Jack Wakes Up (7 page)

There’s a crowd of people standing around an ice cream booth not too far off, just one of the places down here that draws a crowd. Some wait in line and some eat their ice cream, looking at all the people and the fish shacks, the pigeons and the street performers. A seal barks somewhere.

Just on the other side of the parking lot, a group of kids wearing helmets and funny hats tries head-spins on a linoleum mat. They’ve got a big, old school boom box playing loud music.

Jack locks the car, heads across the street to the museum.

He wishes he had some kind of briefcase to make himself look official, wishes he weren’t wearing a sweat suit, that he had on nicer clothes, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. In his trunk he has a clean change of clothes in his gym bag, but he’s not changing now, not here. In his movie, he could imagine one of the guys wearing a sweat suit like his. So Jack just shakes it off, rolls his shoulders, and heads inside.

The first sound he hears from the museum is a loud laughing as he approaches, an ominous sound, as if he’s entering a fun house. But when he gets inside he sees a large glass booth with a huge mechanical woman in it, a wooden puppet, and she’s laughing: leaning forward and 60

falling back, producing a howling cackle like she’s just heard the funniest thing in the world. The interior of the museum isn’t dark or scary: it features a row of big windows across the far wall, looking out on the water. The room is full of light and old-time arcade machines from way back before Pac Man was even an idea: big boxes made of wood, with real moving parts.

A sign in front of the laughing woman says that she’s been here since the 1920s, and has been delighting and terrifying young children ever since. Hearing the laugh now, Jack’s not surprised that kids get scared. He half expects the Colombian to jump out from behind a wall—or have one of his boys do it—and stab him with a long knife.

He goes farther into the museum, past machines that for twenty-five cents will show you pictures of the great earthquake of 1906 or of a woman from those times undressing, machines that let you sit in a vibrating chair, funny games where you try to get a ball to follow the path you want without falling into any of the holes, and machines that play music while little wooden characters dance around in circles on rotating disks. Around a turn, he comes to a large machine with a wrestler’s upper body coming out of it. The wrestler wears a tight blue mask, like the WWF characters of Jack’s childhood who always hailed from “parts unknown” and never revealed their real names. The wrestler has his arm extended for arm-wrestling. “Test your strength,” the sign reads.

The Colombian, or the man with the nice suit and the slicked-back hair that Jack thinks is the Colombian, stands in front of this, looking as if he’s deciding whether or not to try it. He looks at Jack and smiles. “Test your strength?” he says.

“You’re supposed to arm-wrestle it.”

The Colombian nods. “I would like to test it. But maybe you will go first?” He produces a quarter from a front pants pocket. “I will buy two tries.”

A sign above the machine reads: Warning: This machine exhibits super human strength. Be careful.

“OK,” Jack says, taking off his jacket and setting it on a nearby picture booth. The Colombian puts his quarter in the machine. It starts to hum, its tall back and sides vibrating. Jack turns the setting to Tough Guy and puts his elbow on the pad. Then he grips the plastic wrestler’s hand. The whirring gets louder, and Jack realizes he’s in a kind of awkward position: with his knees bent slightly and his body bent at the waist, he’s not set up to be his strongest, but the machine wasn’t built for people his height; it’s low to the ground, its “table” not more than three feet up. When the arm starts to move, the hand pushing against Jack’s, there’s no time to think about it or do anything but push with all he can against the wrestler’s white plastic arm. The Colombian stands behind and off to one side, where Jack can still see him. That part’s good, less to worry about, but as Jack resists letting the hand push his back onto the mat, its pressure gets stronger and stronger. He shifts his weight lower to give himself more leverage, but finally can’t hold the hand up anymore, and he lets it take his wrist back to the mat.

The Colombian laughs twice, in loud bursts, “Ha! Ha!” as if he is used to displaying his happiness in public places. “You are not so much the tough guy, then, I suppose. And maybe we both knew that?”

“Maybe,” Jack says, picking up his jacket.

“Perhaps I should set the machine lower.”

Jack steps back out of the other man’s way and lets him move toward the wrestler, the dial above his arm. He lowers it to Pack Rat as the wrestler’s arm slowly rises back up to its original position.

Now Jack laughs as, standing back, he watches the fine material of the designer suit fold at the knees and elbows as the Colombian bends down to his task.

“I’m Ralph’s friend,” Jack says.

“Of course,” the Colombian answers, as the machine starts to whir. “And if I am lucky, I will be the Pack Rat.” The machine gets louder and Jack can see him start to strain against its arm.

He’s shorter than Jack and so seems to have a better center of gravity for the task; he also shifts 62

his feet around right away, to lean his weight against the arm. Slowly it starts to recede toward its own plastic mat, this one without the foam padding of the one that Jack’s hand just fell against.

The Colombian pushes harder, straightening his body as he leans against the arm, using his weight like a lever.

“I’m not sure that tactic is legal,” Jack says.

The Colombian grunts. “Of course,” he manages to say between locked teeth. Now the machine makes more noise; its hand moves back up to its original position, pushing back the Colombian’s whole body—his feet slide a few inches across the floor.

“You had it,” Jack says.

But the machine gets stronger again, as it had with Jack, and the Colombian starts to fall back, his whole arm moving toward the mat. Then, suddenly the whirring sound starts to decrease, and the Colombian makes forward progress. Again he puts his weight into the effort, and this time the hand continues to give. Gradually it slides back further and further until it comes all the way down to horizontal, touching its own mat. Lights go off and a bell rings inside the machine. The designation Pack Rat lights up above the wrestler’s head. Music plays from deep inside the machine. More bells.

“Congratulations,” Jack says, clapping. “What else can I say now?”

The Colombian stands up and rubs his hands together. His combed-back hair has come out of place around his temples with the effort, and he produces a comb from within his jacket. He runs it back over his scalp a few times, then puts it back in the pocket where it belongs.

“Pack Rat,” he says, smoothing his sleeves, and then, offering his hand to Jack, “This is some distinction. I am Alex Castroneves.”

They shake, and the guy has a good handshake: palm on palm and tight fingers, and Jack almost finds himself liking this guy until he remembers who he is and what they’re here for.

“So here I am. I’m Jack. Sorry about Ralph not coming.”

“That is all right.” He straightens his tie, adjusting the knot closer to his neck. “I am not used to this—arm wrestling with machines.” He opens his arms and gestures at all that surrounds them. “This place is quite strange.” He leads Jack toward the doors that let out onto the pier, away from the shops and restaurants. This is a back or side door to the museum that Jack hadn’t thought of, one that opens onto an empty pier, looking out toward the water. Jack can see the pay-telescopes lining the rail and then the water of the Bay, open and foggy, behind it.

“Let me try one more game,” Jack says, heading toward the boxing robots, where a young Korean man and woman duke it out while two of their friends watch. “We can see who wins this time, when we’re evenly matched.”

Alex opens his hands and, as if to study his palms, moves them closer to his face. Seeming satisfied with their quality, he shows them to Jack. “That is all right,” he says. “We have played a game. Now let us talk outside.”

“OK.” Jack stands where he is. Again, the Colombian turns to head toward the doors. Jack takes a step forward. “We’re ready to proceed and go forward,” he says, not loud. He doesn’t want to spook Castroneves but doesn’t want to go outside the protection of the museum, either; he doesn’t see any people out on the boardwalk. Something tells him he’s not supposed to be led into any places that might be a trap.

But another part of him wants to trust this guy, just follow what happens. The last thing he wants to do is to fuck this thing up.

Castroneves turns to look at Jack, unsure why he won’t come outside. “You are the police?”

he says.

“No. No.” Jack straightens his arms, thinking he’s fucking it up but not wanting to fuck it up. “I’m just a friend of Ralph’s. We used to work together in L.A. I was an actor.” Jack’s not sure what else to say, so he goes with what he’s feeling, just gives in to the moment, as his yoga instructor at the gym would say. “Now I’m here. A few people around town still know me from my movie and I can show our guys, your buyers, a good time.”

A family of nice-looking Midwestern tourists walks past the vibrating chair and straight to the “3-D Pictures of the Great Quake” machine. The father wears a sweatshirt that reads simply, Wisconsin.

Too honest, Jack thinks. He wonders what he’s doing telling this guy all about himself, doesn’t want to be doing this wrong, losing his character, the deal, the Czechs’ coke, their money.

It occurs to him that he might mess up and be left with just a dead friend and the people who killed him.

“You made a movie?” Castroneves says.

Jack nods. “Shake ’Em Down. Late ’90s.”

Castroneves frowns and shakes his head. Then his face lights up and he looks right at Jack as if he’s scrutinizing his face closely. “Yes. ‘Shake Them Down.’ I have seen that one. It is not bad, really.” He frowns, ducks his head toward one shoulder and then the other. “It was nothing arty, but that is OK. I think I liked it, if I remember right. Who are you?”

“I’m Jack Palms. I played the ex-cop who’s taking down the drug cartel to get back his daughter.” Jack laughs, awkwardly. “No resemblance to the truth here.”

Now the other man laughs. “Yes, the drug cartel movie. Now I recognize you.” He tilts his head. “That was not an accurate portrayal of a cartel, you know?”

Jack shrugs. What can he say?

“You’ve put on some weight since then, no?” Castroneves hits Jack in the arm with his open hand, reaching his fingers around Jack’s bicep. “It looks good. But you’re still no Tough Guy.”

He turns toward the outside pier again, but this time offers Jack the door with an open hand. “I would like to smoke in the open air, is all. Nothing is to be afraid of, I can assure to you.”

Jack steps through the open door and out into the windy sun of the Bay. Sometimes in life you have to trust people. In L.A. Jack made the mistake of trusting Victoria, which turned out to be a bad one. Now that he’s pulled himself back, he doesn’t want to choose wrong again, but he’s got to take his shots sometimes.

Outside, it’s cold and seagulls dance around in the air above the pier. To their left, a big WWII submarine is moored against the pier, a museum now for tourists to explore. The pier has a few places to tie a boat off, and beyond that it just drops off to the water. It’s windy, even a little cold, though it’s the middle of the afternoon. This is San Francisco.

Jack puts on his jacket. The Colombian steps to the edge of the pier and touches his neck. Is it a signal? Jack checks himself, tries to stop worrying so much.

“It is better here. Without people to listen.” Castroneves opens his arms to the water. Jack looks out and doesn’t see a sniper-mounted cigarette boat or a fancy South American yacht anchored and waiting anywhere. Fifteen feet from them, a young mother boosts her son up to one of the pay-telescopes and struggles to support him with one arm and her hip as she feeds in a quarter. Castroneves removes a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offers one to Jack.

He thinks, hesitates, and then the addict that remains in him wins out and he takes it. Castroneves puts another between his lips and lights Jack’s with a fancy metal lighter. “Let us talk business,”

he says, lighting his own, and puffing smoke out the side of his mouth.

“OK. My guys want size.” Jack takes a long inhale, feels guilty for smoking a third time today. But hell: it’s been quite a day, so far. He hopes it’ll calm his nerves, lubricate the situation.

He sees the Colombian watching him and exhales faster than he would like, says, “I don’t know the numbers, what you probably want to know, but they’ll be there when we set up the meet.

We’ll get it done.”

The Colombian takes his time exhaling smoke and touches his tongue to remove a small piece of paper. “That is no matter. Ralph has said that these friends of yours want ten. The cost is sixteen even. That is the best that I can do. Player’s price, you understand. Best for this size. Tell that to your friends. Tell them we can go up to twenty keys, and not more.”

“OK,” Jack says, thinking that ten keys at that price means the deal’s worth one hundred and sixty grand. He inhales a drag off his cigarette as he watches Castroneves look out over the water: his face serene, almost wistful.

“You know,” he says, “The water does not look this color in my country.” He shakes his head. “It is more blue.”

“Atlantic or Pacific?”

“Ahh. Do you know where my country is? That is impressive if you do.”

From something he’s read, Jack thinks it’s at the top of South America, with borders on both the Pacific and the Atlantic. But he could be wrong. He shrugs.

“Pacific, yes. Where I grew up is on the Pacific there.” Castroneves nods. “Blue as the night sky.”

Jack looks at the water. “Here I guess it’s kind of green.”

“Yes. And where is Ralph? When will I see him?”

Jack exhales. “Ralph is coming back later.”

“Bullshit.” The Colombian turns to face Jack, his lower lip covering part of his upper, as if he’d buttoned them closed. Jack feels his hands start to tingle; whether it’s from the cigarettes or his own nervousness, he doesn’t know. He takes another drag. Then Castroneves shakes his head.