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Overview
Queenie Sells is having what she thinks is a good day. After getting fired from her job at a calendar company for botching Daylight Savings, she is informally hired by a wealthy acquaintance to track down his girlfriend, a stripper named Trigger Happy. But Queenie's seemingly good luck turns hard when she finds Trigger dead in her apartment.
Now Queenie's daily routine of being a drunk smart-ass is put on hold as she becomes both a suspect for the murder and the target for an unknown predator. Hopping from bar to bar, from Coney Island clam stands to the Waldorf-Astoria, she inadvertently lands on the trail of Trigger's killer and puts herself in the line of fire.
Along the way she meets Rey, a private eye with a soft spot for tough-talking ladies; Detective Olds, the stuttering cop who thinks Queenie's the culprit; and a dozen New York denizens, among them a cult recruiter, a hit man, a thief, and even Rip Torn -- some strange, some sad, some sweet, and some deadly, every one dropping in and out of Queenie's life as she searches for each fragile piece of the puzzle that may eventually lead her to the truth.
With danger closing in on her, Queenie can't help but realize the precariousness of her own mortality. As she stares out of the window at an old lady on the corner, she thinks, "There is nothing separating you from that old lady right now -- maybe something, maybe time is all, but that's really nothing when you think about it." After all, thinks Queenie, it's just days. But unless she can find the killer before the killer finds her, Queenie's days are seriously numbered.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781439122228 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Washington Square Press |
| Publication date: | 06/15/2010 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 162,168 |
| File size: | 377 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Serious As a Heart Attack
A NovelBy Louisa Luna
Atria
Copyright © 2004 Louisa LunaAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0743466608
Chapter One: Monday
It was June, the middle of June, and it was a Monday, and Queenie woke up with her face stuck to the pillow with drool. How exactly did last night end? she thought. And how did there get to be so much drool -- foamy waterfalls on Meade's red futon couch, all around her as she lifted her head and looked at the clock on the VCR, which read: 8:20. Have to get up, she thought, gotta get up, maybe a few more minutes, maybe you can be an hour late today, she thought. No, no, wait, you can't. You have to get fired today.
She rolled off the futon and stood up, head full of mush, and walked to the kitchen and foraged for food for a minute, opening and closing cupboards. Spices and a can of beans. All the bastard had in the refrigerator were raw turkey burger patties separated by thin paper sheets in a styrofoam tray.
She stared at the kitchen table and tried to focus, and she held her head with both hands. It felt like it was wobbling from side to side on its own.
She picked up the cigarette boxes on the table and shook them, but they were empty. Not that anyone around here smokes, thought Queenie. Who knows how these got here. She sure didn't buy them, because she didn't smoke anymore. She used to carry around a folded-up Post-it in her wallet with three rules. A message from sober Queenie to drunk Queenie. It said,
1) Don't smoke.2) Don't stay up all night.
3) Don't fuck anyone.
After she'd broken all three she'd made an amended list that read,
1) DON'T SMOKE.2) Don't stay up all night unless you are forced to.
3) Don't fuck anyone unless you really really want to.
The first was definitely broken, but she'd been pretty good about the second two. The second two were softer than the first, the first really was a nutcracker, but two out of three wasn't bad. And she really hadn't had much of a chance to break the third, to be honest.
There was one cigarette left in the American Spirits box. She shook it out and lit it and started coughing immediately. She went to the bathroom and spit up some phlegm. Yellow and red. Great, she thought. Now I'm coughing up blood. That's just super.
She looked at her face in the mirror, at her doll hair in spiky little strands everywhere, snaky curves and dry ends. Her eyes were squinty, almost sealed shut with piecrust. Cut on her upper lip. How did I get that? she thought. She leaned in to the mirror and peeled the skin on her lip like an envelope flap, and her fingers shook and trembled, and she stared at the cut that looked like a small red blade of glass leading to the inside of her mouth. She touched it with her fingertip, and it burned.
She took Meade's toothbrush from the sink and opened the cupboard, grabbed the toothpaste, flipped the cap, and squeezed too hard. Green gel spurted out in a lurid way. I must've excited it, she thought, toothpaste dripping all over her hand.
It really wasn't until right then, when she was standing with toothpaste sliding down her fingers and on the T-shirt she'd borrowed from Meade, that she realized she honestly did not have a clue as to what to do next -- it could have been that she was supposed to wipe her hands and brush her teeth and clean herself up and get dressed and go to work, but it just as easily could have been that she was supposed to rub the toothpaste in football-player strips under her eyes and cut all her hair off and do a handstand. It wasn't really until right then that Queenie realized she wasn't hungover. She was still drunk.
She started sweating like nobody's business on the E train. She wasn't wearing any socks because she couldn't find them at Meade's house, and that made things all the worse because she had three-dollar shoes and a serious sweating problem. Even though it wasn't very hot yet, every time she wore shoes with no socks in the summer her feet smelled like pure meat and cheese.
She looked up at the advertisement for Dr. Zizmor. Come to me, he seemed to say, let me take away your scars, your blemishes. Come to my luxury Third Avenue office, and I will lay you down and zap that thing right off your forehead. No thank you, thought Queenie; she preferred her personal skin care method, which included scraping pimples off her face with her nails or tweezers or a safety pin or whatever was around.
She did that at work a lot. She'd go to the bathroom and stretch her skin and examine it and soon she'd be finding pimples that weren't pimples yet, and she'd squeeze them until something came out (blood, ooze -- it really didn't matter what), then go back to her cube with a wet tissue pressed against her forehead or her chin. Her bosses, Roy Cohn and Joan Crawford, had definitely noticed and looked at her strangely but never asked when she'd come to meetings with two tissues in each hand, pressed against parts of her face. And, Queenie thought, if they're not going to ask, I'm not going to tell them. They can just imagine what I've got behind these tissues. It could be shafts of healing white light that they will never know because they are too afraid.
But boy, she knew they'd have their way with her today. Roy Cohn might even be compelled to use the phrase, "talk turkey." "Eugene, send Queenie in here right now and tell her we have to talk turkey," he'd probably say. He liked to used the intercom even though their whole office was about nine hundred square feet, and you could hear everyone's intercom from everywhere else.
You really screwed up this time, she was thinking when she saw a figure out of the corner of her eye rise and approach her. She didn't look up at him until he said, "Queenie? Queenie Sells?"
She knew exactly that it was Hummer Fish from high school. He still had gray eyes that looked a little stoned, but he looked bigger and broader than she remembered. He wore khakis and a green button-down shirt. Professional, she thought. Ten bucks says he's in publishing, or marketing, or consulting.
"Oh, God, Hummer, how are you?" she said, and they hugged.
"I'm good, you know this is so weird, the other day I was saying, 'The only person I don't see in this town is Queenie Sells, and I know she's here,' " he said.
"Right. Here I am," she said.
She looked at the lines in his face and remembered his parents. She remembered that Mother Fish would always slip in little spikes about "the great unclean," meaning anyone who lived outside of appropriate places to live in Boston, and certainly anyone who lived in Lowell, where Queenie lived with Uncle Si. Father Fish had money so old it practically played bingo. The few times Queenie was at their house both Fish parents looked at her like she would steal the china if she were left alone.
"So where do you live?" Hummer said.
"The Burning Grounds. In Brooklyn."
"Oh man," said Hummer. "How long does it take you to get here in the morning?"
"Three, three and a half hours," Queenie said. "I drink a lot of coffee."
Hummer covered his mouth. "Are you kidding?"
"Yes, I am," she said, gripping the slippery metal pole that separated them. "It takes fifteen minutes. It's one stop on the L train."
"Oh," Hummer said, nodding.
"What about you?" she said, to be nice.
"I'm on Mercer and Waverly, near NYU."
"Cool," said Queenie, and she racked her brain trying to think about something interesting to say about Mercer and Waverly, but nothing was coming up. Goddamn it, what is an interesting thing to say about Mercer and Waverly?
"I'm sorry," Queenie said, putting her hand to her head. "I'm a little out of it."
"It's early," he said, and he looked over both shoulders quickly.
"Yeah," Queenie said. "So hey, though, I get off at Forty-second Street, where do you get off?"
Ha-ha, she thought. You hear that, Dr. Zizmor, I asked Hummer Fish from high school where he gets off.
The train eased into Thirty-fourth Street. Many people got out. Not as many people got on.
"Me too. Forty-second," said Hummer.
"Oh good," said Queenie.
Can conversation last that long, she thought.
"How's your grandfather?" Hummer asked.
"Okay, I guess. Dead about thirty years," she said.
"Shit, that's right," said Hummer, and he shut his eyes hard. "Who was the older guy, the fellow you lived with....'' he said, trailing off.
Queenie let him hang on for a second, and then she dropped it, making it sound like she'd just remembered it herself.
"My uncle," she said.
"Uncle, right," Hummer said.
Then it was Forty-second Street. People rushed passed them and came between them. Queenie lost her grip on the pole and almost tipped over. She and Hummer edged out onto the platform, and it was hot. Queenie heard the black woman who stood above the wheelchair ramp singing the Titanic theme. It was always either the Titanic theme or "Killing Me Softly."
"Which way are you going?" said Queenie loudly.
"Just over to Broadway," said Hummer.
They walked up a crowded stairwell, and Queenie lost her breath and felt her legs go numb a second. They weren't at street level yet, walking through the wide space under Port Authority with all the poster shops and clothing stores, where simply everything was ten dollars.
Queenie was hoping the conversation would still not be focused on her uncle, but she was shit out of luck.
"So how's your uncle?" Hummer asked.
"Not very well," said Queenie. "He's eighty-seven."
"Wow," said Hummer. "That's old."
Wow, thought Queenie. You're a fucking jarhead.
"Yes, it is. He's fairly ill. Sometimes he's there, and sometimes he's not."
"Jesus, I'm sorry," said Hummer.
"It's all right," said Queenie, not looking at him. "That's what you get for hanging out with old people."
Hummer laughed, and Queenie guessed that was because he thought she was being funny, that she had said that thing about old people to be funny. She smiled so that he wouldn't feel uncomfortable. She didn't know why she wanted him to feel comfortable.
They finally made it to the street and began walking east. Many people were walking quickly, looking busy. There were a lot of cups of coffee and newspapers.
Queenie couldn't help looking at the big theater signs, the life-size photos of dancers on the doors of the closed lobbies. God, look at those legs, thought Queenie. You could snap someone's neck with those thighs.
"What do you do up here?" said Hummer.
"I work for a calendar company," said Queenie. "But I'm getting fired today."
"Oh. Why?"
"Because I fucked up daylight savings. I'm the proofreader. It was the wrong Sunday."
Hummer appeared confused.
"In October," she added.
"Oh," Hummer said again.
"So what do you do?" she asked.
He perked up. "I'm working for this magazine -- I helped start it, actually. I don't know if you've heard of it, it's called, Set It Up -- it's a cultural magazine exploring the current climate of young people living and working in urban areas," he said quickly.
"That sounds really interesting," said Queenie.
"Yeah," Hummer said, cocking his head to one side. "It's a groove."
And what the hell does that mean? thought Queenie.
They came to Broadway, large TVs and strips of light and billboards. Queenie stared at a huge sign of someone's feet. She knew it was an advertisement for shoes, but that didn't make it any less disturbing, seeing such big feet hovering, pasted against the side of a building.
"So do you need money?" said Hummer.
"You know, at some point," she said.
Why, you need a new housekeeper? she almost added. They turned north, and Hummer became very quiet. He looked down.
"I've got to go this way," he said, when they reached Forty-fourth. "But look, if you need a couple hundred bucks, you should call me."
Queenie stared at him.
"No, I don't mean it like that," he said, and laughed nervously. Queenie did not know what he didn't mean it like. Sex, maybe. Ha-ha, he made a joke about paying me for sex. Hi-larious, she thought.
People milled around them, and Hummer looked at his watch, and said, "You might be able to do me a favor is all -- not a big deal. It's just something I can't really do myself."
Queenie continued to stare at him.
"Look, I can't really explain now, but let me give you my cell number," he said, reaching into his pocket.
He produced a pen. "Do you have paper?" he said.
"No," said Queenie.
Hummer took her hand.
"No, don't write on my hand," she said. "I sweat too much."
She didn't mean for it to be an excuse. It was really true.
"Write here," she said, and she pointed to a patch on her forearm.
Hummer scribbled his number, pressed down the blond hairs on her arm, and the ink bled and got fuzzy.
"What's yours?" Hummer said.
Fake number, she thought. Switch eight to six; it'll be a victimless crime. But then again, she did only have thirty-seven dollars in the bank not counting her final paycheck, which would only be about a week's worth. It was in her best interest to give Hummer Fish from high school her number. If he was for real. If he really did have a job for her.
"Look, are you for real? Do you really have a job for me?" she said.
Hummer laughed, then stopped bluntly like a television track cut off.
"I can't talk now...you don't have to give me your number, but it just might be easier...." he said, trailing off again.
Queenie took his palm and flipped it up, and for some reason thought about how that would be the last thing she'd see if he were to hit her. She wrote her name and number down, and as soon as she was finished, Hummer grabbed the pen and slid it into his breast pocket. He began to laugh again, and Queenie tried to smile but was unnerved. It was creepy how he was laughing so much when no one was saying anything.
"So look, you should come out with us -- Nuggie McPhee and Trevor One live here too. And Cela Canth just got married, and she and her husband, they met in law school, they have parties all the time. You should come out," he said.
That sounds like fun, but I think I'd prefer to eat a bunch of hair, thought Queenie.
"Yeah, sure," she said.
"All right, well, take care, Queenie," he said, leaning forward awkwardly to kiss her on the cheek. "We'll talk later," he whispered.
"Okay," she said.
She had his hands in hers, somehow they'd gotten all tangled up, both of her hands in both of his hands. She pulled them away.
"So, bye," he said quietly, and then he turned quickly and left, down Forty-fourth, not looking back.
Queenie stood there for a second, then kept moving. What the hell was that about, she thought. And why does he laugh all the time. Did he always do that? She passed the Lazer Tag-arium where Meade had his twenty-seventh birthday party last year. She really wanted to go in and strap on the helmet and the vest, run around in that hot maze and play the giant five-dollar arcade games. We never had that shit as kids, she thought. Chuck-e-fucking Cheese for us, and these kids get to shoot each other with LASERS.
She arrived at the building where she worked, went through the revolving doors, and nodded to the black security guard reading a French newspaper. Senegal, thought Queenie. Maybe he's from Senegal. Or the Ivory Coast, right -- African countries where people speak French. There were islands, too, she thought. The lesser Antilles. Martinique. She read about them in French class in high school. She saw pictures. The pictures were always of outdoor markets, and two people were always having a discussion over a papaya or Other Exotic Fruit.
Queenie stepped into the elevator with a young woman who worked on her floor in one of the design companies. The woman gave Queenie a tight smile and looked her up and down. Queenie noticed the woman had one very hard nipple. It wasn't something Queenie would normally notice, but that thing was at attention. A goddamn pushpin, she thought. And why just one?
They got off on the eighth floor and went their separate ways, and Queenie walked down to the very end of the hall to her office door. Before she opened it she leaned her head against it, against the CALENDARIA logo and smelled the whiskey on her breath.
She opened the door and walked in and saw Eugene leaning against the front desk. Her leg was in a cast.
"What happened to you?" asked Queenie.
The cast looked huge and made Eugene look ultrasmall, smaller than usual, even made her coffee can glasses look tiny.
"I broke it playing basketball," said Eugene, and she made a face, stretched her lips out like she had just drunk something really hot.
"Whoa," said Queenie. "Did a really fat person fall on you?"
"Oh God, no," Eugene said. "I just fell on my own. I'm really a dork."
"No you're not, Eugene," said Queenie. "These things happen. How long do you have to wear that?"
"Six weeks."
"Fucking hell," Queenie said, and she saw Eugene react, little eyes get big behind the thick lenses. Watch your mouth, thought Queenie. "Can I sign it, or what?" she said.
Eugene smiled.
"Oh yeah, no one's even asked yet, totally, yeah."
Queenie was glad it seemed to make her so happy. Nice kid, thought Queenie.
"I gotta find a Sharpie," Queenie said. "You know, a, uh..." She rubbed her nose. She could see the pen in her head but forgot what it said on the side. "You know, one of the skinny ones."
"Ultra," said Eugene.
"Right. Ultra. There's got to be one on my desk," Queenie said. She glanced down the hall, and whispered, "Joan Crawford in yet?"
"No, not yet," Eugene whispered back. "Roy Cohn is, though."
Piss, thought Queenie.
"I'm supposed to call him and let him know you're here," said Eugene in the hot-liquid way.
Queenie wiped her mouth. She held up two fingers in a V.
"Two minutes," she said. "Gimme two minutes."
"I'll try," said Eugene, looking worried.
Queenie left and padded along to her cube, looking straight ahead.
"Morning, Queenie," someone said loudly from another cube.
Queenie winced but was relieved to see it was Jin, the efficient Korean. Queenie looked over the cube wall and smiled.
"Hiya, Jin," Queenie said back. "Gen sha now?"
"Nay gen sha now," said Jin.
Jesus Christ, she looks gorgeous, thought Queenie. Dressed to kill and done up like a superstar on Monday morning -- leather pants and a silk ruffled shirt. Kind of a riverboat gambler vibe, and so clean and dynamite blade thin. What do they eat in Korea? thought Queenie.
She sat in her cube and dropped her bag to the floor. She put her head in her hands. Jin's face appeared over the left wall.
"I heard about the October thing," Jin whispered.
"Oh yeah?" said Queenie, not lifting her head. "Yeah, I guess everyone has. Roy Cohn's been talking, huh?"
Jin nodded and looked sorry. "Let me know if I can help."
"Thanks, girl. I don't think anything can be done now."
Jin's head sank back down, and Queenie leaned back in her chair and looked at all the calendar month sheets pushpinned to the walls of her cube. No photos, just the white sheets and black lines and numbers inside that were the days. They weren't days yet; they were just numbers inside of boxes, but next year they'd make it. April was in front of her, above her computer. Queenie reached out her hand and brushed her fingers against the sheet. You'll make it, she said to the April numbers in her head. You'll be real days next year, full and lovely, twenty-four hours apiece.
Then a very small shadow came over her. Queenie looked up and saw Roy Cohn, short and stocky, wearing a tight white T-shirt, almost sheer. Those are the second and third nipples I've seen today that haven't belonged to me, she thought.
"Queenie," he said quietly. "Can I see you in my office?"
"Sure thing, boss," said Queenie, and she stood up.
Eugene hobbled up behind Roy Cohn, and he turned to her, and said, "Eugene, we're going to have to work something out," he said, looking at her leg in the cast. "I told you five minutes ago I needed to see Queenie."
"Maybe you can get her a wheelchair," said Queenie.
"That's very funny," he said. Then he held his arm out so she could go ahead of him.
Queenie tilted her head back and sighed, then rolled it on her shoulders a little bit and started to walk. Jin looked at her with concerned puppy eyes, and Eugene stood back and bit her bottom lip. Nice kids, thought Queenie. They honestly felt bad that she was getting fired because of the October thing. Anyone who wasn't Queenie's boss liked her quite a bit.
Queenie walked in front of Roy Cohn into his office and sat down. She looked at the framed picture of him and his "girlfriend." Like he's not queer as five red hats, she thought.
Roy Cohn smelled strongly of man-cologne; Queenie could feel it burning her eyes when he passed her to sit down. Not actually sit down, actually stand behind his desk menacingly. Actually it would maybe be menacing were he not five-foot-five.
Roy Cohn had a stack of calendars on his desk, the top being Greek Isles. Shit, thought Queenie. She forgot about Greek Isles.
Roy Cohn flipped open Greek Isles to a sheet marked by Post-it tape. October. The Greek isle looked like a small rock in a bright blue pond.
He pointed to the third Sunday. It read, Daylight Savings Time Ends.
"Do you have anything to say?" he said.
Queenie leaned forward and squinted at the sheet.
"I forgot about Greek Isles," she said.
"Oh yes?" said Roy Cohn. "You thought it was only Majestic Creatures?" he asked, incredulous. "Well, it's Creatures and Greek Isles and Ice Figures and Southwest Scenes."
Queenie closed her eyes. He'd really punched "Southwest Scenes." He really wanted her to feel that one.
"I didn't realize," she said.
"What?" said Roy Cohn, gripping the back of his chair.
"I didn't realize they were all on my proof."
"Well," he said, blustery, pretending to be speechless. "What did you think you were doing?"
"I really don't know, Roy Cohn."
Roy Cohn nodded, and said, "You know we're going to have to let you go."
"Yeah."
"I want you to know I had to talk Joan Crawford into giving you even last week's pay. Frankly," he said, rubbing his chin where he was still hoping to grow hair, "we can get almost anyone here to do your basic layout and" -- he lifted his hands in bunny ear quote marks -- "proofreading."
"Yeah," said Queenie.
She stared at a memo she had signed last week, sitting on the top of Roy Cohn's In pile. She couldn't for the life of her remember what it was about. Now she just squinted hard at the "Q" she left as her signature, and then she let her head roll back. She wasn't forcing it; it just seemed to fall back on its own, everything in her head -- eyes, brain, skull, all heavy, all feeling like dead skin.
"Queenie," said Roy Cohn.
"Yeah?" said Queenie, her head wobbling forward. Her eyes went blurry. Roy Cohn was fuzzy.
He covered his mouth and appeared surprised.
"Have you," he said, then stopped and started again. "Have you been drinking this morning?" he said slowly.
"No way," said Queenie, putting her fist down on her knee definitively. "Not for a good two, three hours."
By eleven Queenie was back at her apartment in the Burning Grounds section of Brooklyn. She dropped her keys and wallet and her small box of office things on the floor and fell on her bed facedown. It felt wet for some reason. Call Meade, she said to herself. He'd say, You're not supposed to make personal calls at work. She'd say, I'm not at work. Aw shit, he'd say, those cow-fuckers shitcanned you?
"Yes," said Queenie aloud, into the sheets. "Those cow-fuckers shitcanned me."
She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, then looked at the phone, and when it didn't do anything provocative, she rolled off the bed and onto the grubby floor. Hands first, then feet, and she pushed herself up, her arms shaking. You have no upper body strength, she said to herself.
She got to her feet and eventually the phone and picked up the receiver and dialed Meade's first three numbers when she stopped and looked at the calendar above her phone table. It was one of the company's extras: Elegant Elks. Apparently Elks weren't a big seller last year; nobody seemed to care if they were elegant or not. Twelve different candids of elks in their natural habitats. Elks eating, elks drinking from streams, elks running, two elks nuzzling each other.
Queenie stared at the calendar and found today's date. Monday in June. Call Si, it said inside the box. And it said the same in Wednesday's box and in Friday's.
"One elk, two elk," Queenie said, hanging up the phone.
She picked it back up.
"One elk, two elk," she said, dialing the number with her thumb. "Three elk. Many elk. Look at all the many elk." There was a ring on the other line. "Are those your elk?" she said to herself. "Those are fine-looking elk."
Then someone picked up, and it didn't sound like Nancy.
"Clear Skies," she said.
"Hi," Queenie said. "Nancy?"
"No, Nancy's out today. What is it that you need?"
"I need to speak with Silas Sells. He's in room 2E as in Edward."
"Who's calling please?"
"It's Queenie."
"And what's your relation?"
"Pardon?" said Queenie, staring at the elk.
"Friend, family?" she said.
"Oh, I'm his niece," said Queenie.
"His niece?" the woman said, sounding doubtful.
Queenie made a fist and punched the elk lightly. "His great-niece, grandniece, but look, don't tell him that, he won't know who it is. Just say it's Queenie."
The woman paused. "I'll put you through, one moment."
The phone clicked on hold.
"Jesus," muttered Queenie.
The phone rang three more times, and he finally picked up.
"Ha-llo," said Si.
"Uncle Si, it's me, Queenie."
"What's doing, Queenie?" he said, sounding happy.
"How are you today?" Queenie said loudly.
"Can't complain," he said, and Queenie felt relieved for a second. Then he started to speak lower: "I lost forty dollars, though."
Queenie shut her eyes.
"You think you could bring me forty dollars, Queenie?"
"Come on now, what do you need forty dollars for, Uncle Si?" she said softly.
"I gotta get home," he said sadly. "I don't got any clothes either. I gotta get my clothes clean."
"C'mon, what are you wearing now? Whatcha got on?" she said.
"I don't know what the hell this thing is," he said. "It's like somebody made an outfit outta towels."
"Well that's all okay," Queenie said optimistically. "You got your sweat suit on, that sounds okay to me."
"Yeah," he said. "Sweat suit."
They were quiet. Say something, thought Queenie. Say some goddamn thing.
"What d'you say, Queenie, why don't you come over here?" he said suddenly.
"I'm still in New York, Uncle Si."
She said it like she'd just been there for the weekend and not for nine years.
"New York, huh?" he said. Then he yawned. "When you comin' back up?"
"You know, soon."
"Yeah, you comin' to stay?"
"No," Queenie said, her voice dry. "No, I'm staying down here a little more."
"Oh," he said.
More quiet. Queenie heard him breathing and pictured him in the plaid room he shared with his roommate. He kept getting new roommates. No one stayed very long. They either died or wanted to be moved because Si screamed at night. Sometimes it was for his old best friend, Jasper; sometimes it was for his brother, sometimes for Queenie.
"How the Sox doing?" Queenie said. That's it. Sports.
"They don't got a prayer," Si said, animated suddenly.
Queenie laughed.
"They don't got a damn prayer. This kid, Rice, he's supposed to be a big superstar -- He's just a hot dog, you know. Wastes all his time trying to be tough for the papers. He's a good hitter but that don't do much good for Tiant. Orioles took them to school, eleven-three. They're all a buncha clowns."
Queenie laughed. She didn't really mind that he was talking about a game that happened in 1975. Rice was always a hot dog, and the problem was always with the scouts picking hitters. And the Orioles always took them to school, eleven-three.
"Where do they get these guys?" she said.
"I tell you where they get them -- the scouts are lookin' for the wrong thing, they look for hitters, just hitters, so they got a team full of hitters and garbage for pitching. No outfield talent neither."
"Maybe next season," said Queenie.
"Yeah," said Si. "Uh," he said.
"You feeling tired, Uncle Si?"
"Yeah. I'm pretty tired."
He paused. Queenie felt worried.
"Forty," he said, sighing. "I gotta get forty dollars. Goddamn, I had forty dollars in my pocket. I think somebody took it all."
"Hey, Uncle Si," Queenie said gently. "You don't need forty dollars. You shouldn't worry about it."
"Hell I don't," he said, getting louder. "Everybody around here's a crook. They're watching me like a hawk," he said. "And where the hell are you?"
"I'm coming soon."
He laughed roughly. "A lot of good that does me -- you're leaving me with a bunch of crooks."
"Bye, Uncle Si, I love you," Queenie said.
"You hang up on me, Queenie, you can forget taking my car on the weekend -- "
She hung up. He would keep talking for a few minutes, and when he wouldn't hear anything back, he'd forget who he'd been talking to and why he was on the phone. Then he would either harass the nurses for forty dollars or fall asleep.
Queenie fell on her bed again. All she could think about was macaroni and cheese and Jimmy Dean sausage, Si frying it up in a pan, mashing it to pieces with a wooden spoon. It was Queenie's job to unwrap four slices of American cheese. "Here's the secret," he said quietly, as if they were being spied on. "Extra cheese -- that powder ain't enough."
She ate macaroni and cheese and Jimmy Dean sausage three times a week her entire childhood, with tall, weird-smelling glasses of orange juice on the side. Si used to give her soda pop until the mother of the boy next door said you can't feed the girl soda all the time, it'll rot her teeth. What should I give her? he asked. Juice, said the mother, almost disgusted. Fruit drinks, milk. Oh, said Si, good-natured. Laughed and scratched the back of his head. I don't have kids of my own, he said, trying to explain.
Call Meade, Queenie thought. No, I don't want to call Meade, she thought. Get drunk. Call Meade, and then get drunk. No, don't wait for Meade. Get drunk right now. Smoke ten cigarettes. Have a Popsicle. Listen to the radio. Rip the skin off your face very slowly.
She did none of these things. She stayed just where she was and let spit pool in the back of her throat, and she remained very still until she fell asleep.
She had one of her two recurring dreams: This was the one where she was trying to catch the subway. She would run through the station, dream-run -- have an unlimited amount of energy but be wearing no shirt, sometimes just stockings. No panting, but still running, heart pounding, getting thirsty, her feet heavy. She could see the train winding around a cul-de-sac track, black tunnels laid bare, and the platforms stretched all the way through to the next station so you could run alongside the train and jump for it like folks did in movies, grip the handle at the door and sail through the tunnels, lights flashing past.
But Queenie never made it. It would always happen so she would run and run, seeing the train turn the loop and drag to the stop, but it would always, always pull away too soon, and she'd miss it every goddamn time.
She'd forgotten to turn the ringer off on her phone. She woke up with a trail of drool from her mouth to the collar of her shirt. You are one sexy sexy girl, she said to herself, wiping her mouth. Her phone sounded like a laser gun, and it hurt some very tender solid part deep inside her ear. Eardrum, she thought, standing up.
She lunged for the phone and slapped it out of the base, and it hit the floor just as she slammed her toe into the metal leg of the phone table.
"FUCK!" she yelled.
She crumpled hard to the floor and squeezed her toe with one hand, picked up the phone with the other.
"Hello," she said through her teeth, sounding constipated.
"Queenie?" a man-voice said, not Meade.
"Yeah?"
"It's Hummer."
"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. "Hi, Hummer."
"How are you doing?" he said, not waiting for an answer. "Did you end up getting fired?"
"Yeah," she said, holding her foot. "I just stubbed the shit out of my toe."
"Oh, ha-ha," he laughed, like she was making a joke. "Look, Queenie," he said, serious suddenly, "I'm beginning to think it was fate I ran into you."
"I don't believe in fate, Hummer," Queenie said, massaging the toe like bread dough. "Or God. Or Santa."
"Right," he said. "Not fate, then, just, like, luck. I don't know what your job prospects are right now," he began.
"Unemployment."
He laughed. "Is that like welfare?"
Queenie rolled her eyes, and said, "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Why Hummer? What are you getting at?"
Hummer coughed, and said, getting quiet, "Are you doing anything tonight?"
Queenie dropped her foot and was confused. Fuck's sake, she thought, is this cupcake asking me out?
"Um, no, not really," she said, and thought, I might be ripping the skin off my face, but that's not set in stone.
"If you were free tonight, and wanted to make, I don't know, a couple hundred bucks, I might have something for you," he said.
"What is it? Drugs?" she said hopefully.
This might be easy, she thought. Maybe he's too scared to pick his coke up. Then again, she thought, that never stopped him in high school.
"No, no drugs," he said. "It's more like a personal favor to me. It's a sensitive situation."
He stopped.
"Hummer? You there?" said Queenie.
"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry, I'm at work, I never know when someone's listening," he said. "I'm looking for this girl," he started. "She works at the Paper Doll Lounge three nights a week. Do you know it?"
Queenie knew it. She'd been there with Meade. He had two words to say about the women who danced there, with respect to their labia: roast beef.
"Yeah," said Queenie. "She a friend of yours?"
"Yes and no," he said, and coughed again. "I've sort of been dating her."
"Okay," Queenie said, and her eyes started to comb the floor for loose change.
"She was supposed to meet me on Saturday night and never showed up," he said.
Queenie found a thumbtack and a cough drop wrapper.
"Uh-huh," she said.
"Apparently she hadn't come to work beforehand either. And I haven't heard from her since Friday, and that's when she worked last. So I would just need you to go down there, to the Paper Doll, and ask around, see if anyone knows where she is."
"Don't you, like, have her phone number?"
"Actually, no, she has mine -- my cell, but I don't have hers," he said.
"Why's that exactly?" asked Queenie.
"That's just what she preferred."
"So okay, Hummer, why can't you go down there and ask around," she asked, fingering the thumbtack.
Hummer sighed. "Because, actually, I'm engaged."
"You have something more important to do?"
"No, no, engaged -- engaged to be married."
Queenie smiled. "Not to the dancer, I guess, huh?"
"No, not to her. To someone else. Her name is Charlotte."
"You're a very popular guy."
Hummer sighed again. "I have to be as discreet as I can."
"That must be difficult."
"You know, Queenie, I can do without the attitude."
Queenie laughed. "Oh yeah? I'm real sorry." She stopped laughing, and said, "You called me, remember?"
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry," he said. "This is something I really can't do myself, not because I don't want to but..." he paused. "Like I said, I have to be very discreet. And on top of that, nobody seems to like me very much down there -- they don't tell me much when I call, and they aren't so friendly when I show up, so I thought, if you could go down there, maybe someone would tell you something, just if she got fired, or left town, or something."
"Why would they tell me this?" Queenie said.
"I don't know," Hummer said. "Maybe you would ask the right questions."
"Why's that?"
"Come on, Queenie, you know, you might be able to talk to the people down there."
"Down there, huh?" Queenie said.
"Yeah, you know, because you could always fit right in with any crowd," he said, laughing nervously.
"Yes, like a chameleon," said Queenie. "I've been told that before, that I'm very chameleon-like."
Queenie had never once been told that she was like a chameleon or chameleon-like.
"It's true," said Hummer, enthusiastic. "So will you do it?"
Will I do it, Queenie thought. She stood up and looked out the window at the overgrown lot across the street and the four mysterious piles of asphalt that had been there since she moved in.
"Yeah, sure, I'll do it," she said.
"Thanks, Queenie, I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll pay me up front."
"Right, no problem. I'll messenger the money to you right now. What's your address?"
"You know, don't send it here. Send it to 605 Lorimer, Basement. That's where I'm going to be."
"Burning Grounds?"
"Yeah, Burning Grounds. Hey, Hummer, what's this chick's name?"
"Trigger Happy."
Queenie smiled. "That's a good name."
"Right," said Hummer, not listening. "Look, can we meet tomorrow and go over what you found out?"
"Fine. When -- nine?"
"Let's make it eight. I've got work, you know?"
"Well, no, personally I don't know, but I can understand. Where, though?"
"Um, I don't know," Hummer said. "How about Starbucks?"
"You're going to have to be more specific."
"Oh, right, Starbucks on Eighth Avenue and Fortieth, or Thirty-ninth, one of those."
"Okay," said Queenie, grabbing a pencil off the phone table. "Hey, Hummer?"
"Yeah?"
She tapped her thumb against the phone. "Is this for real?"
He paused. "Yes, Queenie, it's for real."
Queenie got to Meade's place around two-thirty. The sun hit that particular block in a bright and hot and almost punishing way, and it was always like that, never a break. There were hardly any trees either.
The old ladies weren't on their stoops yet. One of the old men was, though. He had thick glasses and dark eyes. Queenie smiled at him. He didn't smile back. None of the old neighbors liked Queenie since she had vomited in the street at noon on Easter Sunday earlier that year. Queenie remembered children standing there too -- a lot of pink dresses.
"Hiya," she said.
The old man nodded. She opened the creaky gate and skipped the steps to the basement entrance. The drain by Meade's front door made a gurgling noise, and a stench came up, like dirty diapers being boiled for flavor.
The door was ajar. Queenie pushed it open and thought what she'd say to Meade. Your door was ajar, your door was ajar, she thought. Your door was a jar. I just turned the lid and dropped right in, scraped the glass walls with my crunchy insect feet.
Queenie walked in and closed it behind her and locked it. The living room still smelled like smoke, and the red futon was still unfolded as she left it. The TV was on with no sound -- music videos with a lot of cars.
"Meade?" she said quietly.
There was no answer. She walked into the kitchen. There was a plate on the kitchen table with a half-eaten turkey burger with no bun, and barbecue sauce in a gushy swirl on top. Also a cup of dark coffee, half-full.
She listened for noise upstairs -- footsteps, voices, but there wasn't anything, and to be honest, she got a little nervous. Why was the front door unlocked? Meade never really had anyone over for lunch. She went to his utensil drawer and rifled through. There were your basic forks and knives and three wine openers but not one really good sharp knife. There was a skewer, though, with two prongs at the end, long and thin and rusty, and she pricked it on her fingertip, and it didn't exactly hurt but she thought it would do in a pinch.
She approached the staircase and started up. The steps creaked. The whole stairway was built crooked, slightly to the left, but so was Meade's whole apartment. When it rained heavily, water trickled in under the back door and settled in the middle of the kitchen, where the center of the floor dipped.
Queenie got to the landing and stopped. The door to the upstairs bathroom was open, the shower curtain pushed back, the window exposing a corner of the backyard. She could see out to the brown wooden fence next door.
Queenie looked briefly into Tommy Roses's room and saw his unmade bed, his sheets tacked up over the windows for curtains, his inflatable Mets chair.
Meade's door was closed. Queenie put her ear against it and heard quiet rustling.
It was possible that someone had broken in while Meade was eating lunch and was now holding Meade at gunpoint. Queenie pictured him with a gag in his mouth and naked for some reason. What did the intruder want, though, she thought. If he wanted porn or a framed photo of chipped beef on toast, he had come to the right place.
Queenie knocked firmly twice. She heard low voices and started to get scared, thinking maybe she was right. How could she be right?
"Meade!" she shouted, trying to twist the knob, banging the door hard with her other fist.
Then the door opened, and Meade stood there, naked, his hair smashed to one side.
"What, Queenie, Jesus," he said.
"The front door was open," Queenie said, catching her breath.
"What? So what?"
Meade turned around and bent over, looking for clothes. Queenie looked to the bed and saw Anti lying on top of the sheets in jeans and a bra.
"Hey, Queenie," she said.
"What's doing, Anti?" said Queenie, letting her arms drop to her sides.
"I'm taking a long lunch," said Anti, eyeing the skewer.
"You guys should really make sure the front door's not open," said Queenie.
Meade stood up and shook out a pair of pale blue boxer shorts.
"It's always open," he said.
"No, it's always unlocked -- it was open, actually open," she said, glancing back and forth between the two of them, and when neither responded, she added quietly, "Ajar."
"Ajar?" said Meade. He pulled his shorts on and rubbed his eyes.
"Yes, ajar," Queenie said.
Anti buttoned her blouse and shrugged.
"I didn't close it all the way?" she said, looking down at the buttons.
Meade shook his head and sighed.
"Who knows, who cares," he said. "Queenie closed it, yes yes?"
"Yes," said Queenie.
"Great. Crisis averted."
Meade picked up cigarettes from his bedside table and pulled one out.
"I have to go," Anti announced.
"See you later," said Meade.
"Bye, Anti."
"Bye, Queenie."
Anti left. Queenie heard her skip down the stairs and slam the front door. Meade lit his cigarette and held it out to Queenie like it was a joint. Queenie took a drag and coughed. She bent over and held on to her knees.
"What the hell's this?" Meade said, taking the skewer from her.
Queenie stood up. "I thought someone had a gun to your head."
"Okay," Meade said slowly. "And you were planning to dip them in cheese?"
Queenie looked at the skewer.
"That's for fondue?" she said.
"This is for fondue."
"Do you have a fondue pot?"
"In fact I do."
"I've never seen it."
"That doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
"No, but why don't you use it?"
"I used it once, and I got sick," Meade said, picking up brown pants from the floor. "Have you ever vomited cheese?"
"No," said Queenie.
"It's something," Meade said, and he pulled his pants on, jumping twice quickly into them. "This was a Swiss-cheddar mix -- I followed the recipe to the letter, but two hours later it came up like a goddamn oil slick."
Queenie closed her eyes and tried not to think about cheese vomit.
"Here's the bitch -- it was connected, one long strand, and it got caught coming up. I had to literally pull it out like a rope."
Queenie swallowed spit and opened her eyes. Meade was smiling.
"You know, back when I ate cheese," he said.
Then he lifted he shirt and slapped his stomach.
"I gotta get new pants," he said.
Queenie sighed. She knew she was supposed to say, Why, Meade, why do you need to get new pants? Didn't you just buy those pants? Are you too skinny to fit into your thirty-ones?
"Yeah, just went down another size," he said.
He tucked his shirt under his chin and looked at his stomach.
"Great," said Queenie.
"I'm just fucking sick of punching holes in my belt."
"Right," said Queenie. Then she added, "So I got fired."
"No," he said.
Queenie nodded.
"Those pig-fuckers shitcanned you?" he said.
Queenie nodded. Pigs, not cows, she thought.
"The daylight savings thing?" he said.
Queenie nodded.
"So what're you gonna do?"
She leaned against Meade's door. "It's funny you should ask," she said.
Then she told Meade all about running into Hummer Fish on the E train and how he was smarmy but still rich enough to pay Queenie two hundred dollars to ask questions about his stripper girlfriend, because Queenie understands the people "down there."
"Is this girl one of the two-ton Tinas?" asked Meade.
"I don't think so."
"Svelte junkie?"
"More like a svelte junkie."
"Two hundred dollars?" Meade said again. Queenie nodded. "To talk to the denizens?"
Queenie nodded.
"Bullshit," Meade decided, and he walked past her, out of his room, toward the stairs.
"It's not bullshit," said Queenie, following him.
"He's bullshitting you," Meade said when they reached the kitchen. "Probably gets him off."
Then the doorbell rang.
"Who the piss is this?" said Meade.
"That's my money," said Queenie.
Meade raised his eyebrows.
Queenie went to the front door and opened it. There was a messenger there. Queenie could tell he was a messenger because he wore fingerless gloves and a helmet. He held out a manila envelope with "Queenie Sells, 605 Lorimer, Burning Grounds, BROOKLYN," written on the front. Queenie signed for it and said thank you and came back inside. Meade stared at her.
She tore the envelope open. Four fiftys. No note. She held the money up for Meade to see, and Meade rubbed his chin and smiled.
He said, "So does that cover drinks, too?"
The Paper Doll Lounge was quiet. There were two dancers on the small stage, which was really more a long counter with a mirror behind it. One was about 250 pounds and white and in a red G-string. The other was thin and burnt-out-looking, and had darker skin and fanned-out hair and a green G-string. Both were swaying gently, looking a little out of it. There were five men in the audience, at the tables in front of the stage, and no one was sitting at the bar on the side.
Queenie walked over to the bar and sat down. The bartender was a rockabilly with slick hair and a tight black T-shirt and tight jeans, and he was a little chubby. He nodded at Queenie, and she ordered a Bud Light.
She swiveled around on her stool and looked at the five patrons, making notes about them in her head -- what is also known as "mental notes:"
Patron 1) Black, thin, smoking Marlboro reds, probably early forties.Patron 2) White, stringy hair, mouth open. Drinking beer in a glass with ice. Late twenties, early thirties.
Patron 3) Black/Hispanic mix, dark blue suit, drinking something with a slice of lime so withered it looked like a piece of tissue paper. Little spriggly hairs on his cheeks and chin. Midthirties.
Patron 4) Sitting with Patron 3, Hispanic, sport jacket and tweed pants. Drinking a clear drink without accoutrements. Also thirties.
Patron 5) White, older, possibly sixties, thin and pale, drinking a bottle of Miller High Life. The champagne of beers, thought Queenie. He kept chewing something, but Queenie didn't think offhand it was gum, even though he was kneading it around in his teeth, keeping his mouth closed. It looked like he was gnawing on the inside of his lips. Where they met in the middle was a tight little line, looked like a closed window.
Queenie left the bar and went to sit at a table next to the man with the window lips. She looked up at the dancers. The fat woman wasn't dancing so much as vibrating. Or she'd just take a step or raise her arm, and the rest of her skin would roll. It looked like cake frosting.
The burnt dancer was really thin. Her hipbones jutted out and were so sharp they looked like they could snap the G-string and cut it right in half. She was beginning to squat and push her crotch in Patron 3's face. Patron 3 seemed reserved but pleased. He nodded rhythmically. "What is love, baby don't hurt me" played quietly in the background.
Patron 3 gave the thin dancer two wrinkly dollar bills. She nodded and tucked them into the side of her G. Then she pulled the strip of underwear away from her crotch so her business was in Patron 3's face. It was shaven along the sides. Queenie thought she could see small red razor burn spots, but then thought she might have been imagining it. Then again, maybe not -- Uncle Si always told her she could've been a sharpshooter with her eyesight.
Then Patron 5, the old man, laughed, and said, "She's got a great bush."
Queenie turned to him, and he nodded and kept chewing. Queenie glanced back at the thin dancer, then back at Patron 5.
"Why?" she asked him.
Patron 5 laughed again. His lips flapped out like blinds. He didn't have many teeth.
"What? You don't like it?" he said.
Queenie looked at the thin dancer again, but she had snapped the G-string back over her business. Patrons 3 and 4 laughed conspiratorially. Queenie turned to Patron 5 again.
"No," she said. "I like it fine. I just don't get what makes it a great bush. I think I can imagine what would make it a bad bush -- you know, not exactly, but I think I have a ballpark idea."
"Ballpark?" said Patron 5, and he got a blank look on his face. It reminded Queenie of Si. Then his eyes wandered, swiveled like wheels on a TV cart back to the thin dancer.
"Great bush," he said again. He looked at Queenie. "Great bush," he said, bossier, like it was an order, and she better agree with it.
"What's so great about it?" Queenie said, and she took a sip of beer.
"What are you, joking?" Patron 5 said.
"No."
"That kinda bush," he said, shaking his finger at the dancer, "you wanna climb right inside."
"That so?" said Queenie.
He sipped the foam off his beer and nodded, licked his lips. Queenie saw a tooth that was almost all brown.
"I only seen two, three bushes looked that good," he said.
"Yeah?" said Queenie. "When?"
Patron 5 looked surprised for a second. Queenie thought it was kind of funny that he should look surprised seeing he started talking about people's bushes in the first place.
"Hell, the first when I'm all of thirteen thick -- my birthday," he began, and then he stopped to chew again. Queenie now knew for certain there was nothing else in his mouth but his pale gums and brown teeth. "Daddy takes me to Miss Susie's house, and it ain't so much to look at. There was two gals sitting in the living room, the radio was on the news program. Men, too, reading the paper, the gals reading Look magazine. I think, this is what the hubbub's about -- people sitting around like they in a goddamn library. Nobody talkin', nobody doing anything -- it's like the same business at home, except my ma and my sisters don't look like the girls sitting there.
"Daddy tells me to sit on the chesterfield, he goes over to one of the ladies, she was blond, and Daddy leans down and whispers something in her ear, and she nods and goes upstairs.
"Then it feels like we sit there for hours before the blond come back down, she come back down with a cigarette and she nods to my daddy again -- she's not looking at me. And Daddy grabs the back of my neck like he do, and says, 'You wash your hands after and you say thank you when you're done, you got that, boy?' I says, 'Yeah, Daddy.'
"So the blond look down at me and we're all staying put right there and then she says, 'Well, come on,' all impatient, like she's my ma, and I stand up and I put my head down and she walks up the stairs real slow. Her dress ends right at her knees, and I can't get my eyes off those two stitched lines on her stockings. Each time she steps her skirt raises right up a little so I can see more and more of the back of her knees and her legs, and we get to the upstairs and she walks up to a door and knocks on it, and there's a gal inside that says, 'Yeah?' and the blond, she still don't look at me, she opens the door and then she turn around and goes back downstairs.
"Then I hear, 'Are you coming in or aren't you?' 'Yes, ma'am,' I says, and I go on in, and there's a brunette sitting at a dressing table, she's looking in the mirror at herself. She's touching her cheek with her fingers -- she's not putting any makeup on herself, just touching her cheek.
"She don't look at me neither. She says, 'Close the door' so I close it, and she turn around and puts her hands around her hair, patting her hair clips. She's wearing a white dress, a little bit like what my ma wore for a bathrobe except Miss Susie's is real thin, look like paper to me. She got it open at her chest, too, real low-cut, and she's not wearing a brassiere or nothing. She got a red belt -- it's holding her dress closed just a tiny bit at the waist. She's wearing it with a big slit up the front, and she got red heels on and no stockings. She says, 'C'mere,' and I do it and I get up close to her face -- she look so smooth, everything on her look smooth.
"She says to me, 'Lemme see your hands,' and I show her, knuckles up like you did at school. She don't touch them, she just nods. And then she goes around and sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs, pats the space next to her. I sit down where she says to and look down at my shoes, and it's like I'm looking at them from real high up, they look so small. She says, 'So you're Jack's boy.' I says, 'Yeah.'
"She scoots the robe off her legs, opens it up even more so I can see everything -- not everything, but I can see she got no underwear on, I can see this little patch of fur there, and I really start sweating like a bastard. She says, 'Why don't you put your hand there?' I says, 'Where, ma'am?' and she says, 'You know where.' And I can't move, I'm frozen like an iceman, and she says, 'You're not much like your daddy at all.' Then she goes and undoes the red belt, and it snaps, and she opens the robe so I can see everything now, and she says, 'Put your hand here,' and I'm so scared to look where she means but I do anyway, and she touches her stomach. I don't look nowhere else. 'Well go on,' she says, and she says it like she's real angry.
"I reach out and I touch her there, where she said to on her stomach, and there's a strange thing about it I can't put my finger on. It's smooth, the skin there but also it's pudding soft, and she got these scars like she been scratched up -- I must of looked confused 'cause she says, 'What? What're you making a face for?' I take my hand away and look at her stomach again, it's like these tiny ribbons she got, and I says, 'How'd you get those scars?' And she starts laughing and laughing like it was the funniest thing. She look pretty, too, when she laugh , it's the first time I really think she look pretty -- her face is all stars and smiles. Then she says, 'Everybody's mama's got them scars. Ain't you ever seen your mama's belly?' I says, 'No way I ever see no skin on my ma except for her face and her arms and her legs.' And Miss Susie says, 'Hell, I got three boys, one of them older than you, I bet. How old are you?' she says. I says, 'Thirteen.' 'Yep,' she says, 'Joey's fourteen last month.'
"Then she goes and puts her hand on my hand and she starts to move it down south, and I touch it on top and it's warm, the warmest thing, and she says, 'Dip your fingers in now,' so I do. I put two fingers in and I can't look at her, can't look at nothing, and my head's all red, feels like the top's coming right off. And she starts moving -- she starts swinging her hips a little, shaking them down, and I, I do it right there, mess myself up all over my pants just on account of her moving her hips like that.
"She says, 'Aw, lookit what you did. Now you're gonna have to wait.' And she pulls my hand out and stands up and walks over to her powder table and sits down and lights a cigarette. I ain't moving, I'm stuck there. She says, 'Well go on, go tell your Daddy to come up.' I says, 'Can I wash my hands first, ma'am?' She says, 'Yes you can.' So I go on back to the bathroom and wash my hands three or four times, and I look at my pants, and they don't look so bad 'cause they're dark pants. When I get back into Miss Susie's room, I says, 'Thank you, ma'am,' and she laughs, and says, 'What for? You didn't even make it out of the gate.'
"Then I run downstairs and sit on the couch, and my daddy gives me his hat to hold, which I'm glad for so I can put it over my pants. And Daddy says, 'How was it,' but he don't let me answer, he just pushes my head down, and says, 'Hell, you don't know how it was, you never had any before.'"
Patron 5 paused.
"I'm just glad he don't see my pants," he said.
He licked his lips and stared straight ahead. By this time, the burnt girl with the great bush was swaying slowly again; she seemed to have lost some energy. The fat woman had turned around and was making her ass jiggle. Queenie thought it was really something, almost hypnotic, the ripples.
"Say," said Queenie to Patron 5. "Do you know somebody who works here named Trigger Happy?"
"No. Nope. No," said Patron 5.
"Well. Bye, then," said Queenie, standing up.
"Bye, then," said Patron 5.
Queenie went back to the bar. The chubby rockabilly nodded at her, and she ordered another beer.
"Hey, friend," said Queenie. "Loosie?" she said, nodding to his Lucky Strikes.
The rockabilly looked quickly at the pack and grabbed it and shook out a smoke. Queenie fished for a quarter.
"Nah, forget it, sister. Just three-fifty for the beer."
Queenie put five on the bar and thought about how useless change was. Even quarters, which are sometimes fun and of course good for phone calls and gum and loosies, even they quickly become a burden. And nickels, dimes, and pennies are just silly and should be eliminated altogether, thought Queenie.
Then she remembered why she had come.
"Got a light?" she said.
The rockabilly lifted a small Bic, and Queenie puffed. There was no filter. It's not goddamn 1955, she felt like saying. There is no need to smoke this. You know, she thought, filters are pretty popular now and make smoking easy and enjoyable. Even for children!
"Is there a girl here named Trigger Happy?" Queenie said.
"Yeah," said the rockabilly. "She hasn't been in for a few days."
"She sick, or what?" Queenie said, trying to sound casual.
"You a fan?" the rockabilly said.
"Not really," said Queenie. "I've never seen her perform actually. She's my cousin."
The rockabilly nodded, suspicious.
"Why don't you try her at home?" he said.
Queenie tapped her smoke lightly on the edge of the plastic tray and watched the ash tumble off.
"I thought she was working tonight," she said.
"She doesn't work Mondays," the rockabilly said. Then he was quiet and tried to stare Queenie down.
Queenie sipped her beer.
"I thought she was working tonight," she said again.
The rockabilly shrugged and seemed to give up being a tough guy. Queenie thought it was fairly obvious she was not a stalker.
"Nah, she works weekends usually, but I don't think she showed on Saturday," he said.
"She sick?" Queenie tried again.
"Couldn't say," said the rockabilly. "Baby filled in for her," he said, looking at the skinny girl who was still swaying gently.
Queenie nodded, dropped another five on the bar for luck, and said, "Excuse me." The rockabilly nodded.
Queenie sat at a different table than before, as close as she could get to the stage and to the burnt girl, next to Patrons 3 and 4, who were talking to each other quietly. The burnt girl, Baby, had her eyes closed. The music was fast with a lot of bass, but Baby moved a lot slower, twisting her hips around and around in lazy circles. She played with the dollar bills in her G-string, ruffled them with her fingers.
Queenie pulled two twenties from her pocket and set them on the table. The next time Baby opened her eyes she'd see them, figure bigger fish to fry than Patrons 3 and 4, maybe step down from her perch.
Queenie glanced over at Patron 5 for a second. He wasn't looking at anyone's bush anymore, lips folded over the rim of the glass for good, it seemed.
Burnt Baby opened her eyes to tiny paper-cut cracks and saw Queenie's twenties. She half walked, half swayed to the end of the stage. Queenie thought she was trying to be graceful, but she really looked more like a drunk deer than anything else.
Baby stood above Queenie, wiggling with as little energy as possible.
"That for me, honey?" she said to Queenie.
"Could be," said Queenie.
Baby tried to squat but couldn't seem to balance. She came down on her knees a little hard, hitting the stage.
"What do you want?" said Baby, trying to be seductive.
"I just wanna talk," said Queenie.
"You want me to do something to you while you talk?"
"No," said Queenie. "I want you to talk, too. Both of us. So it will be like a conversation."
Baby sat back a little and shook her hair out.
"You a cop?" she said.
"Why would you think that?" said Queenie.
"Only cops pay to talk."
"Is that right?" said Queenie.
Baby rolled her head to one side.
"Not really. Usually they make you pay them, turns out," she said.
Queenie nodded.
"I'm not a cop," she said. "Look at me."
Baby slid her tired eyes up and down Queenie's clothes, ratty old corduroys and a light blue T-shirt with coffee and sweat stains, which read, SOMEONE SHOULD GET THE PHONE. Baby turned her head and glanced at the other dancer. Then she stood up, unsteady.
"Hey, hey," called Patron 3, waving a dollar.
Baby held up one finger. One minute, sugar. She nodded to the other dancer, who nodded back and moved to the center of the stage, in front of Patrons 3 and 4. They were not as pleased with the larger model.
Baby left the stage and was gone for a minute, and then came out from behind a dark red curtain next to the stage. She'd pulled a sweatshirt over her shoulders but was still topless underneath, still wearing heels and her G-string. She clacked up to Queenie's table and stood uneasily with her hands on the back of a chair. Her eyes were heavy.
"Please sit down," said Queenie, pointing to the chair.
Baby sat down and crossed her legs. Her breasts were thin and long and pendulous. Queenie could see the reedy bones of her sternum.
Baby looked down at the money again and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
"You sure you're not a cop?" she said.
Queenie nodded. "I'm just looking for a friend."
Baby leaned back and ran her tongue, thick and snaky, across her teeth. She laughed, and her breasts shook.
"Aren't we all?" she said.
"My name's Queenie," said Queenie. "Can I have one of your cigarettes?"
"I'm Baby Watson," Baby said. "They're menthols."
"That's cool," said Queenie. She took one.
Baby Watson blinked heavy, heavy lids, heavy eyes, everything drooping and pulling to the floor. Queenie lit her cigarette and Baby's.
"What you think of Charlie?" Baby said.
"Who?"
"Charlie." Baby nodded at Patron 5.
Queenie thought for a second about Charlie-Patron 5 with his father's hat in his lap after he came on himself. She really wasn't that surprised that he'd told her all that. Sometimes people told Queenie things. She noticed it when she was in high school, even after she started going to Boston for day school with the rich kids; the kids in her neighborhood, the mill kids, would still find her, not ask for anything, and just talk themselves hoarse, tell her all their secrets. Abby Malone described how her brother tried to give her an abortion in their basement. Mickey Hill told her how he shoplifted small jars of mayonnaise from every store he was in and had no idea why. Jim Schaw told her how he watched the family doberman give birth to six puppies, how he was the only one home, and then, for reasons he couldn't explain, how he killed them, smothered and strangled every one of those puppies while he kept the mother tied up with a rope. And when he let her loose, she didn't jump him, she just sprawled her body out over her dead pups and licked their paws. Then he'd gone and told everyone they were born still.
"He's a nice guy," said Queenie.
"So are those really for me?" Baby said, glancing at the twenties.
"If you want them," Queenie said, blowing smoke above her head. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. You can tell me a lot of horseshit if you want to. I won't know the difference. I'm looking for a friend."
"Who?" said Baby.
"Trigger Happy."
Baby nodded. "She hasn't been here."
"I know. The gentleman at the bar said you covered for her."
"Yeah?"
"Do you know where she was, or where she might be?" Queenie said.
Baby laughed and started to say something, but her lips seemed to get stuck on her teeth, smearing, slurring words.
"Shit, I don't know. Sometimes she doesn't come to work," she said, then paused. "Sometimes I don't come to work."
"Did she call in sick?"
Baby shrugged. "I don't think so. But it really isn't a big thing she didn't show, just weird 'cause it was Saturday and it's a big money night. Why you looking so hard?"
"I'm an old friend."
Baby leaned her head back and blew smoke up in a cone. She laughed and rubbed her eye with her thumb.
"Trigger didn't have any friends," she said.
"Aren't you her friend?" said Queenie.
Baby looked serious suddenly and tilted her head back up. "Look, I don't know shit. I knew her as much as anyone. She had some money boyfriend, and she had a punk boyfriend...she liked to wear purple on stage." Baby closed her eyes, like she had a headache. "I don't know anything else about her. Me and her weren't buddies, we didn't have fucking slumber parties.
"All her hairspray and shit's still in back. She's got a real Kate Spade bag, too," Baby said, standing up uneasy. Smoke framed her. "She doesn't come back soon, I'm gonna take that shit."
"More power to you," said Queenie.
Baby smiled. "Goddamn right."
Then she left, disappeared behind the dark curtain. Patrons 3 and 4 stood up to leave. Queenie turned around and saw the rockabilly on the phone at the other end of the bar.
Queenie stamped out her menthol and followed Baby, behind the curtain.
Behind the curtain was a black door. Queenie tapped it lightly, and there was no answer so she opened it. There was a counter with two or three square mirrors and chairs and bare lightbulbs above. At the end of the counter was a urinal. Next to the urinal, crouched, leaning against the porcelain, was Baby. She rubbed her knees slowly and looked to Queenie, her eyes dim.
"Hey, girlie, you can't be back here. It's for us performers," she said slowly.
"I'll only be a second," said Queenie.
Baby did not visibly seem bothered by this. She closed her eyes and continued to rub her knees.
Queenie stepped up to the counter. There were makeup bottles and powders, cigarette boxes, razors. She saw a clipping, looked to Queenie like it was from the Voice, couldn't have been much bigger than one and a half by two. "Weekends at Paper Doll: Thin Skins and Hefty Hotties."
Queenie walked the length of the counter, not very long at all, and saw an opened douche box, a blue dildo, a box of oyster crackers, a half-finished Rolling Rock. She saw a picture of two little black kids, smiling, sitting on a stone wall. Queenie didn't want to touch it and fuck it up.
She saw a Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue and started flipping through. A lot of pushed-up boobs. Queenie looked at her own boobs. They were average size, maybe a little bigger, but she'd never felt compelled to push them anywhere. The models looked strange to her; some of their heads were too big for their bodies, some had extra long arms. Did they just paste the girls together? thought Queenie.
She examined a picture of a purple garter belt with fake pearls sewn into the straps. The ad was circled three or four times over in silver. Queenie tapped the page with her finger and glanced at the counter and saw a thin silver eyeliner pencil. She turned the catalogue over; it was addressed to the Paper Doll Lounge, attention: Tara Rote.
Queenie dropped the catalogue on the counter and grabbed the silver eyeliner and walked back over to Baby. Queenie squatted down and said, "Baby? Baby?" Baby didn't stir, but blew air through her lips, and they flapped.
"Huh," she said.
"Is Tara Rote Trigger Happy's really name?" said Queenie quietly.
Baby sniffed and still didn't open her eyes. "Yeah, yuh, Tara -- after Gone With the Wind," she said, trailing off.
"No shit," Queenie said.
Baby started twitching a little in her fingers and eyelids, and Queenie stood up and stepped out backward, slowly, through the black door and the red curtain. Then she turned around and walked out quickly, past the rockabilly who was chewing a toothpick, who didn't say anything but stared her down all the same.
It was a little after ten, and Queenie made a professional decision that if she was going to do any more research for the night, she would have to be drunk. She bought a pint of Bushmill's and walked up to Canal to a phone box. She cracked the Bushmill's and started sipping, found a quarter in her pocket, then dialed information and heard Darth Vader say, "Welcome to Verizon local and national four one one." Then a perky female robot said, "What listing?"
"Tara Rote. R-O-T-E. In Manhattan," said Queenie.
The phone was sticky. Always wipe first, always wipe first, said Meade.
"Thank you. Please wait while an operator looks for that number," said the lady robot.
Queenie sipped the whiskey and kept an eye peeled for cops. It was a cool night, a nice breeze, people wearing shorts and T-shirts but not sweating their balls off just yet.
Then a real voice: "That's a residence?"
"Sure," said Queenie.
"I have a T. Rote on East 104th."
"Great. I'll take it. Anything else?"
"There is a T. Rotte, with two t's..."
"Could I get both of those? Whatever you have."
Queenie held the whiskey between her arm and her chest, the way she saw suits hold the newspaper on the subway. She searched her pockets for a pen and could only find the silver eyeliner.
"Four twenty-five East Twenty-sixth Street for T. R-O-T-T-E, phone number's 212-686-3638. Address for T. Rote, with one "t," listed as 336 East 104th Street, hold for the number."
Queenie wrote in long strokes on her forearm, near Hummer Fish's number. The silver pencil tip was gummy and starting to bend. Queenie lightened up her grip and thought, Two for two, not bad.
The lady robot returned, and said, "The number is 212-850-9051. That number again -- "
Queenie hung up and swung her arm a little so the liner would dry.
She found change in her pockets, dimes and nickels, goddamn dimes and nickels, and rested them on top of the phone. She picked up the receiver again and put in two dimes and a nickel and dialed the first number, where there was a busy signal. Then she put in one dime and three nickels and dialed the second number, where she got a ring. It rang three times, and then a female voice said, "Hi, please leave a message."
Queenie hung up again.
Then she started walking north and looked up at the sky. Where does the six stop on the east side after Union Square? she thought. Twenty-third probably. In the end, though, she decided to walk it, and she saw various people along the way. She saw the neighborhood change from Chinatown to Chine-Italy to Little Italy to SoHo to Great Jones, but then she turned east and walked up Second Avenue, through the East Village, and saw all the rich people and college kids and arty girls from Connecticut with really big shoes. Queenie laughed at most of them, drinking her whiskey and thinking about the Indian. The Indian used to walk around the East Village and Alphabet City, huge body made of brick, drunk and high as a kite, holding his arms out, and shouting, "This is MY island....This is MY FUCKING ISLAND."
"God bless you, you crazy bastard," Queenie said loudly to the sky. Some people looked.
She turned east again on Twelfth Street and started up First Avenue. She passed a bar called, Hog, where apparently you used to be able to get a decent handjob in the back room for ten bucks. There was a neon hog in the window.
She walked up First and kept her eyes on the street signs, which seemed to go by fast. There were all kinds of pizza shops and greasy chopsticks on the way. All the Chinese food places had bright square pictures of the dishes they served there, all lit from behind. She remembered Meade saying, I like any restaurant where you can see a photo of what you're going to eat. She stared at Shrimp in Lobster Sauce. That always seemed like overkill to Queenie. Either shrimp or lobster, you know? No need to get crazy.
Then she came to Twenty-sixth Street, which wasn't a nice-looking street in any way. Most of the apartment buildings had entrances below street level. Queenie tripped a little on the curb and wondered if she was on the right side of the street.
It turned out she was, and then she found 425. It had a sunken entrance and was made of bricks that looked gray. There was a Plexiglas sign by the door with a sheet of labels -- last names and first initials. Queenie staggered down the stairs and ran her finger down the list.
"Rotte, Rotte, Rotte," she said.
She found it. T. Rotte. Apartment 3F. As in Fantastic.
Queenie buzzed. There was a pause, and a scratchy male voice said, "Yes?"
"Hi," Queenie said. It sounded like she was talking into a bucket. "Is Tara home please?"
"Uh, I think you have the wrong apartment."
Queenie leaned back and squinted at the list.
"Is this the, uh, T. Rotte apartment?" she said.
"Yes, but there's no one here by that name," the voice said again, very politely.
"That's a real pisser," said Queenie. Then she realized she probably woke him up. "Sorry, sorry about that," she stammered, but he was already gone.
Queenie turned around and walked back up the stairs very carefully and pulled the Bushmill's out of the bag. She had a good inch left. Enough to last her the walk from Twenty-sixth to Fourteenth, and if she was lucky, enough to last from the First Avenue stop to Bedford on the L train.
Copyright © 2004 by Louisa Luna
Continues...
Excerpted from Serious As a Heart Attack by Louisa Luna Copyright © 2004 by Louisa Luna. Excerpted by permission.
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