Schmidt Delivered (14 page)

That won’t be a problem. Schmidt has figured out how to get the money for Vince and his friends. No big cash withdrawals the bank has to report or phony transactions on which you’re bound to lose money, like buying a big diamond ring in New York in order to sell it for cash in Amsterdam or Geneva, which leaves you anyway having to bring the cash
back through customs without a declaration. Instead, he will buy gold coins—nice and simple—and pay the boys in gold. Good as gold, that’s it. Vince is a smart operator. He’ll know the value of the Krugerrand to the penny, and if he doesn’t he will know where to look it up. Actually, Schmidt will make a sizable investment in gold, which will please the man who looks after his money and improve the appearance of the operation if anyone cares to inquire. A question of asset allocation and prudence, carried out exactly when the stock market seems frothy, rather than a small purchase matching some specific need.

The more Schmidt thinks about his plan, the better he likes it. These fellows are professionals. Once he’s paid them and Bryan has been whacked, they won’t be in touch again unless he needs them for another job. But he doesn’t think using them a second time would be a smart idea. Really, this is quite different from trying to buy Bryan, because Bryan will never stay bought. You bet. The difference is that he’ll stay dead. It’s a pity that he can’t ask Vince to take Mike Mansour out too. They’d need a guerrilla commando to get past the security. That’s a job for Schmidt alone, when it becomes necessary to perform it. While that jerk is standing there with a big grin waving good-bye, shove the car into reverse, gun the engine, and crush the bastard against his own garage wall. Yes sir, accidents will happen.

J
ESUS, SCHMIDTIE
, said Carrie, after he had given her, all during lunch, and even before, while they were putting the cold chicken and the tomato salad on the table, the polite silent treatment that had been, while Mary lived, part of his ingrained behavior. What’s the matter with you? I get up early to be out here in time so we can eat and then take a nap, and you treat me like a piece of shit. I don’t have to take this.

He wasn’t only sulking. He felt dead inside.

You’re right. You don’t. I don’t suppose you will.

Thanks a lot. I want to shower. You can do the dishes by yourself. You’re so good at it.

He hadn’t heard the car on the driveway or the door being slammed. She took him, therefore, altogether by surprise, tiptoeing into the library and putting her arms around him as though nothing at all had happened, licking the inside of his ear and blowing in it. At first, he remained seated at the desk, before the stack of unpaid bills, careful—no, unable—to respond. She shook him by the shoulders.

Hey Schmidtie, guess what, it’s me, your Puerto Rican broad. I’m back.

He had prepared himself for the worst. There wouldn’t even be a phone call; she’d give him no news at all. Instead, Jason or his colleague, the human mountain, or, more likely, Manuel would come and say, Miss Gorchuck—or would he call her Carrie?—asked me to pack a few of her things and bring them over. He’d point to an unfamiliar overnight bag in his left hand. I guess they’re upstairs, in the master bedroom? Then, on his way out, Have a nice day, Mr. Schmidt. Or she might, in fact, telephone and lie, between fits of giggling. He was sure she had not lied to him in the past, and that, were she to begin, he would know it at once. But to return like this! It was only with the greatest difficulty that he managed to stand up and croak out, So I notice, so I notice, and to add, preposterously, Please, make yourself comfortable. Then he pretended to go on with his bills although his hands trembled and his eyes began to smart. Perhaps this being the second surprise of the morning accounted for his utter stupidity—no, it was worse than stupidity, for the numbness of mind, feelings, and body that had overwhelmed him.

The first surprise had come as soon as he returned home with the newspaper. There was Bryan, at the kitchen table, his right thumb in his mouth. Working on what was left of the nail, just as in the old days. The Melitta pot was half empty, because, having made coffee, Bryan quite sensibly had poured himself a big mug. His duffel bag was on the counter. That was all: no tube holding tantric paintings, no toolbox.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Schmidtie, they might be in the pantry, merely out of sight. And no trace of a beard. Just your regular local, whom you have let become too free and easy, having taken the plane all the way from Florida to JFK, and who knows the means of transportation to your house, ready to start the blackmail before you’ve had a chance to eat your breakfast. The ponytail was missing, too. But Bryan had shaved his head, revealing a nasty scar right down the middle of a knobby skull. Souvenir of an empty beer bottle? Always well mannered. As soon as he saw Schmidt, he stood up, gave the nail an embarrassed look, dried the thumb on the seat of his blue jeans, and held his hand out to Schmidt. Not so fast, kiddo. Schmidt preferred to wave a distant greeting with the newspaper he held in his own right hand. Because this was really unfair. He wasn’t ready for Bryan. The thought that there might be a bus or train capable of delivering him at this hour had not crossed his mind.

Hi, Albert, I’m here. Sure feels good to be back.

Fancy that: Bryan had become really thin. Since there had never been any fat on him, not when Schmidt knew him, he must have been losing muscle. He was pale too, with yellow circles around those disappointing, uncertain eyes. Florida couldn’t have agreed with him. He might have already been in jail. Somehow, the way he looked made it worse. Therefore, without responding to Bryan’s greeting, Schmidt put the
Times
on the table and sat down. The tea he wanted so badly would have to wait. He poured the rest of the coffee into the clean mug Bryan had set down.

Albert, what’s wrong? I don’t get it. Aren’t you going to say anything, not even hello? I told you I was coming. I need a place to stay. You’ve never been like this before.

Should he let him have it right then and there, no matter what, even if it made the little prick go crazy? Ha! According to Carrie, she used to let him bang her on demand, just so that he wouldn’t freak out. For instance, just for openers: Well, I get it, even if you don’t. I told you to keep away from this house and to telephone to ask whether you might see me. Instead, you’ve barged into my kitchen. It’s a big mistake. This is not your home. Get that into your head and clear out. Whereupon, he would hear the insufferable whine: Gee, Albert, I can’t deal with this. You’re so angry. Why? Remember me? I’m Bryan. I nursed you all that summer—bathed you, brought you food, everything. Why are you acting like this? Where’s Carrie? Somebody’s got to explain to me what’s going on. What to do then? Admit he didn’t know where Carrie was or when she’d be back? Impossible. He might as well go all the way. Say to him: Listen carefully, you little shit. You’ll never see Carrie again. Not if I can help it. That’s why I sent you to work on my house in Florida. That’s why I got you a soft deal with the hospital after I gave away the house. Your sin is that you fucked her. That’s the whole point. Now clear out before I call the police. First they’ll work you over, because that’s how it is. In the Hamptons, rich guys aren’t to be bothered by trash like you. Then they’ll put you back on the plane, send you back to those people you left behind in Florida. I bet they can’t wait to see you.

He didn’t do that. Keeping quiet, he drank the lukewarm coffee.

Albert, aren’t you going to talk to me? Don’t treat me like this. Can I see Carrie? Somebody’s got to talk to me.

You’re not seeing Carrie. This Schmidt blurted out.

Holy shit, Albert, is that what’s eating you? Carrie’s my friend. You know it’s over between her and me. Finished, dead. Hey man, be a human being, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m in deep shit. I need help.

Who doesn’t, Schmidt might have answered. But he didn’t need to. Bryan’s gift for monologue proved sufficient for the telling of a banal story, the punch line of which Schmidt had guessed. It was, first of all, about how he had hurt Bryan’s feelings by coming to see the house, after Bryan had restored it to 1930s splendor, only once, without Carrie, walking through it with a lawyer and spending the night in a hotel when everything was ready for him at home! Didn’t even take Bryan out for a meal. Was that the way to show a guy appreciation for two years of work, all of it wasted? And when Schmidt gave the house to the hospital Bryan couldn’t believe it. Then some secretary told him to get himself and his stuff out of his own room and move to the dormitory for male nurses. That he refused to do. Next thing he knew, the security guards hassled him, threw his personal possessions, even his tools, on the floor in the corridor, and, big surprise, discovered the treasure trove. This provoked his fabled fury. Nazi assholes! He pointed to the top of his head. It was they who did it, and then called the police, accusing Bryan of
disorderly conduct and directing them to the stuff which was in his smaller toolbox! It was really nothing, Bryan assured Schmidt, he wasn’t dealing, Schmidt paid him enough so he didn’t need to. It was just a reserve he had on hand for himself and for Bonnie’s former neighbors, in case they called on a weekend to see whether he could help out. Jesus, the way they wrote him up you’d think he’d mined the fucking Hialeah racetrack. That’s when one of the big guys who was following the case got him out on bail and dropped the hint that Bryan maybe wanted a lift to the Miami airport. I got the point, Bryan concluded. It was adios, man, get lost. So there he was. He’d gone straight to his one friend, the guy who had sent him to Florida, for Chrissake.

I’m sorry I never used the house, replied Schmidt. It’s in the wrong place. I don’t like Florida.

Fuck Florida. Where’s Carrie?

In the city.

With her folks?

Something like that.

When’s she coming back?

I’m not quite sure. Maybe today. Maybe later.

Hey Albert, let me stay here, will you? Until she comes back, I mean. Like I told you, you don’t need to worry about me.

I’ve already told you I don’t know when she’s coming back. While she’s away, I prefer to be alone. When she returns, I’d rather not have you hanging around.

You’ve got it all wrong, man. I’d help with the house, like before, whatever needs fixing. Hey, I’ll keep an eye on her for you too. That’s one full-time job, believe me! Maybe with you
it’s different, maybe you’re like such a great lover that’s all she needs. Shit, that would have to be something else!

What do you mean?

What do I mean? With me, it was like every time I turned my back! Even my buddy Hollis, in Springs. You know Debbie, the red-haired girl works at O’Henry’s Carrie was such great friends with—she almost scratched Carrie’s eyes out. That’s why Carrie had to move out. It was tense, let me tell you, until I helped her find the apartment in Sag Harbor. Man, I couldn’t believe it.

That security man in Florida who hit you on the head must have hit you very hard—assuming that story is true. You know perfectly well that Carrie moved out of Springs because your friend Hollis tried to rape her. She never wanted to go back there. And now I think it’s time for you to move on. I won’t hear such nonsense about Carrie.

Wow, Albert, have you got it all wrong. What do you think Carrie is? A fucking nun? All the time we were together, she screwed every waiter and busboy at O’Henry’s. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you. You know the closet behind the kitchen? She’d let her pants down, lean over, and take it doggie style. The owner didn’t use the closet. He fucked her standing up against the wall in his office. Or he’d sit down in a chair, open his fly, and she’d get on top. It was like a joke. Sometimes after work she was so sore she’d just give me a blow job. I got to hand it to you, Albert, once she started with you she slowed down, it was like she was too proud for everybody else or something, except Hank Wilson. That bum dicked her anytime and any way he wanted.

Mr. Wilson?

Yeah, the guy you ran over. He’d come to the apartment and stink like a piece of dead meat. Jeez, Carrie was always after me to sell her shit so he could get hard when they fucked. Most of the time, I’d give it to her free. All I asked was that they do it on the floor. You sure wouldn’t want that guy’s cock in your bed.

The kitchen knives hung neatly on the magnetized holder to the left of the stove, the edges all turned in the same direction. The long fancy Sabatier knife Schmidt had bought when he still lived in New York and kept watching over like a mother lest it be nicked, saving it to carve lamb or the occasional roast beef; the short knives made of soft steel with unvarnished handles that came from Mr. Johnson’s hardware store, two doors down from O’Henry’s, which were really better and easier to keep razor sharp, although they cost far less; the real shorties for use on vegetables and fruit, some of them serrated. Which one should he leap for and plunge into this monster’s belly, right above the low-slung belt? Stick it in and turn, then slash the face. Flood the floor with blood. Soak in it himself: shirt sleeves, socks, shoes. Then call the police. If possible, bring matters to an end before they arrived. He’d manage it, with the pills upstairs. Spill blood on this accursed house that Charlotte doesn’t want. She’ll sell it, take the money, take the other money he has—so much more than she supposes. So long as she remakes her life.

You goddamn monster.

This was surely some other man talking. Schmidt had never heard such a voice. It couldn’t be he. Must be an incubus
or the herald of apoplexy. Like his father. He had never asked Bonnie what it had sounded like, what noise the old man had made before he fell, face right into the black bean soup, at the dinner table in Grove Street. Perhaps he had made no noise at all, self-possessed and distant to the last. By the time Schmidt had gotten there, the butler and the cook had him lying down on the leather sofa in the study, but they had all forgotten to wipe the little bit of brown foam off his mouth.

Gee, Albert, you really thought Carrie was a virgin? Get with it, man. She told me how she came on to you. Why do you think she did that? You don’t know? I’ll explain it to you. She laid you because you’re old. She wanted to see what you’d do. Stuff like that. That’s no crime. Sure she loves you, Albert, but it’s not exclusive. Nothing is. What do you say? Do we have a deal?