Part One

Survival’s the thing. You’ve got to look up and make sure nobody’s hocking loogies down on you from a rooftop. Be on guard at least somewhat at all times, you know? Being prepared is my business. And I’m almost positive I’ve got the nut and/or bolts of that down. Keep a BB gun in my closet. Just in case I need to do some showing off for the neighbors, throw a scare into somebody from far enough away so they don’t see quite what I’ve got pointing at them. Heigh-fucking-ho, you know? It’s off to work this going-it-solo-with-company bastard goes. Anyway, I’ve got wider-mouthed bass to fry up here.

Boy, shit, that’s a yes to providing my clients with the utmost protection I can give, based on what they can afford, of course. Sniffle. Sniffle. Shit. I do what I can. Sing the National Anthem to me while I’m taking a dump about it. You don’t always get what you need, you know?

Ladies bump into me on the street and ask about my socks. I tell them the most discriminating of things, like, “I’d be the tennis balls on your walker, Baby.” Some of them don’t like it. So what? I’m not in this for them. I’ve got enough troubles just getting myself pulled up by the short and curlies through what most folks would call a very precarious living situation. Can’t worry about who does and does not currently like the likes of me. I get by on the Tater Tots of squirrelling my way out of near ruin by the skin of my teeth. Hey. But I’ve got thick-skinned teeth.

So, there’s this client I took on back about a few fiscal years ago or so now. He’s one of those Parcheesi-playing dipsos who drives with his hands at four and six, if you get my drift. I can’t make heads or tails of him at first. He’s been moping in a high rise, all cooped up, trying to let his own personal racket pass him by. He finds my name in the Yellow Pages and dials me up. Who uses phonebooks anymore? Well, it’s a good thing I still pay the dues on those ads. Gets me into some paydays that’d never come to me otherwise. So, here we go again with another old switcheroo type of thing. This guy’s a pucker fish of what he used to be. He’s battered. Too much of the hard stuff, and he’s gone soft. That’s what he’s mumbling on about, all maudlin and morose and down-in-the-dumps about what he keeps saying is, “My misery. My own big misery that sweeps all over me all the time.” It’s a bullshit sermon as far as I’m concerned. But I hear this lumpy sad-sack out. Who knows what might be in it for me? I’ve aged more gracefully than most, I guess. Must be all this fighting-the-good-fighting that I do. Ah, but I suppose I should nose around a bit more of the details on this before I start chicken-walking away from it. Hal’s nothing if not direct when it comes to what’s best for Hal. I probably say that a lot.

So, this grim-looking paunchy son-of-a-bitch comes on into my office, limping and moaning about lord knows what, and I’m doing a lot of chin-in-palm leaning, trying to keep my damn peepers open. But my damn eyelids get so damn heavy sometimes. Really. And this guy’s spiel is enough to put a fully wired meth-head to sleep. But I do what I can. I’m nothing if not considerate. He exclaims, “Darn tooting!” at some point and I snap out of my trance long enough to pay an earful of attention to him.

He’s ranting on about getting a bite taken out of him by crime fighters with all the theatrics of a used-car salesman in mid-sale. I don’t get taken in easy. But this guy? Hell, he had a story to him, of course. They all do.
In the rec room, he tells me, all his do-worse buddies are gathered. I’m thinking, ‘Rec room? Who the fuck gathers in a rec room? What is this, 1930?’ But he goes on to relate to me, in his very particularly woebegone way, this absurd booze-soaked lullaby about a very specific type of crook— people he keeps referring to as “Wall Bangers.” Get a spot of coffee in some guys and they create quite a stir about their little personal doings, make this big show about it all. Hell, I give him the time of day to do his bragging brand of telling in. I figure it’ll be worth my while, at least more so than most of these half-soused jokers who come rambling through here. What happened to the tree-piece-suit-with-a-sensible-tie type? The kind of sort who’s always got a decent enough alibi in his vest pocket. I tell you, real slim pickings among the rabble these days.

“Mr. Bardsman, come on, man. Just get a load of this,” he’s going on about some UPS driver who’s skimming off the bottom and the top, and hell, maybe the middle too. Something to do with guns in banjo cases, or something just as asinine.

“I’ve got to be honest,” I tell him. “I’m getting a bit sick of your load, here.”

I don’t even know the sap’s name yet, you know? I want brass tacks, to get down to them, as fast as a prom dress tears off after the big dance. But this guy’s a tough budge, to say the least.

“Look, Dough Head. I need some pertinent details to start off with. You know? Like, say, your name, place of residence, business card, W-2s, the last lottery ticket you purchased, credit card statements. You know? Etcetera. Etcetera? Getting-to-know-you stuff. You get it?”

The guy gets jumpy, of course. Starts fidgeting around, tilting back in his chair and teepee-ing his hands, backtracking and shutting up more. I like him a lot better when he’s got his yap shut.

“Mr. Bardsman, you see…”

“Please. Gee-money x-mas, call me Hal. It works better for the client-attorney relationship. We’ve got to be able to have some modicum of trust between us.”

I like to impress potential clients with big talk.

I cough into my fist some, give him the twice over. He’s wrinkled and shriveling up right before my eyes. It’s all a real shame.

“Take your gloves off, kid. Stick around for a minute.”

He looks likely to implode. Something stop-sign red just aching to have it out with his innards. He’s sweating like Moses Malone. His bald pate could fry eggs. There’s something putrid and musky about his whole gone-to-pot demeanor.

“Yeah. Maybe you’ll tell old Hal all about it someday, maybe gloating over a whisky at Fin’s.” I get up and slap/pat him on the shoulder. “It’s always not so bad in the rearview, pal. Trust me. I’ve scooted around the block more than most, and it’s a shitty fucked-up block. But a real kick in the seat. I’ll give you a tour sometime, maybe, huh?”

He’s gone numb and dumb. I can tell. I know that glazed-over look too well. So many bat-shit clients who go from high-octane spewing to having trouble just wiping their ass. Eyes red as some chick who’s lost her lover— trembling, lip-biting mumbo jumbo and all. Somehow he manages to mumble, “I never thought I’d get this old.”

“Hey! Look, kid. There’s nothing we can do about it, right? We get older. That’s all we do. Shit. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Look at me. I’m having the time of my life, and I’m a geezer compared to you. I still strut my damn stuff better than any chasing-tail frat boy around. Just lie a little lower. Let old Hal referee the game for a while. Things are bound to turn up at some point, right?”

His dismantled approach to our strained conversing lightens some. And then it doesn’t. I don’t know why my tune’s changed, but it has. There’s something lurking in his babbling, junked soul that I find enticing enough to take a chance on. Or maybe I just have a soft spot for the extremely down-and-out. I don’t know. I just need to figure out his situation as far as capital is concerned.

“So. What’s your situation as far as capital is concerned? I mean, are we talking bundles of cash hidden in the walls? Any horse-head wielding gentleman I need to know about? Frozen assets. Easy liquidations. Bad checks. Back rent. Bankruptcy. Off-track betting winnings. Pieces of fine art stowed away in an attic somewhere in Jersey. Any or all of the above?”

“Not so that you’d notice.”

“What’s that?” I’m beginning to hate the sound of his weaseling voice.

“Listen up, Cream Puff. I’ve got only X amount of time here, and I’m about to toss you shitter-over-teapot right out of it. Can you at least make me aware of what I might come to expect as a form of payment. I mean, hell, a guy’s got to eat, right? Just need to know what sort of monetary compensation I might expect for, well…what exactly was it you were in need of my services for? Keep in mind, I don’t milk cows or kill priests.”
He hunches over in his chair, wraps his flabby arms around him and takes hold at each shoulder. He looks like a passed-out gorilla.

“I got these…these troubles in my mind. I don’t know where so much I can put them.” He tenses up some and then blurts out, “I’ve got money. Don’t worry. The green’ll flow to you. I got connects. I got…I got these troubles up in my mind so bad. I just need somebody to…”

He doubles over, makes some choked aching sound, and falls to the floor. I let him lie there for a bit. No need to go to too much trouble over a tantrum-thrower like that. Let him stew in his own crap for a bit, and then see what comes floating up out of it next.

I walked around him a few times, doing some recon, felt his pulse and all that. He was still there with me, for the time being at least. The clock was ticking, maybe, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it just then. I grabbed around in his pockets and fished out a wallet. There’s plenty of cabbage in it, which brightens my mood, almost makes me downright ecstatic. The Driver’s License was from Pennsylvania, and the name on it was Rupert Clarence. I thought it seemed like a crappy name, even for a bonehead loser like that guy. It fit.

The air conditioner was rattling like a garbage compactor, and my secretary Marnie was shitting her panties over some plainclothes situation developing in the waiting room. God. That waiting room. Festering with leprous mouth-breathers who don’t cover their coughs and seem to always be in the midst of having life-threatening accidents. It pays the bills. I keep my door locked during business hours. Anyway, that damn air conditioner was making all its noise, and I had that porcine ditz Marnie to deal with, among other things. The aggravations I put up with in this life. It’s really munificent of me, really, to do what I do. But that’s Hal: give, give, give. Mash my brains in over the most picayune of b.s. here in the dank humidity of it all. Boxed-in on all sides by the petty and the dutifully insane. Weeds always a tad higher than the garden around here, boys and girls. But I get by okay, I guess. There’s a fee for everything. And Hal’s not one to shy away from a larger payday just up around that perpetual fucking bend there just oh-so-close up a head. Besides, lies suit some of us better than others, and my personality’s always won over more hung juries than money’d buy. Shit. I’m not such a bad guy once you get to know me, though.

Marnie’s a rough-and-tumble sort: a haunch-heavy woman with varicose veins and a sailor’s mouth. I tell her things to keep her company, stuff like, “You’re a real violin of woman, Darling. The sycamores are weeping for you.” I’m not sure what any of it means. My mouth just runs on without me sometimes.

There was trouble stewing in the lobby. Some wits-end codger causing a ruckus, going around with his shoes untied and his fly down. I tried to quell the shit storm I sensed was approaching.

“Okay, buddy. Hey! Let’s keep the roaring to a minimum, huh? I’ve got sensitive ears.”

The raving codger quieted down and looked me over. He was gnarly. A real grizzled character. More hair in his nose and ears than on his head. Eyebrows like wrecked dusters. His tie was loose and spotted with coffee and/or snot stains, as were the sleeves of his “vintage” suit jacket. There was a civet-tinged stink to him, like vinegar, mildew, and piss with a hint of musk. I had to force myself to only grimace and not puke carrots and peas into the carpet.

“Marnie, can you open a window in here? It’s getting too stuffy for these good people.”

“Hal. Hal. Really? I mean, with the air conditioner going and…”

“Marnie. Marnie. You doll of copious flesh, you. Just crack it more than a tad, okay? We can afford a little draft. We do want our potential clients to be…ahem, comfortable, don’t we?”

I did a lot of winking in her general direction. She gave me one of her famous Okay-You-Asshole looks and screeched open a few windows. The whole waiting room inhaled.

I coerced the reeking duffer to come to rest in a chair as far away from the other customers as possible. He collapsed into it and got quiet. I blew out all kinds of relief, made some small talk with the other waiting-roomers, gave Marnie a quick pat on the bottom, and fled back to my office. I made out the vague remnants of Marnie’s voice vituperating me from a safe distance. I locked the door, scanned Mr. Dough Head’s floor-bound position, and went back to my desk to tackle some paperwork I’d been putting off for a season.

I riffled through some canary copies of things I’d lost the original to, and came across this letter from somebody named Amelia Cassidy. It was addressed to my office, but the addressee was a Colonel Jefferson Sanderson. I had no idea what it meant, or if it were meant for me, but I tore it open anyway. I fight the law all the time, and I do a lot of winning. It read:

“Hey. I mean, hi, there, or here, maybe. All is alone. Try on my t-shirt for size. Walk around in my dreams, why don’t you? Hey. There you’ve gone. It’s so swell there, I bet. So, why don’t you go on ahead and break my heart. There’ll be ruin in my wake soon enough. Teach me to whistle like a train. Jump. I triple-dog dare you. I won’t be sticking around for long. Hey. There you aren’t, still. Hi. I meant to say something. I miss the sound your name makes. Getting all sorts of nowhere. The mirror’s cracked in seven places. I want my good times back. I’m thinking about getting a cat.

“Hurry. There’s a ribbon that’ll never get worn. Put on a stupid hat. Give me the finger. I won’t Don’t-Walk anywhere anymore. Dreams don’t sell as well as all that. To glibly not go. Wait. There’s a horse this year that’ll have to die soon. Asleep on my feet again. Better than being swept dust. A girl with a cat. A hand to slip fingers through. A crumby stance on being on the run. Nothing as lively as what a little poison will do to you. Never is my only when. A tract of bruises. Something creeps out of the metalwork. I choose whatever’s being you today to go along with, stilted prayers and pie crust and every first thing too. No more is my only now. Be a razor. Be a prosthetic dream. Be dizzy enough to fall. All’s coming up short. There will be boots by the door. Make an oubliette below the moon roof. Stick with me. Rubber medals for the sleepy. I’ve pulled the plug from your bathtub gin. Let’s pretend we’re jewel thieves, dress up in tuxes and drill holes in the floor, crack a few safes, make a clean getaway. Be arresting with resistance. Hint. Whole cemeteries filled with it. God. Who made up these lives we’ve been misleading? And the you who is lost pesters the tattered edges of the smallest things. Cooler coats to paint over what we were. Bailed in to the thin of me. Hit the gas. The burglar alarm’s clogged. Everything’s gone to heaven, now. Whither away with me, Doll. Take the reins and pull. Nevertheless. Alwaysthemore.
—Amelia C.

I made a sound like, “Hu?” or “Hmm” or “Humph,” or something like that. Of course I had no idea what to make of the thing. But I liked this Jefferson Sanderson guy immensely. I’m not sure why. Maybe the fact that he could inspire such a bunch of nonsense from a woman, well, maybe it gave me hope. It’d been a while and few-and-far-between for old Hal. Vicarious living was becoming my course’s par, I guess. Any whose how, I promptly folded up the letter and tucked it away in my coat’s inner breast pocket for safer keeping. Something was gargling on my floor.

Dough Head was arriving back to consciousness, for better or a bit worse, and I went over to him and gently escorted him back to his seat.

“Well. Well. Look who’s decided to rejoin the living. Feeling better, kid?”

He just sat there, lumpy and disheveled, breathing phlegmy sighs.

“You just take your time there. Don’t mind me. Just making a living over here. Nothing to see here.”

He scowled. He forced a frown. I could tell he was still dizzy and in The Disorient of the world. I spilled some bottled water into him and then went on about my paperings. He sat there shaking his head and grumbling nonsense. I didn’t let it bother me at all.

“It’s a real rough go I’ve had of it…you know, of late. Can’t control much these thoughts I’ve got. Misery…and she’s gone. She’s just so…gone. The never coming back kind of gone, you know?”

All this talk was startling. “Who? What? Where? When? Why? Are you aware of my presence here, Dip? If you haven’t noticed I’m trying to push some damn paper over here, and so you talking less in inane riddles would be a great help.”

“Amelia. That’s who. You should…I don’t know. You are aware…aware of certain…details.”

I was bored with all the shenanigans and the coincidences that were coming to light. I wanted answers, but I didn’t even know the questions. It was a shit deal.

“Sure. I, um, got her letter. For starters though, why was it addressed to somebody else with my address?”

That brought him to life. “Her letter? What? How’s that?”

I decided bullying wasn’t going to get me far enough. I eased up.

“Tell me all about it, buddy. What, did she ditch you out for another dud? Something like that.”

“No. You don’t understand it at all. It wasn’t like that. It was…nothing. Nothing. She’s gone so far away. The farthest of aways. And now they’re coming for me. They’ll knock down my door any night now. I just know it.”

“Sure. Sure. I get it. Same old dull tale. She left you for a trombone player. The kind of guy who starts his morning out in the afternoon with a few beers. Well, them’s the breaks. No need to get all shifty over it. Hate the hater not love’s game, right? Shit. The more you know ‘em the less you understand ‘em. And now some no-gooders are after you for the balance. Well, park it on over here, buddy. Let’s make her mistakes count.”

“No. No. That’s…hell. Think what you want about it. But the kids. That’s what gets me. Why the kids? So much damn fussing over so little. It’s all just a fucked-up shame. Damn. And now I’m stuck with this ineffable missing. It’s all I’ve got. Duking it out with God and little children.”

I was running out of responses, so I ventured some support: “Arguing theology is good for kids. They eat that stuff up. It’s the Cocoa Puffs of debate.”

“Prove it to me.” He flinched here, some. His face was all bloated and lobster red. “Besides, my raison d’être has gone so far away.”

“Your what?” I hated this sort of talk. It got you nowhere, slower. “Listen, you mayor of Shit Town. I meddle around, sure. But it’s all a lot of hands-off stuff. Hey. Up here, dingbat. Hi, there. Would you mind prying your eyes from your shoes for a minute?”

He did one of those admonishing squints of his, and then scowled up. He was in the mood for blurting; I could tell. He blurted out, “I love the smell of the world after it rains.”

“Could you quit the non sequiturs and just try to focus here? Pretty fucking please with ice cream and cake and god damn cherries on top? Whether you like it or not, we are in this fucking thing together. Just a tad of concentration while I attempt to organize a getaway. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You got…concerns. I get it.”

“Oh, well, yippee-motherfucking-kazoo! We’re cruising on stun again.” I love mincing words for effect with my clients. It’s the best tough guy act in town. “Let’s throw a pool party and get liquored up with the safety inspectors. Shit. I don’t know what sort of Shinola act you’ve got going on, but…”

“Fuck…you.”

“Ha. Fuck me? You? Seriously, you are desperately in need of some tiptop head shrinking. Wish I could help you, pal. But that’s not my area of expertise. What I am here to do, you do realize, is put you on the next fucking train out of town.”

“A train. You think I’m getting on a train?”

“It’s a fucking metaphor, you lily of a red river valley, you. God. You are just reeking with the sound and the fury of it all, aren’t you?”

I was cracking my knuckles under my desk like some grade-schooler who’s just discovered a way to gross out other kids.

“But you can get me out, safely, right?”

“Well, I’m not going to cross my heart and hope to die over it or anything, you know? But old Hal’s got longer sleeves than you’d think, and more up them than David fucking Copperfield. Shit. I’ll turn you into a fly-over state guy if I have to. Oh, and by the way, we are most definitely not depending on the fucking kindness of strangers here, okay?”

He sits there. Grunting, doing some sort of facial exercises or something, and then that stupid bullshit grin again. It’s all getting a tad too sentimental for my taste.

“Fuck you, you grim asshole. I’m through hunting up strangers to fill your place and time with. Even Hal’s got his limits, shyster. Shit. Just listen to me. I’m talking like a deranged Tupperware-party girl again. Shit. I’m taking cruise control off. I’m boogieing on to bigger things. You hear that? You won’t have to see me for a pregnancy. Congratulations.”

“You sure can talk, can’t you?”

He just sits there, of course. A born thumb twiddler. That dopey dunce look on him. That boring lift of his brows. I wasn’t going in for any of it anymore. It was all an act, and a crappy one at that.

I got Marnie on the horn and told her to check the address of one Col. Jefferson Sanderson. She said, “On it, boss,” and hung up. I felt terrible about everything except for myself. I was quite content with who I was in the universe, in the space and time of that moment, and I laughed into my fist a bit before scanning back to the befuddled wannabe escapee from the tangles of love’s most morose music who just so happened to be sitting across from me and staring daggers at a picture on my wall.