Derailed

TWENTY-TWO

I called Tom Mooney and told him I wanted to talk to him about something.

About music production.

It was the three-day work week between Christmas and New Year’s. The time of year when people attempt to put their affairs in order and make a New Year’s resolution or two. To lose those few extra pounds, for instance. I was formulating a weight-loss plan of my own. I had approximately one hundred and eighty extra pounds sitting on my neck. I needed to get rid of it.

Tom showed up five minutes early and made an elaborate show of taking off his coat and closing the door.

“Okay,” Tom said when he sat down, “so what do you want to talk about?”

“Kickbacks,” I said.

But maybe I’d been too blunt, because Mooney suddenly edged back in his chair. Was it possible there was a kind of code you were supposed to use for these things, a language of men in the know?

“Kickbacks — what’s that?” Tom said. “Are we in the Teamsters or something? The last time I looked, we shoot commercials.”

“T and D Music,” I said. “So you also write songs.”

“Hey, we’re a full-service production company. Whatever it takes.”

“And that’s what it takes?”

“Have you seen Robert’s reel lately?” He was trying to be funny, I guess, because he seemed to be waiting for me to laugh.

I didn’t feel like laughing today.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked. “You and David?”

“Look, Chaz. Did you call me over here for an interrogation? Because maybe I missed something when you called me. I thought you called me over here for another reason. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

I blushed. Maybe there was another language, or maybe I knew the language but was incapable of speaking it. First with Winston in the bar and now here. I had called Mooney over here for another reason, not to condemn him, not even to sweat all the dirty little details out of him. Just to put out my hand and say, Count me in.

So maybe it was time I dropped the air of moral superiority — that’s what Tom was saying. And what’s more, he was right.

“Twenty thousand,” I said.

Kind of amazed that the words had actually made it all the way out of my mouth. Twenty thousand as a bald statement of fact — no equivocation, no rising consonant lilting into a plea. Twenty thousand — for the ten I owed Winston and the ten I’d already given out. And I wondered if this was the way it was done — or if I’d been expected to slide a scrap of paper across the table with the figure scrawled in pencil.

But Tom smiled again—the kind of smile that says, You are one of us, aren’t you.

I felt a bit queasy—but less than I expected. Was this how it happened? Losing yourself a little at a time until suddenly there was no you there anymore? Someone who used your name, slept with your wife, hugged your kid, but wasn’t actually you anymore?

“Hey,” Tom said. “I told you I was Santa Claus, didn’t I?”

The next day, I met Winston one block north of the number seven subway tracks in the mostly empty parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts in Astoria, Queens.

Winston’s idea. Aren't you supposed to meet in out-of-the-way places? he’d said after asking me if I knew the only pitcher with five Cy Young Awards.

Roger Clemens, I'd said.

Winston was waiting for me in a white Mazda with non-matching hubcaps and a busted taillight. The windshield was covered with spiderweb cracks.

I drove up in my silver Mercedes sedan and felt embarrassed about it. I parked at the far end of the lot, hoping Winston wouldn’t see me. But he did.

“Over here,” he yelled.

When I made it to the car, Winston leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Hop in, bud.”

Bud hopped in.

“Know my favorite song?” Winston asked.

“No.”

“ ‘Money.’ By Pink Floyd. Know my favorite artist?”

I shook my head.

“Eddie Money.”

I said: “Yes, he’s good.”

“My favorite movie? The Color of Money. Favorite baseball player of all time — Norm Cash. Second favorite — Brad Penny.”

“Yes, Winston,” I said, “I have your money.”

“Hey, who was asking for money? ” Winston said. “I was just making conversation.”

A number seven train rumbled over the el, showering sparks down onto the street.

“But now that you mention it,” Winston continued, “where is it?”

I reached into my pocket. It's burning a hole in my pocket — isn’t that the expression? A messenger from Headquarters Productions had dropped off the manila envelope yesterday.

“Five thousand,” I said. “The other half after.”

“You see that in a movie?” Winston asked, still smiling.

“What?”

“The ‘other half after’ stuff? You see that in a movie or something?”

“Look, I just thought — ”

“What’s the deal, bud? I believe, when I said I’d do this, from the goodness of my heart, by the way—because you’re a pal and you’re in trouble—you said ten thousand.”

“I know what we — ”

“A deal’s a deal, right?”

“I understand.”

“What were the terms?”

“I think one-half — ”

“Tell me what the terms were, Charles.”

“Ten thousand,” I said.

“Ten thousand. Right. Ten thousand for what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you giving me ten thousand for? Because you like me? ’Cause you want to send me back to college?”

“Look, Winston . . .” I suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

“Look,Charles. I think maybe there’s some kind of confusion. I want to review the terms with you. You ask someone to do something like this for you, you have to know what the terms are.”

“I know the terms.”

“You do? Then state them for me so there’s no confusion. What are you giving me ten thousand for?”

“I’m giving you ten thousand to. . . make Vasquez go away.”

Winston said: “Yeah, right—that’s what I thought the terms were. Ten thousand to make Vasquez go away.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Here’s my argument to make him go away,” he said. “What do you think? Think he’ll listen to it?”

“A gun.” I felt myself recoil; I edged back against the window.

“Hey — you’re good,” Winston said. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Look, Winston, I don’t want . . .”

“What? You don’t want to look at it? Neither will he. What did you think I was going to do, Charles — ask him nicely?”

“I just want . . . you know . . . if at all possible . . .”

“Yeah, well, just in case it’s not at all possible.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I had been thinking in euphemisms all this time — making Vasquez go away. Doing something about him. Taking care of him. But this was the way a Vasquez was taken care of, Winston was saying. Sometimes it was this way.

“Okay what?” Winston said.

“Huh?”

“ ‘Okay, here’s your ten thousand, Winston’?”

“Yes,” I said, giving up.

“Great,” he said. “For a second there I thought you were only giving me half.”

I took the envelope out of my pocket and handed it over.

“You’re too easy, Charles,” Winston said. “I would’ve settled for three-quarters.”

Then, after he’d counted it all, he said: “Where?”