Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“Yeah.” I kick at something that isn’t there. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. You’re a man with responsibilities.”

“How you feeling?” I push on it to let him know it’s more than just a platitude.

“Ah, I’m still a little foggy — kind of lost track of where I was. Not sure if I knew from the start, though.” He chuckles. It sounds like he’s starting to brighten, but he won’t show me his face. He stubs his butt out on the step, flips it at the trash can, covers his face with his hands and starts rubbing. He speaks through them.

“What’s your plan, pal?”

“I’ve gotta get cleaned up. Gotta change. Gotta go.”

“Go where?”

“Gotta see a man.”

“Oh, shit.”

“It’s not like that — not that bad, I think.”

“You were at the links today.” He points at the bag without looking. “How was your swing?”

“I got by.”

He thumbs back at the house. “You went with this guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Club?”

“Yeah.”

“Fancy?”

“Pretty much.”

He exhales. “Hanging with a select group. Shit, I can’t keep up.” He presses his face into his hands. “When’s your big meeting?”

“I don’t really have a time. I guess I was just going to show up.”

“Hah,” he breathes without energy.

“I guess I need to get cleaned up.”

“Yeah, yeah, clean’s good.”

“Gav, you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to get my head straight, you know? They zapped me pretty good up there this time. I guess I zapped myself pretty good, too. So I’m just trying to get a little acclimated — you know. But I didn’t think it was going to be this bright out. Shit. It looked so much warmer inside.”

“Summer’s over.”

“Indeed.” He lights another cigarette and takes a deep drag. “Look, I don’t want to keep you from your appointments. I just stopped by. Haven’t seen you in an age. Thought I’d see how you were doing. I called your wife to get the number, again, and the address, too. So I had what I thought was a legit reason for calling her. I wouldn’t want to bother her. She sounded worried.”

“About what?”

He laughs. “Me.” He shakes his head. “She kept asking me how I was. I must have sounded odd to her. You didn’t tell her anything, right?”

“No.”

“Right. So I don’t know. I like her, your wife. Always have. English stock or not.” He waits for me to say something — to validate the statement, but anything I could say about either of them, to me, would sound hollow. He nods, “Mmm — hmmm. Well, I just wanted to maybe have a coffee, perhaps catch up, but I see you’re busy.”

“I can do that. I just have to catch a five-fifteen bus.”

“Where you going?”

I kick at the slab again. “Home.”

“What, to see your old man?”

“No.”

He spreads his fingers and peeks out through the gaps. “A bus, huh? Oh, dear,” he closes his fingers again. “Oh yeah, you were going to your party. You can’t miss your own party, I suppose.” He rolls his shoulders, pauses, whispers, “Why Boston?” He shows me one eye, squinted, brow raised. He shudders involuntarily, making the thin coat wave as though there had been a tremor under sea. He turns his head, shakes it slowly a couple of times, and hides his face again. “The five-fifteen to Beantown — well, you tell me when, where.”

“Bus station. Four-thirty.”

“How about the post office? People get bad ideas in their heads hanging around bus stations.”

“Okay.” I climb the stairs and turn back to Gavin. He’s not looking, but I thumb at the door anyway. “You want to come in?” He waves and shakes his head. He stands slowly and creaks to the gate.

“See ya, captain.” He cuts across the street, still keeping his face from me, still stooped, moving slowly. He disappears behind the trees and parked cars on the other side.

I shower, shave, put on the wool suit again, and pack my things. I start to write a letter to Marco about what has happened, what will happen, but it turns into a quick thank-you note — telling him obliquely that I will call him from wherever I land and straighten it all out.

I lay out all my money on the bed according to denominations and count it. It doesn’t look like much spread out, so I put it in one stack. It’s impressive, but when I count it again, it still comes up short — and gone — and I start to add up what they’ll need next month, stop and redivide the pile, put it in separate pockets. I look around the room. Thomas’s bowl is still there, cloudy water. I dump it out, take it with me downstairs to the basement, where I repack my tool box. I leave the bowl down there, put it in the box where Lila was. I haul the box up the stairs, scan the house for anything I may have left and anything that Marco may not miss — books, CDs — no, just change in the bowl. I take the quarters this time. Then I call a car and wait outside.

I go back to Flatbush and sell him everything. He gives me a ticket and four hundred dollars and swears to me through the Lexan that he “holds everything for thirty days.” He slides the ticket to me under the shield, gravely nods, and pinches his mouth in a pucker for added assurance. I walk out into the harsh light and sound of Flatbush — cars and trucks crashing over steel plates, a traffic cop’s shrill whistle, the bang and whirl of the never-ending construction. First they built an ill-planned mall, complete with ghetto-high prices. What are they building here now in Claire’s and the kids’ new neighborhood?

I walk west down Atlantic, cross the street just before the near-defunct jail to the other side, where the soon-to-be-defunct bail bondsmen are. He isn’t there, but there’s a note taped to the door—“Back in fifteen minutes.” It’s a crappy little place, jammed in between a closed bail bondsman and what looks to be a new boutique. There are two metal desks, one covered by manila folders and stacks of paper. The other is mostly filled by a computer approaching obsolescence.

A pack of kids storms down the avenue, trying to upset what little balance there is out here. There are about eight of them — preadolescent, black. They curse, either at each other or at everything else. Kids roaming the summer urban badlands. They’re the kind of pack everyone despises — too old to discipline, too young to openly want to have shot or jailed. And I imagine my children watching them from the window above, wondering about the nature of freedom — the gang’s, their own. I rarely saw kids like this. The cops broke them up. But these kids get a free pass past the jail — their brief reign of terror goes unnoticed by the cops. And I can’t help but think that this is the new shit being pushed on the streets: rage — its instant gratification and momentary power. The latest trend in cost-effective policing — let the little niggers find another way to get themselves killed.

He turns the corner, pretends not to see me, so that he can act surprised when he gets to his door.

“So, I’m glad you came back.”

I don’t answer him, but I get out a blank check to hasten the process.

“So, you’re interested?”

“You said to make an offer.”

“Yes, I did.”

I write out the check for $6,300 and hand it to him.

“What’s this?”

“It’s to hold the apartment.”

“But this isn’t the number we talked about before.”

“You invited me to make an offer.”

“How can you call this an offer?”

“It’s what I’m offering you.”

He rolls his eyes and tries to hand the check back to me. “It’s not enough.”

“Yes, it is. It’s first, last, and security.”