Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (17 page)

The beeper goes off again, vibrating in Roy’s hand. Same number as before, still unknown to him. It’s certainly not Frankie, and Angela would have punched in Roy’s home phone number. “Fucking kids,” he mutters. Then, to Frankie: “Are you telling me you wanna run a scam on AIDS patients?”

“No, no. It don’t gotta be AIDS, that’s the beauty of this whole thing. Anybody got this situation going, this game will work. I mean, there’s MS, the blacks have that sickle-cell thing …”

For the first time in weeks, Roy can taste the vomit in his throat. Starting low, almost down in his belly, climbing up like a steel worm, poking at his insides. The sting of acid in his mouth, saliva filling his cheeks. He spits, coughs, spits again. Frankie’s still talking, talking about how they can split the proceeds after the insurance scam has been fixed up right.

The beeper, shaking his hand one more time. Vision is blurring, pulsing. The same number as before, and now he has to get to a phone. Just to get Frankie to stop talking. Get to a phone and call this number and whoever it is will help him. Will make the bile go away.

“Gotta call,” Roy coughs, staggering across the street to a bank of pay phones. Frankie, confused, follows. Keeps up with his plan.

Roy throws his change down the slot and dials the phone number. Two rings, warbled. A pickup.

“Roy?” It’s a voice he recognizes. A soothing voice. How did he know that Roy was in trouble? How did he know Roy needed to talk?

“Dr. Klein? Is that—”

“I’m sorry to page you like this,” he says. “I didn’t know if … I didn’t really have a choice.”

Roy doesn’t understand, but he’s glad to have the doc on the phone. Already the acid is sinking back down, canceling out. The saliva is drying up. “It’s good. It’s good. How … how are you?”

“I’m fine, Roy, but that’s not why I called.” His words are clipped. As if he’s angry. “I’m calling about Angela.”

“Angela? She’s at my place.”

A pause from the other end. Roy can hear muffled sobs in
the background. High-pitched sobs. “She’s not,” says Dr. Klein. “Not anymore.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“She’s fine,” Klein assures him. “She’s fine now. A little upset, but … Come down here as soon as you can. You need to pick her up.”

“Where are you?” Dreading the answer. Almost knowing the answer.

“We’re at the police station, Roy. She’s had a long night, and I think she’d like to go home now.”

T
hey’re sitting on the front steps of the precinct when Roy and Frankie pull up to the station. Dr. Klein has his arm around Angela’s shoulders, and she’s fighting back the tears. Her cheeks are red, puffy, stained with salt water.

Roy leaps out of the rented truck, slamming the door behind him, jogging as fast as he can. Doesn’t wait for Frankie to drag his ass out of the passenger seat. As he sprints for the steps, Angela looks up, sees him coming. Throws off Dr. Klein’s arm and runs full bore at Roy, throwing herself into his arms. She’s crying again, great heaving breaths feeding the tears.

“Shhh,” says Roy, stroking her hair, “are you okay? Talk to me, are you okay?”

He feels motion against his chest. Her head, nodding. Not much, but nodding. Roy holds her closer. Moves with her sobs. Wants to wipe the tears away, make everything better. Erase time for her.

Klein approaches. “You got here quickly.”

“What happened?”

“She got picked up.” Dr. Klein sighs. “By the police.”

Angela looks up at Roy, still wrapped in his arms. Her eyes are bloodshot, a thin layer of makeup running down her face in a muddy stream. She tries to speak through the sobs. “I didn’t—I didn’t know …” she starts, breaking down into a new fit.

Frankie saunters over, shaking his head. “She get booked?”

“Frankie,” says Roy, “go sit in the car.”

“What, I’m asking did she get booked, that’s all.”

Klein shakes his head. “No booking. No mug shot. They detained her, that’s all.”

Frankie nods his head. “Good. Lucky, but good.”

Roy’s arms tense around Angela, tightening his grip. If he doesn’t hold on tight, he’s liable to whip around, to let it all out. To grab Frankie by the neck, to strangle out the air. To make him blue. Silence him that way if need be. “Frankie,” he says again, trying to control every syllable. “Go sit in the car or shut up.”

Frankie backs off. Sits himself down on the edge of a concrete planter and watches the scene.

Angela is calming down again, trying to speak. “They … they put me in a cell. With all these people. These … these women, but they were … They kept touching me. They kept trying to …” The words coming harder suddenly, the gasps increasing, “… to touch me …” And she’s off again, crying uncontrollably into Roy’s shirt.

“It was tough in there,” Dr. Klein says. “They had her for at least an hour, in there with a group of prostitutes they’d picked up. I don’t know what happened, but she was screaming when I got here, barely recognized me. She’s had a rough night.”

“You shoulda paged me,” Roy says, stroking her hair, her back,
anything to calm her down. “Hon, you shoulda paged me right off.”

“She didn’t know your pager number. And until she thought to look me up in the phone book … Lucky I was working late.”

“Doc,” he says, “I can’t thank you enough. I mean …” He doesn’t know how to handle this. Doesn’t know the etiquette when your daughter’s been picked up by the cops and your shrink headed down to spring her. “Whatever I can do for you …”

Klein shakes his head. “Nothing. Glad I could help, that’s all.”

Frankie’s back off the planter. “She get fingerprinted?” he asks the doctor.

“That ain’t our concern,” Roy says.

“It’s my concern.”

“No,” the doctor cuts in. “Like I said, just detained. No record of anything.”

Angela breaks away from Roy, wiping her face with her sleeve. “I … I tried the lottery game,” she whimpers. “I was trying it out, like you … like we talked about …”

Frankie throws his arms in the air, shaking his head. “What the fuck? You’re schooling her on
games
now, Roy?”

It’s all moving fast. Roy doesn’t want Klein here for this. He doesn’t want Angela here. He wants it all to go away. “Frankie, keep your fucking mouth shut.”

And Angela’s still trying to explain. “And I guess … I guess the lady, I didn’t know she was a cop …”

“Shh,” Roy says, trying to draw her near again. “It’s okay, it’s all over.”

“Too fucking much,” mutters Frankie.

“Excuse me?”

“Too fucking much.”

Klein tries to step in. “Fellas, it’s late. It’s late, and we’re outside the precinct, and I think it’s just better if—”

Roy pushes Klein aside. “Frankie, you’ll shut up if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, fuck you, Roy. You know what? Fuck you.”

“You wanna say that again?”

“You heard me, you fat motherfucker. Fuck. You.”

Angela’s tears are new now, a fresh crying jag. She backs away from Roy and Frankie as they come closer to one another. Roy’s vision blurring, the delicious pressure hitting him in the temples. Pulsing.

“This is … Let’s calm down. Everyone needs to take a moment’s breath,” suggests Dr. Klein.

No takers. Roy and Frankie are a foot apart and closing. “Why don’t you kiss her, Roy?” says Frankie.

“Shut up, Frankie.”

“Grab her close, kiss her like you know you want to.”

“Shut up. Frankie.”

“Take her home to your bed—”

“You got two seconds to close that mouth—”

“—lay her down, kiss her all over—”

“—or I’m gonna shut it for you.”

Frankie narrows his eyes. “What’s the problem, Roy? Not man enough to screw your own daughter?”

It’s like the barroom fight, like the time he got discharged from the army. It’s a halo of light around Frankie’s head, a giant lightbulb flipped on in the sky. Blinding, powerful. Explosions in
Roy’s skull, like his brain expanding, popping out. No thoughts. No thoughts.

A fist rises through the air, slamming down onto Frankie’s head, crushing his cheek with a powerful blow. Another, raining into his midsection, tumbling him over as he rushes for Roy. The two go down in a heap, rolling along the cracked pavement. Tumbling down the stairs, limbs locked, Roy’s head slamming into the concrete. Doesn’t feel a thing. The pressure is good, the pressure is what he needs. Frankie’s nose, bleeding out, bleeding strong. Blood on Roy’s hands. The light subsiding. It’s good. It’s right.

Somebody, screaming in the background. Some voice Roy recognizes, something he should listen to. But his body continues with the beating, with the punches and the kicks, hard bones into soft flesh. Another scream, this one closer, breaking through. Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, pulling him away. The pressure folding down. The light fading back into night.

“Stop it!” Angela is screaming. “Stop it!”

Klein, pulling Roy away from Frankie, trying to lift his body off the smaller man. Trying to save his life. The halo clearing. The picture swimming back into focus. Roy rolls himself off his partner, onto the ground.

“Get out of here,” Klein says to Roy, helping him to his knees before attending to Frankie. “Go, take the girl.”

A hundred feet away, up by the precinct door, a uniformed officer looks down at the scuffling pair. “There a problem down there?” he calls.

“No problem,” Klein calls back. “We’ll be getting out of the way, Officer.”

The cop doesn’t move as Klein helps Frankie to his feet. His
nose is bloodied, his lips cracked. Bruises are already forming beneath both eyes. His voice is low, morose. Deflated of his earlier bravado. “You call me when you got your priorities screwed on straight,” he says to Roy, staggering off toward the truck. Turns to Angela, points a finger at her face. “And you … you go back to your fucking dolls.”

They watch as he stumbles into the truck and guns the engine. The tires squeal as he shoots down the road, taillights fading into the distance.

Angela slowly shuffles up to Roy, staring down at her feet. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.

He’s too tired to speak. Can barely get the words out. “No, hon.”

She hugs him tight, her arms a belt around his waist. Stays there. “I pulled off a few twenties before I got busted,” she says.

“That’s good, hon. That’s good.”

Dr. Klein drives them home that night. Roy doesn’t know how it happens, but by the time he’s come back to conscious thought, his face is clean, he’s changed into his nightclothes, and he’s lying down in bed with the covers pulled up tight. He hopes Angela is sleeping. Can’t think about what he needs to do. Knows what that thing is, but can’t think about it right now. In the morning, it will all make sense. In the morning, everything will be all right. It always is. It always used to be.

Platform D is filled with travelers heading out into the heart of the country. All types mill around, waiting for their train to arrive, and Roy fights the urge to fix any of them up with a con.
He’s got Angela by the hand. Doesn’t want his thoughts corrupting hers. Not anymore.

“Thanks for coming in with me,” she says.

“Yeah, well … I got nowhere to be.”

“First time in here?”

Roy nods. “I used to take buses. Never been on a train.”

Angela smiles. “You can come with me. See my mom and get in a life experience all at the same time.”

Roy shakes his head. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea. All around.”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“Sometimes it can.” Roy looks down at Angela’s ticket. The train will be leaving in a few minutes.

Angela hikes her duffel bag onto her shoulder. “So when am I coming back?” she asks. She’s been like this all morning, full of questions. Roy’s been evading them as best as he can. “Next week?”

“We’ll play it by ear,” Roy says. “I’m sure your ma wants to see you some, too. You been out here an awful lot.”

“Yeah, I guess. And there’s school.”

“Right. You gotta go to school.”

They walk toward the train in silence, Angela grasping onto Roy’s hand. She stops, looks up at him, a tear welling in the corner of her eye. Ready to drop. “If this is because of the other night—”