Denis Johnson - Nobody Move

A half mile beyond the site he turned the car around and cruised past it once again. On this side of the building, the ground dropped into darkness and continued toward the river.

Farther along he shut off the headlights and again turned the car around. A hundred yards short of the restaurant he stopped and lowered all four windows. He heard nothing but a steady noise he took to be that of the river.

Easing the car slowly along the left shoulder, he

brought the restaurant into view and coasted to a halt, avoiding the brake lest his stop lights flare. He turned off the engine.

The darkness allowed only the most general impression of the environment — sloping, heavily treed on both sides of the building, with open ground to the rear, and then the river. The building was old enough that it seemed to have settled slightly out of plumb.

He checked his watch. Twelve-fifteen a.m. No estimation was possible of the time this would take.

From the building’s shape it was clear that the upstairs was smaller than the first story. He guessed that somewhere toward the rear of the restaurant he’d find stairs going up — where, exactly, he hadn’t been told. He hadn’t been told how long a climb to expect. He’d been told only that the upstairs consisted of a single small apartment occupied by Jimmy Luntz.

From his pockets he dug a handful of Mary’s Band-Aids. He stretched his right leg across the bench seat, sat back against the door, and applied ten of them to his fingertips one by one.

Jimmy Luntz stood on the landing just outside the wide-open door, finishing a cigarette under the crescent moon and listening to the washing sound of the river, not unlike

the freeways he was used to. The television, tuned to MTV, lit the air of the room behind him and seemed to tug at it so that room lurched back and forth.

Now from the restaurant downstairs came a relentless basso thumping. What song? He couldn’t tell. Just a jungle rhythm.

Luntz went down the stairs and around to the front and found Sally Fuck silhouetted in the restaurant’s doorway, swaying like a stalk, directing music with one hand and holding a large glass in the other and singing, “Red, red wine,” over and over. He pointed at Luntz. “Come on. Harmonize.”

“Sell me some smokes, Sally.”

“Sally who? No such Sally here.”

“Sol. Sol. Sell me some smokes, Sol.”

John Capra came out the door and stood scratching his beard and his belly simultaneously and said, “Fuck.”

“I smell food,” Luntz said.

“Ratburgers.”

They went inside, and Luntz and Sally sat at the counter. All the lights were off except the light over the griddle and the light of the jukebox in a far corner. Luntz said, “I didn’t know that old Wurlitzer worked.”

“Some nights it never stops.” Capra threw two hot dogs on the grill beside half a dozen others already frying. “You want three?”

“Just a couple.”

Sally sat on the stool beside Luntz’s with his back

against the counter and his legs out straight and sang through an entire Rolling Stones number. The song ended and the jukebox stood silent. On top of the jukebox lay a blackened engine part.

Sally poured his empty water glass full of red wine from a green half-gallon jug and said, “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“She went to court.”

“Night court?”

Luntz was silent.

“She looked like a natural at the wheel of that Cadillac. Anita, Anita. Nuthin’ sweetah. She’s been gone three days. You figure she’s coming back?”

“I try not to figure.”

“I figure you just lost a Cadillac, Jimmy.”

Capra set down on the counter a basket of fries still dripping a little grease and said, “Anita Desilvera is one good-looking woman.”

Sally said, “Wouldn’t you just love to suck on her stank — you whore?”

“Did you hear a car earlier?” Luntz said.

Sally said, “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, she’s not coming back,” and dropped a french fry into his mouth like a worm. “A glass of wine for the cocksman.”

Luntz said, “You got club soda?”

Capra went to the cooler and brought him a can, popping the top as he set it down on the counter. “You still got that funny stomach?”

“Same one.”

“A shot of wine wouldn’t hurt it,” Sally said, and raised his glass.

Luntz said, “I don’t like the way you’re staring at me.”

Sally said, “It’s just because the light comes from behind you, man.”

Capra slammed three plates down on the counter,

bang

,

bang

,

bang

, and said, “You are really drunk.”

Sally said, “Drunk is good tonight, my melodious little cum-swallower,” and shoved a frankfurter into his mouth.

Luntz said, “What else do you do around here for fun?”

“When the others get back from Bolinas,” Capra said, “we’ll see a little more action.”

“When is that?”

“They’ll start turning up tomorrow. We got half a dozen, sometimes a dozen people living here.”

Sally said, “Bikers.”

“Bikers are my people, Sol.”

“They’re just like everybody else around here. Around here,” he told Jimmy, “it’s the great outdoors. They all subscribe to

Dog and Woman

magazine.” Again Sally was squinting at Luntz. “You look like a man without much to live for.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Leave him alone, Sol.” Capra stopped scraping the grill and ate three hot dogs in ninety seconds and went back to scraping. “You still play the sax?”

“Jimmy loves sax.”

Capra ceased his movements at the grill. He didn’t turn around. “Shut up, Sally.”

“My name is Solomon Fuchs, honey, and you can call me Sol.”

“People tell me I look like Art Pepper,” Luntz said, “but I don’t blow as good as he does.”

“Beg

pardon

?”

“Nobody blows like Art.”

“I never said anybody did.”

“Well, I played some.”

Sally’s interest seemed authentic. “What about Art?”

“Actually, I keep forgetting. Art’s dead.”

“Okay.”

“But his music lives on. I don’t care if that’s a sweet thing to say. It’s a true sweet thing.”

“Sure,” Sally said. “And when was the last time you played professionally?”

“Me? I don’t know. I don’t even have a sax. I’m kind of in hock.”

“When was the last time?”

“An actual gig? For money? Well, an actual

gig

. . What is this, anyway,” Luntz said, “Gamblers Anonymous?”

Sally ate half his second hot dog and shoved the rest of his meal aside and said, “So name me two things you’ve got to live for.”

Capra said, “Sol. Don’t continue this shit.”

“Don’t be a hairy-headed biker with greasy knuckles.”

Capra leaned over the counter and seized Sally’s chin

and got close to his face and said, “Quit ragging on him like a bitch.”

Sol stared at Capra with a kind of fearful hatred. “I get on the back of a motorcycle, all I think about is getting off.”

Capra splayed his fingers and released Sally’s chin. “He gets bitchy. He made his bed and now he doesn’t like it.”

Sally said, “We’re all in the same bed.”

“Only two of us,” Capra said.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. I understand you shot Gambol.”

Capra put his hands on the counter and stared down at them. Sally laughed. Phony laughter.

Capra said, “Jesus, Jimmy.”

“These fries are good,” Luntz said.

Capra gathered up the plates and went to wiping down the counter with a rag. After a while he said, “When you turned up from outer space, I figured, you know — bad debts.”