King Suckerman

Sixteen

Nutty Nathan’s stood on the west side of Connecticut just south of Albemarle Street, a few doors up from a Hot Shoppes that served as the centerpiece of a small commercial strip bordering the neighborhoods of Van Ness and Forest Heights. Across the street was the broadcast house of a local television station, WMAL, and a block north of that was a small piano bar named La Fortresse, revered by D.C.’s serious drinkers for its generous liquor-to-mixer ratio.

Karras parked in a lot on the side of the building. Getting out of his car, he noticed a medium-sized man with muttonchop sideburns and a Fu Manchu mustache standing by the Dempsey Dumpster at the back of the lot, smoking a joint with one hand and holding a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45 in the other. The man wore a loud gold sport coat and a matching gold patterned tie, and made no effort to conceal the malt liquor or the pot. He caught Karras’s eye, wiggled his eyebrows, raised the can in a salute.

Karras walked around the building to the front of the store. He looked in the wide window where several air conditioners blew streamers against the glass. He went inside.

An Ichabod Crane look-alike sat on a console and watched a row of televisions, all tuned to the same station. He turned his head and glanced at Karras at the sound of the door’s bell. The man was dead pale and had a frightening smile and wore a large wooden crucifix over his gold patterned tie and green shirt. His jacket was the same shade of gold as that of the man in the lot.

“Welcome to Nutty Nathan’s,” said the man. A tag clipped to his jacket read, “Hi, my name is Lloyd Danker.”

“Hi.”

“Something special for you today, sir?”

“Special? No, I don’t think so. I’m looking for Nick Stefanos.”

The man’s smile went away. “Try the Sound Explosion. All the way in the back.”

Karras walked past the bank of TVs, most of which appeared to be Sonys, that year’s hot number. Yul Brynner’s image — Brynner, with hair! — appeared on all the sets in a two-shot with a bored-looking Robert Mitchum. It was difficult to tell if Mitchum was asleep or awake. This was the one about Pancho Villa, though Karras couldn’t remember its name, and Charlie Bronson was in it, too. It was Yul Brynner Week on Money Movie Seven, and MAL had been running Brynner pictures every day.

Karras went down a long aisle that split the store. Signage and accent striping gave him the impression that everything around him, including the merchandise, was either gold or red. He felt like he was peaking in a gold-and-red-tinted trip. To the right of the center aisle were major and small appliances, and to the left were televisions and stack-and-sell ACs. The ACs blew brightly colored tongues of streamers at him as he passed. He had gotten the message out on the sidewalk — it was midsummer, and these guys had air conditioners to sell. Overkill seemed to be the intention at Nutty Nathan’s

The aisle ended at a hastily arranged group of metal desks separated by cushioned dividers. An Arab-looking gentleman — his nose was large, his complexion rather dark — sat in a chair with his feet up on one of the desks. He appeared to be sleeping with a smile on his face. He opened his bloodred eyes halfway, but only for a moment, and nodded at Karras slowly, very slowly, before closing them and issuing a deep and contented sigh.

Karras walked into a darkened area of the store housing cheap compacts and components, where a banner reading “Sound Explosion” hung. He heard “Any Major Dude Will Tell You” coming from a room separated from the rest of the stereo equipment by sliding glass doors. One of the doors was open, and Karras stepped inside.

A short wide-shouldered guy with his hair pulled back and banded in a ponytail stood in front of a receiver nodding his head to the music. The music sounded clear and bass-heavy; you could hear the pluck of the strings against the fret. In the darkness, the blue and orange display lights made the equipment look sexy and sleek. A row of floor speakers arranged in ascending height fanned out and seemed to embrace the ponytailed dude wearing a gold jacket.

The guy turned around, noticed Karras. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s happenin’, man?” Like the didn’t-give-a-fuck cat out in the lot, this one obviously recognized Karras as a fellow stoner.

“Nothin’ much.”

Karras went forward, shook the guy’s hand. His name tag said, “Hi, my name is Jeff Fisher.” His jacket was soiled and smelled of cigarettes and weed. A coat-of-arms patch had been sewn on the breast pocket, an embroidery displaying a microwave oven, stereo system, and television set. His gold tie featured the same design; the tie looked as if it doubled on occasion as Fisher’s napkin.

“My name’s Dimitri Karras. I’m a friend of the Stefanos family. Is Nick working today?”

“He’s downstairs in the stockroom on his break,” said Fisher, whose mouth turned up in an ingratiating two-bong grin. This Fisher dude was higher than Neil Armstrong. A half-smoked cigarette was lodged firmly behind his right ear. “I’ll get him if you’d like.”

“That would be good.”

“Wanna hear something first?”

Karras shrugged. “Okay.”

Fisher lifted the dust cover of the working turntable, took the needle off of Pretzel Logic, slipped a cassette tape into a nearby deck. He went to a master switching box, pushed in a black button, then returned to a tall Marantz receiver and started punching buttons and twisting treble and bass dials mounted below the radio band. He moved quickly, excitedly, like every audiophilic pothead Karras had ever known.

“Gotta hear this through the 901s,” said Fisher, jerking his head toward a relatively small Bose speaker that sat up on a pedestal base.

The music began. Karras recognized it as the intro to Curtis Mayfield’s “If There’s Hell Below,” the one where Curtis is shouting, “Niggers... Whiteys... Jews...” against some acid guitar, bongos, and echo effects right before the jam really kicks in. But on this tape, the Curtis vocals had been mixed out, replaced by the voice of another black singer, this one in the Eddie Levert mold, the rhythm track just pumping along. It was the same song, basically, but with a different singer, and way different lyrics:

You Jewish bastards, you know your dicks are disasters.

You Nigger dudes, you know you fuck real rude.

You Chinese bitches, you know you like big switches...

The song went along in that inventive vein, insulting every ethnic group with lewd, unrestrained glee while keeping straight on with the killer groove.

“What the fuck is this?” said Karras.

Fisher smiled. “Guy named Sam, used to work here, cut this track.”

“It’s bad.”

“Damn right it’s bad. Sam was bad, too. He was funnier than a motherfucker, man, and he could write some music and really sing.”

“Was?”

Fisher turned down the volume. “Died about six months ago. His father shot him during a card game. Both of them were drunk.” Fisher blinked his eyes, flicked some skin off his nose. “C’mon, I’ll show you where Nick’s at.”

Karras followed Fisher out of the Sound Explosion. The guy from the parking lot was back in the store now and pitching a cheap Spectracon receiver, talking very fast to an older black man wearing a purple rayon shirt.

“Got to get the rebop on the bebop,” said the salesman.

“Say what?” said the customer.

“Just sayin’ this receiver can put it out.”

The customer stroked the end of his Vandyke. “How many watts this box got?”

“Box got lotsa watts,” said the salesman. “I ain’t kiddin’ you, Jim.”

Karras and Fisher moved out of the stereo department. Karras looked back at the jive-ass salesman with the muttonchop sideburns.

“Who was that?”

“McGinnes.” Short and abrupt, like the name itself said it all.

They walked by the desk where the smiling Arab-looking gentleman sat sleeping. “And him?”

“Phil Omajian,” said Fisher. “Our manager.”

“He looks happy.”

“Down freak. Stays out of our way, though. The best kind of manager you can have.”

They entered a small room housing clock radios, irons, and a heavy metal desk holding paperwork and overflowing ashtrays.

“Hey,” said Fisher, “I almost forgot. You need any sound equipment?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“See me if you do. If I’m not here, we got this new young guy can help you out. Real nice guy. Name’s Andre Malone.”

“Okay.”

Fisher pointed to a lit stairwell. “Nick’s down there.”

“Thanks.”

Karras went down a shaky set of wooden stairs. The musty odor of damp cardboard hit him as he stepped onto a concrete floor littered with warranty cards and cigarette butts.

“Hello!”

“Back here,” came a voice from deep in the stockroom.

Karras walked past rows of cartoned televisions and appliances, all up on pallets, toward the source of the voice. The basement ran the depth of the building and was lit dimly by widely spaced naked bulbs suspended on cords. Near the end of the center row, a teenage kid sat atop a Panasonic color TV carton, grease-stained restaurant wrap and a go-cup scattered around him, his legs dangling off the carton’s side.

“Hey, man,” said the kid.

“Hey.”

The kid jumped down off the carton, landed cleanly on his feet. He shook his shoulder-length hair with a toss of his head.

“What’s happenin’?”

“Nothin’ much. My name’s Dimitri Karras. Friend of your papou’s.”

“Nick Stefanos.”

Stefanos put out his hand, gave Karras a soul shake. Karras had a look at the kid: on the thin side, wearing Levi’s cigarette style, one turn up at the cuff — the same way Karras wore his — a pair of Sears work boots, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that replicated the cover of the band’s debut. The kid smiled; like his grandfather, he had a friendly, wide-open face.

“Am I interrupting your lunch?”

“Nah, I just finished.”

“Anything good?”

“I eat the same thing every day. Mighty Mo, Orange Freeze, and onion rings. Eat it the same way, sittin’ on that very box.”

“Creature of habit.”

“I guess.” Stefanos shuffled his feet. “Got a bonus, though, walkin’ over to the Hot Shoppes today to pick up my food. Saw Isaac Hayes coming out of MAL. I guess he was doin’ some kind of interview over there.”

“How’d he look?”

“He was stylin’, man! Isaac had those chains on his chest, with no shirt underneath, like he does on the albums.”

“That’s somethin’.”

“Yeah.”

Stefanos pulled a flat pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, shook out a bent smoke. He flipped open a book of matches, gave himself a light. Squinting through his exhale, he eyed Karras in a curious way.

Karras said, “I guess you’re wondering—”

“You say you know Papou?”

“Well, not really. My father worked at Nick’s grill in the forties.”

“I don’t remember him mentioning your dad to me.”

“My father’s been dead a long time.”

“Sorry, man.” Stefanos thumb-flicked ash off his smoke. “You look familiar, though. You go to Saint Sophia?”

“Not so much.”

“Me either,” said Stefanos. “Not so much anymore.”

Karras said, “You ever play pickup ball?”

“At Candy Cane City sometimes. Me and my friend Billy get into some decent games every so often.”

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’ve seen me there.”

“Could be it, yeah.”

“So, anyway... I was talkin’ to your grandfather. He asked me to stop by, introduce myself, say hello.”

Stefanos blew smoke down at his work boots. “He’s worried about me, right?”

“A little, I guess.”

“That’s what this is about. He’s finally figured out that I like to get high.”

“That’s partly it, yeah. I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say? Papou and me, we got, like, fifty-some years between us. I love him, man, but how do I explain to a guy from his generation that everybody gets high? It’s not like I’m sittin’ around in somebody’s basement all day, listening to Dark Side of the Moon, or somethin’ like that. I work, I play ball, I chase after girls — gettin’ high is just something I do when I’m doin’ something else. I mean, you know, man! I can tell from lookin’ at you that you get high yourself.”

Yeah, and I deal it, too. And here I am, trying to give you advice.

“It’s not just the reefer thing,” said Karras.

“What, then?”

“He was talkin’ about... You’re goin’ on some trip, right?”

“Oh, that.”

“You leaving after the Fourth?”

Stefanos smiled with excitement. “The next morning. Billy’s picking me up at Papou’s apartment on Irving Street. We’re towing a ski boat down to Florida for this dude, and then we’re just gonna drive around. See what we can see.”

“Guess you’ll be getting ready for it all weekend.”

“Got a lot goin’ on this weekend. Going down to the Town tonight to see that new one, King Suckerman.”

“One about the pimp?”

“Yeah. And then Sunday night’s the party. I wouldn’t miss the action down on the Mall for anything. In fact, we put off the trip till Monday just to stick around for the Fourth.”

“How long you plan on being gone?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of the adventure! Why, you think there’s something wrong with that, too?”

Karras tried to think of something responsible to say. The truth was, he didn’t believe there was anything wrong with the kid’s plan. He had gone out of town with no itinerary whatsoever more than a few times himself. A road trip, man, it could really do good things for your head. And Karras was tired of being a hypocrite. He had come out here, talked to the boy just as he had promised the old man. All right, he had done that. Now he just wanted to be finished with it and get away.

“No,” said Karras. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Nick. Have a good time, man. Enjoy yourself.”

Stefanos crushed his cigarette under his boot. “Thanks.”

Karras heard the sound of footsteps rapidly descending the wooden stairs. “Nick! Hey, Greek!”

It was the one named McGinnes, coming down the aisle in their direction, an electric charge in his goose-step walk. On the way, he retrieved a sixteen-ounce can of Colt from behind a carton, tore the ring off its top. He took a long pull from the can as he walked toward them.

“The bad dude’s brew,” said McGinnes, wiggling his eyebrows at Karras.

“Dimitri Karras,” said Karras.

“Johnny McGinnes,” said McGinnes. “What it is?”

They shook hands. McGinnes’s eyes were electric, glazed and pink. His Nutty Nathan’s tie was thick as a clown’s, knotted crookedly and match-burnt in several places.

“You need somethin’, Johnny?”

“Just sold a Spectracon receiver to some yom. Gonna buy it on ‘credik.’ I can get that one myself. But you might want to bring up a KV-1910 when you get a chance. I sold the Sony to this Indian over the phone: He’s gonna pick it up in a few.”

“Want me to write his name on the box?”

“Okay. Write Singh on it. Or Patel. No, put Singh and Patel on there. That ought to shake him up. And bring up one of those Generally Defective ten-inchers while you’re at it.”

“The Portocolors?”

“Yeah. Void’s up there right now, writing up another one of those pieces of plunder.” McGinnes smiled. “But first, how about you and me get our heads up?”

McGinnes put the Colt can up on a carton. He took a film canister and a small brass pipe from his pocket and shook some pot into the bowl. He handed the pipe to Stefanos, put fire to the herb with a disposable lighter. Nick Stefanos coughed out the hit.

“Wanna get high?” said McGinnes to Karras.

“No, thanks,” said Karras. “I’m good.”

McGinnes gave the pipe another light, hit it hard, kept the smoke down in his lungs. He tapped the ashes out on his palm, slipped the pipe and the film canister back in his pocket.

“C’mere, Greek,” said McGinnes, producing a Magic Marker from his jacket.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just come here.”

Karras watched McGinnes carefully draw a red dot in the center of the kid’s forehead. For the Indian customer’s benefit, thought Karras. That ought to shake him up.

“I gotta jet,” said Karras.

“Good to meet you, man,” said Stefanos. “Maybe I’ll see you up at the courts sometime.”

“Yeah,” said Karras. “Maybe you will.”

“Hold still, Jim,” said McGinnes. “Gonna have us a red dot sale.”

Karras backed away, walked the length of the stockroom, listening to the fade of McGinnes’s giggle as he hit the stairs. The old man had been right: Young Nick worked with a bunch of wise guys. Well, at least the kid was having fun.

Out on the showroom floor, Karras could hear another Steely Dan cut coming from the Sound Explosion. He passed Phil Omajian, the smiling store manager, his eyes closed, his feet still up on his desk. McGinnes had apparently caught Omajian sleeping; a bright red dot had been drawn in the center of his forehead, too.