Preston Falls : a novel (19 page)

Silence. Then a crow starts cawing.

"I thought someday," she says, "you might want to bring your children here, because . . . This is all crazy, isn't it?"

"Of course not."

"Would you know your way back here?" she says. "If you wanted to come sometime?"

"Sure. I actually know this spot. He and I used to come through here hunting."

"Oh dear," she says. "Yes, and I used to worry so about you."

"And all for naught," he says, bright and breezy.

Another move or two and she'll say Shall we? and they'll start back for the house and that'll be that.

"You won't come back here," she says. "You'll forget I ever told you this." She looks back down the hill, toward the old cellar hole. "Well. Shall we?"

He rolls into the dooryard at three in the morning, still buzzed from the coffee he got at the Dunkin' Donuts in Rutland. He lies down on the couch, pulls the comforter over him and picks up Our Mutual Friend. No point in trying to go to sleep until he's cooled out a little. By daylight he's polished it off. Piece of shit, basically.

He gets up, finds The Mystery of Edwin Drood and settles back in, but drifts off into a thing where Jasper in the opium den gets confused with Hildegard Behrens trying to take his pants down, except Willis doesn't know what Hildegard Behrens looks like, so he's using his mother's friend Elaine Cooper for her. It's probably a pun, and he's telling himself he's lost his bearings—that would be about his speed. But at least it's not another thing about the fucking devil.

He wakes to the phone ringing, jumps up and goes running,

"Hey, man," the voice says. "It's Reed."

"Uh-huh? Yeah?"

"What did I, wake you up? Listen, man, you going to come rock and roll tonight?"

"Shit."

"I think I woke you up," says Reed. "You get my messages?"

"I was in New Hampshire. Shit, what time is it?"

"Noon? Something like that. So you remember how to get there, right?"

"I don't know, man. I'm fuckin' beat."

"Yeah yeah. So go back to sleep and we'll see you over there like nine o'clock, right?"

"I don't know," says Willis. "Maybe."

"Hey, we got to have our swingin' guit-tar man. Plus we, ah, have mucho business to discuss, you and me. I got your statement here, which we need to go over together."

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"Shit," says Willis. "Yeah, okay. I may not stay all that late."

"Cool. We'll talk about that too."

Willis pisses away what's left of the day reading Drood and falling asleep and reading more Drood. For what it's worth, he figures out that Datchery, the guy who shows up out of nowhere, has to be Bazzard, Mr. Grewgious's clerk. Who the fuck else can it be? He wakes up from another nap, and it's dark outside. Time to make some coffee and hit the trail. Feels like he's coming down with something. Well, if the coffee wakes him up enough to get there, the drugs will keep him going. Though coming home last week was a little hairy. Still, it's great doing cocaine and playing rock and roll, or even just standing around being high with guitars and shit. No wonder it's such a thing. Bending over to put his boots on, he thinks he should at least change these socks. But.

He stops for gas in Preston Falls, and it's so chilly he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his Raiders cap and sticks his left hand in his pocket while he pumps. And this is only what, the middle of September. Still summer, technically.

When he gets to the farm, the gila monster's glowing on the porch roof and everybody's parked up by the barn. He opens his door to a blast of cold air and the smell of woodsmoke. You can hear them playing what turns out to be "Get Out of My Life, Woman," with real drums. Willis exhales and sees his breath. He's lugged his guitar and amp into the barn as far as the bottom of the stairs, when they finish with a ragged collective whomp.

"Soundin' good!" he calls.

A hand parts the plastic sheeting, and Philip Reed's foxy face appears. "My man. Give me one second.''

Through the plastic Willis sees a blurry form lift a blurry guitar shape over its head. Then out comes Reed and down the stairs; he bats Willis's hand away from the handle of the Twin and carries it up himself. Willis can hear his ragged breathing. "Hell to get old," Reed says. "Here." He parts the plastic for Willis. Inside, the stove has made it stuffy, and everybody's down to t-shirts.

"Hey, how's it going," says the Strat guy.

"Hey," the bass player says.

"Hey, what's happenin'," says the drummer.

"Hey, sounds great," says Willis. "What / heard."

"Missed our swingin' guit-tar man, though," Reed says. "Here, why

don't you get set up. I'll dig out that statement, we'll get that shit squared away and then—rock and roll. Don't forget, you got to do our gig with us. Saturday night." He opens his guitar case. Willis plugs the Twin into the power strip.

"Ah. Here's that rascal." Reed sticks something in his shirt pocket. "Listen, what about some vodka and grapefruit juice? My man Sparky here just did up the last of the pixie dust."

"Fuck you, man," says the drummer. "Like you didn't do none of it."

Reed holds up a plastic jug of Popov. "You want a lot or a little?"

"Sort of medium." Willis kneels on the shag carpeting and snaps his guitar case open. Damned if he's going to show how bummed he is. He slings the Telecaster over his shoulder, plugs into his analog delay— purist that he is, he won't use digital—then into the Twin, flips off the standby switch and plays an E-seventh: how'd he get so out of tune?

"Beautiful." Reed hands him a trembling Dixie cup, full to an eighth of an inch below the brim.

"Jesus," says Willis. He has to take a good sip just to get it under control.

"Hey, it's that little bit extra I always give my clients."

The Strat guy sticks his upper teeth over his lower lip and makes a fart noise.

"Let's go where we can have a civilized discussion," Reed says, nodding toward where the sheets of plastic overlap.

Willis follows him out into the cold dark of the barn and down the stairs, dangling the Dixie cup from his right hand.

"What a night, huh?" says Reed when they get outside. Willis looks up and sure enough: stars and a crescent moon. Bigger or smaller than the last time he saw it? "Here, why don't we sit in the car."

He opens his passenger door for Willis, who reaches across and gets the driver's side for him. Cold in here too. Reed squeezes in behind the wheel and turns on the dome light.

"So." Reed touches the limp rim of his Dixie cup to the limp rim of Willis's. "Better days."

"Cheers." The vodka reeks, like rubbing alcohol.

""That'll put hair on your chest," says Reed. "Okay, so here's the thing." He takes a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and hands it to Willis.

Willis looks at it, then looks back at Reed. "Two thousand dollars^

"What can I tell you," says Reed. "My expenses on this thing—^well.

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you can see." He leans over to Willis and points to a line that says Out of pocket expenditures: $1,050. "The fifty's your fine," he says. "The thousand is what it took to grease His Honor. And the fee, the nine fifty, has to take into account my specialized knowledge of the legal system around here." He turns off the dome light.

"I don't believe this," says Willis. "You're telling me you bribed the judge?"

Reed takes another sip from his Dixie cup. "You were looking at some very serious criminal charges, my friend. And you waltzed out with a fifty-dollar fine. These things take a little doing."

"But you told me they were bullshit charges."

"Bullshit is as bullshit does." Reed laughs. "Christ, whatever that means." Sips again. "Listen, you're a good guy, a horseshit guitar player— almost as bad as I am—and I like having you around, you know? So let's just get this done, go back upstairs and rock out, what do you say?" He takes a good big gulp, ending with the rim of his cup on the bridge of his nose.

"I don't have it," Willis says.

"Come again?"

"I literally don't have it. I've got like a thousand dollars to live on until the first of November."

"Excuse me?" says Reed. "Am I missing something? You're the head gazakis there with Sportif, whatever the fuck you are, chief bottle washer. Your wife, I understand, works full time, you own a house in Westchester, another house up here ..." He shakes his head. "Does not compute."

"And you know what it takes to keep all that shit together?" says Willis. ''Plus car payments, plus bills, plus insurance, plus all the other shit? Two kids in school? Commuting? We're right up to the fucking edge every fucking month. To take this time off—okay?—I had to put a thousand dollars on fucking MasterCard."

"Hey, so there's your answer." Reed raises a finger and says, "Don't leave home without it."

Willis shakes his head. "That thousand brought me up to the limit. I'm paying those bastards like three hundred a month."

"Then I guess you have a problem." Reed takes a long swallow and looks into his empty Dixie cup. "But shit, you know? Maybe it's not as bleak as you think, man. There's that Telecaster, you know what I'm say-

I 3 3

ing? Nice old Fender Twin to go with it? The classic setup. That's got to be worth a few thousand dollars to the right person. And I remember you saying you had a prewar D-18? See, you're in a lot better shape than you think." He crumples his Dixie cup, opens his hand and lets it fall.

"So in other words," says Willis, "you want to take the guitar and amp."

"Tell you the honest truth," Reed says, "I don't like fuckin' Fenders. I don't like the way they sound, and I don't like the way they fuckin' look.'' He takes a pack of Kools out of his shirt pocket, lights up and blows out a cloud of smoke, then cracks his window and flicks the match outside. Willis sees a wave of smoke flow over the edge of the window glass; he breathes in. "Hell, there's got to be another answer to this thing. I mean, I don't want you to have to give up your instruments, man. Like giving up a child"

Willis says nothing.

"Okay, maybe this is stupid, trying to tiptoe up to this. Fm used to dealing with—" Reed tosses his head in the direction of the barn. He takes another drag, blows smoke out. "Okay, what would you say if I were willing to give you a very substantial knockoff on your legal fees? In return for doing me a favor."

"Shit," says Willis, shaking his head. "Okay, let's hear it."

"See, I knew it. Here, let me have that fucking thing." Reed takes the bill out of Willis's hand, puts it on the dashboard and takes another piece of paper out of his pocket. "This look any better to you?" He turns the dome light on again,

Willis takes the paper. Like the other bill, it's typed on Reed's letterhead: Legal fees and expenses, $230. He looks at Reed, who turns up a palm and cocks his head. "I see," says Willis. "Nice. So what's this favor?"

"Oh, pretty straightforward. On your way home tonight, you stop by our friend Mr. Castleman's place and you hand him a manila envelope. Like a—what do you call 'em—padded envelope. Here, Fll show you." He bends forward, grunts, reaches under his seat and comes up with a mailing envelope taped shut with glossy tan tape. He sets it on the console between the seats. "You drop this by Calvin's on your way home, then Saturday night, on your way to our little gig, you stop by again and he gives you a package. He'll help you find a good safe place to put it. And then you just drive on over to the Log Cabin, obeying the

PRESTON FALLS

speed limits and traffic signs as I know you always do, and at the end of the evening, I give you another envelope, which you again bring to Mr. Castleman on your way home. Simple."

"Fuck." Willis looks at the envelope, then takes a too-big gulp from his Dixie cup and gags on it.

"Hey, you okay, tiger?" says Reed. "Let me open a window here." He rolls his window halfway down, crushes out the cigarette on the outside of the glass and tosses it. "Too much excitement," he says. "So what do you think? Not so terrible."

Willis says nothing.

"See, on Calvin's end you're just a neighbor dropping by. And on this end you're a guy showing up to play his gig. Shit, not that anybody's probably keeping tabs. But Calvin did have his little trouble, so the cops are on his case, and of course they'd love to put me away because I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that under our system every person has the right to an attorney."

"Fuck," says Willis.

"But you, see, you're just a regular citizen to them, so your only risk is not showing up with what you're supposed to show up with. Which ain't gonna happen, right? Plus of course you get to share in the bounty, and I know you like the bounty."

He sniffs and flicks at his nose, and Willis feels a jolt of what, in another context, he'd swear was sexual envy. Champ's foot between Tina's thighs.

"Here," says Reed, reaching in his other shirt pocket. "I saved you a little taste."

Willis wakes up with his right cheek in shag carpeting. Head hurts. He looks up at a woodstove resting on cinderblocks. The carpet, he can feel, is made up of many, many little hard artificial fibers. He's got all his clothes on—his boots, even—and somebody's put a stiff blue plastic tarp over him, with metal-rimmed holes along the edges. The tip of his nose is cold, but his clothes and the tarp hold in his body heat. Sick to his stomach, though not to the point of having to vomit. Got to stop doing this shit eventually.

He props up on his elbow, which makes his head hurt so much his eyes water. These headaches must be a brain tumor; they really are not normal. He looks over and sees the drummer lying there. Right, now he remembers: Sparky passed out before he did, not that Willis passed out, strictly speaking.

He has to piss, and his head hurts so much that it doesn't make a shit's worth of difference if he stands up or not. He steals over to the drum set, footfalls noiseless in the carpeting, and looks down. Willis guesses the guy's okay: shoulders seem to be rising and falling. Booze fumes coming up—unless they're coming off him. Willis packs up his guitar and shit, lets the lid of the case down quietly and holds each button thing to the side with his thumb so you don't hear the snap. Pats pockets for his keys.