Drawing Dead (21 page)

“Bitch!” He swung his fist in a hard, short arc and hit her face, bouncing the back of her head against the paneling. “Try to kick me, bitch? Huh?” He brought back his fist and drove it forward, all his weight behind it, into her chest.

Debrowski felt the air explode from her lungs. The office tilted as she slid down the wall, tasting blood from her crushed lip. Joey Cadillac, red-faced and slit-eyed, was holding on to his left arm, the one she'd kicked—at least she'd hit something. She tried to take a breath, but her lungs were paralyzed, her ear was ringing, the room was tipping over, all the way now, the floor nearly vertical.

Center.

Focus.

Five years of martial arts classes had come down to this—knocked on her ass by a fat, balding little man in a silk jacket. She could hear Sun, her Muay Thai instructor, telling her,
You too damn fancy, Deblowski.

Center.

She should have gone for the knee in the groin, simple, direct, and effective. But she'd always wanted to kick a guy like Joey Cadillac in the face. She'd wanted to feel his nose through the sole of her boot. Violent impulses. Her chest was spasming—no air. She saw Joey turn away from her toward the door. For a moment, she let herself believe that he was about to open it, to order her out of his office. Instead, as she managed to draw her first ragged breath, she saw him turn the lock on the doorknob.

Focus.

Again, she heard Sun's reedy voice:
Too fancy! You get in a fight, you fight dirty, Deblowski. You use a two-by-four, you have to!

Joey
didn't want Margie or one of his salesmen walking in on them. They all knew better than to walk in without warning, but he felt more comfortable with the door locked. Christ, the little leather bitch had damn near broke his arm with her goddamn boot. He looked back at her. She was getting up—the bitch had spunk. He shook out his left arm, getting the feeling back in his fingertips. She was grabbing the edge of his desk, trying to stand up. He hoped she wasn't going to get sick on his Oriental rug. He started toward her. She was on her feet now, looking at him over her shoulder, unfastening something. Taking her clothes off? Maybe she liked it rough. Rough her up a little, she gets turned on. He'd seen it plenty of times before. She pulled something loose from around her waist, something long and black.

Joey stepped back, saying, “Hey, take it easy with that now….”

She was swinging it over her head, the thing whipping like a snake, alive. Christ, a fucking bike chain. He hated a bike chain worse than anything. He'd seen it wrapped around her waist, but his eyes had read it as decoration, something to go with the pins and badges. Better she should have a knife, something he could take away from her. He backed away, grabbed the chair she had been sitting in, held it up in front of his face. “Easy there, girlie,” he said, forcing smooth on his voice.

She shifted to his left, got to the desk, grabbing the '59 Caddy paperweight, her arm going back, whipping forward, as he ducked behind the chair. The heavy brass weight hit the bottom of the chair, knocking it to the side. Joey twisted away, at the same time trying to get the chair back up between them—not fast enough. He heard the hissing sound of air being cut by chain, felt it hit his hand. The hand went numb; the chair fell. Joey ducked his head and charged, trying to get inside her reach, get in close now, before she could swing the chain again. Get in there where the chain would do her no good. He saw the boot coming up, but this time he was too off balance to deflect it, and he took it on the ear. As if from a distance, he heard the hissing of the chain again, felt a blow, infinitely heavy, across his back and shoulders, felt himself go down, his upper body suddenly powerless. His face hit the rug, then something came down on the back of his neck, pushing his face into the thick pure-wool pile of the hand- woven Persian rug, three thousand bucks, right off the truck. From the corner of his eye, he could see the sole of her boot.

“Let me up, bitch,” he said, his voice muffled by the pile. He could hear her ragged breaths raining down on him. He could hear the soft clicking of the bike chain. After several seconds the weight lifted from his neck. His shoulders were buzzing, everything felt wrong. He should launch himself up and at her, get inside the arc of the chain now, before she was ready for it, but he didn't think his arms would obey. He heard the snap of the door lock being unfastened, heard the door open and close. He lifted his head. His back was really starting to sting now. Fucking bike chain. His new jacket would be ruined.

Ten
days in Minnesota, and Freddy Wisnesky was getting nowhere. It was obvious even to him that the comic book guy wasn't going to be returning to the Twin Town Motel anytime soon. Like Mister C. said, his only hope of getting his hands on them was through the girl. He drove down the street to a SuperAmerica and bought himself a twelve-pack of Barq's root beer, a couple bags of tortilla chips, three cans of bean dip, and a handful of Slim Jims. The kid who rang up his purchases was giving his shredded and bloodstained shirt a look, so Freddy added an XXL Minnesota Twins T-shirt—$12.99—to his purchases. Another thing he had learned: you got to try to blend in. He drove down University to The Summit and parked his car in the ramp where he could keep an eye on her little red Porsche.

Mister C. had really been pissed off. Freddy screwed a forefinger into his left ear. He could still hear Joey Cadillac screaming at him, voice like a mad Chihuahua. Sometimes he thought about letting the little wop have one, right on his fat little chin. Freddy felt his wide lips curve up into a smile. He enjoyed the fantasy in the same way he enjoyed thinking about having lunch with Dolly Parton, and she takes her top off. It wouldn't ever happen. Life without Mister C. to tell him what to do was beyond his ability to imagine. He pulled his finger out of his ear, looked at it, wiped it on his chest. That reminded him of his new shirt. He climbed out of the car, carefully unknotted, removed, and folded his tulip tie, then took off his torn shirt. It stuck a little to his left arm and to this one place on his back. He peeled it away slowly, trying to leave as much scab as possible on his body, threw the tattered shirt under the Caddy, and pulled the new Twins T-shirt over his head. It was tight, but at least people would stop staring at him. He would look just like a local, another Minnesota Twins fan sitting in his car, chewing on a Slim Jim.

Look at the way they follow her. It must be pheromones.

—Laura Debrowski,
speculating on the charms of Catfish Wicky

A full belly gives a man
a sense of focus.

This highly focused thought carried Crow much of the way from the Black Forest Inn to his apartment. Something about the potential energy in a stomach full of good German food made the world seem no more than a manageable extension of his life. His car would be repaired. Dickie would make good on his marker. The cards would fall his way. Soon he would have time to think about things like falling in love and discovering meaning in his life.

Walking down Nicollet Avenue past a cluster of Vietnamese and Hmong businesses, gut full of spaetzle, paprika schnitzel, and cabbage, Crow smiled in the fading evening light. It was another hot one. He walked slowly so as not to break a sweat, and he let his mind drift.

Debrowski was in Chicago, baby-sitting two of her bands, and would not be back until tomorrow. He wished she were here now. He wanted to tell her about his idea, his answer to the Galactic Guardians. He wanted her to know that he wasn't wimping out, that he could take care of himself. So far, his scheme had all the substantiality of a cokehead fantasy. Still, on this warm night, even the insubstantial felt as solid as a gut full of paprika schnitzel. If he told it right, she would be impressed. If he could pull it off.

Crow was wearing his red-and-pink short-sleeved polyester bowling shirt with the name HAL embroidered in blue thread over the pocket and PARK TAVERN printed on the back. It was his favorite shirt. He had found it folded into one of his dresser drawers during the early years of his ill-fated marriage to Melinda Connors. Who was Hal? Jealous and suspicious, he had worn the shirt that day, parading her guilt before her. Melinda's only reaction had been to ask, in an offhand, disinterested way, “Who's Hal?”

“You don't know?” he had asked, putting some edge into his voice.

She had smiled vacantly. “Do I know? Is it your dad's name or something?” Melinda had always been weak on names. Crow had stared at her face, then a smooth twenty-three, still healthy and in love, and had seen only mild curiosity and befuddlement. She had no idea who Hal was. Hal was, and would always be, a mystery to them both. Inwardly embarrassed, Crow had concluded that the shirt had gotten mixed in somehow at the laundromat. To teach himself trust, tolerance, and patience, Crow had worn the shirt at least once a month for all of his seven-year marriage. The heavyweight polyester was indestructible. He had come to like it, to feel comfortable swathed in thick synthetic fiber, and he still wore it as often as possible. He loved it when people called him Hal. The Vietnamese woman at the drop-off laundry where he now took his clothes called him Hal Crow: “Tank you, Mr. Hal Crow.” She would smile, handing him his tied-up bundle of clean clothes. He liked the way they ironed everything, even the jeans, then folded it up into a package the size of a cereal box.

He was thinking about his ex-wife, bowling shirts, and Vietnamese laundries, going up the walk to his front door, digging for keys in the front pocket of his ironed blue jeans, when a voice said, “Where'd y'all get that shirt? I sure do like it.”

Crow stopped. Catfish Wicky was sitting on his front steps, smoking a cigarette.

“I do too,” Crow said, after a moment. He remained still, feeling awkward. She was wearing loose black cotton shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt, the top several buttons unfastened. Her legs were tightly crossed and her elbows pulled into her lap, making her appear small and compact. He had the impression that she was cold, though the air temperature was easily eighty-five degrees. She was barefoot; her red sandals sat obediently beside her on the concrete step. He looked around, and at the cars parked on the street, looking for a Cadillac, a Mercedes, a Porsche. He saw nothing but the usual beaters that lined his street.

“Where's your car?”

“I left it at home.”

“You walked here?”

“I took a cab. You want to offer a girl a cup of coffee or something? I've been sittin' here near an hour, waiting.” She put her lips to her cigarette and inhaled deeply, then let the smoke trail over her red upper lip and into her nostrils.

He walked around her and unlocked the bottom door. “I don't have any milk.”

“That's okay, Joe Crow.” She hooked her fingers through the thongs of her sandals and stood up. He heard her following him up the narrow staircase, her bare feet soft on the hard wooden steps. “Just make it hot and strong, okay?”

Milo
couldn't get enough of her. It was as though she—half cat, half fish—was the most fascinating thing he had ever encountered. He covered her lap, kneading her thigh, both of them purring. Crow set a mug of reheated coffee, blistering hot, strong, and bitter, on the glass-topped table before her. She picked it up and let Milo sniff it, then took a sip.

“It's hot,” Crow warned, a little late.

“It's perfect. Good coffee.”

Crow sat down across from her with his coffee, waiting for her to get to it, whatever it was.

“I sure do like this kitty cat,” she said. Her accent seemed to come and go. Sometimes she sounded like any other Minnesotan except for the persistent
y'alls
, then she would leap a thousand miles south between sentences, and he could almost smell the swamp in her voice. There were even a few words, like
caw-fee
, that sounded as if they'd been learned in Brooklyn, or maybe Newark.

“He likes you.”

“Cats do. Did y'all ever meet my kitty cat?”

“I saw him.”

“He's a good cat. You know how he got himself all crippled up? I'll tell you. Dickie threw him right off the balcony. Dickie says Katoo just fell, but that man's got more shit in'm than a Cajun privy. Katoo never fell off nothing. He's a good cat.” She scratched under Milo's chin. “You're a good 'un too, Mr. Milo.”

“He threw the cat off the balcony?” Crow was shocked. He liked cats.

“Twenty-five stories. I was down at the pool. Poor Katoo landed right next to me. I saw him coming down, feet first. Broke his poor kitty spine. They told me I should have him put down, but I found a vet who fixed him up with his wheels. You should see that cat go.” She smiled with her mouth, put a cigarette between her swollen lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. Milo jumped down from her lap. “Kitties don't like smoke,” she said, sending a thick brown plume toward the ceiling.

Crow held up his mug and looked at her through the curls of steam coming off his coffee. Milo jumped back up onto the sofa and sat at the far end, watching Catfish smoke. She reached over and scratched the top of his head.

“You know that big ugly fellow was chasing Tommy?”

Crow nodded and set his cup down.

“Well, he's sitting in this big old blue car in the ramp at my building, watching my poor little Porsche. I go down to get in my car and there he is, the biggest ugliest sight a girl could ever hope for. He didn't see me, though. I got right back in that elevator and got my sweet butt out of there. That's why I had to cab it on over here.”

“Freddy Wisnesky.”

“That's him.” She let a languid stream of smoke drift into her nostrils. The skin between her lip and nose was stained soft yellow; Crow wanted to take a tissue and wipe it away. Beads of oily perspiration showed on her forehead. “He's still looking for Tommy. I'm scared of him.” She didn't look scared.