chapter sixteen
Jack phoned Ray the next morning.
“Call your guy and tell ’im you don’t need a fryer.”
“Why would I do that?” asked Ray.
“My mother died yesterday, and believe me, she never ate a baloney sandwich in her life. Give me a little time, and I’ll have no problem settling up with you.”
Fuck me, thought Ray.
John Potter sang “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” as he picked up his sports jacket from the back of a kitchen chair.
“Your mother’s dying. Couldn’t have happened at a better time,” called out John.
“What?” asked Peggy from a first-floor bathroom.
She downed a mini bottle of Smirnoff and came into the kitchen. John finished off a cup of coffee.
“You didn’t run off with a drug dealer who left you high and dry in the middle of nowhere,” said John.
“I didn’t?”
“No, you were in Illinois taking care of your mother. You were sworn to secrecy because the Queen didn’t want anyone to know she was sick.”
“Are you talking about Muriel or Liberace?”
“I bet we can squeeze some press out of this,” said John. “Fix yourself up. No, don’t; it’s better that you look like shit.”
Later the same day, Tania met Christopher for cappuccino at the Mad Chatter Cafe in Dinkytown.
“The job at Mom’s is good, really good,” said Tania between sips of coffee.
“I’m going to New York,” said Christopher.
“Great,” said Tania. “For how long?”
“For . . . ever.”
Tania let out a “WHAT?!” Coffee came out her nose.
“I’m moving there.”
“What about your apartment? What about your job at Kinko’s?”
Tania paused.
“WHAT ABOUT US?”
“Come with me. We’ll get a place, have shitty jobs, and audition for Broadway shows.”
Tania shook her head.
“You’re moving to New York.”
“No, we’re moving to New York.”
Jack, John Potter, Billy Rawson, Paul Brodie, Muriel’s hairdresser, Marco, and her accountant, Lenny Shapiro, carried her coffin into the granite chapel at Pinewood Cemetery in St. Paul. A Roman Catholic priest waited beneath an arched, stained glass window; the men rested the casket on a bier in front of him. Attendees filed in, and Jack assumed a place between Cora and his sister, Peggy.
“You remember Father Johnson, don’t you, Jack?” whispered Cora.
After offering a sequence of prayers, the cleric reflected.
“I met Muriel Rawson thirty years ago when I was a young priest at St. Augustine’s Parish. I ran the teen club there.”
Jack thought, Hey, that’s the guy who booted me when those poker patsies said I stacked the deck.
Father Johnson continued, “One night, I phoned Muriel to have a little talk about her son, Jack.”
The crowd chuckled.
“Over the years, we stayed in touch. I tried to get her to come over to our side, but Muriel, as many of you know, had a mind of her own. She said she had her own religion.”
That’s right, being a fucking bitch was like a religion to her, thought Peggy.
Father Johnson continued, “We talked about social issues and agreed that with more parents working, kids needed a place to go after school where they could do their homework, hang out, and stay out of trouble. From those conversations, plans for the Muriel Rawson After-School Center came into being.”
THE WHAT?! thought Muriel’s son and daughter.
Jack and Peggy caught up with Paul Brodie on the road leading down to Muriel’s gravesite.
“What’s this Center bullshit about?” demanded Peggy.
Just then, a garage door underneath the Pinewood Chapel opened, and a Bobcat 310 utility vehicle backed onto the road. Muriel’s coffin was strapped onto the forklift attached to the front of the vehicle. The Bobcat waddled down the hill toward Jack, Peggy, and Brodie. The coffin rocked from side to side.
Muriel would roll over in her grave if she saw this, thought Brodie.
“You each get ten grand,” he said to Peggy and Jack.
“Are you shitting me?!” exclaimed Peggy. “What about the rest?”
“Cora gets the house, Billy gets his education, and the Center gets everything else.”
Brodie paused.
“You should have been nicer to her.”
Jack watched the Bobcat lurch down the hill.
He thought Life’s like a cigarette butt swirling around in a toilet bowl.
Later that night, Jack hunched over the bar at the Boozery with his eyes closed and his head propped up by his elbow. Bruno, the bartender, shook Jack’s shoulder; he opened his eyes and lifted an empty shot glass in the air.
“Hey, I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t,” answered Bruno.
Around the same time, Tania left Bobby Steinberg’s acting class and boarded a number 17 bus for home. She got off at Hennepin and 26th a little after 11:30 p.m. Tania walked the two blocks to her apartment building. She opened the vestibule door and climbed the stairs to the first landing.
“I’ll be right there, Jimmy,” called up Tania to the third floor.
She stopped.
“Oh, shit, I forgot the cat food.”
Tania headed out of the building and over to the Gas Hole’s convenience store. She pulled open the door beneath the neon sign that read OPEN 24 HOURS. Tania scanned the aisles. She turned toward the checkout counter to address the cashier and noticed a bulky figure crouched in front of the shelves of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals.
Is that Jack? thought Tania. It’s big and bald enough to be Jack.
“Where’s the cat food?” she whispered to the cashier.
“WHAT?” he asked.
“I’m looking for the cat food,” articulated Tania.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I did, but you didn’t hear me.”
“Are you sayin’ I’m deaf, lady?”
Jack wheeled around, saw Tania, and grinned.
“Hi.”
Tania glanced at him then shifted her gaze to the cashier.
“Bottom shelf, end of the middle aisle.”
She followed the cashier’s directions to a box of Feline Feast Savory Ocean Grill.
Tania bent over, picked up the cat food, and looked back toward the checkout counter. Jack was loading items onto the area in front of the cash register.
“Hey, lady, are you planning to pay for that cat food or do I need to call the cops?” shouted the cashier.
Tania took a couple of dollars from her purse and got in line behind Jack. The cashier called out Jack’s purchases as he rang them up.
“Sinus Ease, aspirin, petroleum jelly, Bleed-end, cotton swabs, and breath mints. Man, you must be really fucked up,” said the cashier.
He bagged the items. Jack paid and stepped to the side of the register. He eyed Tania and fumbled with the sack and his change. Tania put the cat food and her money on the counter; she stared straight ahead. Jack shifted his weight from side to side; he leaned over and whispered in Tania’s ear.
“Take me home with you.”
Tania stared straight ahead.
“Hey, asshole, leave the lady alone,” said the cashier.
Jack left. The cashier handed the bagged cat food and her change to Tania. She blinked.
“Thank you.”
Tania left the convenience store and looked up and down the street. She spotted the magenta neon sign for the Boozery and made her way inside. She took a seat at the bar.
“What can I get you?” asked Bruno.
“A shot of Southern Comfort.”
Bruno poured the shot and set it in front of Tania. She put two dollars on the bar and got up off her seat. Tania headed for the door.
“Hey, is there something wrong with the drink?” asked Bruno.
“No, I just don’t want to walk with a limp the rest of my life.”
The next morning, Tania went to work at Mom’s. At 6:30 a.m., Dave Kerber came through the door and took a seat at the end of the counter. Tania picked up a stack of pancakes from Junior and recited Dave’s to-go order before he placed it.
“A toasted onion bagel with strawberry jam, a cup of regular coffee with one cream, and two packets of poison,” said Tania. “Sugar substitutes cause cancer in rats, you know.”
“Yes, you told me that yesterday,” said Dave. “Anyway, I’m not a rat.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Tania delivered the pancakes and went behind the counter. Tania put Dave’s bagel in the toaster and poured his coffee into a to-go cup.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No,” answered Dave.
“Oh.”
She put the coffee, creamer, and sugar substitute into a bag.
“Do you drink?”
“Sometimes,” answered Dave.
“Oh, dear, do you drink a lot?”
“No.”
Tania handed two paper sacks to Dave. He handed her a five-dollar bill.
“Keep the change.”
“That’s too much,” said Tania. “Your bill is only $2.19.”
“I’m gonna give you a little business advice, Tania. When someone gives you a tip because you did a good job, take it and say thank you.
“You’re not a drug dealer, are you?”
“No, I’m not a drug dealer.”
“Good. Oh, and thank you.”
A few nights later, Jack picked up an envelope from a pile of bills and junk mail on the floor of his office. He set the letter on his desk and poured some coke on it. He put the end of a rolled-up dollar bill to his nose and noticed the name on the return address.
“Who the hell is Tashi Lhundup, and what’s the Berkeley Tibetan Buddhist Society?” questioned Jack aloud.
He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside; a cashier’s check for $2,731.82 dropped onto his desk. He picked up the phone and called Ray; there was no answer. He left a message. He called the Paradise Lounge. Ray was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. He left his office and approached Bunny the cashier.
“Hey, gorgeous, I’ve been thinking about you,” said Jack.
“You’re wasting your time. I don’t have any coke and I don’t have any money.”
“Well, can I borrow your car?”
“It’s closing time, Jack; how the fuck am I supposed to get home?”
Bunny dropped off Jack in front of the Paradise Lounge and sped away. He tore through the front door and yelled to Gloria, the barmaid.
“I’ve gotta see Ray.”
“I told you; he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”
Just then, Ray left his office with Jim Folger from the IRS; he put his arm around Jim’s shoulder.
“How long have we been friends?” asked Ray.
“We met outside the principal’s office at St. Augie’s. You’d drawn a penis on Sister Mary Vita’s blackboard, and I was waiting for my mom to pick me up cuz I had the flu.”
“When I had the flu,” said Ray, “my old lady gave me a shot of whiskey and pushed me out the door.”
The pair spotted Jack; he pulled the cashier’s check from his shirt pocket.
“I’ve got the money, or at least most of it. Randy, that’s not his name anymore, sent me close to three grand, and I’ve got another ten coming to me.”
He looked at Folger.
“What are you doing here?”
Jack whispered to Ray.
“You know this guy?’
“Yeah, I do.”
“You got tax problems?”
“Are you gonna tell ’im, Jim, or am I?” asked Ray.
“You tell ’im,” answered Folger.
“Jack, it doesn’t matter how much money you give me. Your restaurant’s getting struck by Jewish lightning.”
Ray checked his watch.
“It should be happening right about now. My brother Alphonse is gonna build a big condominium with shops underneath right where that fart infested bean palace of yours used to be.”
“There are gonna be shops underneath?” interjected Folger. “That’ll be nice.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” asked Jack.
“I’ll answer that,” said Folger. “We don’t like you, Rawson. We haven’t liked you since freshman year of high school. You strutted around the teen club with your nose in the air.”
“And blew your own horn,” added Ray.
“You acted like your shit didn’t stink. You cheated us at cards, and you cheated on sweet little Cathy Callori,” continued Folger.
“Wait a minute,” demanded Jack.
Folger cut him off.
“She thought she was your girlfriend until she went to the movies and saw you making out with Ingrid Olson. Do you know what she did, Jack? She went home and swallowed a whole bottle of aspirin. Her parents had to have her stomach pumped. So, when your file came across my desk, I called Ray.”
“Who’s Cathy Callori?” asked Jack.
“She’s my wife,” said Ray.
