Quicksand (36 page)

—Shut up a minute. Are you serious?

Pure gratitude blazed in her eyes. This was sexual good news.

—There's just a little matter of sixty thousand dollars, I said.

Mimi broke into a horrified gawp. I made a vague gesture but it didn't mean anything. Overconfident in my grand gesture, I had already agreed to pay sixty thousand for six months in a contract as airtight as a gym membership.

Over the next few days, Mimi set about on humbling outings, groveling apoplectically, trying to borrow from her gambler father—an imposing man with a to-scale Easter Island head on his shoulders—from friends, old boyfriends, old bosses, acquaintances, successful artist friends, but either they were fiscally down on their luck or unwilling to make the loan. For my part, no matter how
desperate I was I could not do for her what I could not do for myself, the one thing I could never do, had almost died not doing, the superhuman feat that so many subhumans and subpar humans excel at: making money. I had spent my life trying to materialize it for Stella, for the baby, for my mother, for myself, and now, as if achieving even lower self-esteem were my ultimate goal, I was failing again.

By the end of the week, still nothing. Mimi rested her head on a mountain of soft cushions and I lay beside her, brainstorming. Outside, clouds like cement blocks set the moody grayness of the afternoon. We had naught to liquidate, nada to move. We couldn't get high-paying salaries. Neither of us had any skills. We had nobody to borrow from, and begging drew in too little. There were no legitimate possibilities.

—We find an individual, she said, follow him home, force him at knifepoint to give us money.

—I've been robbed at knifepoint, I said. I wouldn't do that to anyone. Besides, two losers with negligible street smarts should pursue only victimless crimes.

—So what then? Fraud? Mail fraud? Insurance fraud?

I slid off the bed and looked out the window at the heavy clouds sweeping across a sky full of pinks and purples and oranges, an embarrassment of colors. I was besieged by dumb ideas, one after the other—obscure hoaxes, elaborate cons. The early evening stars strode into view. In truth, I was afraid. In a perversely unjust universe, four decades without breaking a law means severe punishment awaits your first infringement. Mimi dried her eyes. I hadn't even noticed she was crying; it was the quietest sob I'd ever seen.

—I have it! Maybe!

In saying this, I realize my dilemma, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. In order to present you with perhaps
the
single most likely of all of Mimi's potential murderers, I have to admit to a wee crime.

Blackmail.

—Do we have any dirt on anybody? I asked.

—Not that I can think of.

—Think harder.

The darkness moved in but neither of us put on the light; the moon shone into the room and I could see us from its perspective—minuscule, alone.

—Wait. Didn't
you fuck Mr. Morrell?

—How do you know that?

—Rumors.

We fell into silence. The wooden balcony railing glistened in the steady drizzle.

—I don't want to blackmail Morrell. Not him.

—OK. I liked him too. We won't, then. Let's think of something else.

A couple of minutes went by, then fifty more. I remembered that his wife had died of ovarian cancer, his lifelong failure to pursue his career in painting, how my friend Liam was obsessed with his bombastic diatribe on art. By midnight the creeping dread had settled in that I'd have to personally blackmail one of the nicest and saddest men either of us had ever known.

Pressing the doorbell generated a baby's piercing cry followed by a man's voice shouting, “Shut up!” Morrell opened the door of his Waterloo-brick, two-bedroom terrace wearing a paisley shirt and rolled-up army pants; as usual, his skin looked carbonized and veiny, like a fried onion, making his whitened teeth even whiter.

—When I woke from a troubled sleep that Sunday morning, Morrell said, Aldo Francis Benjamin was standing on my doorstep with a curious expression on his face. Hope the doorbell didn't disturb you. One of my students made it as part of a sound installation for her final-year project.

Morrell's smile revealed abnormal affection for me in his eyes. Maybe he felt sorry for me. Why shouldn't he? I did.

—I need to talk to you.

—That's somewhat anachronistic, no? Oh well, I suppose you'd best come on in then.

Stepping inside, I was immediately hit by the low energy and ramshackle seediness of the place: sticky tape over the light switches, stained carpets, mismatched lampshades, and so many kitty litters you could taste the toxoplasmosis. Stuck up on the walls were not-good drawings, dire paintings and wonky sculptures that I realized were artworks dedicated to him by students. I told him I'd found Mimi Underwood.

—Did you
indeed? Is photography still her passion?

When we were deciding who should do the hands-on blackmailing, Mimi had frozen up and shouted, I can't go! I don't ever want to see Angus again.

Morrell motioned for me to take a seat. I was thinking of the way she said his name,
Angus
, when I removed an aggravated ginger cat and lowered myself into a brown leather easy chair; it groaned under my weight. I smiled toothily, belligerently, godlessly. Nothing felt right.

—What about that girl of yours, that singer?

—I can't believe you remember her. She didn't even go to our school.

—She sang a song for you, didn't she? In protest. A song of love. I do remember that, of course. Wait.
The girl she'd taken ketamine / And fingered Aldo Benjamin.
Priceless!

—We're divorced.

—Sorry. But. Well done also. You know what I mean. A middle-aged divorcé is radically less creepy than a middle-aged bachelor. God, I remember how deeply in love she was with you. What was her name?

—Stella.

—Stella. That's right. In one's youth, females fall in love with you for no reason whatsoever. It never happens again. After adolescence, they are scrupulous in needing reasons. Often, let's be honest, financial.

—Speaking of which, we need money.

—You and Stella?

—Me and Mimi.

—You and Mimi? How do you mean? You're a we?

—She won't tell anyone that you had sex with her when she was a minor, if you pay up.

He took a sharp, emphatic breath. Sweat stained his shirt under the arms and across his chest.

—But Aldo, he said sadly.

I felt like an explorer in a new land coughing in the faces of the indigenous population. I was doing something irreparable to him. I could see it in his eyes. It was all happening in front of me. I tried an appeasing grin and his eyes widened, as if afraid to miss anything. He was practically throbbing like an engine in his reclining armchair.

—Just ten
thousand a month. For six months. Or sixty thousand all at once. Whichever is more convenient. And you won't hear from us again.

I slowly rose to my feet. The cat scarcely looked at me.

—How much did you say you want?

I sat and repeated the whole thing. Morrell picked an ice cube out of his glass and threw it—it hit me on the cheek. The second bounced off my chin.

—Down they forgot as up they grew.

—What was that?

—E. E. Cummings, he said, and threw another ice cube, this one landing in my eye. I decided to sit it out and remained in the chair as he pelted ice cubes at my face and head.

—Do you remember the day we met? he asked.

—Was it in class?

—I think it was about the middle of the year. I was smoking a cigarette outside the staff room when I heard the sound of coughing and turned to see you standing there. It must have been your first day after transferring from another school, because you were in a different uniform. You asked me if I would put out my cigarette. Of course, I could have simply refused or moved away, I was outside after all, and a bloody teacher besides. Nevertheless, I wearily extinguished it under my shoe and tossed the butt in the bin. You thanked me for putting it out, but not a moment later fetched a packet of cigarettes from your own pocket and lit one up yourself! I remember gazing at you in bewilderment before you turned to me and said, Sorry, sir, I just don't like your
brand
.

I slid the paper across the table.

—Here are the bank account details. Just a simple transfer.

—Later I could see the funny side of it. At the time, though, as you sauntered across the yard, I asked the biology teacher, Who's that prick? I see you met our new student, she said. He's going to cause some trouble, and by that she meant that you were so striking, she could almost hear the popping of hymens.

I got to my feet and an ice cube hit me in the chest. A nebulous cloud of guilt swept over me.

—I'll let myself out, I said, and as I stepped onto the front porch, the door slammed behind me, marking another blow to the prospect of ever liking or respecting myself again.

In the hammock, the ropes straining under our combined weight, laptop between us, we refreshed my bank account page every few minutes, hoping for the electronic transfer of funds. Clouds skipped by and the cold winter sun failed to warm our bones as we listened to the waves, listened for a siren, and refreshed the page again. By late afternoon the money was still not in the account. It started to rain and we moved inside. The storms were a gift; they broke across the sky. I camouflaged my body with hers. All I ever wanted was a succubus to possess me, I thought afterward, as we lay on our backs gazing at each other in the mirrored ceiling.

Mimi was in the shower when her mobile phone rang on the bedside table. I answered it.

—Who's this? a voice asked. Hello? Hello?

At first I feared it was the police but then laughed at myself—the police don't ordinarily call and arrest you over the phone. In any case, that hello was emanating whiffs of restrained jealousy. Holy hell: This was him. Elliot Grass.

I tried to conjure the face of this panicky acrobat, this unlucky poet, and imagined him in a corridor, a long line of irate inmates scowling impatiently behind him.

—You afraid to talk to me, you piece of shit?

—Not at all.

He grunted, as if the sound of my voice had sullied his ear. I stubbed out my cigarette in a seashell. An engulfing silence followed.

—I thought
I
was unlucky, I said. I've driven drunk without headlights, on acid, in the rain during a sneezing fit, and I've never killed anyone.

—Mimi told me some very interesting things about you, Aldo Benjamin. You are quite the unfortunate human being.

—You're pretty unfortunate yourself.

—You sound like a real loser.

—Is it my imagination or are higher security prisons generally more hygienic than lower security prisons?

—Maybe I'll send someone over there to look in on you.

—I'll put the kettle on.

—You've got a smart mouth.

—Go smoke your own mustache.

—How'd you know about that?

I hung up and mentally changed my diagnosis from narcissistic personality disorder to antisocial personality disorder. Mimi was still in the bathroom. When the phone rang again, I picked it up on the first ring.

—Don't hang up, please. Sorry. I didn't mean to be aggressive. I just want to talk to you for a minute. That OK? You seem like a smart guy. Can you talk a minute?

—What do you want?

—She answering her mail? She lets it build up.

I said that I would look into it. His breathing grew easier.

—Is she taking her medication? The red pills.

I said I thought so. I'd seen her take pills but I hadn't noted the color.

—And how are her feet? She gets dry and cracked heels. She has to put a special cream on.

Now I wasn't sure. Had I noticed anything ghastly about her feet? As far as I could tell, they were perfect specimens of female feet.

—And another thing. She looked a little thin last time she visited. She eating all right?

—She's eating fine.

—And what about sex? She having orgasms? She doesn't get them from penetration, you know. You gotta stimulate the clitoris.

I hung up again and turned her phone to silent. I went out onto the balcony where a bunch of drunk Hamlets were soliloquizing simultaneously. I downed a couple of beers, then returned to the bedroom where the deceased was half-awake, sprawled across the bed in a patch of moonlight.

—Mimi, I said, lying down beside her. Can I kiss you?

—We're done asking permission. We can move on to a state of implied consent. I don't even really care if you fuck me while I'm asleep. Let's just use each other up, OK? Until there's nothing left.

—Jesus, Mimi, I said, though the idea of tramping about in her soft hollows without her timing me was pretty appealing, so we went at it. We had been going four or five minutes when Mimi's body slackened and harsh sounds came out of her, like a throat clearing itself over a loudspeaker. Worse, when I tried to kiss her, her mouth was off limits. Why? Was she mad? No. She was asleep!

—Hey, I said, shaking
her. Why do you have to take sleeping pills every night?

—I wasn't asleep. I was listening to every word you were saying.

—I wasn't talking. I was making love to you.

—You told me that already.

We self-medicated our way through the following week, with much sleep-fucking and quiet lamenting and a near-constant gazing out to sea.

On the morning of the eighth day, ten thousand dollars was in my bank account, transferred from one A. Morrell. The blackmail was an unqualified success! Morrell was going to pay up, month after month. Mimi was a beautiful wreck with a grateful smile. Like seasoned criminals toasting the heist, we went out to celebrate the imminent cock-blocking of Elliot's assailants. Over after-lunch foot massages in comfy leather recliners I noticed she was basking in the radiated calm of her own relieved heart; Mimi was helping Elliot and I was helping Mimi and all was well in the world. It was only when we arrived back at the residence that the heaviness returned, weightier than ever.