As I was standing there an old guy wearing a fedora and a wife beater came over with a slice of Mel Cooley, slapped a Miller down on the table, and, in that vaguely familiar voice, asked me to slide over the oregano.
Jinx, I said.
He looked blankly at me for a second then laughed.
This time of the day you can usually count on eating and maybe conversing in some peace here but not today, no sir, they’re even talking at the same time as each other, he said.
Amen, I said.
Mel the Hat, he said.
It took me a moment to realize I had just been told what I should call him. I nodded and said my own name.
I used to know a Henry, years back. We used to do business together. Small stuff. Good times. You ever do any business?
He looked at me with the kind of misty gray eyes that only the very old or very beautiful have. I wasn’t sure about the latter, but there was no doubt about the former. I figured he had to have at least fifteen years on Mr. Kindt. Maybe twenty.
No comment, I said.
He clapped his hands, let out a laugh, and said, I knew it. I could tell. I could have told you, this guy is doing business.
I took a sip of my drink. He lifted his Mel Cooley and sunk what had to be false teeth into a clot of ricotta and roasted pepper. His voice, which was high-pitched and Dominican-inflected, definitely sounded like something I had rattling around somewhere in my head.
I’m sorry, no offense, but what I said was, no comment.
Sure, he said. And much better that way too. You have to forgive me — I’m out now. I’m done. They got a box paid up and waiting for me up at Plascencia’s and some green space to go with it and all my scores are settled. I spot individuals and sometimes I talk to them. I’m too old now to matter, so generally they don’t care. I don’t usually ask specific questions. But I do got one for you.
I raised my eyebrow, bit into some Italian sausage, and nodded.
How’s your back?
My back? I said through the flecks of demolished crust, cayenne, and oregano scattered around my mouth like delicious storm debris.
You got any issues? Bad knees? You look pretty good.
The tassel of his fedora kept flipping back and forth as he spoke. He seemed to be hopping from leg to leg. He was old but the engine wasn’t sputtering yet. I said that my back and knees were fine.
He clapped his hands. I thought so. You look like you got highly functioning shoulders. You want to help me out?
I shrugged. I told him I was fairly busy. I asked him what he meant.
Just boxes, he said. My sister has some boxes up in the closet and she wants them down. I was thinking maybe you could come help me out.
We left via the video store attached to the pizza parlor. The Hat, as he said people called him for short, had gotten started on movies as we finished our slices, and movies for him meant vehicles for showcasing Steve McQueen. He listened to me talk a little about the movies I had watched with my old girlfriend at the Pioneer Theater, right around the corner, then said, that’s great, that’s great, but what about Bullitt? What about The Great Escape?
I told him I hadn’t seen much Steve McQueen, but that I’d no doubt get around to it soon.
Soon? How about now? That was always my philosophy: fuck “soon,” let’s do it now. I got a player at home. You help me with the boxes and then we can watch some of the maestro. I got some Bud in the fridge. I live nearby.
Despite my protests, offered up more out of fatigue than anything, that I really didn’t have time, The Hat made a beeline for the Steve McQueen section and selected a couple of fistfuls worth of tapes so that we could have “a choice for our viewing pleasure.” He talked Steve McQueen exploits most of the way to his place, which was, indeed, nearby. He lived on Second Street, across from the Marble Cemetery.
Lupe, he said. It’s me, open the door.
Lupe didn’t come to the door this time, so he handed me the tapes and dug around in the pockets of his baggy old-guy pants until, about three minutes later, he came up with a key.
Now listen, he said. My sister’s batteries upstairs are running down but she’s all right. She’s a good person. You allergic to cats?
I shook my head.
O.K., let’s go in.
I know what I was expecting — some kind of East Village Lupe-haunted spider hole filled with the malodorous accumulation of decades stacked in every available space and threatening to breach the proverbial rafters — but that’s not what I walked into. What I walked into was so clean and brightly lit and uncluttered that the shift my mind was forced to make from the clogged-toilet imagery it had been preparing itself for was unsettling.
It’s nice, huh?
The Hat’s fedora shone in a dazzling blend of natural and electric light and his eyes twinkled. The cats I’d seen before came sauntering out from under a row of chairs, flicked their tails a couple of times, and brushed themselves against our legs.
Lupe, The Hat said. We’re going to get your fucking boxes. I got someone to help.
You want a beer?
I said I was fine but The Hat got me one anyway.
Lupe, he said again. We’re going to get your boxes.
Lupe was in the closet. With the door closed. When The Hat pulled it open she walked out and past us without saying a word. When she got to the middle of the room she stopped and turned and stood looking in our direction. The cats came back from wherever they had swooshed off to and sat on either side of her. She had on the same filthy housedress she had been wearing before and I got hit with dj vu so hard I felt like I needed to sit down. Instead I took a long swig of beer and wiped my forehead.
She likes that dress, she won’t take it off, will you, Lupe?
Lupe didn’t say anything.
She’s got a whole fucking drawer full of dresses and she won’t take that one off, The Hat said.
I wiped my forehead again.
The Hat asked me if I was all right, if I needed to take a break and maybe watch some Steve McQueen first before I got the boxes down. I told him it had been a late night and that I was under some job-related stress, but that I was perfectly fine.
Well, I know it would make Lupe happy if you could get them for her. She won’t come out of the closet anymore.
I got the boxes down. There were three of them, good-sized, wedged hard onto the shelf above the coatrack. The Hat had me take them into the back bedroom, presumably Lupe’s, which looked so spotless that but for the slightly warped floor and walls it could have belonged to a hotel. I set the boxes next to each other on the bed.
The Hat looked at them and shook his head. The tassel shook with it. It’s just some of her old stuff. Stuff she picked up and had as a kid. She’s been in that closet for a week. You want to sit down?
We went back into the living room. As soon as we had gotten there Lupe seemed to come alive. She beamed at her brother, then went to the bedroom and shut the door. The Hat sighed.
You got family?
No. Not anymore.
My kid sister. Used to be a beauty. Or anyway, not too bad. Once upon a time I had to crack some heads. Guys came sniffing. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but I used to be able to crack a head when I had to.
I told The Hat I needed to leave.
You don’t want to watch The Great Escape? We can skip to the fence-jumping scene. It’s got real tragedy, this one. I choke up every time.
I told him I was busy. I stifled a yawn, pressed my beer against the side of my face. My bed at The Fidelity was calling me. Fumes or no fumes. I told him maybe some other time.