Something for Nothing (15 page)

But she also told him he'd have to pay her twenty-five dollars to leave with her and that she wanted it before they left. She wrote it on a napkin: $25. Then she indicated that he should give the money to the man who was standing out in the street next to another young woman, also Mexican. He had his arm around this other woman, talking into her ear, and he was pointing at someone or something down the street. She was wearing very short cut-off jean shorts, platform shoes, and a red tank top.

At first Martin was confused, but then he understood. Of course,
he thought. The idea that this young woman found him attractive or interesting, even if those qualities were connected to his money or his status as an American, was laughable. He was just some ridiculous pig from the U.S., one who was completely oblivious to the realities of her life here in Mexico—her struggles, her feelings, her dreams. But still, he thought in his drunken state of lustfulness (a state he recognized even as it overtook him and clouded his thinking), here she was. When would he get a chance like this again? If he didn't take advantage now, what would he think later on? He'd think he was a fucking fool, that's what he'd think.

And so, reeling a little bit, he stood up and took some money out of his pocket. He really didn't know how much—more than fifty dollars, anyway. “For your muchacho over there,” he said. “Keep whatever you want.” His voice was slurred, he knew, and he felt as if he were on his boat, swaying in an ocean swell. She smiled and put the money into a tiny pocket in her shorts, and gave him her elbow. They went out to the street, and Martin saw her wave to the man, who walked into traffic and hailed a cab for them. The man opened the door of the cab for Martin, and smiled at him with teeth that were all covered with silver and gold caps.

“Tienes suerte,”
he said to Martin.
“Ella es muy buena.”

Martin nodded, not knowing what the man was saying, but eager to get away from him and his metal teeth. He climbed into the cab, stumbling a little bit. Lucille followed, tumbling on top of him. Now that they were alone and in the dark, he felt even more desperate to touch her. He pushed up against her with his hips, practically climbing on top of her. And she was responding in what felt like a real way. She scratched the back of his neck with her nails, pulled his hair. He didn't care if she was faking it or not. And he didn't care if she charged $250 or $25,000. The cab driver watched him in his rearview mirror, but Martin didn't care about that, either. Plus, he realized, he had to keep his eyes open even in the dark, because every time he closed them the world began to spin and he felt sick.

M
ARTIN WAS LYING FACEDOWN
on his bed in the motel room. His mouth tasted of vomit, and he saw that he had in fact vomited over the side of the bed, and even onto the mattress right next to his face. He had a horrific, blinding headache, and he felt that if he moved, he would get sick again. He didn't know how much time had passed or whether the girl—whatever her name was—was still around. What had happened in the interval between riding in the cab and now?

Martin lifted his head and turned over. At the foot of the bed Lucille was pulling her shirt on, but not before Martin saw that her breasts were a smooth light brown, plump and round and perky.

But even as he noticed this he was overwhelmed by his headache and a feeling of nausea. He closed his eyes for a second, felt sick again, and so opened them and raised himself slightly on his elbows. He saw that his pants were down around his ankles and that his shoes were still on. He slumped back against his pillow and the wall, watching as Lucille turned and walked toward the door. She glanced at him—not eye-to-eye, but via a mirror that was attached to a dresser near the foot of the bed. They made eye contact for a second in the mirror, and then she looked away. Her expression was impossible to read: it was neutral, blank. Not angry, not disgusted, and certainly not romantic. Just nothing. She opened the door and shut it behind her with a quiet click.

He stared at the closed door for a minute, not really thinking anything. Then he looked back at himself in the mirror. It was just like in Miriam Weaver's bedroom—though it was also different, of course. But there he was again, watching himself stare out of a bedroom mirror at himself. He looked a little strange, as if it were him but not really him at all.

He couldn't remember anything. One minute they were in the cab, with him desperate to pull her shorts down, and the next minute he was lying in a puddle of his own puke. The fact that his pants were around his ankles was a clue, of course, as was the fact that she'd had her shirt off when he woke up. But had she pulled her shorts on and buckled her shoes just previous to putting her shirt on? Maybe he'd had sex with her with
his pants around his ankles—he'd certainly been in a hurry, from what he could remember. But glancing down at his flaccid penis and fat belly, he had the feeling that nothing had happened at all. She'd taken her shirt off and he'd dropped his pants, but after that . . . nothing.

It wouldn't have been the first time. Once, a few years ago, Ludwig had hired a prostitute and brought her to the office for Martin's fortieth birthday. Martin had never had sex with a prostitute—he'd always been too scared. But he'd gone along with it. What could you do? Beaton and a few other guys had been there, too. It was peer pressure. Plus, he'd been pretty buzzed. She'd taken him into the back room to give him a blow job, but he couldn't get it up. She tried to help him along, but it was hopeless. She'd been cool about it, didn't say anything when they came back out and everyone cheered. But he'd felt humiliated nevertheless, and had often thought he should give it another try—hiring a prostitute, that is—just to prove to himself that he could do it.

Lying there, watching the fan spin slowly above him, he felt disgusted with himself—especially when he thought about how turned on he'd been, how lecherous. Jesus, he was a pig. And the worst part was that it was a lose-lose proposition. Either he'd failed at the very moment when his desires were within reach—sex with one of those incredible young bodies he lusted after—or, worse, he actually
had
managed to get it up and have sex with someone who was basically a teenager, a high school girl.

He stumbled to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. He retched again and again, until his ribs ached. As he retched and coughed, he saw how the toilet was filthy up under the rim with black streaks that looked moldy, and that spoke of months, maybe years of sick Americans hunched miserably over it, paying the price of indulgence.

H
E WOKE UP IN
the bathroom, with Hano kicking him gently in the legs and butt. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said to Martin. “Time for school.”

“Okay,” he said. “All right. I'm up.” But he was embarrassed, especially as his pants were still down around his ankles. He did his best to stand and pull them up. His throat felt raw, and it hurt to talk.

“Christ, Martin,” Hano said, looking at him and smiling. “You look like shit. And it stinks in here, man. It smells like you puked your guts out. Flush the fucking toilet and brush your teeth, and let's get out of here.” He handed Martin a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, and walked out into the bedroom.

Hano looked like shit, too. His round face was puffy and his clothes were almost comically wrinkled. But he didn't look as bad as Martin did. Or at least that's what Martin thought as he stood, his head spinning, looking at himself in the little cabinet mirror in the bathroom. He looked pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He still felt nauseated. There were creases on his face from where he had slept with his cheek on his shirt-sleeve, and his toupee was stiff and matted down on one side—from vomit, he realized. He groaned and pushed his face close to the faucet and splashed water onto his face. He was going to have to pull his toupee off. What would Hano say to that?

Hano stood in the doorway. He grabbed the top of the door frame with both hands and leaned forward, his arms muscles flexing and a smile on his puffy face.

“So,” he said. “Senorita Hot Pants. She was a nice little package. I hope you got inside those shorts before you started puking.”

Martin nodded as he splashed his face with water. “Definitely,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “She was definitely a nice little package.” He struggled through a wave of nausea, putting his hands on the edges of the sink and closing his eyes.

“Yeah?” Hano said. “And?”

Martin took a deep breath, feeling the nausea close at hand. “And,” he said, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes and looking over at Hano, “I definitely got inside those shorts before I started puking.”

Hano smiled again, raising his thick eyebrows. The gesture with the
eyebrows reminded Martin of Gary Roberts, back in Walnut Station. But Gary Roberts seemed like a figure from a life he had lived a long time ago.

Hano nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Mine was good, too. She knew what she was doing. They were pros. Did you see their pimp? That fucking guy with the teeth? Yikes.” Hano imitated the smile, and Martin felt another wave of nausea.

Then Hano was quiet for a second. He put his hands back up onto the top of the door frame, and from Martin's bent-over perspective he looked like he was actually hanging there, straining in silent concentration.

Martin turned off the water and wiped his face with a towel. He wondered if brushing his teeth was going to make him throw up again.

“Listen,” Hano said. “Let's go get some of that hot chocolate shit I told you about. It'll kill your hangover. Or it'll help, anyway. And then we've gotta meet Ramirez's guys. The heroin came in last night—or early this morning. It's already packed into the plane. We need to wait until it's dark, of course, but we can fly out tonight, at least—if you're not too sick, that is.” He leaned over and slapped Martin on the back with one of his big Hawaiian hands. “Unless,” he said, moving out of the bathroom now and talking over his shoulder, “you're thinking about staying down here, and moving in with your new girlfriend. Little Miss Mexican Girl, or whatever her name was.”

I
t took almost three days for Martin to recover. He'd felt okay during the flight from Mexico to Santa Barbara—helped Hano unload his half of the heroin, shook his hand, and all that. But by the time he touched down in Hayward he knew he was really sick. He had to run into his office to use the toilet while Val's guys put the rest of the dope into their car (he had terrible diarrhea), and even an envelope with five thousand dollars in it didn't make him feel any better.

He made it home sometime around dawn Sunday morning, but after that he stayed in bed, with the lights off, moaning softly. He couldn't hold any food down, and he was on and off the toilet all day and into the night. He could hear the kids pattering around outside his room, but everything sounded far away. Even when Peter was playing basketball—the hoop was on the other side of the bedroom wall—it didn't really bother him. He just faded in and out of sleep.

At first Linda was furious, both because he'd stayed away an extra day and because he was so obviously hung over.

“What the hell, Martin?” she said. “What did you do down there?” She was disgusted—slept in the guest bedroom, left him to suffer alone in bed during the day. Eventually, though, he managed to convince her that it was the water, that he had bacterial poisoning.

“It's Montezuma's revenge,” he said. And after about twenty-four hours of misery he realized that this was actually the case, which in fact made him feel a little better. He didn't want to think he was quite
that
hung over.

When he finally emerged it was Tuesday, about noon. Linda was home because she'd been cut back to three days a week at work. She was glad for the extra time, but Martin was worried about the loss of income.

“So,” Linda said. “He is risen.”

“Okay,” he said. “I get it. Very funny.”

He was hungry, so she opened a can of soup and warmed it up for him on the stove. The kids were at school; it was their last week of the year. Peter was back in class, and so far everything was okay. No notes or anything like that.

“I waited all day yesterday for the phone to ring,” Linda said. “But I guess it was all right.”

They talked for a while about Mexico and the things he'd supposedly been doing down there but hadn't (his lies were so elaborate that he had to really concentrate). Then they talked some more about the kids, her parents, his dad, the dog, and the other things that comprised their life. Eventually, after some coaxing, he managed to convince her to get back into bed with him for some “afternoon action,” as he put it. She resisted, but she was as ready as he was. It had been a while, and he was reminded of why they were a good match—or had been a good match, anyway, and still could be, at least sometimes.

He was drifting into his usual postsex nap when she said something about someone stopping by the house.

“So your girlfriend came by here the other day looking for you,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” he said, thinking she could be referring to anyone—even the dog that their neighbor brought over to play with Arrow. He was one of those furry things that looked like a sawed-off little husky. “And who am I dating now?” he asked.

“She said they had a break-in. And she needed to borrow some gas.”

Martin was startled into wakefulness at the mention of a break-in, but he kept himself from looking over at Linda right away. He paused, counted to three, then turned his head toward her.

“Wait . . .
who
are you talking about?” he asked.

She glanced over at him from her sitting-up position in bed. “Who do you think?” she asked. “Miriam.”