Ring Game (6 page)

Polly raised her hands above her head, then spun around, breasts thrust out, chin up, lips pouted, legs apart.

She said, “Look at me.” She did a pirouette, all the way around, inviting them to see her as a woman. “How old am I?” she asked. “Come on, don’t be shy. Talk to me. How old am I?”

Greta Hoffman, who knew the routine, raised her hand.

“Twenty-five,” she said.

“Why, thank you,” said Polly, bestowing the full luminosity of her smile on the elderly woman. “Any other guesses?”

One of the newcomers, the grad student-type, called out, “Thirty-six.”

With tremendous effort, Polly forced her smile to widen. “Oh dear,” she said. “Okay, one more.” She pointed at Bruce Williston. “What do you think?”

Williston licked his lips. “Twenty-six?” he asked. Like most of the Pilgrims in the room, the Willistons had seen this act before. They knew what to say.

Polly laughed. “Much better. Thank you.”

Greta, who loved to play this game, asked, “How old
are
you?”

Polly said, “I am sixty-one years old.”

The Pilgrims began to clap. Polly beamed, drinking in the applause. She forgot about Hyatt Hilton. She forgot about the thread on Rupe’s ass. She even forgot, for the moment, her true age.

Let other people have their problems.

—Crow’s rules

“W
HAT’S WRONG WITH AXEL
?” Crow asked.

“Ax? Nothing wrong with him a two-by-four upside the head wouldn’t cure.”

“He’s hardly said a word to me all afternoon. Keeps giving me that evil eye.”

Joe Crow and Sam O’Gara were sitting on Sam’s small porch, looking down the hill through the trees toward the dock, where Axel Speeter was cleaning the three walleyes he’d landed that afternoon. Sam’s hounds, Chester and Festus, were sleeping at the foot of the steps, emitting occasional snorts and grumbles, occasionally joined by a hollow, bonking sound from a nearby birch tree from which Sam had suspended about twenty steel hubcaps by wires. Every time the breeze picked up, the hubcaps clanked against one another. Sam called them his wind chimes.

“Yeah, well he’s got a bone up his butt, and he thinks you put ’er there, son.” Sam fished a Pall Mall from the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. The sun was sinking into the treetops, but it was still warm, in the eighties. The heat never seemed to bother Sam. He wore flannel all summer long.

“Me? What did I do? I haven’t even seen Axel since last summer, at the fair.”

Sam ignited a wooden match by flicking it with his thumbnail, sucked the flame onto the tip of his cigarette. “According to Ax, that’s when you put in the bone.”

Crow stood and faced his father. He had known him for nearly two decades, ever since Sam had reentered his life at his high school graduation, claiming to be his old man. Even now Crow had a hard time imagining his mother taking on this wizened old coot’s seed, though she had confirmed, somewhat reluctantly, the truth of Sam’s claim to parentage. Still, at times, he doubted it. Other times, he felt as if he was looking into a time-warped mirror, seeing himself in another thirty or forty years—three inches shorter, features obscured by massive wrinkling, and not giving a shit about much of anything. Whatever the facts surrounding Crow’s ancestry, the two had become friends.

Crow looked back down through the trees. Axel had finished filleting the walleyes and was sitting motionless at the end of the dock, staring across the water at the last shards of sunlight. For a few seconds, Crow felt himself wrapped in silence. No sound, no movement, no sensation. Then a breeze crossed his neck and the hubcaps began to bong mournfully, and a twisting cloud of blue tobacco smoke floated into view.

Crow said, “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on here, Sam?”

Sam grinned through the veil of smoke, his weathered face crinkling in a hundred places. “Son, one thing you got to learn about Ax, you can’t take him too serious. He’s spent half his life mad at me, and we’re still fishing outta the same boat.”

“So what am I supposed to have done?” Crow stepped off the porch and started pacing, scuffing pine needles with the toes of his canvas shoes, kicking at pine cones. One of them hit Festus, causing the hound to leap to his feet and bay.

“Easy there,” Sam said. The hound shook its head, recognized Crow, and sank back down. Sam continued. “You didn’t do nothin,’ son. Ax ain’t been the same since this wedding thing.”

“Wedding thing? What wedding thing?”

“It weren’t your fault, son, no matter what that old cocker thinks. It’s that little gal Carmen that’s got his pecker in a twist.”

Crow stopped. “I should have known this had to do with Carmen. What kind of mess has she made this time?”

“She got herself knocked up and engaged is what.”

“And Axel blames me? I didn’t knock her up, that’s for damn sure. She’s not my type.”

“Well, you’re the one introduced her to the one that done it, son.”

“I did?” Crow furrowed his brow, thinking back. He shook his head. “I don’t remember fixing up Carmen with anybody. I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

“That a fact? What about a fella named Holiday Hilton?”

“Holiday … wait a second. Not
Hyatt
Hilton.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Carmen Roman and Hyatt Hilton?”

Sam nodded. “You got ’er.”

Crow climbed back onto the porch and sank into a chair, wearing a stunned expression. After a minute had passed he said, “I suppose it’s like atoms.”

Sam said, “Say what?”

“Atoms. The odds of any two of them colliding are trillions to one. But they’re running into each other all the time.”

Sam’s lips parted slightly. He gave his head a quick snap, tossing off his son’s words. “Yeah, well, whatever. Anyways, that’s why Ax is acting like a jerkball. He says you’re the one put those two together.”

“I was there when they met, but I didn’t introduce them.”

“That don’t matter to Ax,” Sam said. “You was within a country mile of the deed, Ax is gonna put it on ya.”

Crow nodded slowly as a memory returned.

The way it happened, he recalled, he’d been minding his own business, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, the same way he always got himself in trouble. He and Debrowski had decided to visit the Minnesota State Fair. Debrowski liked to look at the horses; Crow went for the memories.

Debrowski had traded in her usual black-leather-and-chains biker ensemble for a pair of dagger-toed red, white, and blue cowboy boots; a pair of powder-blue Wranglers so tight Crow could hear the seams creaking; and an embroidered western shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps and silver collar points. Crow, by contrast, had once again applied his sole fashion strategy, which was to put on something clean and hope for the best. On that day he had thrown on olive chinos and a white T-shirt.

Crow said, “Howdy, podna. What have you done with Laura Debrowski?”

Debrowski grinned. “You like it, don’t you, Crow?”

Crow wasn’t yet sure. “Don’t you need a cowboy hat?” he asked.

“I don’t wear them.”

Crow nodded as if that made sense. They rode to the fairgrounds in Crow’s Jaguar XJS. On the way there, Crow found it impossible to stay off the subject of Debrowski’s outfit. He kept looking over at her.

“Aren’t those boots going to make for uncomfortable walking?”

Debrowski laughed. “You’re so sweet to worry.”

“It’s just … I never thought of you as a cowgirl.”

“It’s for the horses,” she explained. “I used to ride in exhibitions, you know.”

“Sometimes I think you used to do everything.”

“Pretty much,” she agreed.

“Only I never knew anybody who dressed up to impress the animals.”

“Horses are smart.”

Crow didn’t argue. For all he knew, horses might be the true rulers of the planet. Or maybe it was the cats that were in charge. He sure as hell hoped it wasn’t people. On the way from the parking lot to the fairgrounds his thoughts returned to the matter of Debrowski’s ensemble.

He said, “Tell me something. How did you get into those jeans?”

Debrowski winked. “Crisco,” she said.

They hadn’t stayed at the fair long. Debrowski headed straight for the barns. Crow begged off the horses, pleading a fashion deficiency, and went for a walk down the Midway, absorbing the music, the rattling of the rides, the shouts of pitchmen. Trashy, cheap, and strident, but if he let his mind float back to the age of, say, ten—he could still taste the excitement.

Crow and Debrowski rendezvoused an hour later at the seed art exhibit in the Horticulture Building.

“Get me out of here, Crow,” Debrowski said, staring at a portrait of Michael Jackson made from pinto beans, wheat berries, sunflower seeds, and quinoa. “My goddamn feet are killing me. Besides—” Crow felt her hand on the back of his thigh. “—Those stallions, Crow, they sort of make me think of you.”

Crow swallowed and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Absolutely, then, let’s get going,” he said. “Only we’ve got to say hi to Axel on the way out.”

“Who’s Axel?”

“One of Sam’s old buddies. He’s got a concession here at the fair. Used to give me free tacos.”

Debrowski shrugged her assent. They threaded back through the crowd. Crow fell in behind her so that he could watch her jeans, make sure they didn’t split open or anything. They exited the Horticulture Building onto the grassy mall. He pointed out a brightly painted concession stand:
AXEL’S TACO SHOP.
“Over there.”

They were almost to the taco stand when Crow heard his name called. Looking around, he spotted a pale head jutting above the mass of fairgoers.

Crow said, “Oh my god. Is that Hy the Guy?”

Debrowski said, “Who?”

Hyatt Hilton caught up with them, holding out his hand. “It’s Joe Crow, isn’t it?”

Crow shook Hyatt’s hand. “How’s it going, Hy. Still in the dope business?”

Hyatt waggled his head. “I found peace,” he said, offering his hand to Debrowski. “Hyatt Hilton,” he said. “One God.”

Debrowski gave him a formal smile and a brief handshake.

Crow explained. “Hy used to be my coke connection.”

“Ah,” said Debrowski.

“A former existence,” Hyatt said.

“So what happened, Hy?” Crow asked. “You make enough money to retire?”

Hyatt ignored the question. “I’m with the Amaranthines now.”

“The what?”

“The Amaranthine Church of the One.” Hyatt’s eyes spun with zeal. “One God. One Way. One Life.”

Crow took a step back.

Debrowski said, “He’s talking about that immortality cult, Crow. They had that article about them in City Pages.”

“It’s not a cult.” Hyatt frowned. “That was lies. They twisted what we said.”

“So you don’t really claim to be immortal?”

“Oh. That part was true. You should stop by our booth,” Hyatt said. “We’re in the grandstand. First floor, between Miracle Chef and the pro-life people.”

Thanks, Hy, but we were just on our way home.” Crow gave Debrowski a nudge and started walking.

Hyatt followed them. “I’ll walk you out.”

“We have to stop and say hello to some friends first,” Crow said over his shoulder.

Hyatt said, “That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of time.”

Carmen and Sophie Roman were working Axel’s taco concession. Crow approached the front of the stand and waited for Carmen to notice him. She finished making change for a customer, then turned her sleepy eyes on Crow.

“Hi, Carmen,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Can I help you?” she replied.

“It’s Joe,” he said. “Joe Crow. You remember me?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“I’m Sam O’Gara’s son.”

Carmen smiled. “Oh, sure.”

“Is Axel around?”

“I don’t think so.”

Crow could see he wasn’t going to get much from Carmen. He looked past her and called out, “Hey, Sophie.”

Sophie, who was lowering a rack of tortillas into the deep fryer, recognized him at once. She wiped her hands on a towel and leaned over the counter. “Axel’s gone off someplace,” she said. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.” She looked tired.

Crow gestured toward Debrowski, who was standing behind him talking to Hyatt. “This is Laura Debrowski.”

Debrowski looked up and smiled. “How you doing?”

Crow said, “This is Sophie Roman and her daughter, Carmen.” Sophie nodded politely. Carmen’s bored, sleepy expression did not change.

Hyatt stepped in. “I’m Hyatt Hilton,” he said, holding out his hand until Sophie shook it. He released her, then repeated his self-introduction to Carmen. “You look like Sophia Loren,” he told her. “Back in the sixties.”

Carmen woke up. “Really?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. She said to Crow, “If you see Axel, tell him to get his butt back here, would you?”

Hyatt and Carmen had moved down the counter. Crow heard Hyatt ask her if she would like to live forever.

“What for?” Carmen asked.

Crow saw his opportunity to give Hyatt the slip. He grasped Debrowski’s elbow and led her up the mall toward the fairgrounds exit.

Debrowski said, “Where did you find him, Crow?”

“He used to work at this health food store,” Crow said. “He and this woman—I think her name was Polly—and her husband. Ambrosia Foods, down on Lyndale Avenue. Melinda used to shop there.”

Debrowski grunted. Crow’s ex-wife was not one of her favorite topics.

“She spent a fortune on vitamins and weird herbs. After a while, she even had me going there.”

“That I can’t see. Aren’t you the guy who just ate two corndogs?”

“I didn’t go there for the health food. Hy had a little cocaine business going on the side. He was the guy. Hy the Guy. He had a theory about how cocaine should only be used with these multivitamin supplements. They were called Coca Boost, and they came in a plastic bag and cost ten bucks a half dozen. I always left there with a bunch of stuff I didn’t want.” Crow laughed. “Hy was the only coke dealer I ever met who made his profits on accessories. Anyway, the coke was always good.”

“That’s all that matters,” Debrowski said dryly. Joe Crow and Laura Debrowski had met in a CA group.