Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“Because they’re very scared. Believe me I spoke to several of them too. They won’t tell you I did because that’s how scared they are. And why should I lie about this to you? There’s no gain in it for me. And if I seemed crazy for a while it’s because of the pipe I’m positive Stovin’s put someone up to fixing my head with, but even now, even if I don’t sound so sometimes, I’m pretty clear. And I don’t want to tussle with them. I just want to get them off my back and someone else to cart for me.”

“Who was doing it for you before?”

“Can’t say. That guy could also get his pipe from Stovin’s.”

“You went to the police?”

“Sure. They say I’ve no proof.”

“No proof for them’s supposed to be proof for me? You can’t name names, how am I to believe you?”

“When it comes between this nice company owner’s life and you not believing me and my getting more summonses, which you think I’ll choose?”

“Look, stop the over-holy martyring for a minute, for how my to help?”

“By just giving it. Name me one other company than Stovin’s who’ll cart for me.”

“Hold it.” He gets a list and says “For your area,” and rattles the names off including Eco.

“Tried them all. None’ll budge. They say it’s not their area or a dozen other excuses. There’s no real competition for business garbage in the city. Either one shoves the other out or together they got it portioned off.”

“First offense I never heard of. As for portioning off, that’s one way of keeping the streets freer of traffic and noise during sleeping hours. But who of I mentioned before handled you — Eco? It’s the only one on the list I heard’s going out of business.”

“You just talk to Stovin’s or any of the other carters and see why they won’t handle me and I bet you learn something you didn’t know before, or am I fooling myself?”

“I can’t deal with them. That’s private garbage, we’re public. So only when rubbish blows off their trucks or they mess up the streets picking their customers’ stuff up do we have any reason to squawk.”

“Then why my talking to you for? Anyway, I’ll think about answering your summons and I might even call your anticorruption force. Yeah, I’ll call them, maybe I’ll get some satisfaction finally — know who there is in charge?”

“Read the newspapers,” and hangs up.

I borrow a customer’s newspaper. It’s the better paper here, bigger so more unwieldy flipping through it, smaller runnier print, no scandal in it today, if they do have any of the others any other day, but federal: senator sentenced in influence-peddling case, ambassador called back for not paying income taxes, energy executives accused of entertaining environmental chief, vice president’s administrative assistants take mistresses and boyfriends on round-the-world junkets.

Little later a man comes in selling the afternoon tabloid and I buy it. Lots of stories of city and state corruption: top judges give in-laws jobs through court, parents buying their children’s way into medical and dental colleges, morticians burying cheaper coffins than they sold the bereaved, doctors collecting illegal health insurance fees, lawyers selling babies stolen from hospital incubators to childless couples out West, and way further in the paper the Sanitation scandal. While I’m reading Dolph calls. “If you’re serious about seeing the anti people, don’t breathe you ever treated me to a beer, even if it was always off-hours for me and the regular free beer you give everyone after the first three. Just say I bought the first, we rolled double or nothing for the second and I won and that was my heavy drinking for the night: twice. Better yet, say I won the toss but refused the prize as one’s where I draw the line. No, don’t even say I was gambling, innocent dice or otherwise. I just have one beer, watch a little TV and go home.”

“Don’t worry. I’m known as tongue-tied Shaney for my friends.”

“Where’s my guarantee? Choice of saving or wrecking your business, anyone’s mouth could go haywire.”

I finish the article and find it’s District Attorney Talven I should contact. I call, get somebody under him and say “I think I’ve important information on the Sanitation scandal or at least can add to it, my information can—” and he says “Listen carefully to me. Don’t give your name, address or phone number unless I request it or say another unsolicited word. Our phones here have a tendency of getting disturbed. Are you presently in any personal danger?”

“I was clubbed once. Before that—”

“That’s all. Next answer just a negative or yes to the question are you now on a private line?”

“At my bar.”

“Please — I said negative or yes. Is yours a pay phone?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t give the bar’s name or if you own it or don’t. Simply stay there, keep the receiver off without disconnecting us for a minimum of ten minutes and we’ll trace it and come to you. Are you able to do that?”

“Yes.”

“When you hear recorded music it’ll mean we know where you are and are on our way and you can hang up. Anything goes wrong before then, call us back.”

I leave the receiver off, twenty minutes later say into it “I didn’t hear any music. Have you traced me, sir?” Nobody answers, I repeat the question, get a dial tone and hang up. Probably better I don’t meet them, seeing how they botched up just the simple task of tracing me. And our two interests really aren’t related, private and public garbage and all that, so I don’t call back.

A woman comes in that evening, takes a bar stool and says “Bloody Marsky, hold the pepper, lots of vodka, Slavic style if you got and rocks.” She looks and is dressed kind of seamy and scouts the place as if all she’s interested in is who’ll screw her for money or buy her drinks and preferably both. I never liked the professional pickup or freeloader in my bar. It reflects badly on me and sometimes on my father to the few oldtimers who remember him, and also makes a lot of men mad when the woman doesn’t come across gratis after all those bought drinks or suddenly out of nowhere makes a phonecall, grabs her bag and goes. But you can get sued for kicking someone out for something they didn’t do or they’re not, so I’ll just watch her.

I make her drink and say “Dollar even, please,” and she says “Boy, that’s cheap,” opens her handbag, keeps it open without taking anything out and says “I wonder if you can help me. About an hour ago I was speaking to a man on the phone here. But we were cut off and when I tried calling him back your line was busy. Anyone here keep the phone off the hook for a while around that time?”

“An hour ago? How about four?” and she says low enough only for me to hear “Tone it down, honey. I’m Assistant D.A. Ischgewitz, you spoke to my associate Assistant D.A. Digsby before, though don’t refer to either of us as such. Jerelle. Just Jerelle, as though you know me somewhat.”

“Okay Jerelle, how you doing tonight?” and I put my hand out to shake.

“Excuse me,” still low, stirring her drink, “but do you normally shake your customers’ hands after you serve them their drinks?”

“Usually when they come in.”

“That’s what I thought. Then why do you want to shake mine now and so ostentatiously as though you knew me well? I don’t want to shake it. It’s too obvious and doesn’t suit my role or yours. You want to give my cover away and maybe get us both knocked off?”

“No.”

“Of course not. That’s it — hand down, relax, wipe the counter if you have nothing to do and your hand’s itchy and it actually is a little filthy around my glass. Now, is there a possibility we can get knocked off? I have gotten my share of death threats during this investigation, though far below par.”