Ragged Company (45 page)

“Might as well make it three,” I said, and James nodded in agreement.

I crossed to the bar and began preparing glasses. “Is it really a will? If it is, if he took the time to outline his wishes, it makes the accidental overdose angle hard to sell,” I said.

“Hey, fuck you,” Digger said angrily. “I’ve really had enough of your shit.”

“Digger,” James said firmly. “Enough. This is important and you’d best hear what’s on this tape. You need to know that this will stand as the last will and testament of Richard Dumont. It will stand because he gives specific directions as to how and where he wants his assets to go. He makes specific, clear reference to where they came from, how he acquired them, and therefore no contest can be made regarding the state of his mind at the time. Certainly there’s the question of intoxication, but he’s coherent enough. Ready?”

Margo moved to sit beside Amelia. They held hands and leaned their heads together.

“Ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose,” I said, and James played the tape.

I
NEVER WANTED
you to worry. I guess you did anyhow on accounta you always worry about me. But I hadta walk. Sometimes it helps me to walk on accounta my head don’t gotta focus on one thing an’ I can look around and feel less trapped by stuff. That’s how I felt that night. Trapped. I been trapped a long time an’ I had to leave so I could figure out how to get myself free. See, I done somethin’ bad one time. Somethin’ real bad an’ I ain’t never been able to really get away from it even though I left where I was when I done it. I can’t talk about it now. But maybe when I get back from Tucumcary I will. Maybe when I spend some time in the sun an’ walk around down there I’ll be able to find a way to get away from this an’ tell you all on accounta right now it’s hard an’ scary an’ I don’t know where to start. But it’s how come the
Ironweed
movie freaked me out. On accounta it was almost the same an’ I thought it was talkin’ to me. But I ain’t got no place to go back to to try’n make things right, not like the man in the movie when he went an’ talked to the woman after all that time. I ain’t got no place where anyone ever wants to talk to me again or see me walk down the street on accounta what I done was so bad. All I got is Tucumcary. So when I come back I’ll try’n have more to say about that.

But that’s not how come I’m doin’ this. That’s not how come I’m talkin’ into this tape. I wanna tell you all about what I’m think-in’. I wanna tell you what I wanna do on accounta everybody’s got somethin’ they do now except maybe One For The Dead, who looks out for us an’ that’s kinda been what she done all the time an’ she still wants to do it so she does, but me I got nothin’. Nothin’ except watchin’ movies, an’ I wanna do somethin’.

I like talkin’ to people. Sometimes they figure I’m a loogan on accounta I don’t get stuff right off the hop but I like talkin’ anyhow.
So I thought I could be a visitor at the Mission an’ the shelters an’ drop-ins an’ stuff like that. Just go down an’ talk on accounta more than anything people wants to talk an’ I know all about the life on accounta I was a rounder for so long. Am I still a rounder, Digger? I get confused about that on accounta the money an’ the house an’ stuff. I hope so. Bein’ a rounder’s all I know about. That’s how come I could be a good visitor. ’Cause I’m a rounder. Anyhow, I figure that’s what I’d be good at an’ it don’t take no school or nothin’ an’ I don’t gotta make no money, so why not?

That’s what I wanna do. But first I’m goin’ to Tucumcary like I always wanted to do from the time I was a kid. Tom Bruce said it was a dream place. So maybe goin’ to a dream place means I can swap the one I been carryin’ for another one. A better one. Like swappin’ a movie you watched too many times. I done that a few times an’ it worked out good.

But when I get back I wanna do somethin’. Somethin’ important. Well, more than one thing but I gotta talk about one first on accounta talkin’ about two or three’ll just confuse me an’ I don’t know how long the batteries last on these things. Okay. Let’s see. Oh, yeah. Digger.

I know you don’t need nothin’ an’ you probably don’t want nothin’ neither on accounta you like things simple like you always said, but I want you to buy a Ferris wheel. I want you to take some of my money from Mr. James an’ get one of them things an’ put it up where people can ride it an’ you can run it like you done before. I know you miss that. Buy some land somewhere an’ put your wheel up in the sky again an’ ride it like you done before. Ride it like the best wheelman in the world. Then you can show me how to run it maybe, an’ I could give you a ride an’ other people could ride it too, whenever they want on accounta Ferris wheels always make people happy an’ if we’re not usin’ all that money to help make people happy then I figure maybe we didn’t learn nothin’ from all the time we was rounders on the street an’ didn’t have nothin’. That’s what I think anyhow, an’ wouldn’t it be nice to have a Ferris wheel in the neighbourhood to go an’ ride any time we wanted? Maybe it would give people
dreams like the kind they had when they was kids. That’s a nice present, huh? For everybody.

Next is One For The Dead. I always wanted to buy you a dress. I used to look at you when we was rounders an’ think to myself that you really needed a nice dress. A really nice dress kinda like the ones we seen in the movies sometimes. The ones that make women look like dream women on accounta most dresses don’t got that kinda magic. Purple maybe, on accounta you told me one time that purple is a special colour in your Indian way but I forget what that is on accounta I don’t remember stuff like that for very long no more, but purple would be nice anyhow. A nice light kind of purple like you see in the sky after the rain goes away an’ the sun comes out to set an’ remind us that there’s always one more comin’. One more day comin’. Nice light purple. Like hope feels sometimes when you get it. You always give me hope an’ even though a dress ain’t nearly a big thing like a Ferris wheel I know you’d think it was on accounta you always think like that. An’ you could wear it when we go ride Digger’s wheel. An’ maybe I could get one of them suits like the dancer guy wore in that movie with one of them fancy kind of hats, the gloves, an’ the little cane thingamajig. Yeah. That’s what I’d get you an’ I want you to have. Miss Margo can help you look on accounta she’s so pretty an’ knows about all that stuff.

Anyhow, before I forget what I’m doin’ I gotta talk to Timber. Timber, you gave away all your money on accounta you wanted to take care of your missus that you never done all them years on accounta you was a rounder and you forgot to do that. I thought that was nice. She’s a nice lady. Kinda quiet an’ scared kinda, but a nice lady anyhow. You gave her all your money because you remembered that you loved her an’ that it was the right thing to do. Me, I don’t need no money on accounta I can’t figure what this millionaire thing is supposed to be all about anyhow an’ I never did wanna do nothin’ but watch movies an’ now go talk to people an’ that don’t take no money no more. I got a house to live an’ I won’t ever be hungry on accounta One For The Dead wouldn’t let me, so I wanna give you back what you gave away.
Get it from Mr. James on accounta he takes care of my loot. I want you to have it an’ get everythin’ you need to make your carvings. Maybe even get your own place like Digger’s got an’ show people what you do. That’s what I want.

The rest of my money goes to Granite. Whatever’s left. You never say much about your life an’ sometimes I think you’re just like me on accounta you got people you carry around with you too. An’ you sold your nice house. So I wanna give you my money so you can buy it back an’ go there with Miss Margo an’ be happy. See, when I used to walk around all alone them evenings after we split up an’ went our own ways, I used to kinda spy in people’s windows while I was walkin’ an’ try’n get a little glimpse of what they was doin’ in their houses an’ see how they was livin’ on accounta the house I lived in wasn’t like them big houses at all an’ livin’ in a shack has gotta be different than what goes on there or even in the nice house made out of stone that you lived in. I thought maybe if I figured it out that I could get that for myself too, sometime. But I never could. Maybe I just didn’t see enough when I looked. I don’t know. But I do know that people like you don’t got no business not havin’ a place that’s just for them. You ain’t no street guy an’ you don’t think like a street guy even though sometimes you kinda feel like one of us on accounta you lost so much. But people like you need to be where everythin’ ever happened for them. It’s history. I like that word.
History.
Did you know that if you kinda split it into two it makes “his story”? Well, when I got to thinkin’ about you I thought that for Granite that big stone house was “his story” an’ I figured that he hadta be where his story was. When you got somethin’ that’s part of your story, you gotta hang on to it as hard as you can or it’ll go away an’ you’ll spend all your time from then on tryin’ to get it back but you can’t on accounta time don’t work that way. You gotta go home, Granite. You gotta go home on accounta you gotta finish your story. When you got one, you don’t gotta look for any other ones on accounta you got the only one you ever need to tell. So have my money on accounta I don’t got no home an’ I don’t got no story to finish but maybe I could come there sometime an’ be a part of yours. Go home, Granite, go home.

“G
ET WHAT YOU WANTED
, Rock?” I go once the tape stopped.

“What?” he goes.

“The money. You got the money. You been hanging around waiting for your shot and now it’s finally come. Happy?” I go, heading to the bar for a refill.

“I never wanted anyone’s money, Dick’s or anyone’s, and I deeply resent you suggesting that it was all I was after,” he goes, all huffy and puffy.

I swallow a gulp of Scotch. “Deeply resent whatever the fuck you want. But the patch is in, you scored, and that, my friend, is the name of the game.”

“There was never any game.”

“Fuck you, Square John.”

“Is that supposed to hurt me?”

“What?”

“The whole Square John thing?”

“What whole Square John thing?”

“This whole tidy little ‘us and them’ game you’ve played right from the moment we met. Like the only worthy person in the world was a rounder. Anyone else was surely in on some scam—some dodge, as you say—some nefarious purpose.”

“Nefarious? Nice word.”

“Apt. Another nice word.”

“Yeah, well, I’m apt to throw you right out of here.”

“You don’t need to throw. I’ll walk.”

“Then git. Pick up your cheque at the counter.”

He stands up. I give him credit, he had some sand. The old lady stands up too but he raises a hand slowly and motions her to sit like he don’t need to hide behind her, so she throws me a look and sits back down.

“I pity you, Digger,” he goes.

“Shove your pity. All you Square Johns ever got is pity and it ain’t needed. Never was, never will be.”

“Oh, I don’t pity you your life. You created that. You made it
what it was all by yourself, and you stayed in it as long as you did by choice. So pity would be wasted on you and your rounder life.”

“Fucking rights.”

“But what I do pity is your failure to see what’s in front of you, all because you keep the barricades up at all times. You think life is an ongoing confrontation. You react to things as though someone, somewhere, wants to take something away from you. You prowl the alleys and find the castoffs that other people deem unimportant and fix them up. Not because you’re so gifted a repairman and not because you have such an exquisite eye for the value of things, but so you can shove it in their faces with a price tag when you’re finished and say, ‘See. See what I can do. See what I can do with your world. I can make you buy back your own friggin’ garbage.’ For you, it’s the ultimate thumbing of your nose at the Square John world.

“But what you don’t see is that it makes you an artist. It makes you a channel to everyone’s common past. A channel to those days when everyone’s life was simpler and there were no barricades between us. You make that happen. People buy your fix-ups because they remind them of a time when life wasn’t all about the hurry and the scurry of making it. They remind them of common things like home and welcome and reunion. But you miss that connection because you’re too busy making a fucking point.

“And you miss it with the people you call your friends. You’re so busy being Digger you don’t know how to be sensitive. And I know you’re sensitive. I know you’re gentle inside all that huff-and-puff bullshit you throw at people. I’ve seen it. We’ve all seen it, and that’s why we admire you and it’s also why we put up with the huff-and-puff crap from you. Because we, unlike you, are willing to see beyond what’s in front of us. But there’s a time when you have to dismantle the front, Digger. The rounder rules don’t apply to life here. They only work on the street. Maybe if you’d seen that, you’d have been a better friend to Dick.”

I feel the hot swell of rage at my temples and step closer to him. “Don’t tell me about my friend,” I go. “Don’t make that fucking mistake, mister.”

“Or what? Or you’ll club me senseless? Is that your answer any time someone challenges your thinking? That’s a rounder rule, Digger, and it doesn’t wash here.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve had your fine little speech. Now let me give you one, Mr. Granite Harvey. You only see what you imagine to be there. You only see what your goody-goody heart says is there. You see everyone sharing the same friggin’ city. Like it belongs to all of us. Like it’s all our home. Like we’re all fucking neighbours or something. But we’re not. We never fucking were. You Square John motherfuckers fight to protect what you got, and rounders—wherever the fuck they might be, on Indian Road or skid road—are only fighting to protect what they don’t got. If you could see that, if you could just get that, maybe you’d know how to be a better friend yourself. But you can’t, because you’re so convinced that you fucking know. You fucking know about what’s wrong. Wrong with us, wrong with the world, wrong with everything but how you friggin’ see things. You only see what you think you know and, mister, you don’t know shit. Me, not a friend to Dick? Fuck you. At least I rode the changes through with him. At least I stayed true to the way we were, the way that got us through everything. At least I was an example of how to be tough enough to survive. I didn’t hang around in the shadows and only come out at feeding time.”