SS Glasgow Castle 20 Chapter Twenty

When I woke up the next morning tomorrow was still a day away. Calling Tad first thing was futile, so instead I sat on the bed and worried about things. I gave Tad until ten to sleep on his hangover, then called him. He didn't pick up the phone. It was a nice sunny day and I walked around the neighborhood for a while and worried some more. Around eleven I called Tad, but he still didn't answer the phone. So in the end I did what I always used to do in mental emergencies: I called Joe.

Joe and I went to school together. Like myself, he was a good-looking kid, and this earned us the sobriquet The Postcard Kids plus the collective enmity of the aesthetically disadvantaged (Todd has never had this problem. Everyone was very nice to him at school because he tended to solve social problems with his fists, and he was a strong kid. As his elder brother, I can testify he killed his first fly while still in his cradle).

Forged by shared suffering, the bond between me and Joe lasted many years, and only started to fray some time after we turned adult. We lost touch: by the time I tried to invite him to my wedding I couldn't locate him. His family were remarkably close mouthed, venturing only that he'd 'gone away' and 'would be back'. Joe was of Italian origin, and this led me to suspect a family drama, possibly featuring a pregnant signorina as the second lead: I tactfully desisted from further inquiries.

That was it, for quite a while. Then one day I called Rapid Taxi and he answered the phone. I asked what he was doing there and he told me he was working. Once again I tactfully desisted, and we engaged in an exchange of how are you, I'm good and you, good. Good!

Joe gave me his extension number; some time later I asked him to call my office with a fake sick-kiddie-cab-on-the-way emergency. He liked the idea and executed it well, which led to several repeat performances and eventually my getting fired.

Joe was working that morning. He said it was nice to hear from me. Talk? Sure. Lunch? Sure. I was reminded why we'd become good friends.

We arranged to meet at a corner bar near the Rapid Taxi office, and I spent half an hour aboard a whining, clattering streetcar, in the company of other rejects who couldn't afford a car. The bar was called the Pioneer Grille and featured a huge, mostly empty horseshoe bar and terrible rustic-look furniture.

I identified Joe instantly. There were few people inside, and anyway he would stand out in any crowd: he was dressed in a ghastly orange shirt, so ghastly that kids would go crazy if anyone ever managed to duplicate that hue in a candy or a soda. It set Joe's chest ablaze even though he was trying to stifle the flames with a black blazer complemented by black slacks. Rapid Taxi was one of those charming outfits that insist on painting their employees in corporate colors.

"Joe," I said, coming to a stop.

"Oscar." There was a bitter wisdom in his smile.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries. I noticed he was fleshier, had lost some hair at the front, and that he wore a wedding band. So I asked him if he liked being married. He said it was okay, and a longish silence ensued.

When the ugly waitress had brought us our beers, Joe lit a cigarette - he still smoked, still Marlboros - and asked:

"What's up?"

I sighed and had some beer. Then I said:

"I don't know where to begin."

"At the beginning," suggested Joe.

"Okay. You remember last time I called you, to ask for a cab?"

"Yeah. That was more than a year ago. But sure, I remember."

"Well, I lost my job soon afterwards." I sipped some p.i.s.sy beer. "Then I lost my house. I mean I had to move out because I'm getting divorced."

"f.u.c.k, Oscar," said Joe. "You don't do things by halves, do you."

I drank some beer, and said:

"One thing kind of led to another."

Joe nodded.

"They often do," he said. That was when we clicked again - I could almost hear the sound, like two small magnets coming together - and I spilled the remaining beans in a rush:

"I still haven't found a job. Had a gig now and then but things are getting worse and worse, you understand? It's like I'm wondering where to find next month's rent money. And then I meet this guy, this pretty cool guy. We get drunk and the next thing he tells me he knows of this stash, worth a million, only he can't get it himself. It's in this African country where he's been in the past, and they won't let him in. Change of governments, everyone a.s.sociated with the previous dictator gets banished - that kind of stuff. Now, the guy asks me if I'm interested in getting it for him. He claims he'll take care of customs and stuff: straight drive-in-and-pick-it-up kind of job. He's offering me a third. I want to do it, but I'm f.u.c.king scared of doing something stupid. Or that he's gonna f.u.c.k me up in some way that I can't even imagine right now. But I can't afford to pa.s.s this up either. Joe: what the f.u.c.k should I do?"

He stared at me for quite a while. Eventually he said:

"You want my advice? You realize I'm still on probation."

"What!?"

He gave me long, dark look. He said:

"You think I dress like a f.u.c.king clown and work in that brothel out of my free will? f.u.c.k. I'm disappointed. Disappointed and dejected."

He took a sip of his beer and it made him even more dejected. He waved at the ugly waitress: she was watching us, but too far away to hear anything.

He said:

"I thought you had all that figured out."
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"I didn't. I guess that's what bothers me: I'm discovering I'm not too good at figuring things out."

"Yeah. Your little problem." Joe frowned at his beer gla.s.s until the waitress approached, then ordered two double bourbons in a firm, clear voice. Then he asked me:

"What is it? Drugs?"

"I'm not hundred percent sure. I get the idea there are diamonds and other gems. Uncut."

He nodded approvingly.

"That's good," he said. "Look like shattered gla.s.s. Who knows? Maybe this deal is genuine. But if you go for it, just be extra alert in the final stage."

"What's so special about the final stage?"

"As long as the guy has an interest in keeping you safe and happy, you'll be okay. But watch your back once he's got his hands on the stuff. That's when accidents have been known to happen."

"But what about the customs, police, that kind of thing?"

"He said he can handle it, then he can probably handle it."

The drinks arrived and I became very thoughtful. Then I said:

"You think that stuff belongs to him?"

Joe shrugged.

"Makes sense," he said. "Why, did he feed you a story?"

"He did. A long and complex tale."

He contemplated this, and shrugged again. He said:

"Stories don't matter. The s.h.i.t matters. If you believe it's there and you can handle everything, go for it. f.u.c.k, Oscar. You're an intelligent guy. Just use your brains along the way."

"It's just that sometimes accidents happen," I said, looking pointedly at his orange shirt.

"That was a different kind of accident," he said. I remained silent and slightly aloof. "I socked Lisa," he said, "And she called the cops."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah. She went all the way because we were fighting over my business."

"Oh you Italians."

"You can stick that one right up your iceberg," said Joe. We were silent for a minute. Then I said:

"And your business was...?"

"Very similar to what you're getting into," he said. "Yes, definitely very similar."

"And nothing ever went wrong with that."

He shook his head and said:

"Nothing. It ran like f.u.c.king clockwork. But I had to let it go once cops showed up on the scene. f.u.c.king women. But what can I do? I still love her."

I prodded my bourbon with my finger, and said:

"Okay. Let's have it. If you were in my place, would you go for it?"

Joe held out his palms to indicate this was just his personal view, and said:

"You only live once."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess I forget it applies to me, too."