William Lashner - Past Due

“Hardly.”

“What is it missing?”

“Perfection and excitement. Isn’t this a little personal?”

“I hope so. We need to get to know each other.”

“Need?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what life should be, Victor? A series of desperate urgencies where everything seems to hang in the balance. Isn’t anything less just a tepid excuse for not doing enough?”

“When I have a desperate urgency, I try to find the men’s room.”

Just then Rocco returned with our drinks. My old-fashioned sat in front of me, squat and bright. I took a sip. Wowza. Stronger than my usual. Rocco winked at me and ambled off to the end of the bar.

“What do you want out of life, Victor?”

“Isn’t this way too personal?”

“Do you want to, instead, talk about the weather?” She roughed up her voice and gave it a cornpone accent. “Oh, it’s a hot one today. Yes it is.”

“People talk about the weather precisely to avoid talking about their lives.”

“That’s my point. Come now, Victor. Don’t disappoint me. I could tell you were different from the first moment I spied you. What do you want out of life?”

“Nice day today, isn’t it?”

“I’ll tell if you’ll tell.”

I squinted and thought about it and grew curious myself. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve known what I wanted from the dawning of my adolescence. I was a peculiar little girl, running home after school to spend my afternoons alone in my room, dancing by myself, or reading and writing, waiting for something better, something pure to take over my life. Can you see me there, Victor, in my room, pining? And slowly that something I was waiting for came and saved me, a decision that would guide every step of my life.”

“To become a meteorologist?”

“Listen closely, Victor. This is important. I decided I would become an artist, I would become Matisse, a fantastic colorist, but with a great difference. Instead of splattering my art on a rough piece of canvas, I would live it. My life is my art, Victor. And I insist that it shimmer like a dream, that every moment be filled with glorious color. I never wanted to merely see beauty in a painting or read of it in a book, I wanted to drink it, breathe it, become it.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Surprisingly well. Rocco, darling, another round, please.”

I looked at my drink, still half remaining. I narrowed my eyes and took a gulp. There was something strange in what she had just told me. This wasn’t offhand, none of this was offhand, the meeting, the drinks, the questions about life.

“And this is all related to Tommy Greeley how?”

“Ah, the blunt simplicity of a simple man.”

The drinks came. I snatched down the rest of my first drink, felt my head wiggle just a bit, started on the second. It didn’t seem quite as strong, which was the first sign that it was way too strong for me. Alura Straczynski lit herself another cigarette, inhaled.

“My husband was very agitated after your meeting,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not. It is what you wanted, to upset him. And you succeeded. My husband had a very complicated relationship with Tommy. They were like estranged brothers. There was love, there were secrets, there was deep-seated rivalry. But in the end it was the drugs that separated them. My husband couldn’t abide them.”

“How about you? Could you abide them?”

“Drugs? Oh, Victor, haven’t you listened? Drugs were never a part of my life, or my husband’s after we met. That isn’t shimmering brilliance, that is stupidity. Any idiot can paint his life in Technicolor with drugs, at least for a short time. A few ounces of that, a few tabs of this. But where is the art in that?”

“So Tommy wasn’t your dealer?”

“No. Really now, Victor. How did you ever get that idea?”

“Something in the way your husband looked at you. Like he wanted to protect you from the past.”

“Ah, yes. See, I was right about you. My husband, Victor, is more than a mere spectator to my life. He is a collaborator. When we first met we were like two shy flowers, waiting for the sun to open our blooms. We found our sun in what we created together. We would spend nights writing in our journals, not saying a word and yet so totally connected. He would read what he had written and I would read what I had written and it would be the same. Not the words, Victor, but the emotion, the intensity, the yearning. We were everything, one to the other. We still are, but it is different now. We are no longer so connected. He finds his art in the law, his little theories that so excite the men in suits, and that allows me the freedom to search for my own.”

“Was Tommy part of that search?”

“Tommy Greeley was a worm. Pure and simple. Now worms have their uses, don’t they? They aerate the soil. They help us catch fish.” She thought for a moment, she bit the corner of her lip. “But still they are worms.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Victor. What is there to understand? I’ve heard you described as a worm too. And yet I find there’s something about you. A spark I’d like to explore.”

I tapped my stomach with the side of my fist. “Just a touch of gas.”

Her light line of laughter. “Maybe that is it.”

“So who is it that described me as a worm? Your husband?”

“That would be tattling. But you can tell me something. Who is it who is so interested in our worm Tommy Greeley?”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, for whatever reasons. Probably because you are paid. That is what I’ve heard about you, Victor. Money, money, money. But if that were true there would be Rockefeller on your wall and not Grant. But someone else cares too, yes?” Her eyes brightened as if she was eager to gain a salacious piece of gossip. “Who is so interested in our friend Tommy? Who?”

I took a sip of my drink.

“You refuse to tell me?” she said.

“I am nothing if not circumspect.”

“Of course you are, you’re Jewish.”

“That’s actually almost funny.”

“Tell me about the girl. Kimberly, was it?”

“That’s right. Kimberly Blue.”

“Such a pretty girl. She works for you?”

“No.”

“She sleeps with you?”

“Stop.”

“Oh, I can see the answer in your eyes. Pity for you. So, then, she works for or sleeps with the man who is interested in Tommy, yes? Victor?”

“Did your husband send you to ask me all these questions?”

“My husband doesn’t send me.”

“Too bad.”

“Don’t be clever, Victor. Clever is like a sports car with a leaking gasket. It only takes you so far and then, well. But you” – she cupped her hand and placed it on my cheek and my jaw tingled – “you could go so far, if only you wanted. I’d like you to do me a favor, Victor. Do you think you could?”

“It depends on what it is.”

“It always does. This is small. I am looking for some notebooks. Four to be exact. They have been missing for a long time and it is as if, without them, I am missing a limb. I am in the midst of a great endeavor, the endeavor of my life, really, and to complete my task I need those notebooks.”

“Why would I be in a position to find them?”

“I sense things, it is my gift, and I sense you will. In your travels. And I’d like you to return them to me. Will you? Please?”

“Sure, if I find them.”

“And only to me.”

“Ahh, you mean not leave them for you at your husband’s office.”

“Who could ever imagine you were such a quick study? Good, that is settled. Now, Victor, it is your turn.”

“My turn?”

“We had a deal. I’d tell if you tell. So tell me, Victor, what is it that you really want from life?”