Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go (19 page)

Bernard Tobias stepped out from a row of shelves. He was short and dumpy, but clean, the kind of man who has a wife and kids and a house in Kemp Mill or Hillandale, complete with ashtrays stolen from Atlantic City hotels and clown prints hung on the bathroom walls. He would have told you that he was providing a service, a form of release for those “poor slobs” who “have a problem” with kids, and that maybe, just maybe, it was safer to sell a magazine to a guy who could take it home and jerk
off on some boy’s photograph, rather than have him out prowling the local video arcade, trying to hand quarters out to someone’s son. I hadn’t come here to judge him, though, only to get some information: I smiled warmly and shook his hand.

“Ron Roget,” I said.

“Bernie Tobias,” he said, and looked expectantly at the rest of my group.

“My associates,” I said, presenting them with an elaborate swing of my hand. “Mr. Franco, Mr. Magid, and Mr. Jefferson.”

The names were characters from the film
The Dirty Dozen
. After a pointless argument on the drive over—McGinnes wanted to be Jefferson, but Donny, of course, wouldn’t let him—we had agreed on the aliases.

“I’ve heard of you guys,” Bernie said, scratching his head.

“Of course you have,” Donny said. “We’re large.”

“Follow me,” Bernie said, and we all walked through the warehouse aisles to an open area that looked like a small-timer’s idea of a meeting room. We took seats around a shiny oval table, with Tobias in the sole chair with arms. There was a desk near the table. Plaques of some sort hung on cinder block. A wooden shelf over the desk contained a row of trophies.

“Thank you for seeing us,” I said. “I can see you’re very busy.”

“Business is good,” Bernie said, his fingers locked and resting on his ample belly. “You say you guys are out of Philly?”

“South and Main,” Donny said.

“I’d give you a card,” I said, “but the truth is, we didn’t come prepared for this. We’re on a kind of vacation here.”

“A retreat,” McGinnes said.

“Down south,” I said.

“Miami,” LaDuke said, probably just wanting to hear his own voice.

“
South
Miami,” Donny said, as if he had ever been out of the Baltimore-Washington corridor. “South Beach.”

“We got a boat down there,” McGinnes said.

“A yacht,” said Donny.

“So,” I said, “we were passing through town, heading south, and I thought I’d look you up, make an introduction.”

Bernie Tobias looked at Donny and McGinnes, back at me. “What exactly is it that you and your associates do, Mr. Roget?”

“Ron,” I said.

“What do you do, Ron?”

“Like I told you on the phone, we cater to the NAMBLA crowd—man-boy discipline, that sort of thing.”

“In what capacity?” Bernie said.

“We’re producers,” I said. “We specialize in the type of product you specialize in, on the distribution end.”

“And how do you know of me?”

“The network,” I said mysteriously, and with a wink.

“But we ain’t no punks, now,” Donny said.

“It hurts him to fart,” McGinnes said, giving a quick head jerk toward Donny.

Bernie Tobias looked oddly at Donny, and then the phone rang on his desk. He excused himself, got up to answer it. LaDuke and I simultaneously shot killer looks at Donny and McGinnes. Tobias raised his voice into the phone, hung it up, and returned to his seat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really don’t have much time today. There’s a lot going on.”

“We won’t keep you,” I said. “But I just wanted to let you in on what we’re doing. As far as production values go, we’re doing the highest-quality videos for the broadest customer base of anyone else on this coast.”

“But I’m very satisfied with what I have,” Bernie said. “I deal with only a couple of suppliers. They’re local, so there’s never any problem in getting merchandise quickly. And they know just what I want—this discipline thing is really taking off for me right now, I’m telling you. It’s legal, too—no penetration shots, no actors who are obviously underage.”

“Not obviously underage,” LaDuke said.

“Well, you have to know how to straddle that line, don’t you?”

“Of course,” LaDuke said, struggling to form a smile.

“Your suppliers,” I said, “they wouldn’t be the Brontman Brothers, out of Northwest, would they?” I had seen a sign for Brontman Bakers on a storefront on the way downtown.

“No,” Bernie said, distracted by Donny, who had gotten out of his chair and picked up one of Tobias’s trophies off the shelf. “I don’t even know them. Look, Mr.—”

“Jefferson,” Donny said.

“Mr. Jefferson, please put that down, it’s my son’s—”

“Mr. Tobias,” McGinnes said, warming to it now, “you sure you’re not getting your product from the Brontmans? Because I know—I
know
—that our product has ten times the value—”

“Sir,” Bernie said, “I’m getting most of my product out of Southeast right now, the Buzzard Point area. Some of my stuff comes out of an apartment house in Silver Spring. I mean, I know where my product’s coming from.”

“We wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” LaDuke said. “But aside from the fact that we offer the best value for the money, we also offer a steady supply of product. New titles every two weeks.”

“I’ve even got you there,” Bernie said. “My suppliers, they shoot one night a week, deliver me new product each Saturday. I couldn’t be happier with the situation I’ve got.”

“They shoot on what night?” I said, and saw from the exasperated look on Tobias’s face that I had pushed it too far.

He breathed out slowly, let his composure creep back in. “Gentlemen, I know what you’re trying to do here. You’re trying to pump me for information, gain some kind of competitive advantage so you can come back to me with a program. But that’s not the way I do business.” Tobias smiled genially. “Listen, the next time you’re in town, bring some samples of your product. We’ll have a look, sit down, work on some pricing. If I like what I see, who knows, maybe we’ll make a deal. In the meantime, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and pushed myself up from my chair. My associates followed suit. I shook Tobias’s hand.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Tobias,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Bernie said. “You fellows have an unusual style, by the way.”

“We try,” I said. “Thanks again.”

LaDuke went to shake Tobias’s hand. I heard a bone crack, and Tobias jerked his hand back.

“You’ve got a hell of a grip,” Bernie said with a nervous chuckle. “That’s my golf hand, you know.”

“Sorry,” LaDuke said. “I’m stronger than I look, I guess.” He smiled, his teeth bared like a dog’s. We walked from the room, leaving Tobias staring at his hand.

DARNELL DROVE US BACK
to the lot of Goode’s White Goods. Donny and McGinnes got out of the car, and I got out with them. The heat rose off the black asphalt of the lot. I put fire to a smoke.

“How’d I do?” Donny said. He looked shrunken in his clothes, his mouth screwed up to one side.

“You did good,” I said. “When I get paid on this one, I’ll send you and Johnny a little piece of it.”

“At your service.” Donny looked at Darnell through the open window of the Ford and said, “My brother.” Darnell smiled, and Donny stepped across the parking lot, toward the double glass doors.

McGinnes said, “Told you he was all right.”

“Thanks, man. Thanks for everything.”

“Hey, you and me…” McGinnes shuffled his feet. “Nothing to it.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “By the way, No Damn Good’s got an opening on the floor. Any interest? You can’t keep doing this sideline thing of yours forever.”

“It’s not a sideline,” I said. “It’s what I do.”

“Right,” McGinnes said, unconvinced. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“You wouldn’t want me to take the food out of your mouth, would you?”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Take it easy, Johnny.”

“You too, Jim.” McGinnes grinned. “Better get my ass back inside. The little bastard’s probably in there stealing all my ups.”

He put his hands in his pockets and walked away, whistling through his teeth. I hit my cigarette, dropped it, and ground it under my shoe.

We dropped Darnell back at the Spot, and afterward LaDuke took me back to my place. We sat out front, the Ford idling at the curb.

“Wish we could have gotten more out of Tobias,” LaDuke said.

“We got everything we could,” I said. “And anyway, I think we got plenty.”

“Like?”

“Just a feeling. This thing’s getting ready to bust.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.” I put my hand on the door latch and lightly tapped his arm. “You did all right back there, you know it?”

“I’m catching on.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “We’ll put it in gear.”

“Why not tonight?”

“ ’Cause I got to go see somebody right now.”

“On the case?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Look, LaDuke, you don’t have to worry. I’m not gonna leave you behind. We’re partners, right?”

LaDuke smiled, sat a little straighter behind the wheel. I got out of the car, rapped the roof with my knuckles, and walked toward my apartment as he pulled out from the curb. Some electric guitar and a screaming vocal cut the quiet of the early-evening air. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn LaDuke had turned his car radio on, and was playing it loud as he drove away.

M
Y UNCLE COSTA
is not my uncle. He is not my father’s brother, or my grandfather’s, or a distant cousin, and I’m fairly certain that there is none of his blood running through my veins. But to Greeks, this is a minor detail. Costa is as much a part of my family as any man can be.

Ten years younger than my grandfather, Big Nick Stefanos, Costa came to this country from a village outside Sparta. Though I’ve not confirmed it, it’s been said that Costa killed his sister’s groom over a dowry dispute the night after their wedding and then left Greece the following day. He worked for many years as a grille man in my grandfather’s coffee shop downtown and lived above it in a small apartment with his wife, Toula. In the forties, my grandfather hit the number in a big way and staked Costa in his own store, a lunch counter on 8th and K.

Children tend to force assimilation in their immigrant parents, and as Costa and Toula were childless, Costa never fully
embraced the American culture. But he loved his adopted country as much as any native-born, and he was especially enamored of the opportunities available for men who had the desire to work. Fiercely loyal to my grandfather, he remained friends with him until Big Nick’s death. I saw Costa on holidays after that and spoke to him on the phone several times a year. The last time he phoned, it was to tell me that he had cancer and had only a short time to live.

The beer in my hand wouldn’t help Costa, but it would make it easier for me to look at him. I sat in my car on Randolph Street, off 13th, in front of Costa’s brick row house. When I had taken the last swig, I crushed the can and tossed it over my shoulder behind the seat. I locked my car and took the steps up to his concrete porch, where I rang the bell. The door opened, and a handsome, heavy-hipped woman stood in the frame.

“Nick Stefanos. I’m here to see my uncle.”

“Come on in.”

I entered the small foyer at the base of the stairs. The air was still, as it always was in Costa’s house, but added to the stillness now was the distinct stench of human excrement. The nurse closed the door behind me and caught the look on my face.

“He’s nearly incontinent,” she said. “He has been for some time.”

“That smell.”

“I do the best I can.”

I could hear Costa’s voice, calling from his bedroom up the stairs. He was speaking in Greek, saying that his stomach was upset, asking for some ginger ale to settle it.

“He wants some soda,” I said.