the doctor arrives. Alice? Get me Lutheran on the phone.”

  Lena drops her umbrella in the bin and checks the discharge board. A nervous little man approaches from behind.

  “Nurse Watts? I hate to bother you . . . I know you’re very busy.”

  “How are you, Mr. Robbins?” Lena forces a smile.

  “I’m okay, I guess. It’s about the lizards in my room?”

  “Lizards? Are you sure they’re not cockroaches?”

  “Oh, they’re lizards alright,” Mister Robbins wrings his hands. “Blue ones, about three inches long. At night I can hear their tails scraping the floor.”

  “Do you suggest we kill them?”

  “They keep me awake.”

  Lena hooks his arm and walks him toward the common room. “But they are lizards, Mr. Robbins, and quite rare in Philadelphia. Personally? If a family of rare lizards chose to live in my room above all others, I’d feel a little bit special.”

  “But their tails, scrape, scrape, scrape.”

  “Tell you what. The exterminator will be coming to check on the elves in Mrs. Tully’s air conditioner. I’ll send him over.”

  The little man heaves a sigh. “Oh, thank you Nurse Watts.”

  “No problem, Mr. Robbins,” Lena hands him off into psych ward orbit.

  “I have Lutheran on the phone!” Dot hollers over. Lena grabs the nearest phone and drops into the nearest chair.

  “Admissions? Yes. Freddie hi, I’m fine and you? Well, actually I’m calling about the ball buster you dumped on me this morning. Right. Save it Freddie, you’re out of your league. Oh yeah? Try me. I got a guy who will chew your nose off. I got stalkers with no one to stalk. I got blowtorch killers, acid throwers. I got a freaking cannibal. Do yourself a favor Freddie, next time make a few calls.”

  “Line two. Sentinel Insurance Group,” Alice punches the speaker button. ”Girl, you are gonna love this.”

  “Hello?” a small voice, clueless.

  “Nurse Watts speaking.”

  “Yes, I’m calling about a Mr. Terrence Johnson. Is he available?”

  “Mr. Johnson is tied up at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Is Mr. Johnson exhibiting suicidal tendencies?”

  “Mr. Johnson wants to kill his brother.”

  “Um, what would you call that?”

  “We call it homicidal?”

  “I’m sorry, homicidal is not on my list.”

  “Your list?”

  “I have hallucination and hypertension but no homicidal. And it’s a really long list.”

  “Oh dear, what shall we do?”

  “I’m only authorized to approve things that are on my list.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll just send Mr. Johnson over. See what you can make of him.”

  “Me?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “But we’re in Atlanta.”

  “That way we can get him out of our hair and you can make your own diagnosis.”

  The voice gets even smaller, “In Georgia?”

  “Let’s just say you agree to take him.”

  “Maybe you should speak to my supervisor.”

  “That would make you suicidal. Now, look at your list there under ‘S’. See it?”

  “I’m new here.”

  “In that case I’ll need an admission okay? And Mr. Johnson’s medical history including allergies, think you can do that for me?”

  “Oh man, my boss is gonna kill me.”

  “That would make him homicidal. You might want to add that sucker to the list.” Lena hears something crash in another room then it’s Big Dot bellowing from the hallway.

  “Yo Lena, Sanders just shit in the trash again!”

  ***

  Six years, Jesus. It didn’t start with the psychosis. Juvie drug disorders had been her first choice. At the time it seemed to make perfect sense. She’d been a juvenile for years and between school friends and her sister’s crowd they had the drugs covered. It would be just like high school only she’d get paid for it.

  But these kids weren’t like anyone she knew. They came from crummy homes with crap parents and it took all the drugs they could take to get them through it. Not so much recreational as occupational. Then came the crack, again a logical progression. Lena’s first husband joined the junkie ranks soon after they were married and she knows those ropes from top to bottom.

  “. . . and the woman is just flyin’ around,” Dot spreads her meaty arms. ‘What’s wrong with my baby? Why is he in here?’ And I’m thinking, cos honey your boy’s suffering.” The last delivered from the corner of Big Dot’s mouth.

  “Nutty as a god damn fruit cake!” Alice halves a donut in one bite.

  “Crazy as a loon,” Eddie croons.

  Lena’s smacks her lips. “I have to tell you guys, those are really inappropriate comments. Where’s your compassion?” She looks to Eddie.

  “Bats in his belfry does it for me, boss.”

  “Says it all,” Alice bobs her head.

  “How about that guy Harrelson, with the O.D.D.?”

  Alice’ eyes go funny.
“What the hell’s O.D.D.?”

  Everybody just looks at her.

  “Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Harrelson? Didn’t he hear The Supremes singing in his head?” Tina floats by.

  “That was Louie.”

  Lena thinks of Harry, for over a year now, fading away right in front of her. Twenty years of cheap hustles, punching clocks and pension going south. Lena has her job and her own world to deal with so what can she do? Living with Harry is like watching a real long movie with an unhappy ending.

  “Lena had that guy, Morelli was it?” Eddie taps his chin. “She called him . . .”

  “Mr. Punchy!” Alice points to Lena. “Like she’s little Miss. Nurse Appropriate.”

  “Or those twins she tagged the Twisted Sisters,” Tina wags a finger. “I was never comfortable with that, Head Nurse Lady.”

  Lena checks her watch. “Okay people, break’s over.”

  Eddie grunts. “I don’t know ‘bout this ‘people’ shit.”

  ***

  Traffic going home is even worse. More rain, road turned to rivers and cars flying off like it’s paved with banana peels. By the Acme she sees a girl that looks like Marilyn standing off the shoulder with a crumpled hood, Marilyn at twenty-one, a thousand years ago. At least ten since they found her frozen in the woods. So it couldn’t be Marilyn, but she checks the rear view to be certain.

  It’s dark inside when Lena gets home and she heaves a sigh, scoops the mail off the floor and sorts through in the dim street light. Near the bottom another traffic ticket for Harry and under that a cancellation notice from the car insurance company.

  “Fucking moron!” she storms into the kitchen whacking herself in the head with the mail. “Why do I marry fucking morons?”

  “Joey’ Lats’ was a moron?”

  Lena pinwheels into the appliances, “Jesus Christ! Harry! Why are you home?”

  “I thought Joey had a lot on the ball.”

  “He was a moron,” she waves the mail at him. “But at least he had car insurance.”

  “Sit down, Lena. We have to talk.”

  “Just tell me, did you quit or were you fired?”

  “Nothing like that. Come here and talk to me.”