The Financial Lives Of the Poets

CHAPTER 28

THERE HERE ONCE WAS AN Eddie named Dave

Whose deep loathing he heartily gave:

“What am I supposed to do

with a snitch prick like you?”

As his own ass he endeavored to save.

Fear leads to the lowest of poetical forms. And it’s fear that I feel right now, fifty meggies of it, as Eddie/Dave looms over me, his face red with rage. I’ve probably been punched all of twice in my life until tonight. I’ve already matched that, and tonight’s not even over.

I’m lying on the foot-worn carpet of Monte’s living room, between a La-Z-Boy and the World Book Encyclopedia set-I glance over and see that S and T are switched and fight the urge to switch the books back; I remain curled up, covering my swelling eye as Dave looms over me in his seething rage.

“I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t-”

“You’re fuckin’ sorry?” Dave turns to Monte. “He’s sorry.”

“For what?” Monte asks innocently, miles behind still.

“I know,” I mutter. “What kind of man was I?”

“What’s that mean?”

I start to sit up. “Rhetorical question.”

Eddie/Dave kicks me in the side and I feel the air go out of me and I fall again.

“What…fuckin’ rhetorical question? What the-Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Jamie stands beside Dave, arms at his sides, strangely subdued. I sort of thought he might help me, but maybe not. For his part, Monte is red faced and sweating, eyes going back and forth from Dave to Jamie to me. He looks like he’s going to explode in his parka-like a burrito left too long in a microwave. “W-will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

What’s going on? Okay. Well, Monte-(1) Apparently Bea has called Dave and told him that I warned her to get away. That’s something you can never judge-another person’s loyalty. (And maybe I’m just weak for tall and blond, but I’m not that disappointed in Bea. After all, she did know Dave first, and there is a certain chronology to loyalty.) And (2) Dave has driven out here, smacked me in the face and, now, seems to want to kick me to death.

Then, with my side aching and with Monte’s what’s going on still in the air, and because the shit apparently isn’t deep enough yet, the front door flies open again-and I think once again of Monte’s living room as the set of a play, because, in a hot stampede of rash fat, in comes the character of Chet. As played by Chet.

“I fuckin’ told you!” Chet yells; for the moment he seems most furious with Dave.

So here we all are, in Weedland: me, Monte, Jamie and both of the guys who’ve punched me today, in a less-than-circular circle, me on the floor of the living room of a four-million-dollar grow

farm, surrounded by my angry colleagues (at least one of whom I suspect carries a gun in his car), these four guys who now understand that Slippers is a snitch.

Or three of them understand: “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Monte asks.

Chet ignores his brother. “What do we do?” he asks Dave.

Then Chet and Eddie/Dave make dark eye contact and I see, maybe for the first time, that this can get worse, and I think of Lt. Reese and his well-timed aint’s-he ain’t stupid-and the lump in the photograph that he showed me-it ain’t a pile of leaves-and all of my cute, sleep-deprived faux-brave responses just leak right out of me-Godzillas and limericks and What-kind-of-man-and all that’s left is fear, more fear than I thought was possible-like a heightened version of the terror you feel during a rough landing on a jet…and then, this unwieldy thought: I desperately want to see my kids again. And Lisa.

Lying on the floor, curled up-this is why I no longer believe in epiphanies, in profound revelations, because how stupid is the one I’m having: I don’t want to die? How inane, “realizing” the thing you always knew, from your first breath, that you’d prefer to live, to see the people you love? What sort of pointless realization is that?

“I told you not to trust these fuckers!” Chet says again.

“Don’t look at me,” says Jamie, hands in the air.

“You’re the one who brought him here!” Chet says.

“How was I supposed to know?”

And this is when Monte finally arrives at the party. “Wait. Is Slippers a cop?” His cheeks fill with blood and he looks over at Jamie. “Jamie?”

Jamie simply shrugs, looks at his shoes.

“You’re so stupid, Monte,” Chet says. “He’s not a cop. He’s a fuckin’ narc.”

Then poor Monte doubles over and retches, and this might be the most remarkable thing in a remarkable day-that, in that vast gut of his, Monte apparently has nothing but stomach acid, because he heaves and heaves, but nothing comes out except bile and an acrid smell, which joins with the other smells-faint whiff of weed, musty house and a lot of scared-boy sweat-to make me feel like I might get sick too.

Bent over, his hands on his knees, Monte looks up at Jamie. “Did you know about this?” Jamie just stares.

“He didn’t know,” I say.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Dave says to me, and he helps Monte to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder to Chet. “Put this fucker downstairs while I figure out what to do.”

That word…put…seems so much harsher than: Take him downstairs.

“And get his phone and his keys,” Dave says.

Chet holds out his hand. I hand over my phone and keys. I think of turning on the recorder on my watch, but don’t want him to see. Chet follows me through the kitchen and down the stairs. The basement is warm, overhead light on. The air hockey table has been moved aside and the paneling removed. The corridor to Weedland is open. I can see down the short, narrow dirt-floor hallway, and the three lines of bright lights that glow beneath the grow rooms. Monte must’ve left it open. I sit on the hard carpet next to the pellet stove, lean against the wall.

Chet points a thick index finger down at me, in warning, I guess, and then tromps back upstairs. And for the next few minutes I hear footfalls and low voices, a steady hum, Chet’s voice occasionally rising above the rest-“What the fuck does that do for us?” and “Why do I have to do it?” More footfalls. Doors open and close.

God, it’s warm down here. I look around. There’s nothing on the paneled walls, not even a beer poster. If I had bought this place…

Jesus, what am I thinking? Across the room, that dark hallway leads to short beams of light beneath the closed and locked doors.

There’s more talking from upstairs, the low voices, more doors open and close, and finally…footsteps on the stairs. I look up and see business loafers. Eddie. Dave.

He takes the last of the steps, turns and walks slowly toward me without meeting my eyes. He stands above me, staring darkly down. I look for the trace of a handgun in his wool coat and pressed slacks, but I don’t see one. He looks like a lawyer after hours, like an extremely angry lawyer.

I sit up a little. My neck and side are killing me. “Look, Dave. I don’t blame you for-”

He holds up a hand to interrupt me: “Are you wearing a wire now?”

I ease the watch off my wrist. Hold it out. “It’s not a wire. It only records. They don’t monitor it. It isn’t even on unless the backlight is lit.”

Dave reaches down, takes the watch and turns it over in his hand. I glance past him, to the stairs, wondering…if I made a run for it…is Chet waiting for me up there?

Dave looks confused as he turns the watch over in his hand.

I take this opportunity to rise off the wall, so we’re both standing. I’m so sore. “They wanted me to pretend to buy this place,” I say. I glance past him, to the stairs again. God, I want to be up there. Down here, it’s just Dave and me-and suddenly the low ceiling and the dark hallway on the other side of the room make me think of a grave.

Dave is staring at my feet again. “Did you tape our conversations?”

“No…I just got the watch today…”

“Tell me exactly what you told them.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. They knew it all. They’re the ones who told me about you.”

“What did they say?” Dave’s voice is barely a whisper. He still won’t look me in the eye. I’m not an expert in these situations, but this fact doesn’t seem to be in my favor.

“Well. They said your name was actually Eddie…that Dave is an alias…” No reaction. “And they showed me your record…you know…which was…well…I mean, we all make mistakes, right?”

He is shaking with anger. He says something so low I can’t make it out.

“What?”

“Bea said…” He looks up. “They told you I killed someone…”

“Yeah,” I say. “That was a little alarming.”

Then a deep, guttural noise comes from Dave’s chest and he starts to move on me and I put my fists up…and in that moment I think of the boys and of Lisa-and I understand something about myself, that to see them again I will scratch and kick and bite, I will kill this son-of-a-bitch with my bare hands if I have to, and anyone up those stairs who gets in my way, too and the adrenaline courses and I tense for what comes next-almost eager for it. But Dave simply shoves me against the wall, spins away, staggers and walks toward the dark hallway, enters it, throws his face and arms against a wall and begins wailing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Dave yells. “I can’t believe this!”

I look from Dave to the stairs-freedom-and then back at Dave, who is pressed face-first against the wall in the narrow corridor leading to the grow rooms, a drying plant hanging near his head. Dave cries, blubbers, moans through his nose…not crying like Franklin when he doesn’t want to go to bed, but wailing like Teddy the time he rode his bike into a parked car, broke his wrist, split his head open and saw his own blood for the first time.

And I find myself at the door to the grow rooms, the staircase just to my right-

“It’s so unfair!” Dave sobs over his shoulder. “That they’d tell you I killed someone! It was a fuckin’ car accident!” Dave wipes at his eyes, tries to get control of himself. “These guys, Slippers! They’ll do anything…they’re fucking ruthless!”

Dave moans again, and spins away, so that his back is against the wall of the dark hallway. He tilts his head back, as if trying to keep the tears in his eyes.

“I don’t suppose they told you that it was the other driver’s fault? Or that he turned in front of me? That the girl was in his car?”

“No,” I admit. “None of that.”

“I’d had a few glasses of wine, blew a point-oh-one-and if there are two drunk drivers in a fatal accident, they charge both with vehicular homicide. The prosecutor was supposed to plead it down to a DUI…but I’ll bet it was your fucking drug task force friends who convinced him to withdraw the deal.” Dave moans, shakes his head. “I knew. I knew it-”

“Dave, I didn’t-”

“And Dave is my middle name!” he yells, and bursts into tears again. “It’s not an alias! It’s my middle fucking name! That’s not the same as an alias! I haven’t gone by Eddie since I was thirteen!” He wipes at his eyes. “People used to call me Special Eddie. How would you like that?” He looks around himself. “I should’ve let Monte board this place up, but Jamie comes up with the idea of selling this place and I just thought…yeah, if I could make a little money before I got disbarred…I could go back to school.” He sighs. “I was gonna be a counselor.”

Then he shakes his head. “A federal fucking task force? Do you know what that means?”

“No,” I say. Honestly…I don’t know what anything means.

“It means federal prison. Means they can hide us in some hole

in Nebraska for fifteen years. Confiscate everything we own.” He points at me. “I knew they were sniffing around, too. I could just tell. People said I was paranoid, but I knew. That’s why I got that shit-bucket Nissan. I gave my mom the Benz just in case, ’cause I didn’t want those fuckers taking my good car.”

He’s right. The Maxima is a shit-bucket car. I wonder if they confiscate mine, if I’ll still be responsible for the payments.

“What else did they say?”

“Dave, I don’t-”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Come on, Slippers, just tell me.”

“They said you committed an assault and…uh…intimidation?”

He nods, ashamed. “That was a long time ago. I had some anger stuff then. My ex-girlfriend…this older guy she was seeing.” Dave wipes his pocked cheeks again. And a little snot bubble forms, just like Franklin gets. “The funny thing is…I felt like I had my shit together…you know, before the accident? You make one mistake and then-” He shakes his head. “Did they tell you I gave her CPR after the accident? The girl?”

“No.”

“No,” he says, “of course not,” and he sighs. He stares down the hallway again. Shrugs. “Jesus, Slippers. How does everything get so fucked up?” And it’s all too much for him again. Dave’s head falls into his hands and he shudders with sobs. And I find myself stepping into the dark hallway, my feet crunching on the dirt floor, my hand rubbing his twitching shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay, Dave.”

Then Edmund AKA Dave Waller, manslaughtering, weeping drug dealer, turns back to me, his cheeks glistening, and says, through snot and tears, “Shit, Slippers. I’m never gonna practice law again, am I?”