Open Water (22 page)

T
he same morning Rennie toured Château-sur-Mer, Willis went into Fall River a second time with Fritz. Fritz was supposed to pick up a fax machine at Circuit City and deliver it to Showalter’s InstyPrint franchise. It was a regular courier job, but Showalter asked to see Willis. “It’s some kind of power meeting,” Fritz said. “You don’t have to show up.”

“I’ll hear it,” Willis said. “Just don’t forget me.”

“I’m back in ten minutes, okay? I’ll turn around and deadhead right back here to get you.”

“Don’t speed. Don’t get stopped in this town. They red tape every moving violation. It’s Mayberry, New England.”

“I know that,” Fritz said.

Willis felt a little tingle in the soles of his feet coming into Fall River. It was the town in which Wydette had choked to death and he often went the long way around to miss that stretch of Route 24 coming into the city. His breathing was halting in frozen drifts. They drove past the old knitting mills, big empty textile factories where every sweater he had worn in childhood had been purchased discounted.

Fritz let Willis off at Showalter’s house and he took Rennie’s car to deliver the fax machine at the franchise. Showalter met Willis at the door and cupped Willis’s elbow, leading him across the foyer. The hand on his elbow felt spidery, a slight yet perceptible clawing. He shrugged his arm loose.

“
You
are the missing piece of my puzzle,” Showalter told him.

“How is that?”

“You’re a capable person. You’re switched on.”

“Is that right?” Willis said. “Are we talking about parrots again or that four-eyes operation?”

“You’re no nonsense. Just what I want.”

Willis waited until Showalter was finished dishing out the applesauce.

Showalter sat down at a long desk. The wide desktop had buttery leather veneer embossed with straight lines of glittery gold fleurs-de-lis. There was nothing on the desk. It looked big as a double bed.

“Let’s go back to these stereoscopes.”

“Let’s go back?”

“It turns out Federico looks a little scrawny. Fritz should try to bulk up. After his principal asset, he’s a little too skinny for someone’s normal taste—”

“I’m not interested in that line of work.” Willis stood up.

“That’s fine, that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got something else for you. Some exotics sitting in Fairfield.”

“Connecticut? All the way down there?”

“Just a couple hours from here, really. You’ll take my vehicle.”

“What’s wrong with my car?”

“These are big containers. The birds are sizable. The world’s largest—”

“Ostrich?”

Showalter’s eyes pinched shut then popped opened again; his face softened, as if he was suddenly reminded of a realm of innocence he had lost sight of. He told Willis, “Not ostrich. These are parrots. A proven pair. Together they’re worth more than twenty-four thousand. Hyacinth macaws. Incredible blue, like lapis.”

Willis knew about lapis. Rennie had used lapis when she made jewelry. She had turned out a lot of souvenir junk, but once in a while she made something on order, something special with semiprecious stones.

“Okay. Let’s say I hire you to get the birds extracted and delivered to an address in Jamaica Plain?”

“Extracted? What do you mean, extracted?”

“My ex-wife has the pair. She was in on this in the beginning, now she’s sold her half back to me.”

“She sold it back, so what’s the problem?”

“Let me say it this way.
She
is sometimes a problem.”

“Just one thing. Are these her birds?”

“They are no longer her property.”

“If they aren’t hers, why does she have a hold of them?”

“You can ask her that question yourself. Want to try it?”

“I will for four hundred.”

“Three.”

“Shit, you’re going to chizz me for one bill? Four is my payout. I take even numbers.”

Showalter lifted the pleated shade until the afternoon light fell in a sheet across the room. “How are you with women?” Showalter said.

Willis thought it was a loaded question. It was pointing at him.

“Are you good with women?” Showalter asked again. Willis tried to deflect it, but he didn’t know how, so he ended up saying just about anything. “I get along.”

“Is that right?”

“You asked me.”

“Do you talk your way, or fuck your way?”

Willis looked at Showalter. Was it a matter of personal curiosity or just business? “I can do both at the same time while drinking a glass of water,” Willis said.

Showalter looked tickled.

Willis didn’t actually wish to amuse this fellow.

“Cash up front,” Willis said.

“I don’t think so.”

“How do I know you won’t walk the check?”

“Is
trust
such a dirty word?” Showalter said.

Willis didn’t visualize four hundred dollars. He wouldn’t subject himself to these cockeyed moments with Showalter unless he imagined a big deal. He saw a cornucopia of brilliant Amazons and maybe some four-eyed photography to cash in. Enough for Rennie’s deathbed cookie jar. Only some big cash could get rid of Munro. Maybe with twenty grand Munro could be banished from Easton Way. Willis stood up to leave.

Showalter placed the heel of his hand on Willis, right at the small of his back. It couldn’t be confused for anything but what it was. He told Willis, “I don’t like to hear no.” He grinned at Willis as if he had wheels turning.

The doorbell chimed and Fritz had walked inside. Fritz tagged up with the conversation. “I guess No is No.”

Showalter told Fritz, “You should be downstairs in the studio.”

“I should be downstairs? Right now?” Fritz said.

“That’s right.”

Fritz shrugged and looked at Willis. Fritz followed Showalter into the elevator. Willis didn’t like seeing Fritz hijacked and he walked after his friend, into the open cage.

He shifted his legs. He felt the elevator rock side to side, an unsteady pendulum.

When the elevator stopped, they were greeted by a young model, a girl around seventeen or eighteen. The girl had a hard look despite her young age. Her bleached hair was perfectly trimmed in a nice bowl cut, revealing her pale throat and the ashy nape of her neck. She was wearing swimwear from the 1950s, a two-piece sailor suit with a short pleated skirt.

“These the guys?” she said.

“We’re in negotiations,” Showalter said.

“In what?” she said.

“Shut up,” he told her. “Give us a second.”

“Who’s she?” Willis said.

“That’s Miss Ingersoll.”

“Ingersoll? Sounds like something you put on an itch. Ingersoll. Sounds like an analgesic ointment.”

“For a hemorrhoid flare-up,” Fritz said.

Miss Ingersoll didn’t seem jostled by Willis’s attack on her name. Showalter went over to a table and he jimmied a magazine from a tall stack. He handed the magazine to Willis. “Read this one-page summary. It will only take a minute of your time. It tells you all about the 3-D industry. It’s got the specifications. All you need is one camera and a slide bar, or you can use two cameras set up just a little bit apart. All an audience needs is a handheld viewer, or if you want to project slides, like we have here, you have to have a silver lenticular screen and some polarized glasses. Not too big an initial investment. This tells you how easy. It has some nice stories about the history. Did you know that the movie star Harold Lloyd was into it?”

“Harold Lloyd?”

“He took shots of Marilyn Monroe and Bogart, Dick
Powell. He’s got one of Roy Rogers and Trigger. Real as life.”

Fritz said, “Was Trigger live or stuffed?”

“What are you asking me?” Showalter said.

“Was Trigger live? Because you can’t tell in a still photograph if the horse is stuffed or not.”

Willis took the magazine and leafed through it. It was a mail-order catalogue. He picked up another magazine from the table called
Infrared Nudes in 3-D.

“Is this why you’re here?” Willis said to the girl. “You want to be an infrared nude?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing to me,” Willis said.

“So why did you ask me? You don’t like looking at 3-D hot pix?”

“Never tried it.”

“It makes people dizzy. It’s not for pussies.”

Willis said, “The mouth on you.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Really? No one offered his advice until now? Shit, can I submit a clue?” Willis said. “You look like you need a lesson.”

“A riding lesson,” Fritz said.

“Ever have a saddle sore?” Willis said, testing her resilience.

She whispered to him, “You think I like to hang with Showalter? He has a tube up his prick so piss can flow. He has to fill up his piss bag. It’s taped to his ankle. He has to pull out the tube to have a fuck.”

Willis looked back at the little chorine with a wave of queasy fascination. He didn’t know whether to believe her.

She registered his disbelief. “I’m telling the truth. I’ve seen everything now,” she said. “Just about everything.”

Showalter was moving around the room setting things up. The slight hobble in his gait might have been explained. Showalter was trying to make the studio set look like a boardwalk. He had a blue sheet suspended from the ceiling, the Atlantic shore, and some big cardboard cutouts of Atlantic City and Merv Griffin’s gambling resort. The cutouts were promo items he picked up from somewhere. He was draping the blue fabric the way he wanted, so the swirls in the material didn’t overtake the foreground subjects. He left the room for a minute and went to a freezer in a corner of the cellar. He came back with a cherry Popsicle and handed it to Miss Ingersoll.

She peeled the wrapper off the treat and waited in front of the camera. “Go ahead,” she said. “Let’s start. I’m only eating just one of these Popsicles. These bother my fillings.”

Willis told Fritz, “I’m saying my goodbyes, are you ready?”

Fritz looked back at the girl. He shrugged.

She saw there was going to be another delay and she went to sit in an office chair, slapping her knees open and closed in noisy swipes. Her Popsicle had started to sweat, but she didn’t suck it.

“We can’t do the shot,” Fritz told her.

“What’s this now?” the girl said. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour.”

“There’s been a mix-up,” Fritz announced to the room.

Showalter wasn’t listening to Fritz. “This is not a mix-up,” Showalter said. “It’s a red-letter day. You’ll leave here with a wad of cash. Call it what you want. Afternoon delight. It’s a natural exploration—”

Willis turned around, bumping into a coffee table. A stack of CDs clattered over. He was leaving the room.

“Hold on, beautiful,” Showalter said with a great deal of style. His words sparkled.

Willis said, “Hey, dreamboat, why don’t you accept the facts? I’m not changing my socks.” Willis looked back at the man.

Showalter was holding a gun on Willis.

Willis didn’t expect to see a gun.

Showalter looked refreshed by the little wave of peril he had released upon the room.

Willis pulled himself together and faced off with the man. He watched the oversized pistol, its muzzle, a small dark circle attractive as a keyhole.

“Federico,” Showalter said. “You’re the dresser.”

Fritz said, “I’m the what? The dresser? Shit, I didn’t sign on for this. I don’t think so—”

“Shut up. Walk over there and unbutton your friend. Nice and easy. We don’t want to pinch anything.”

Fritz didn’t move.

Willis started to walk toward Showalter.

Showalter said, “Now just wait there, Willis. Think. I’m making a formal invitation—”

Willis kept coming.

“Freeze,” Showalter said. He laughed. A patient, schoolmaster chuckle.

Willis looked at the man holding the gun. He was sizing him up one final time; it wasn’t an easy appraisal. Willis was making hairline adjustments in his calculations when the gun went off.

Willis hollered. Showalter shrieked with amusement. Miss Ingersoll sat where she was, cupping one hand under her dripping Popsicle. Willis rubbed his waist where a paintball had exploded in a messy red circle, his abdominal muscles stinging. The gelatinous red dye felt greasy in the palm of his hand. He rubbed his hand on his jeans.

Willis went after Showalter and knocked him against the table. A stack of mailing labels fanned across the floor. Willis took the paintball gun from Showalter’s hand.

“I can’t believe it,” he told Fritz, “this double-breasted scumbag paintballed me.” He pulled the gun up to his face to read the grip. “With a Splatmaster.” Willis aimed the gun at the end of the room and pulled the trigger three times. The paint cartridges hit the silver screen and burst into bloody chrysanthemums.

Showalter groaned about the cost of his equipment.

“Tough shit,” Willis told him. Willis tossed the gun on the table and whacked Showalter halfheartedly with his cast.

Fritz called out, “Don’t use your sore arm—”

“Use the other arm,” Miss Ingersoll instructed.

He had the popular vote. Willis switched arms and struck Showalter again with the side of his fist. He stood back. “You marked me.” Willis started laughing.

The others took their cue. Their laughter came in peaks and valleys, a sinister choir of edgy, mistrusting relief. Showalter tried to laugh loudest, over their trio, until Willis pushed him away and the older man fell to his knees and curled into the duck-and-cover position.

The girl followed Fritz and Willis into the elevator. They rode upstairs. Willis felt his pulse grinding into his fingertips. His broken wrist was throbbing. Miss Ingersoll sat down on the big leather sofa and dialed a telephone number. No one exchanged pleasantries. They heard the elevator cable whine and the cage sank. He didn’t want another round with Showalter so Willis took Fritz out to the street.

Fritz stepped onto the rocker plate of the InstyPrint Econoline and slid behind the wheel. Willis got in beside him and unfolded a piece of paper with the address in
Fairfield. Fritz followed the urban streets and rolled it onto the freeway.

The truck was stenciled all over, front and back, with the InstyPrint logo and local telephone numbers. Willis sat in the passenger seat thumbing through a booklet of business-card samples he had found on the seat. He told Fritz, “Maybe you can duck out of the porn biz, my friend.”