Blues for Zoey (9 page)

2
7

Th
e
Arbitra
t
or

“What happened to
you?” A-Man asked me, dropping a massive bag of tow
els on the counter.

“I got punched in the face.”

“I've seen worse.”

“You've been in a war.”

A-Man didn't respond.

“Thanks again for buying us beer.”

“Not a problem.”

“Would've been even better if I hadn't rolled a two.” I told him he could pick his towels up the next morning.

“One other thing,” A-M
an said. “When you see your boss again, tell him I might want to get in on another one of his poker games. I could use the, uh—y'know.” He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers.

“He'
s downstairs. If you want, you can tell him yourself.”

A-Man considered this for a moment, leaning on the counter.
Before he could make up his mind, we were both distracted by a dark shape in the front window. I
t was B-Man, glaring in at us.

A-Man shouted through the window. “Thought you were taking a walk, B!”

B-Man didn't say anything. He just stood there.

“Ignore him,” said A-Man. “It's the best thing.”

B-Man smacked the glass so hard, the whole pane shook. He raised his hand to do it again and I thought he might smash right through.

“
Okay!
”
A-M
an shouted at him. “Cool it, B, I'm coming.” He went out front, and in
about three words' time, the two of them
were arguing. With the washers and dry
ers going, I couldn't hear what they said
. I did, however, hear the creak of the stairs behind me. M
r. Rodolfo was lumbering up.

“
No-no-no-no!
” He emerged from the
stairs, waving his arms, and ran outside. He waggled both
his index fingers in B-Man's face, swearing at him to get lost.

A-Man muscled bet
ween them, doing his best to keep the peace. It was quite a scene, but eventually A-
Man pulled B-Man away and Mr. Rodolfo came back inside.

“He comes around here
again—the little one, I mean—you get rid of him. Understand?”

I nodded.

“If he won't listen, y
ou got my permission to use the Arbitrator.” He jabbed a thick finger into the shad
ows of the stairway, where it hung from two red, rubberized hooks scre
wed into the wall. It was a massive crowbar. A long, heavy, kick-ass J of metal.

That was Mr. Rodolfo's Arbitrato
r. His own special way of settling disputes.

28

Ho
w
No
t
t
o
T
ak
e
Ou
t
t
h
e
Garba
g
e

It was Satu
rday night, and as I mopped up at closing time, a few of the men from Mr. R
odolfo's poker night began to arrive. They rarely spoke to me. I figured that was because they
were all men similar to the Brothers, men who
had emigrated late in life and were therefor
e weak when it came to English. I thought A-M
an might show up, but he didn't. Eventually, when all the poker players were safely ensconced in the basement, I flipped o
ver the
CLOSED
sign.

The final thing on the to-do list was to empty the trash cans, then haul the bags out back and toss them in the Dumpsters. Just as I stepped out the back door, however—

VVRRAAAWWWWN!

S
ome shithead in a black sports car came racing up the alley. He shaved it so close, his
side mirror bumped one of the garbage bags. The plastic twisted
around my finger and I thought it might be torn clean off.

“
Fucker!
” I yelled at him.
You think he stopped? No way.

I was so pissed I dropped one garbage bag and threw the other one after him. B
ut he had his foot on the gas. The bag sailed thr
ough the air and came down with a
pop
, r
ight on the pavement. It burst open and melted into a puddle of candy wrappers, dryer lint, and used
Downy sheets. In the silence after the car was gone,
just as I was putting the stuffing back into the bag, I hea
rd music.

It was faint, far off, but I recognized the melody. It was Shain Cope. “Colt's-T
ooth Blues.” Maybe someone in one of the apartments was playing the song. I thought, s
hit
! I'd left the CD at Toph's!
I had completely forgotten about it, probably because I'd left the party half-conscious. Sooner or late
r, Dave Mizra was going to want it back.

I stood there like an idiot,
listening. There was something different about this version. It was Shain Cope'
s song, but not the one on the album. The piano intro had
been replaced with something like a violin or a cello, and
when the singing started, I was certain. It wasn't his voice. Shain Cope sounded almost demonic.
This, on the other hand, was the voice of an angel.

29

A
Gho
s
tl
y
Relic

Even with a whole building between us, I knew it was Zoey. Back in the laundr
omat, I switched off the lights. I didn't want her to see me.
Not yet.

Through the front window, I saw her, right where I expected her to
be, sitting on a bucket in front of Da
ve Mizra's place. She had her rood rattler propped against one shoulder like a double bass—which suddenly made sense. One half of the thing was wired like a harp, while do
wn the center strut there were strings like a guitar. It was that second set of strings she was playing, with a long bow. She sliced it back and fo
rth to produce slow, melodic groans, sounds that lay somewhere between a cello and a musical saw.

Her
other hand manipulated the rest of the thing. She
blew sad notes out of the horn fastened to the horizontal strut. She tapped at the junk swinging from the crossbar or pummeled the base against the
pavement, thumping it to make sounds like an uprooted elm tree tr
ying to dig itself back into the earth. It was the strangest one-girl band in the world, and on top of it all, she started singing:

You wish that she were still around
You wish that she we
re here
I thought I was a poet once
I'm just a profiteer
If only I were beautiful
Like something r
otten on a beach
That stuff has got a kind of grace
Nobody ever sees

In the lamplight of Steinway, with Zoey'
s hair falling over half her face, the instrument looked like a ghostly relic, something dug up and reconstructed
by a maniacal archeologist. It was a creepy scene, but it went perfectly with the music.

There
weren't many people on the street,
certainly no one standing near Zoey. Even the building ignored her. Dav
e Mizra's shop was locked up and dark (just like the Sit 'n' Spin). Howeve
r, I noticed a lone light glowing in a
window one floor up. A figure—it must have been Dave Mizra himself—was silhouetted behind the pale cu
rtains.

Zoey must have known he was there, because every now and then she
glanced up at the window where he stood.
It was like she wanted to make sure she
had an audience, even if it was just one person. In truth, it was two
.

She only played for another couple of minutes, not really keeping to the song, just riffing on the tune. Finally, without quite getting anywhere, she stopped. She stared down at the pav
ement, looking a little sad, and then began packing up her things. After that, taking me by surprise, she glanced ac
ross the street, right into the window where I stood in the dark.

She couldn't have seen me, but
I took a step backward anyway. She slung
her big denim purse over one shoulder, hefted the
instrument over the other, and came across the str
eet.

Seeing her headed straight for me, I panicked. I ran to the counter and ducked behind it. What would she think if she saw me? Standing in the dark, watching her? She'd think I was a creep.

I figured she would just walk past, but instead she stopped right in front of the window whe
re I'd just been standing. Gently, she lowered her instrument and leaned it against the glass.
What was she doing?

She took something out of her purse, something slim and shiny
, and slipped it through the mail slot. It clattered on the floor. Then she walked off.

As soon as she was gone, I crept out of my hiding place. Lying on
the tiles was the Shain Cope CD, the same one
I had just been stressing about. Zoey must hav
e rescued it before Toph threw her out of his house. I opened the door.

“
Zoey!
”

She was just about to cross over Emerson.

“Thanks for this!” I ran after her, waving the jewel case like a flag of surrender. “I really needed it back!”

“No problem.” She looked past me, at the darkness of the shop. “Thought you were closed.”

“I was, uh, downstairs.”

Now that I was
standing in front of her, I didn'
t know what to say.

“Your friend's an asshole, by the way,” she informed me.

“Topher?”

“Who else?”

“He wasn't always that way. It's kind of a long-term project.”

S
he let the instrument slide down her body
and peered into my eyes. “How's your face?”

“Better than it was. You should've seen me a few days ago. Actually, no. Forget that. You
should
n't
have.”

“Did you hear me play just now?”

“Only a bit.”

She smiled hopefully. “What did you think? Kind of a weird sound, huh?”

“I think it sounded amazing, like a whole band.”

“Yeah, it's hard work. Makes me hungry. You know a good place to eat around here?”

“You ever been to What the Pho?”

“That's a restaurant?”

“Pho. Vietnamese soup.”

“Never had it.”

“Seriously? You should try it.”

“You wanna take me?”

“Oh. Yeah! Okay.”

I turned to head up Steinway, but Zoey hesitated. “Will they let me in, y
ou think? Most places don't like it when you show up with a giant c
ross—especially one with
bones
hanging off it.”

“I could help you carry it home. If you live nearby.”

She shook her head. “Our place is, like,
way
across town.”

“Oh,
okay.” I was kind of hoping we w
ere neighbors. “We could lean it on the wall
outside. You'll be able to see it thr
ough the window.”

Her eyes flashed. “Are you kidding?
No way
. I made this thing
myself. It took
forever
. I gotta
keep it safe. It's really important. To
me, I mean.” She took a step towa
rd the laundromat. “Could I stash it in there?”

“My boss wouldn't like it.”

“Not even for a little while?”

“I don't know … ”

I looked up and saw the lights on in
our apartment. We could certainly stash the rattler up
there, but (a) how would we hide it
from Mom and Nomi, (b) both of them
would probably want to meet Zoey, which would be weird, and, of course, (c) I was basically ashamed of where I lived.

“But y
ou're closed,” Zoey said, citing the obvious. “Your boss isn't even ther
e.”

“Actually, he's downstairs.”
I explained a bit about his poker nights—how on
Saturdays, a bunch of guys came by and
played cards for money.

“As long as he knows that's illegal.”

“What is?”

“Um,
organized gambling
? For money? In a place of business?” She shook her head. “
Totally
not allowed.”

“Is it just me, or is that a weird thing to know?”

She shrugged. “So can I stash it in your work or not? Otherwise, I
'm going home.”

“If he found it, my boss would g
o crazy. He saw you outside once and he think
s you're … well, ‘a freak.' His
words, not mine.”

“What does he know? I've not even met the guy.”

“I
t's just the way he is.”

“If we come back and get it later, he'll never know.”

“I do
n't know … ”

“Okay, whatever.” She hefted the instrument onto her shoulder again.
“You wanna keep your job, I get it.
I'll see you around.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“If we're really,
really
quiet,
we can hide it in with the dry cleaning.”