9
I’m alone at the construction site. It gets to be just after dusk when I spy the headlights of a car coming down the road, toward the trailer office. So I grab my cap, give a quick polish to the badge on my chest, dash outside. I click the button on my flashlight, but the batteries are dead.
The car approaches slowly, headlights turned to high beam. It has no reason to be here. I stare at those headlights, now walking toward the car in question.
In a sudden moment, the driver happens to notice me, spinning the car around to speed off. I try to read the license plate, but the headlights have blinded my vision, making my brain ache. My eyes begin to cloud over white.
During this time, I come to realize that lights, all lights, are the sign of something bad. In a place as dark as this, lights mean that somebody has just invaded my privacy, someone has just intruded upon my precious time, and therefore, they must be considered an enemy of sorts. Likewise, to do this job, by writing down all those who enter onto my notepad, I must hide on the enemy, so that I may observe and record from the shadows.
The driver of the car is gone, his or her identity to be unknown. This is becoming more of the case. Cars with no permission to enter the construction area just circle the site, late at night, when it’s clear they’re not looking to buy a condo.
I’m alone again, so after a few hours, I call Tino, my dealer, to stir things up.
I tell him I want to buy every drug he can get his hands on.
He questions my funds for such a transaction, and I tell him about the money in my bank account. He knows now that I’m serious.
I tell him to write this list down: some weed, some ecstasy, some mushrooms, some cocaine, both crack and soft blow, acid, crystal meth, heroin with the needle works included, and if he’s heard of salvia divinorum, some of that, too.
I’m not too specific about the quantity, but I do emphasize the quality, telling him I want it all to be delivered in a suitcase. Then we hang up.
Tino does not show up to the construction site until the next night, driving a new car I’ve never seen him in before. Flipping the trunk open, he unzips the luggage, only to reveal everything I had asked him for. He points out the individual drugs by name, while stating the price. I pat my pockets, then I produce a wad of cash. The exchange is quick.
Tino lingers around far too long, counting the money, pacing around, somewhat silent, not saying much, then he looks me in the eye.
He says, “How do you like working for my uncle?”
“Your uncle?” I ask. “Your uncle is Frank Benzino?”
“Something like that, yes.”
I’m shocked, dropping the suitcase on its wheels.
“But he has an accent from England,” I say, “and you’re Italian.”
“Believe me, we are family.”
I want to know the exact nature of their relationship, so I ask him, “But what about the last names, how do the last names—”
“He’s my uncle. Look, I’ve told you too much. I just thought you should know who you’re dealing with.”
“Told me too much? You’ve barely told me enough.”
Instead of soothing my mind, Tino says no more, getting into his car, slamming the door shut. I’m hoping he will unroll the window so I can question him further, but he speeds away.
I’m left stumbling with words and phrases, saying something similar to, “But . . . but . . . my boss . . . these drugs . . . me, you, him.”
It’s nearing midnight, almost time to punch out, but before I can end my shift, I notice a set of red brake lights, parked on the other side of the construction site. I decide to pursue this person, approaching him in the dark, without the help of my dead flashlight.
A short man wearing a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and boots, steps out from his truck to enter one of the condos. I watch the man as he loads three heavy rolls of carpets onto the back of his truck. I now feel the need to confront the thief.
The name on the truck reads: Bernardo Flooring—Carpet and Tile.
When I get close, I see the short man has big ears, big roaming eyes, and curly unkempt hair. The man does not know I’m behind him, so when I speak out, I manage to frighten him, causing him to spin around on his heels.
“Jesus, boy,” he says. “You scared the living shit outta me.”
I say, “Just doing my job.”
Holding his chest, he says, “Jesus, boy, you got my heart going miles a minute. Don’t nobody ever told you not to sneak up on peoples like that? Shit.”
So I say, “What are you doing with these carpets?”
“I got a heart condition,” he says. “A bad heart, and it can’t take being spooked like that.”
I’m forced to ask, “What are you doing here? Do you work here?”
“Yeah, I works here,” the man says with hollow aggression.
“Okay, but what are you doing here so late?”
Pointing to the truck bed, he says, “I’m just here, um, ah, picking up them carpets.”
He’s out of breath from carrying the heavy rolls himself. I detect a strong New Jersey accent in his speech, but he says he’s from Florida, which I don’t believe. Saying his name is Dirk.
“These carpets are supposed to stay here,” I say. “I’m not supposed to let anyone leave with material.”
“Listen,” he says. “My name is Dirk, and I works here. Them carpets is just extras. Nobody will knows they gone.”
“So you are stealing them, that’s what I thought.”
“Listen, I got this little job on the side, to makes a little money, and if you could just keeps this yourself, just keeps it quiet.”
As he’s talking, he opens up the door to his truck, reaching across the bucket seat. Finally, after a lengthy search, he pulls out a paper item.
“It’s for a strip club,” he tells me. “Here, takes it. Nine lap dances, then you get the tenth one for free.”
Wanting a better deal, I ask him, “What else you got?”
He sticks his fingers into his flannel pocket, fishing around. He pulls out five rolled joints.
“You smokes weed?” Dirk is brazen enough to ask.
“Never,” I say, firmly. Then, after a moment, I grab the rolled up weed, smell it, like a fiend.
“Keeps it,” Dirk says, jumping into the front seat of his truck. “Just don’t tells nobody I was here.”
I have second thoughts, informing him, “I could lose my job over this.”
Dirk is looking at me through his long side-view mirror, while putting the truck in gear.
He says, “Won’t nobody knows I was here. Won’t nobody knows them carpets is gone.”
Once he makes his exit, I start to question my decision making skills. I’ve just been part of a bribe, and I’m still under the influence of the racy feelings that go along with it.
I run into an empty condo, up to the second floor. This condo is far from finished. Here, I maintain my vantage point from high above the site. I light the joints and smoke all five in quick succession. I’ve been attacked from every angle tonight and I vow never to be taken by surprise again. I’d rather hide on people and watch them from a distance, with a final say in the matter, like a master spy who rendezvous at the secret location of his choice.
There are no lights in this condo. There are not many walls either, just slim beams of wood that outline each room. The beams are marked with red pencil, measurements and math equations. The windows are just open squares, without panes of glass, allowing a windy draft. The attic is visible, because there is no ceiling. The floorboards are bare, except for piles of sawdust. I will never forget the smell of these wood shavings for as long as I live. The tub and the shower are the centerpiece of the second floor, in a bathroom that doesn’t exist. I can trace the electric lines as they go from room to room, floor to floor, wrapped around the beams of wood. Everything is naked and raw, especially the weak staircase that creaks when walked on.
Everything will eventually have a cover, I think.
A criminal in a cop outfit.
A clean cut kid with a bad boy record.
A part to play. A reversible role.
This is the double-sided, dual nature of me.
A wolf, on the sly, wearing wool.
A wolf, licking lips, covered in sheep clothing.
A wolf, baring teeth, moving into the herd.
A wolf, just a plain, old, nasty wolf.
A living, breathing contradiction.
A walking, talking cliché.
Enough, I think. Gary Lee Vickers lurks around here, so I consider myself good by comparison
I take out my phone, dial the apartment number shared by Norman Long and Charlie Moon, but they don’t pick up. So I leave a rambling message on their answering machine.
“Hey, guys, if you’re there, pick up . . . well, listen to this anyway. You know Tino? Tino, the guy that hooks us up? Yeah, well, he’s the nephew to my boss. They’re related! My drug dealer and my boss. Not a good combination. I mean, I don’t know . . . what does my boss know about me. He could know everything . . . that I’m a drug fiend. That I’m a convicted criminal, with a rap sheet. Which brings me to my next question, why would a wealthy man, a guy known as a champion builder of nice neighborhoods, knowingly hire a criminal. Unless . . . unless he’s part of the criminal underworld himself. Or, by having a criminal work as a guard, he figures I won’t notice anything suspicious. I mean, even if I do notice something, I won’t have the character to call him on it, right? Hey, do you remember in high school when Angel Fernandez, that Puerto Rican kid, went up to Tino downtown and pulled a knife on him? Stole his money? Well, do you remember how Tino’s dad sent a group of henchmen, all British, to confront Angel. To threaten the shit outta him? Remember Angel? Angel with the gold tooth? Well, those English goons, they all made the Puerto Rican kid give back the money. Then they made him kiss their shoes, one by one. Remember that? Remember that story back in the day? So, there you have it. You take what I told you about Benzino, put it together with this shit, and now you’ve got this whole new shit. Figure it out? Do the math? Carry the one?”
I’m not even through yet when the phone on the other end picks up, and some old woman answers with a sleepy voice.
“Hello? Hello? Who are you looking for?”
“Whoa. Wait. Who have I just called?”
“This is the Draxler residence. Who are you looking for?”
I hear a manly voice, probably her husband, in the background, confused.
So I hang up. Not using speed dial, I had called the wrong number.
I feel naked, afraid, like I just walked in on someone telling an inside joke about me.
The terror of my confession has me running up the hill towards the highway. There, at the overpass bridge, I toss my phone into the truck bed of passing truck.
On the way back to my post, I see the tent that Vickers sometimes sleeps in. He isn’t in it, but there are newspaper clippings about his escape pinned inside. That’s how I know it’s his tent. His little shrine. That dark museum of his mind.