Dutch Uncle Read online

  It wasn’t the crazies or cripples, the winos or crackheads, that sickened him about life at the Fiorella, it was the idea of lives that had stopped. Of people who’d fallen over the edge and weren’t coming back. They slumped in the lobby, paralyzed by the television’s buzzing, unblinking eye, chain-smoking and dropping butts on the tiles, butts nobody bothered to sweep up, sixteen hours a day.

  One evening, Harry’d seen a red-skinned infant, a week out of the hospital, tops. It hung at its mother’s breast, wailing at the world from the bottom of its tiny lungs. Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that kid. What were the odds it wasn’t going to die in a place exactly like this one, or worse?

  With the blinds shut and a chair wedged under the doorknob, Harry calmed in the cool grey of his room. He sank into the rut of the mattress, smoking a Dutch cigarette, the evening ahead unfolding like a movie in his mind. He floated back to Manfred’s hotel through the neon-lit mob, and took directions from the Dutchman. Money in hand after the job, he saw himself sweating out the dawn in some Greyhound station.

  He rolled out of the mattress and peeled off his shirt. He dropped to the floor, squeezed off fifty pushups. Harry struck some poses for the mirror, shoulder flex, biceps flex, side view. Jailhouse muscles. He shot a sneer at the mirror, then two jabs and a right, mumbling curses at his reflection. Starting another combination, his left went long and whacked the mirror flush. The mirror shattered.

  He ran cold water over his knuckles and lay down again. He thought he was too wound up to sleep, but before long he lapsed into a dream. He was eating a sandwich in a glassed-in café, his eyes traveling over the gardening column of a newspaper. There was a photograph of a tulip, but the caption claimed it was a rhododendron. Harry had no idea what a rhododendron looked like, but the flower in the picture was a fucking tulip if he ever saw one. A guy he thought he knew started knocking on the window, pounding so hard Harry was scared the pane would come crashing in like the mirror had, and then he was awake and somebody outside was hammering on the door.

  Harry said, “What time is it?”

  “Time for you to either pay up or get the fuck out,” a voice said, and Harry listened as feet shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

  There wasn’t much to pack, underwear and socks, some toilet things he threw into a bag, crunching shards on his way out. He took the back exit to an alley, then cut through to the street and into the first sluggish trickle of the throng on Ocean Drive.

  If he’d been looped in the afternoon, by the time Harry got back to Manfred’s room the Dutchman was in a fullon frenzy. One hand on his waist, one wrist flapping a faggot burlesque, the whites of his eyes laced with ruptured capillaries that shone pink in the half-light.

  The air conditioner was still blasting, and the refrigerated air roiled with cigarette stink and a new offender, a musky cologne Manfred had slathered on. Somebody’d been dispatched to the liquor store. The Ballantine bottle sat drained on a nightstand, but there was a fresh one riding shotgun.

  “Okay,” Harry said, “where am I going?”

  “You know, Harry, you must never fix those teeth. The gaps, I find them terribly hot.” He brought out a twogram vial. It brimmed. “Tootski?”

  Harry glared.

  “Do a little bump with your uncle. Harry, for old times.”

  Harry turned in his bottom lip. The last thing he needed was a toot. A hit, a bump, a blast. He wiped his palms on his jeans. “You know what, Manfred? I’ll take a drink.”

  The bathroom door was open, and the shower was running. Steam humidified the room, and a whiff of the hotel’s brand of shampoo churned in the gumbo of odors. Harry stifled a gag.

  He swallowed Manfred’s stingy measure, grabbed the fifth and poured a shot that’d loosen the knot in his gut. The vial was uncapped again, and Manfred held a heaping spoonful under Harry’s left nostril. Harry passed. Manfred pumped the coke into his own head.

  “What I need from you is the package and the address, and I need to get this over. I don’t feel good about committing another felony three days out of the joint, and I’d just as soon put it behind me. You know what I’m saying?”

  Harry was desperate to get out of the room before whoever it was, the juvie boy-toy, he guessed, climbed out of the shower, but it was already too late. The water quit splashing and he heard the clack of plastic, hooks sliding along the curtain rod. A second later, out stepped a blonde making a show of covering her body with a towel. Two things Harry noticed: her skin tone, basted to a succulent bronze, and her nipples, peaked, brown, peeping over the edge of the towel. How full of changeups could one degenerate Dutchman be?

  “Har-ry,” he said, drawing out both syllables like he was calling him from another room, “This is Jennifer.” The old queen pronounced the J like it was a Y, Yennifer. He knew the difference, but he was way past the point of caring.

  She played it cute, this chick, making no attempt to pull the towel higher. She took a few things from a suitcase, then glancing at Harry, she went back into the bathroom and clicked the door shut.

  “You yum yum,” Manfred slurred. “Shore you can’t spend a few more minutes with your uncle? And Yenny?” He cupped his hand over Harry’s crotch and gave his balls a squeeze.

  Harry gave him an easy shove and said, “Will you give it a rest? Are we gonna do this deal, or what?”

  Jennifer warbled a Patsy Cline tune from behind the door, way off key. Manfred weaved a circular path toward the closet, really gone, and turned around clutching a double-bagged bundle the size of a bar of soap. He stopped to freshen his drink, and handed Harry the package. “One ounce,” he said. He had one eye closed. The other pinwheeled Harry into focus. “One thousand dollars.”

  “What’s the guy expecting to pay?”

  “You be a do-right nephew. You don’t fuck around.”

  “What’d you say I’m getting paid for this?”

  “Come on, Harry. Leo told you the deal. Two hundred bucks.”

  Small potatoes all around. Manfred must’ve been doing somebody a favor. Somebody besides Harry. This was embarrassing.

  “One more question, uncle. What’s to stop me from beating town with your cash? Seriously?”

  Manfred tried to give the impression that he had that angle covered, but Harry saw the possibility was just dawning on him. He blinked twice and said through a squint, “Tragic. Positively tragic. You have no idea how deeply wounded is your uncle.”

  He considered. “Of course. There is nothing to prevent you from this terrible deed, nothing but your conscience.” He admired Harry through a single, loving eye. “Dear, dear boy. You would never do such a thing in a thousand years. You don’t have it in you.”

  It was a postcard Miami evening. Palm trees rippled with the breeze, the scent of salt water on the air.

  At the wheel of Manfred’s rented Mustang, Harry hadn’t counted on this traffic: Tourists captained convertibles idling alongside hot rods cranking brass-brittle Latin tunes; family wagons stuffed with dusky chiquitas, lacquered and spritzed for a night of clubbing. Waiting through three light changes at Espanola, Harry saw the same valet jog past him twice, once coming, once going, and it took half an hour to drive ten blocks.

  Traffic didn’t start to flow till Harry hit the mid-20s, rolling past hotels that lodged legitimate Manfreds. He cruised into the 40s, where non-divorced Manfreds lingered whole seasons. From there it was another ten or fifteen minutes, prowling a hushed suburb, before Harry had to pay attention to the street signs. The address wound up being an efficiency motel designed in the classic South Florida style, an L-shaped two-level affair that boxed a drained pool and parking spaces.

  Neon letters spelled out CANCY. The building was a charmless knock-off on the Fiorella theme. Harry headed for the north wing of the L and scaled a staircase to a catwalk, pink and pea-green paint chipped off in splotches. Where they weren’t flickering or blown out, florescent tubes crackled outside each room. The door to 206 was thrown open. H
arry flinched behind TV gunplay, glanced at a man in Bermudas, smoking and watching a cop show. He didn’t look up as Harry walked by.

  Room 202 occupied the northernmost tip of the L. Electronic disco thumped behind the door. Harry gave it three sharp raps. The noise cut out and the door flew open on a muscular man about Harry’s age.

  His arms and shoulders were swollen like a lot of guys in the joint who pumped massive iron. If there was ever any hair on his chest he’d had it shaved smooth. He knew what Harry was there for, but his eyes betrayed a nervous, scheming gleam. He was obviously expecting somebody else.

  “You are not Leo,” he said, in some kind of accent from Scandinavia. The guy could’ve been a Swede. Possibly a Dane. He had both nipples pierced with thickgauged pewter rings.

  “You got me there, pal. I’m not Leo. My name is Harry. Manfred sent me.”

  “We don’t know you.” He skipped a beat. “Did you bring the stuff?”

  Harry had the package hidden under his jacket, rewrapped in a brown paper sack. He showed it to the guy. “Be better if we did business indoors, wouldn’t it?”

  The Swede stepped aside, wearing leather hotpants that laced up the crotch. He had a partner, a bald black man with a charcoal complexion who must’ve gone 6’6”. He was built like an unraveled wire hanger and sported a baby-blue negligee over a matching bra and briefs. He gave Harry the up and down and said, “Bon soir.”

  Harry said, “How you doing.”

  The black guy told him his name was Javier, and introduced the Swede as Sven. Sven. Harry bit back a laugh.

  Sven was tugging a nipple ring, antsy. “Let’s have the stuff,” he said.

  “You have to forgive my husband,” Javier said, “for being so impatient. You are quite late, but I understand South Beach traffic is positively murderous, especially on these high season evenings. Make yourself at home.”

  Harry scanned the room. He would’ve sat on one of the two chairs, but both were stacked high with laundry, some of it clean and, from the smell of it, some from an afternoon at the beach.

  “You know, I’d stick around, but with that traffic, I should get back to Manfred. He’s probably already wondering what happened to me.”

  “Manfred can wait,” Sven said. “He can wait and so can you.”

  Okay, so he’d caught a pair of aces. Leo hadn’t said a word about these two. Presumably he’d been able to handle them. Maybe Leo wasn’t such a creampuff after all.

  The Swede was the one to watch, jonesing heavy for his blow, getting edgier by the second. Harry figured he’d have his hands full with this guy, who outweighed him by twenty pounds and, judging by the muscles, had to be strong. He took a glance, to see what he could use as a weapon, then lit a cigarette, the last of Manfred’s, which could always be ground into an eye or a pierced nipple. He looked over at Javier. Hard to imagine this skyscraper drag queen as an ally, but that was the way it was shaping up.

  Harry handed Sven the package. Sven took it out of the sack, dropped the sack on the floor, and unraveled the baggie. He held up the coke to the naked light bulb, kneading it, but the bulk of the ounce was one rock, and it didn’t break.

  Sven said, “Hmmmm.” He set it on the table. “You first.”

  Javier was on the bed, his back against the headboard, his ridiculous spider legs double-crossed. He dangled a backless slipper from the biggest foot Harry had ever seen. “Your drama is boring. This is our Dutch Uncle. All the boys are very dear to Uncle Manfred.”

  “This is not Manfred,” Sven said. “This is not Leo. This is somebody we’ve never seen, and you want to hand him a thousand dollars for a product we haven’t even tested. You stupid faggot.”

  Javier gave him a stricken look, then stared at his giant feet.

  Harry was done being polite. “Listen, sport, you either want the shit or you don’t. In fifteen seconds I’m walking out the door with this package or a thousand dollars. Your move. Make up your mind.”

  “My mother always said it,” Javier said. “Rudeness begets rudeness.”

  “Shut up,” Sven said. He took three steps to the dresser, and reached into the back of a drawer. Instead of the bundle of bills Harry was hoping to see, the Swede was holding a pistol, a Colt .45 automatic, and he was pointing it at Harry’s chest.

  Harry said, “Terrific,” and Javier started a gasp that got stuck in his throat.

  Sven wagged the Colt toward the chair that was cluttered with beach gear. “Move that shit and sit down. Javier,” he said, “get up. My hands are full.”

  Javier teetered on his mules. He dumped the one big stone and whatever shake there was onto a mirror, working the smaller pieces with a razor blade, slicing and dicing, a rhythmic clicking. His pink tongue poked through his lips in concentration.

  Harry eyed the gun, the hand that held the gun, the arm attached to the hand that held the gun. Here he was, kept at bay by a muscle queen in leather panties. Two comic book fags making him look bad. No getting around it.

  Javier chopped three lines. An entire half of him bent over the table, he had a straw to his nostril, about to suck up the powder.

  Sven stopped him. “He goes first.”

  Harry kept quiet about blow not being his thing, how it always got him in trouble. He already was in trouble. He huffed half the line into his right nostril, the other half into his left. A little sting, the coke was up his nose and into his head, trickling down his throat. He gagged. Too much. He gagged again. A-1 product. His heart was thumping and his palms remoistened.

  “Outstanding product,” he said, feeling brotherly toward the Swede threatening his life. “Excellent.”

  Sven looked unconvinced. He cocked one blonde eyebrow, flipping his gaze between Harry and Javier. He gestured to Javier, who deadpanned, “I know what to do. Trust me.”

  It was a long line, about five inches, and fat. Javier horked it all in one short sniff. He pinched his nostril closed and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “Ho, yes, child,” he said. “Ho, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together and smiled a jack o’ lantern smile, except he had straight white teeth. Every single one.

  Sven took his turn hunched over the powder. He snorted. Half the line went up. He straightened and smacked his lips, both eyes looking left, like he was trying to remember something. On the return trip, Harry slammed both forearms down on his neck, driving his face into the mirror. Cartilage crunched, and glass. The gun hit the carpet. Harry dove for it and tumbled, rolling crouched to his feet.

  Javier froze flamingo-like, one knee pulled up, screeching. Two hands, enormous hands, waving. Six feet six and fucking useless in a beef. Unbelievable.

  Harry faced off against the humbled Swede, palms overlapping his beak, blood running onto his hairless chest. Harry was stunned, realizing this was all the fight he was going to get, but once he figured it out he leaned in and cracked Sven over his left ear with the Colt. Sven dropped to his knees. Harry fed him another short sweet one. He sank to all fours, then crumpled, nighty-night, to his side.

  Javier’s eyes, locked on Harry’s, darted down to the gun. Two yips from hysteria, the perma-howl of joy or fear an inch from his throat, Javier did not scream, and for this, Harry was grateful. A chuffing sound came from Javier’s lips, forming words. “Did you?” he managed. “Is he?”

  “His nose might sit a little to one side, and he’ll have a headache with some genuine staying power, but he’s far from dead. Listen.” Harry wound up and kicked the Swede square in the gut. He coughed and sputtered, moaning low.

  “See?” Harry said. “Told you. Now you, Javier, are who I’m interested in. A fully conscious, able-bodied individual, holding Uncle’s money. You are going to find Uncle’s money and you are going to give it to me now, right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off. I don’t see you moving.”

  “I cannot allow you to use that vile language in the same sentence with the name of my personal Lord and Savior.”

  A tremendous p
iece of work, this Javier.

  “You’re a decent guy, Javier. You’re a freak but you’re a decent guy, and as a decent guy, I know you’re determined to do the right thing. Do me a favor, buddy. I need to get that money, and I need to get out of here.”

  Javier sifted through the pockets of a suede carcoat and pulled out a knot that was probably hundreds. With shaking hands, he tried to count out a thousand, or whatever it was Harry was supposed to get. It was almost like it didn’t matter anymore.

  Harry said, “Javier, get in the bathroom.” He leveled the gun. “Now.”

  Javier obeyed, walking toward the toilet, the stack of bills in his fist.

  “Javier. Stop. Leave the money on the table. Okay, now go on, get in there.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Why don’t you just let me worry about that?” Harry said. “When a man aiming an automatic weapon at you tells you to do something, you don’t debate him. You fucking do it. Are you with me?”

  Harry dragged a chair across the floor and wedged it under the doorknob. Once Javier was scared enough, he’d find all the strength he needed to break out of there, but Harry would be miles away before that happened, or before the Swede scraped himself off the carpet.

  He stuffed the Colt into his jeans and leafed through the bills. Seventeen hundred and change. The change, two twenties, a ten and a five, he left on the table. The rest he put in his pocket. Thinking twice about ripping off their ounce, too, he carved a thick line and sucked it up with a twenty. Sven whimpered in Swedish. He rolled from his side to his belly, but that was as far as he got.

  For a guy with fairly good intentions three days out of stir, Harry was having no trouble racking up the felonies. Let’s see, you had possession, intent to distribute, and sale of narcotics, for a start. Robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and the all-time classic number-one no-no for any ex-con, concealing a handgun, although not too well, in his waistband.