Imagine My Surprise! (16)

In which Kurt breaks all the way bad.

Read earlier installments.

16. Sniffs Opportunity

So, I got the house on Potrero Hill. After my people had done their dubious assessments, I got it for about a hundred thousand under the reverse mortgage appraisal I had ginned up originally, what with the “bad pipes” and “old foundation”.

I decorated the place tastefully minimalist, with simple antiques and artfully distressed furniture here and there, a touch of fifties modern, a thoroughly functional Iron Chef-class kitchen, roofed outdoor hot tub, reclaimed redwood deck, and a contemporary garden with native flora, a tiny patch of lawn, and a small herb garden. The fifty-year-old willow on the back of the property was so draping and sturdy that we hung a rope bench swing under it. From the high point in the backyard, you could see over the fence to the top of the buildings of downtown. Sometimes, you could even see the white-hot beacon on top of the TransAmerica Pyramid.

Dolly moved in with me. It’s hard to describe our relationship. I wasn’t capable at this point of real love, not any more, not after the accumulated hurts and setbacks of an entire adulthood of loving and losing. I had so little functional heart left that the working chambers remaining were relegated to my sister and the thin instinct to stay alive. Well, and there was one dark chamber that held a private altar of regret, death, and unrequited fulfillment.

But Dolly was a piece of work in the most stereotypical “Kurt’s girlfriend” fashion. Horny, hedonistic, sassy, smart and morally corrupt, all wrapped up in a witty, ironic package. Think of a debauched and slightly worn Salma Hayek, with close to the same acting ability — just not on screen. We had a lot of fun, and we skirted serious issues with a healthy amount of conscious avoidance, liquor and drugs.

In that sense, we were happy.

Around this time, the U.S. congress started passing legislation that curbed the very predatory mortgage practices that had made me well-to-do, and business began to fall off. Damnable liberal nanny-state, damnable checks and balances.

Then something weird happened.

I was at my office in the Dogpatch one day when an old man in a gray suit graced my office doorway. I was unusually sober at the office that afternoon, reviewing a highly leveraged appraisal that Franks had sent me. The man in the gray suit tapped lightly on the door frame.

“Kurt Houston?” he inquired.

I looked him up and down. Maybe seventy, longish hair for an old white lawyer; I detected an edginess right away.

“You’re not trying to serve papers to a Kurt Houston, are you?”

He chuckled. “Heh heh. No. You’re not in any trouble. But this is a grave matter. Can I close the door?”

I looked at him: serious but congenial. Past him, I saw Bart and Clara leaning from their desks trying to see what the man was up to. I waved him in. “Sure. Close the door. Take a seat.”

He quietly shut the door and sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk, briefcase on his knees. He said soberly, “My name is Laurence Potts. I’m the attorney for the late Hobson Sward.”

I did a mental double-take. “Late? Late Hob Sward?”

He adjusted himself in his seat. “Hob passed last week.”

This caught me totally off guard. Hob was an old friend. He was also my coke dealer, my longtime connection. I’d wondered why he hadn’t answered my calls lately. This was all a shock.

“Hob is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Hob is dead?”

Mr. Potts shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mr. Houston.”

I looked at him — through him. Twenty years of lurid memories shot through my head all at once. “How?”

“He found out he had brain cancer and killed himself the same day. Pistol.”

Talk about a long moment. We looked at each other and he let me take it in. I was floored. Gobsmacked.

Potts sighed. “I was a good friend of Hob’s, too. I, well, saved his ass for about four decades…if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

I’m not sure a warm relationship was possible with old Hob, but I thought I had a close one. We had been seeing each other on a nearly weekly basis for twenty coke-filled years. Also, being a collector of quality junk, he’d lent me props for just about every show I’d ever put up, back when I cared about such things. He was a great dealer because he was consistent, had a set schedule, and was interesting to hang out with as he weighed the product. He was a prolific artist — he painted life-size nudes of women. He had a hundred hanging on racks in his flat. He collected and restored old furniture. His abode was a madman’s lab of vintage furnishings and outdated gadgets, like your crazy uncle’s garage. He was legendary amongst my friends.

But why was this guy really here?

“Offed himself, huh? Is it okay if I smoke?”

“Fine.”

I exhaled a plume toward my open window. “Sounds like Hob. Always the realist.”

“Indeed. That’s what everyone says when they get the news.”

“So…why are you here? Laurence, is it?”

“Larry, Kurt.” He clicked open his case and brought out some papers. “Hob left you some money…and something else.”

He held up a small key.

Whoa. “What?! Really? That’s a safe deposit box key? Weird. What’s in it?”

“Ninety-two thousand in cash.”

I coughed. And coughed. “Fuck! I knew it! There was no way that guy could spend what he was making.”

“The money was only a small part of what Hob had squirreled away.”

“Okay, so … money. What’s the something else?”

“A Glock nine-millimeter — the very Glock that took his life. Took a while to get it back from S.F.P.D., but I know people. Also…” Laurence paused. “And he left you his business. If you want it.”

Silence. Moments thudded by. I didn’t know how to process this.

“His business?”

“Well, while he was the last person to display affection to anyone, he was apparently quite fond of you. He still has product to get rid of and clientele that needs service. Whether you want the business or not, he left you the product. But he left instructions that should you want to continue in his stead, his connection would be ready for you, and his clients will be assured you are safe to call. You probably know some of them.”

“Indeed.” I ruminated, looking at Larry, then down at my hands, then back at Larry. “Well, fuck me in the ass with a crowbar. How much product did he leave?”

“Ten — well, now, nine — ounces.” Cheshire grin, then he added. “There’s a half pound of grass. And of course, his…well, what you might call his rolodex.”

We gazed at each other. I rolled my office chair over to the wooden cabinet next to the desk, opened the door and found the bottle of bourbon. I brought out two chilled glasses from the mini fridge freezer and set them in front of us. I poured; he said nothing. As I gulped mine down in one shot, he slid his over slowly and tasted it, took a sip. I poured another glass.

Larry said, “Also, as I understand it, the profit margin in reverse mortgage brokering is about to fall drastically.”

I nodded my head. “It’s true. I can’t believe I used to be a Democrat.”

“Maybe this is a chance to supplement your income.”

I smirked. “What was Hob taking in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He didn’t blink. “He wasn’t just a gram here and there sort of guy. He was actually moving sizeable weight to very connected people on a regular basis.”

“He always seemed kinda small-time.”

“He was small enough to stay under the radar, big enough to be happy, and to keep his nieces and nephews on the other coast happy. Cleared fifty a month, give or take.”

“Well, well, well.”

“Yeah, not too bad for a guy who barely left his house.” Larry put the papers on my desk. “There are a lot of movie stars and politicians in the Bay Area.”

“So…I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but I’m not sure signing papers for this sort of thing is exactly…prudent.”

He downed the bourbon, reached over and poured himself some more. “You’re signing for the safe deposit box. The money is all legit…after some considerable effort.”

I slid the papers my direction and gave them a look. It was kind of like a receipt. A receipt for a couple decades of friendship. Like Hob himself, it all seemed like business. But like I’d half-surmised through the years of deals and late-night visits, we actually were friends.

Hob was gone. Shit.

It would’ve been awkward to say something like, I’ll have my lawyer go over this friendship payoff from my drug dealer and get back to you. As a professional reader of people, I knew this guy was solid, solid like Hob was solid. The language was simple. I found a ballpoint and signed it in blue, sliding it back to this Larry character. Looking at him more closely, I realized I’d bumped into him at Hob’s place during a pick-up.

Laurence Potts looked at the papers, then stuffed them in his briefcase, closing it with a snap. Reaching into his suit pocket, he produced an envelope and put it on the desk, setting the safe deposit key on top of it. “That’s the safe deposit box paperwork, bank card and key.”

“Alright.”

He poured himself another quick one and downed it. “I miss Hob, Kurt. I wish the fucker hadn’t made me his executor.”

“He was extraordinary.”

Larry turned to leave. “Don’t wait too long making a decision about the business. Before the end of the week, if you please. And, depending on what you decide, maybe I’ll be seeing you around.”

“We’ll see.” As he left, I said, “Can you close the door behind you?”

The door clicked shut. There I was in my little office, with my future facing me in the form of a little key and a white envelope on my desk: ninety-two big ones in cash, a felonious package of drugs, a Glock and a notebook full of numbers that could bring down the California government.

There was a timid knock on my door.

“I’m not here!” I shouted. I lit a cigarette and looked out the window at the tiny garden. I could hear Bart hammering a client on the phone in the other room.

Fucksake. Death kept altering my trajectory. And just when I started to worry about keeping my employees employed, an answer came. A dark, dark answer.

An iridescent green hummingbird lighted on the window sill.

Blowing his brains out was about as surprising as Hemingway or Hunter Thompson doing themselves in. It made you sad, but also a little impressed. He died as he lived: on purpose.

Playing the role of Drug Dealer was my final project, and I did it largely in the spirit of wrong-headed loyalty to the idea of Hobson Sward.

~~•~~

The day after Hob’s lawyer paid me a visit, I went down to the bank to check out the safe deposit box. I was presented with a metal box, bigger than you see in the movies, inside of which was an old-fashioned leather briefcase. The bank clerk left me alone with it in a secured room. I opened the case, quickly looked through it and decided it would be more prudent to do this elsewhere.

Alone at home on Potrero Hill, I fixed myself a whiskey, lit a smoke and sat down with the briefcase before me on the big dining room table. I was nonplussed to say the least. I breathed in the battered leather, a kind of deep, woody, oily smell. Clicking open the latch, I slowly opened the case. Inside were two rectangular plain-wrapped packages, a triangular chamois cloth bundle, and a stuffed manila envelope. I went for the chamois cloth, immediately guessing that it was his gun — the suicide weapon. I unwrapped it and held the pistol, ejecting the clip. Empty. Also in the cloth was a loaded clip and a box of 9mm rounds.

I spoke to the gun: “So you’re the culprit.” It was a fine specimen. I remember getting gooseflesh. I put the pistol down and grabbed one of the brown paper packages. I hefted it before tearing the paper away: four stacks of hundred-dollar bills. I’d never seen so much physical cash at one time. It made my dirty greedy heart go pitter-pat. I toasted the stacks of money, sipping bourbon. “Fuckin’ aye.”

The other paper-wrapped package was half the size and considerably lighter. This of course turned out to be my dealer starter kit. It was a pint-sized chunk of pearly white cocaine, double-wrapped in a Ziploc bag. I opened and smelled it. Yep, that would be it. I broke off a crumb, crushed it on the coffee table with a credit card and whiffed it with a bill.

Holy Jesus, it was good!

Lastly, I picked up the manila envelope and unclasped it. Out slid a very worn pocket-sized black address book, tabbed with colorful post-its and tattered scraps of paper. I cracked it open; it was filled busily with the names, addresses and numbers of clients, a book from a different age, when people wrote things down. Many of the names were familiar. It was a dangerous book to even own. Names and numbers were crossed out, as though he’d updated the book for decades or more. Inside, there was a single sheet folded in half with ‘Kurt’ written on it. I flipped it open and spread it on the coffee table. His fluid hand bore me this note:

Kurt —

Seems stories of my demise —

Fuck me. I had to stop. It was that note. It was hard to take, so I set the paper aside, poured myself another bourbon on the rocks and smoked a cig on the porch. I looked out at The City and my eyes bent to the place down the hill, maybe eight blocks distant, where Hob wrote this note that I was about to read, before he shot himself in the head.

I thought life was crazy then, but I truly didn’t know shit about nothing.

In any case, I went back inside, braced myself, and started again.

Kurt —

Seems stories of my demise finally haven’t been exaggerated, eh? Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, but you know me — no Mr. Sentimental. Hope the money helps out, and the rest of my stash. Do what you want with it. Also, enclosed is my little black book. This is more for reference — and leverage — than anything. If you decide you want to take over the family store, then call Larry and the clients will come to you. Larry will supply you with the name and number of my source. If you decide not to take over the family store, just give the book to Larry and I’ll see you on the other side.

Right.

I’m not sure if Larry will be able to get my gun back. If he did, I want you to have it because I think you are one of the few people who will understand my choices — and me — after I’m gone.

So it goes —

Hobson

I’m not gonna lie and say I didn’t shed a tear.

Folding the letter, I put it back the address book. On the table before me was a picture perfect narco bust: a gun, money, coke and an address book with the names and numbers of politicians, rock stars, doctors, lawyers, and yes, beggarmen and thieves.

I gazed at the money. What to do…

I decided not to touch the money for the time being. I wrapped it back up and sealed it tightly with masking tape. I went into the garage, dug into the mess, and found an empty plastic detergent canister with a lid. Upstairs, I double-wrapped the money in a garbage bag and sealed it with duct tape. Then I did it again. I put this inside the plastic detergent canister. Next, I took the gun in the chamois cloth upstairs to the study, where I kept my gun cabinet. I unlocked it and fished out a can of gun oil. I saturated the cloth with the oil and wrapped the loaded Glock inside it, putting this bundle inside a waterproof red vinyl pistol case. I also threw in a fifty-round box of 9mm hollow points. Zipping this up, I took it downstairs and wrapped it in another plastic bag and wrapped that with more duct tape. I placed this atop the money in the squat plastic detergent container. There was a little room left.

I was quite cognizant that I was packing this treasure for the future, and in that future, I might need this money in a very desperate situation. I was thinking in noir film logic, and gangsters always hid the loot with a gun, just in case. I was betting that the future me, in such a dire circumstance, might need a drink, so I found a pewter flask (a best-man’s gift with Kurt engraved on it), filled it with 18-year-old scotch and put this in a plastic bag.

I pictured myself, ten years from now with the mob or police on my tail; I pictured myself limping into my backyard, wounded in my leg or shoulder. I dig up the cash and unwrap the gun just in time to blow away the bad guys. Uncapping the flask, Future Me toasts the Mafia corpses I just made, and I take a gulp to kill the pain in my bleeding leg, saying, “Sorry, boys, just had to dig up an old friend.” And I flick my cigarette at their bodies. Music swells. Credits roll.

As ridiculous as this was, I continued putting together the package, placing the flask on top and stuffing crumpled newspapers to pad in the extra space. Sealing the plastic canister with its airtight lid, I duct taped the lid closed, then the entire package; then I wrapped this in a garbage bag and taped it tight. I toted this out to the backyard and took a look around for a likely place that might not be disturbed even by future tenants. The backyard was terraced, with a deck attached to the house and a small lawn and indigenous bushes. Next to this was the hot tub, and some switchbacks led up the hillside to a wooden bench under the big willow, creating a comfy niche from which you could see downtown San Francisco and the Bay. The bench had a little brass plaque affixed to it that read: In Loving Memory of Athel Dillon Houston and Faith Ann Kienel. Dad and Mom, divorced in life, together in death.

Their ashes were mixed in a stone box buried under the bench. California poppies were everywhere.

So, shovel in one hand and my criminal time capsule in the other, I trudged up the hill.

When I got there, I said, “Hey, Mom and Dad…want some company? Meet Hob.”

I moved the bench aside and dug down. It didn’t take long to hit the green marble box that held their ashes. This green marble box itself had been shrink-wrapped in thick clear environmentally-resistant plastic. I set mom and dad on the bench. “Take a breather, you guys.” I had to dig a considerably bigger hole for Hob’s container. About a half-hour later I had a four-foot-deep hole, three feet in diameter. With little fanfare, I placed Hob’s money-gun-scotch time capsule in the hole and covered it with a layer of dirt, packing it with my feet. On top of this, I placed Mom and Pop.

“Rest in peace, all y’all. Hey, Mom and Dad — if you think about it, I finally paid you back all that money I borrowed…with interest. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

I finished reburying them, stamping the dirt as hard as I could, sloughing the extra in the bushes near the fence. I scattered some leaves and sticks and humus over the spot and replaced the bench. I sat on it and lit a cigarette.

I had a good cry, and when I wiped my face the tears were muddy.

“Oh, well.”

I pulled Laurence Potts’ card from my wallet, read the number, and made the fateful call.

Thus, I began the life of a drug dealer.