I called Xochitl the next day. It was too soon, I knew, but it would be the weekend soon and I did not yet have her home number or even her cell. If I missed her on Friday, the whole weekend would be lost. I explained all of this to her between being dumped for other calls.
She said, “You couldn’t wait, huh?”
“I felt a connection. Give me a number where I can reach you after hours.”
Xochitl put me on hold and left me there for a long time. I fed quarters into the pay phone and listened to an instrumental version of the Carpenters’ “Close to You.” Xochitl came back and almost caught me humming.
She said, “It’s against my better judgment to give out my number, Eddie.”
“Everybody needs to break the rules sometimes, right?”
“You got a pen?”
“You know I don’t, Xochitl. But go ’head, give it to me, I’ll memorize it.”
“You’ll forget it. Just call me at work on Monday.”
“No,” I said, “give it to me. I’ll burn it into my brain.”
Xochitl recited it. I repeated it. We went over the number until I convinced her that I had it on a mental tape.
“Give me a call tonight, but only if the spirit moves you.”
I plopped down at the counter next to Blutarski. He’d invited me out to lunch.
“Big smile,” he said. “Get lucky at the pay phone?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Usually is.” He handed me a menu. “This is the best Polish food anywhere. Order what you like, I’m buyin’.”
I had the chicken. Blutarski feasted on two huge pork chops smothered in gravy, potato pancakes with sour cream, and something called goblacki, which he translated as “cabbage roll.” He ordered a beer. Then another. Then another.
I said, “Guess the secret of your health regimen’s out.”
Blutarski nodded and chewed at the same time, oblivious.
“You eat lunch like this every day?”
“Of course. You need a good meal in you to really work.” He pointed a fork at me. “That might be your problem. You’re not putting a good meal in your belly when it counts.”
Blutarski mopped gravy with bread. With the other hand he held on to a pork chop bone.
I said, “When I was a kid, Italians used to call Puerto Ricans ‘pork chops.’ Like we were the only ones who ate them.”
Blutarski grinned. “I bet that’s not all what they called you.”
We both chuckled. Blutarski ordered another beer and began to pick his teeth. “My wife used to cook this good. Even better.”
“What happened, she retire from the kitchen?”
“She passed away.”
“Sorry.”
Blutarski grunted. “That’s when I start coming here. I used to just go home every day. Twelve o’clock, every day, home for lunch. My wife used to make the best food. Her mushroom soup. . .” Blutarski’s beer came. “It’s tough when you get used to a woman’s cooking.”
“I’ll bet.”
Blutarski tipped his beer. “It’s been four years. Sometimes, you know, I think. . .”
“What?” I said. “Say it.”
“I dunno, Ed. Sometimes I think, maybe I’ll go, I’ll find myself a new woman. One of these old broads whose husband died and left her a house in Jefferson Park or something.”
“Why don’t you?”
“The truth? Romance. I ain’t got the stomach for it.”
“How’s that?”
Blutarski squinted and almost frowned. “A woman, in order to really love a man, she needs to feel that you’re passionate about her. That she’s your everything. That’s the only time a woman really releases everything what’s on the inside, you know? In that place where she really lives. Behind the eyes.”
I picked my teeth. “Boss, I didn’t know you were this sentimental.”
“That’s not it. I’ve just lived so long now. I’m too selfish. I like too much quiet when I get home. I got used to that. The quiet.” He sipped his beer. “I can’t see how I could devote enough attention to any woman now.”
The waitress, a fiftyish Polish woman with a hairnet, thick nylons, and soft shoes, stacked the plates. “OK, Janusz, anything else?”
“Just the check. And a couple pierogis to go.”
The waitress held up the check and a paper bag with the pierogis, a step ahead of Blutarski. He paid and we left.
In the car he continued: “Looking into a woman, Ed, seeing who she is. Making her feel that she’s my passion. I did that already, with more than one. I just don’t think I have it in me for one more round.”
On my way home from the bus stop, I played with the features of my new cell phone, and programmed Xochitl’s number into the phone book. I was thinking about what I would cook for dinner, when I noticed Tony’s Caddy pass. He noticed me, too, because he threw a manic U-turn and came to a screaming halt right next to me. I leaned into the passenger window and put my fist out for Tony to tap.
Tony didn’t tap my fist. “Eddie, I need you to get serious.”
I pulled my fist back. “About what?”
“Not here.” He looked over his shoulder. “Get in.”
“I’m tired, Tony; I need a shower.”
He wrinkled his nose. “You stink.”
“I been at work. You should try it sometime.”
Tony bit the knuckle on his thumb. “I really need your help, Eddie, please. Let me talk to you.”
Tony was sweaty. His pupils were dilated. I climbed into the car.
Tony peeled out and checked the rearview mirror. “They’re all rats.”
“Who, Tony? What’s this about?”
Tony looked at me suspiciously. “Like you don’t know.”
He ripped down a side street and gunned it. He kept checking the rearview mirror.
“Tony, are we being followed?”
“Of course.”
I looked behind us. “I don’t see anybody.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I was confused. “Why do you keep checking the mirror?”
“I wanna see if I still cast a reflection.” Tony looked skyward and crossed himself.
“You wanna see what? How much blow did you do today?”
Tony laughed sarcastically and did not answer. We did laps around the neighborhood, intricate patterns that I imagined were meant to throw our pursuers off the scent. Tony spoke gibberish. His eyes darted. He checked the rearview and scratched himself. He flicked at himself as if to shoo away invisible flies.
“Right there!” He pulled over in front of a church. “In there, Eddie! Come on!”
Tony jumped out, crossed the sidewalk, and checked up and down the street like the Secret Service, with his hand inside his jacket, ready to draw. He ran up the steps, popped his head inside the church, popped back out, and waved at me to follow. I got out of the car and went up the steps, weary. Tony was already inside.
I stood in the back of the church as Tony walked the aisle and checked the pews with his gun drawn. The church was empty save for a woman on her knees by the candles up front. Tony checked behind the three doors of the confessional. He walked up on the altar and looked up toward where the organist would sit. He put the gun away and tucked in his shirt, though he still looked disheveled.
He pointed at a pew. “You can kneel if you want.”
I went to the last pew. “On my ass’ll do. What’s this all about?”
Tony passed me and went to the bowl of holy water near the entrance. He made a cup with his hands, scooped water, and splashed it across his face. He apparently emptied the bowl, because he went to the bowl on the opposite side and repeated the act, pushing his hair back with holy water, matting his goatee. He sat in the second-to-last pew, in front of me.
I studied his face in the light of the church. His pupils were very dilated. His nostrils looked raw.
“Seriously, Tony, how much blow?”
“Never mind that.” He pulled his jacket off and tossed it. The gun was in its shoulder holster. He looked at me and tried to turn the tone of his conversation on a dime. “So, um, how you been, Eddie? You holdin’ it down?”
“Whyn’t you tell me why you brought me here?”
He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered to himself. Finally, he said, “They’re watching me. They’re probably watching you too.”
“Who, Tony? Coltrane and Johnson?”
Tony sat up straight. “Are they involved in this too?”
“In what, Tony? What the fuck are you so worried about?”
He looked over both shoulders, then said it: “Vampires.”
At first I thought he meant it as a metaphor. Like, Roach and his crew were such bloodsuckers they were almost vampires. Coltrane and Johnson roamed the night like vampires.
Tony said, “I’m talking about the real thing.”
“Real?”
“Yes.”
“Like vampires from Transylvania? With the fangs and shit?”
“Exactly. They been after me for the longest. They’re jealous. I can feel their little yellow eyes.”
Tony’s dementia was in full swing. I looked at the giant cross up front. Jesus’ face looked serene, despite the wounds.
Tony shooed invisible flies again. “They’re even inside the porno.”
“Where?”
“My porn. I watch it close. This chick is suckin’ a giant schlong. Smokin’ it like she wants it to fill her, right? Oh God!” Tony’s eyes bulged at the horror. “Dude blows his load. And you know what she did?”
“What?”
“She stuck her tongue out. Tried to catch it all.”
“Sounds like regular porn.”
“You don’t understand. That’s when I saw it.”
“What? Her sharp teeth?”
“Don’t joke, Eddie! This is serious. I saw her mouth. The emptiness inside. A cave. Her insides were pitch black. She looked at me right through the camera, with those little yellow eyes. ‘It’s all for you,’ she said. ‘I did this for you.’ ”
Tony looked around and patted his pockets. “Christ, I gotta get some garlic.”
“What you need is therapy. Detox.”
Tony squeezed his head. He was on the verge of tears. “You don’t know what I been through.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK. You’re all right. The coke’s got you—”
“Don’t say that. That’s not it.” He spoke like a child who is afraid his mother will punish him. “Did you sell me out to Coltrane?”
“No.”
“Tell me now, Eddie. Please. I need to know. It’s OK. I understand. Confess to me here in the church. We’ll go in the confessional!” Tony’s voice echoed off the high ceiling. The woman by the candles stopped her prayer to look.
“Tony, you’re bugging. You need professional help—”
“Tell me, Eddie. I’ll forgive you.”
“I am telling you.”
“The narcs are trying to get to me through you, Eddie.”
“They’re trying to get to all of us.”
“Whatta they want?”
“What do they always want?”
Tony squeezed his temples.
“Tony. Honestly. How much blow?”
Tony looked at me through his fingers. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Of course not.”
Tony counted out loud. “Seven, eight. . . maybe nine, ten grams a day.”
“Goddamn, Tony. That’s a small village in Colombia.”
He bit his thumb knuckle again. “I’m bad, right?” He seemed to slump. “I’m gonna go to Hell for this.”
“No, Tony, you just—you gotta come off that shit, that’s all.”
“Sure you can. I know that’s what you think, Tony, but you have to gain control.”
“Even now, Eddie. I’m twisting. I need a bump every fifteen minutes. But I’m afraid to do it in here.” He pointed at Jesus on the cross. “He’ll stop my heart and send me straight down.”
Dilated as they were, Tony’s eyes looked sadder than ever. I wondered if his birth mother had ever noticed all of that sadness in him. Maybe he inherited it from her.
“You gotta come off that shit, Tone. There’s no way around it.”
Tony made a face that was almost babylike.
“Get some counseling,” I said. “Rehab. They got all kinds. Different techniques and shit. Support. You can’t do it alone.”
“Will you come with me, Eddie?”
“You gotta want it. I can’t do it for you.”
We looked at each other for a moment.
“Tony, listen. I bought a cell phone. Let me give you the number.” I dug it from my wallet. “You get in a pinch, Tone, feel like you need to talk, you call me, all right? I’m here for you.”
Tony looked at the number, then put it away. “Thanks, Eddie. You’re the only one who knows.”
The woman who prayed walked past. Tony watched her as she exited the church.
“This place is not safe,” he said. “She’ll tell the others.”
Tony stood. So did I.
“No, you stay,” he said. “We leave separately. It’s safer that way. Anyway, it’s me they’re after. Wait ten minutes, then go, Eddie, all right?”
I began to say to Tony that maybe he should not be alone, but he moved so fast, and I really didn’t feel like spending the night watching him come down.
At the door he spoke without looking back. “Eddie, listen to what I’m telling you, all right? It’s not a game. These fuckers are slick. They been around for centuries. Get yourself some garlic.”
He walked out.
Then he popped back in, genuflected, and popped back out.
I sat back down, alone in the infinite quiet of the church. I looked up at Jesus again, unchanged since my mother forced me through catechism all those years before.
I shrugged, and thought, What can you do, right?
The image of Christ appeared sympathetic, but it did not respond.