Richard Price - The Whites

MacCormack hesitated, looking at Billy as if sizing him up. “He just needs to be protected right now.”

Billy nodded, masking his relief, then became angry with himself for showing his ass like that.

“Protected,” he said. “You know what this guy did, don’t you?”

“You mean the Del Pino homicide?” MacCormack pulled out a pack of Winstons.

“All I can think, he must be one hell of a snitch.”

MacCormack stared at Billy for a moment longer in that assessing way, then just shrugged, game over.

“I tell you, with CIs?” he said, offering Billy a cigarette. “I try to think of it like this: all those Nazi scientists working on the V-2 rocket, we snatched them up like draft picks, us or the Reds, freedom or world enslavement. That was the stakes, so all is forgiven, welcome to Texas. I mean, Christ, some of those krauts wound up on postage stamps.”

“Eric Cortez as Wernher von Braun,” Billy said. “That there’s a keeper.”

MacCormack semi-laughed, then slipped back into the Firebird.

Billy stared at the Phoenix decal on the trembling hood for a moment, then just said it: “He’s not dead, is he?”

“Cortez? No,” MacCormack said, giving Billy a look that made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

She was throwing him all night.

First she wanted to do something in bed that they never did before and that made him blow his top in about two minutes flat.

Then, still turned on by what they’d just done, they went at it again — they were strictly one-shot lovers, and so that was a second first — Marilys moaning all the way through. Normally they were so silent that you could be sleeping in the same room with them and not wake up, so that right there was a third first, all three groundbreakers coming to pass in about twenty-five minutes.

They were both by nature physically modest people, so even though they had just fucked like banshees, when she finally came out of the bathroom still naked, Milton had no idea where to rest his eyes. And instead of immediately getting dressed like she always did, Marilys just sat on the edge of the bed without making any move for her clothes.

“Hey, Milton.”

He had never heard her say his name out loud; somehow they managed to live amicably under the same roof for forty to fifty hours a week without ever saying each other’s names, and he’d be lying if he said her doing so now didn’t make him feel uncomfortable.

“What’s up,” still looking away from her water-dappled skin.

“I’m pregnant.”

His first reaction was that she had just become pregnant in the last half hour, which was maybe why she had taken so long in the bathroom.

“What do you mean?” The question sounded stupid, he knew, but still.

She didn’t answer.

Even in his state of low shock, he would not insult her by asking if she was sure it was his.

“OK,” he said carefully, then: “What are you thinking?”

Her blue-black Indio hair, instead of being brushed straight back from her face as usual, had been carefully combed into long wet bangs that made her look a few pounds lighter, a few years younger.

“Because whatever you’re thinking, I’ll help you out.”

“Thanks,” still making no move to cover herself.

“I mean, now is not a good time for me, but anything I can do.”

Much to his relief, she finally began reaching for her clothes.

“But so just tell me, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s a boy.”

“You can tell, huh?”

“I have two sons, seven brothers, and seven uncles. It’s a boy.”

“OK.”

He felt stoned, but not so badly that he couldn’t deal.

She stopped reaching for her clothes and looked at him full-on. “Look, I don’t want nothing from you and I’m OK raising him on my own, but that means I got to go back to Guatemala to be with my family, so pretty soon I can’t take care of Sofia anymore, and I can’t take care of you, that’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, both saddened and relieved.

A few hours later, a thermos of iced Yellow Chartreuse nesting in his cup caddie, Milton sat in the rear parking lot of the Bryant Motor Lodge and watched as Carmen’s brother, Victor, pulled up in an old Range Rover, stepped out, and walked across the lot to the rear entrance, just like dozens of junkies, crackistanis, and pross-escorted johns had done since he had set up camp ninety minutes earlier. Milton had nothing against Carmen’s brother personally; in fact, in some detached way he was happy to see him, the sad undergrown gay kid he remembered from Longfellow Avenue having grown into a fairly squared-away-looking man with clear eyes and a forthright stride even at this ass-of-night hour.

Victor had been easy to find — Milton just hadn’t ever thought of finding him before. A sociology instructor at City College, he had a website that described the paper he was working on, calling it a study of the “quasi-family dynamics” that developed over time among the drug dealers and sex workers whose base of operations was an unnamed hot-sheet motel in the Bronx. Which wasn’t hard to find either, since there was a notorious cluster directly across the New England Thruway from Co-op City, and talking to a few of the regulars along that stretch yielded not only the Bryant but Victor’s working hours, which made sense, he guessed, given what the guy was going after.

Propping his bat in the passenger-side foot well, he slid his seat back as far as it would go, reached for the thermos, and drifted off, thinking about having unexpectedly run into Billy Graves in Dennis Doyle’s office first thing this morning. After the fight-or-flight thing passed, Milton had instinctively sized him up physically, in case it ever came to that, then calmed down enough to get a rush off Billy’s cluelessness. And then seeing him again later in the afternoon, this time gray-faced and shaking when he finally found his father, still half in his pajamas, walking his old post on Lenox Avenue like a living time capsule.

But Milton knew that what he had committed by taking Bill Graves Sr. from the house in Yonkers, given the man’s deteriorating mental state, was both a felony and an escalation.

And now he was here.

Another escalation.

In the past, his rage, his satisfaction, climaxed in one act, one deed. But because of his desire this time around to keep his own life intact, he had decided on a strategy of long-term indirect payback, and in a way this was much harder on him, leaving too much time for thinking, for agonizing, for mulling over worst-case outcomes, for justifying and then retreating, retreating and then reversing.

Even worse, Milton was coming to discover, each act of carefully doled-out chaos set up a craving in him to get to the next one. He felt a burning urge to keep jacking up the stakes, intensify the act itself, until he could achieve something akin to that sensation of finality he had always experienced, for better or worse, in the past. But he was losing faith in his ability to rein himself in before the tale told out — if he had ever had that faith in himself to begin with.

When he’d taken Sofia to Longfellow Avenue he had thought it was to immunize himself from himself. But now, sitting here in the parking lot of Motel Hell, he realized that it had been more of a farewell tour. If things went out of control— when things went out of control, as he had always known they would — she would at least have some sense memory of the haunted house that, after twenty-three years, had finally claimed her father.

A son. Or so she claims. Well, it was hers. And his, scientifically speaking, but mostly hers, and he wouldn’t interfere with her plans.