Jaimy Gordon - Lord of Misrule

Tuesday he was all order and expertise; he seemed to glow inside his own handsome case like a matched set of surgical instruments. By Wednesday, Medicine Ed and Maggie could look after Pelter, and never mind the rest of his two-for-a-nickel string. He was packing to go.

I've had it with getting by, Maggie, do you hear? How the hell did I get stuck in this hole-that's what I want to know. Anyway it's time to get out-I've got to have enough to put in a claim slip if something looks good to me-that's basic if we're going to the races. So I'm getting the money, you understand me, Maggie? he had said, as if that's all there had ever been to the money, just going to get it.

The way he said Maggie, do you hear? you understand me, Maggie? made her feel he was holding her by the shoulders and shaking her. She laughed a little, trying not to take him too seriously. If you need dough, why don't you ride a few bucks on Little Spinoza? she suggested, half in jest. Say a hundred? I'll even front it to you.

For god's sake, Maggie, he shouted, suddenly furious. He turned his back on her and rattled the cheap doorknob of the trailer, though it wasn't locked. Man, I can't wait to get out of this place.

Maggie, baffled, shook her head. What's wrong with you? He could win for three thousand-even Medicine Ed thinks so.

He turned back around, took hold of her braids, played with them, pulled on them gently but quite firmly, tipping her head back with them like a bell. He gazed down at her, and the little green jewels in his brown-green eyes seemed to swell with chemical light, now larger now smaller, like the cold lights of fireflies. For once she was not sure what he was seeing when he looked at her. Be very careful you're not taken in, my girl, especially while I'm away, he said. You think you have nothing to fear from anyone. That's your problem, Maggie. That's why I have to get us out of this penny ante bullshit now-so I can keep you safe. She felt an icy fingertip draw an X at the back of her neck.

Then he let her go. And I never said Little Spinoza couldn't win-his mocking smile was for both of them, and everything was clear and bright again. I have to draw the line somewhere-like getting cut in on my woman's action.

So why does my dough stink all of a sudden? It was always okay before, said Maggie crudely, but he rose above that provocation.

Your dough is fine, just fine, he said. All right-put ten bucks on Spinoza for me. That'll suffice. Tommy tossed folded shirts into a small suitcase of burnished sorrel leather. No matter how broke he was, no matter how laughable his car, he had good luggage and fine shoes-so he always seemed to be just now falling on hard times rather than hauling them around with him. A few minutes later, he drove off in the pitifully blatant Grand Prix. That had been four days ago. She hadn't heard from him since.

All the same he was in the beans blowing slow fat bubbles through thick lips. Then the phone rang, and it was Tommy, whispering. And also in the phone was some slimy crooner like Perry Como, with violins.

Maggie, I can't talk. Listen to me carefully now.

Little Spinoza win, she rushed to tell him, not forgetting to use the racetrack form of the verb.

I know-congratulations-now listen. I won't be back tomorrow till close to post time.

Don't you want to know what he paid? I've got money now-some money He paid 23.80, Tommy said patiently. Money is not a problem, Maggie. Now listen-I need your help. Are you there?

Sure.

Get a stall ready. Don't ask me why right now. Can you do it?

We don't have any more stalls.

Talk to Suitcase. He won't give you any trouble. He'll let me have whatever I want. And listen-you and Medicine Ed will have to bring Pelter to the race yourselves. Tell Medicine Ed I want the whole drugstore tomorrow-he's got the stuff and plenty of syringes and he knows how to do it. You just do whatever he tells you. And I mean Vitamin B, Maggie, you hear?

You mean bute? she whispered.

I mean bute.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Isn't that cutting it pretty close to post time?

Extremely close.

You're not worried?

I'm not worried.

Jesus Christ, Tommy, you didn't Don't ask me questions right now, Maggie, I don't have time.

– buy the spit box, she was thinking. They had heard from certain lowly racetrack types-it was the kind of thing a mouthy little parasite like D'Ambrisi would toss off-that it could be done. But even accepting that it might be true, probably was true, they had put it out of their minds. It went without saying that they would never have that kind of money, those kinds of ties. Unless you had those kinds of ties, it was better, healthier, not even to let a picture of them form in your mind. You had to believe instead in the side roads and sub-routes where a clever nobody could set up operations. The racetrack had plenty of those. True, they were crowded with seedy adventurers like themselves, people whose fortunes went up and down, who had it one day and lost it the next, and always would.

I didn't buy anything, Tommy said, reading her silence. It's not like we thought. I've been talking to people. It's all going to be different now.

What's going on? Just tell me if it's bad different or good different.

He reflected. It's depressingly easy-how's that? he said. Listen, I'll see you tomorrow.

He must have got money somewhere-that was her first thought. That would explain the stall-a horse he had got or was getting-but why would he think that Suitcase would suddenly give him whatever he asked? And what was this about the spitbox? I'm not worried. He must have fallen in with the right people, which meant the wrong people. Her scalp tightened and sweat crawled under her arms that had nothing to do with hot beans.

Aren't you going to ask me how Pelter is? she asked.

Frankly But she never found out what he meant to be frank about. She heard a woman's voice, not a girl's, a woman's, cigarette cured, over thirty-five-pictured some Jersey City blonde with a leathery Boca tan and terrifying fake fingernails, a white pantsuit and ten pounds of heavy gold costume jewelry.

Why are you hiding in here, Tommy? O you're on the phone. I want you should There followed the dull flabby nothing that fills your ear when a tactless person claps his palm over the telephone mouthpiece. Then:

Just kindly do what I asked. What did I ask?

Tell Medicine Ed about the drugstore. And fix up a stall.

Good. And he hung up.

She stood there blankly stirring the beans, with the phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear, until the dial tone changed into an ugly siren, and even that she listened to thoughtfully for a time until the phone went dead. Would Tommy take up with some brassy mob matron or chainstore magnate's widow or real estate super saleswoman, just to get her to buy him a horse? Why bother to ask! A woman owner-but of course. The real question was why she hadn't seen this coming. No wonder Tommy had been so sure there was no more to finding the money this time than going to get it. No more than Maggie and Hazel would the Palisades realtor, or mob duchess, or fast food fortune divorcee, turn him down. The woman owner from Jersey City, with her long hard fingernails, would take one look at him and spring.

Why you rotten dirty double-timing plongeur, she said out loud. And just as I was deciding that I really did love you. I pushed my luck. She burst out laughing, a little raggedly.

Well of course he had caught her at a weak moment, with a ladle in her hand, when the wound went to the quick, but she wouldn't leave him for this opportunistic infidelity-that would be far too talmudic-or poison his beans-that would be humorless in the extreme. Or fight the bitch for him-that would be primitive and crude and, even if it worked, only case number one in a long and tedious vigilance. No, she would simply, without whining, loosen the bonds between them. For now that she came to think of it, how could his own ties be anything but elastic, even if he hadn't been so goddamn handsome, like a movie star, because they would always have to stretch where a woman with money was concerned. He would always make room for an owner, of this there could be no doubt. After all, the Palisades broker could afford the best hairdresser in Teaneck and white sofas and black French panty girdles holding together her slightly flabby middle. He would even have a soft spot for that kind of vulgar savoir faire if it lived in Jersey City, which, after all, was only twenty miles from New York City, Belmont Park, Aqueduct, the races. And anyway it only had to be for a day or two, until her check cleared. If she made a nuisance of herself after that, he was no pinch-penny-he would let her and her per diems go.