No Sleep till Wonderland Page 3

  Gus holds up the paper bag. “Do you have room on your desk for Chinese? I figured you’d be so busy playing catch-up today you’d probably forget to take care of your basic food needs. Chinese food is a basic need, my friend. Especially the day after.”

  I nod. He laughs nervously. Then silence. We’re so awkward with each other when we’re sober.

  Gus dishes out veggie lo mein with some seafood medley onto paper plates. He gives me a plastic fork and he uses chopsticks. Is the fork an assumption on his part, or did we previously have a discussion about Chinese food and my inability to use chopsticks? I don’t remember much from our two-day event.

  I say, “This will help, especially if I can keep it down.” The food is good, increasing the odds of me surviving the day.

  “So, dear, busy day at the office?”

  “I saved the world and got some other shit done.”

  He says, “I could tell.” From anyone else, that would be a cheap shot, but he makes the joke seem commiserative. I could just be rationalizing of course, acting like a puppy around my new friend. I need to keep a handle on my level of desperation. I’m no one’s lapdog.

  Gus gulps his soda and looks disappointed that it’s not something else. “Do you remember climbing into a tree on K Street and yelling at kids and the drunks like us who walked by? Ha! You were pretending to be the voice of God. Old Testament, angry kind of stuff. You were very believable.”

  I wipe my face and shake my head. There’s nothing rattling around inside. Climbing a tree doesn’t sound like something I’d do given my physical limitations. I guess the drunk, narcoleptic me wanted to impress his new BFF.

  I say, “I didn’t even believe in myself.”

  “Actually, at the end, you shouted about being the god of hellfire and then started singing some sixties tune.”

  “I wasn’t God. I was Arthur Brown. Same thing, really.”

  “I knew the song but couldn’t think of the guy’s name.” Gus slaps the table with his hand and chuckles. He pauses and gives me the look, the here-is-the-Broken-Man look. Gus puts down the chopsticks. He can’t think and work them at the same time. “You don’t remember any of that, do you?” When I don’t respond, he adds, “I tried to talk you out of climbing the tree with your limp and everything, but you were stubborn. You insisted. Then I ended up giving you ten fingers anyway. You’re heavier than you look; no offense.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m such an enabler. And I must say, getting you out of the tree was a project. Almost had to call the Fire Department. I was going to tell them my cat was stuck in the tree.” Gus laughs like everything he says is clever and doesn’t hurt.

  The narcoleptic me would’ve clawed the firemen’s eyes out. I say, “There’s a lot I don’t remember from our night on the town. Most of it, actually.”

  “Correction: nights on the town.” Gus performs some acrobatics with his chopsticks, before snatching a big piece of shrimp. No one likes a show-off. He says, “So you remember the guy who sang that fire song, but you don’t remember our soon-to-be legendary domination of the bars of South Boston?”

  As a drunk narcoleptic, I have short-term memory issues. As an everyday narcoleptic, I have short-and long-term memory issues, but I still remember The Crazy World of Arthur Brown.

  I say, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Gus leans back in the chair, puts his arms behind his head. “That’s really too bad. We had a lot of fun.”

  “I’ll read about it in the papers.”

  My jokes aren’t all that good when I’m hungover. Gus doesn’t point out my latest flaw. What a pal. We stop talking and focus on the food.

  A tidal wave of fatigue rushes in, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I full-body twitch, and my fork clatters to the floor—it’s loud and angry—and my head almost bounces off the desktop. I sit up quick, and everything looks a little different than it was. A common sensation for me, but one I’ll never get used to.

  “Whoa. Are you okay, Mark?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You just fell asleep there for a second, didn’t you?” Gus has his elbows on my desk, our makeshift dining table. Such poor manners; I’m embarrassed for him.

  I nod. No need to speak the words detailing the obvious, only need to acknowledge them.

  I think about denying it, telling him, No, I’m fine. Just spazzed out with my fork. Lying about my narcolepsy is a natural impulse—first, second, and third nature. I lied when Juan-Miguel and my other roommates were living with me. At first, the lies were simple, harmless denials: “I wasn’t sleeping on the couch,” and “I saw how the movie ended.” I wouldn’t admit anything, even when the outlandish became my defense: “That’s not smoke, and I wasn’t smoking,” and “The cigarette burns in the couch aren’t mine,” and “I didn’t piss on the goddamn couch,” and then just a blanket “Fuck you, you’re making it all up” to the lot of them. It all piled up so quickly, an avalanche of symptoms, and no Saint Bernard with a barrel of whiskey around its neck to save me. I’m still there, buried. I lie to my mother, Ellen, all the time, even though she knows I’m lying. Maybe I should be consistent and just tell Gus that I didn’t almost fall asleep, and that I wasn’t God stuck in a tree.

  Gus doesn’t say anything. He’s not letting me off without further explanation. So I say, “You have that affect on people. Sorry, someone had to tell you.”

  “All right, all right, I know when I’m not wanted. I’ve got a couple of things for you, and then I’ll go so you can continue your recovery in relative peace. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you look like shit.” Gus laughs, pulls a small plastic bag out of his jeans pocket, and throws it on the desk: twenty or so green pills.

  “My headache isn’t that bad.”

  “Last night we talked about your trials with prescription drugs, Desoxyn especially, and how they never really improved your symptoms.” Gus pauses long enough to read the glittering neon sign that is my face. “You don’t remember, do you? Wow, we talked all about the side effects: the insomnia, headaches, tremors, how it made you feel depressed. Awake but heavy in the head, was what you said.”

  “Sounds like something I’d say, but I don’t remember rhyming.”

  “We were at the Playwright down on East Broadway. Oh, and you complained about raging diarrhea too.”

  “Wasn’t I sparkling company?”

  “You were a delight, as always, and it helped clear out our tidy corner of the bar. We also talked about trying amphetamines. They’d probably only handle the fatigue symptoms, but it’s better than nothing, and they wouldn’t have the rest of the neurological effects the Desoxyn had.”

  “I don’t suppose you got a prescription for these.”

  Gus sighs, his first sign of annoyance. “It’s not a big deal, Mark. It’s just a bag of greenies. Easy to get. Athletes and cops use them all the time.”

  I lift the bag. “I’m not an athlete or a cop, or even a pretend cop.”

  “Just trying to help. I know you don’t remember, but we talked about this.”

  “Where did you get these? Do you take these yourself? I’m a semiconscious slug over here, and you’re…you’re Dr. Pepper.”

  “Dr. Pepper?”

  I wave my hands, frustrated at the words. Maybe I can swat the pesky ones away. “Christ, you know what I’m saying. I mean, Mr. Pep. Bushy eyed and bright tailed, and all that bullshit.” My turn to hit my desk. It’s taking a beating.

  Gus shows me his pair of slow-down hands. “Hey, hey, take it easy, Mark. If in the light of this bright new dawn you’re not comfortable taking them, no big deal. You can throw them away. I won’t be insulted, and they’re not expensive.”

  Gus doesn’t answer my questions. I don’t know if I should push him on it. He doesn’t sound nervous, just very matter-of-fact. He could be talking about a terrible sweater he got for my birthday and giving me permission to take it back.

  I say, “I’ll think about it. I can’t make any big
decisions until I’m a little more than subhuman, which could be a while. I’m a slow evolver, like the Galápagos iguanas or something.” Why am I so nervous around this guy? Not sure why I don’t tell him to go choke on the bag of greenies instead of serving up wishy-washy maybes and the inexplicable—apologies to Darwin—comparison of myself to isolated marine lizards.

  “I’ll take your word for it, iguana-man. But that’s fine. I understand. Like I said, don’t worry yourself over it, one way or the other.”

  We stop talking and nod at each other as if we traversed some grand intellectual impasse. That, or we don’t know what the hell to say to each other.

  “Okay, I’ve got one more thing for you, Mark.” Gus cringes, tucks his head between his shoulders, and says, “A job, if you want it. You’d really be helping me out.”

  “If it’s tracking down some punk amphetamine dealer, I have a lead.”

  “Funny. Do you remember Eddie, the bouncer at the Abbey?”

  “Him I remember.”

  “He’s stalking my friend Ekat. She came by the Abbey a few weeks ago, and he wouldn’t leave her alone despite her clear communication to the contrary. He called her at work the next day, too. She told him to fuck off, and we thought that was that. But Ekat called me this morning, woke me up, and said he called again, threatening to show up at her bar tomorrow. She works at the Pour House, which is downtown, near the Prudential. Eddie’s not taking my calls yet. I checked the schedule and he has a couple of days off but I’m on tomorrow night. I tried calling the other bartenders already but none of them would take my shift. So I won’t see Eddie at the Abbey and I won’t be able to go to the Pour House either. It’s a scary little mess. Do you think you could just go hang out at Ekat’s bar tomorrow night? Maybe follow her home, make sure she’s safe. She lives here in Southie, over on I Street, between Fifth and Sixth. Ekat would kill me if she knew I was doing this, but I’m worried, you know?”

  That was quite the speech. Quick and well delivered, but I don’t like its implications. “First, let’s pretend this is all legit.” I pause, and Gus does a classic double take. He really is an expressive son of a bitch. “I don’t back down from anyone, but I wouldn’t describe my particular skill set as including intimidation, muscle, or protection.”

  Gus’s brow furrows; he’s in thoughtful mode, choosing his words carefully. He says, “I’m hopeful that if Eddie does go to her bar, he’ll see you. Knowing that she’s serious enough to hire professional help should throw some cold water on Eddie, at least for one night.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Second, you heard the story about how my last surveillance gig went. It didn’t exactly fare thee well.”

  “People make mistakes. Who knows? It might not have been your fault.”

  “Yet to be determined, if I’m being kind to me.”

  “Having spent the past couple of days with you, I know that you’re hard on yourself, a little too hard on yourself.”

  “Are you taking over the group therapy session from Dr. Who next week? I suggest you arm wrestle him for it.”

  “We’ll leg wrestle.” Gus pulls out a couple of cigarettes and lights them. Why didn’t I think of that? He says, “Now, what’s with the crazy talk about pretending this is legit? What are you trying to say?”

  I inhale, let the smoke do its yellow voodoo on my teeth for a bit before spitting it out. I could use some real magic. I guess I’ll have to stick with blunt honesty for a change.

  I say, “I feel set up. You only took me out for a drink so you could show me off to Eddie and then use me later, which is fine. I’m all grown up now, tuck myself into bed each night, tell my own bedtime stories even if they don’t work. But you coming in here and acting like you’re doing me a favor by offering some new gig when you wanted me for this all along doesn’t sit right. Why you want me, I don’t know. Maybe I’m the only PI you can afford. Maybe you think you can buy my help with cheap booze and little green pills. Can’t say I like that you obviously think I’m not smart enough to connect those dots. I don’t—”

  “Whoa, whoa, Mark, stop, listen to yourself. I know it’s your job and probably a part of your DNA to not trust the scenarios laid out in front of you, but Jesus fuck, this goes beyond a little healthy paranoia.”

  “Does it?”

  “You can trust me. I promise. I swear it all came up this morning when Ekat called.” He shrugs, looks around, and then his hands scurry into his pockets again like bugs fleeing when the lights come on. “Look, I can show you my cell call history if that’ll help.” He holds out his phone, but I don’t take it. I clutch my cigarette instead. It feels safer.

  Gus says, “We thought the Eddie thing was over. I had no idea he called her again until this morning, and then I just thought we could help each other out. That’s all, Mark.” Gus scratches his arms and rubs his face. He’s clearly uncomfortable. So am I.

  “How well do you know Eddie?”

  “Not well. We work together, and that’s it. We don’t hang out. I never talk to him or see him outside the Abbey.”

  “What else does he do besides bouncing?” I stress the word do like it’s a cipher to my secret code. Not that I’m speaking in secrets, but I am trying to learn a few.

  “Eh, he’s a small-timer. Really small-time, sells some stuff on the side, to kids at the bar mostly.”

  “Did you get this bag of jelly beans from him?”

  “No, Mark, I didn’t.”

  We don’t talk, just share looks that we should probably just keep to ourselves. I’m getting tired again. Other people are such hard work.

  He says, “There are plenty of small-timers in Southie who sell this stuff, you know. He’s not the only one.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I take out one of my own cigarettes and put it to work. I don’t know what to think or how to think. There should be a manual or a training film. Our words are forming complicated crossing circuits in my head. I need to regroup. I need a nap. I do think he’s telling the truth about the amphetamine conversation that I don’t remember. The stuff about Desoxyn and the side effects, particularly the diarrhea, has the ugly ring of my truth. The Eddie connection, though, I don’t know.

  Gus isn’t in the client chair anymore. He’s standing at the side of my desk, tugging gently on my sleeve. I must’ve gone out for a bit, and he waited. Don’t know if that counts for or against him.

  “Hey, Mark.” He waits until I move my arm and adjust in my seat, then he adds, “I understand everything you’re saying. But I don’t know what else to tell you. I didn’t invite you out to set this up. There was nothing to set up. I promise.”

  I don’t ask, Why did you take me out? I want to know the answer so desperately my teeth ache, but I won’t ask. I’m not that needy. I say, “All right, I’ll do the job.” I am that needy. I don’t say it aloud because I’ve already made my neediness quite apparent. “Write down the details for me.”

  Gus slaps me on the shoulder. My shoulder is going to hit back eventually. “Thanks, Mark. You’re a lifesaver.” Gus brightens considerably. The eclipse of my mistrust has passed. He’s practically dancing in place as he pulls a folded check out of his pocket and tosses it on my desk. It lands like a betrayal.

  “Not necessary. I’m not a charity.”

  “Stop it, Mark. Take it. You’re doing work for me. Like I said, you’ll be helping me and Ekat out, big-time.”

  I unfold the check. Five hundred bucks.

  He says, “Is it enough? If it isn’t, I—”

  “It’s plenty.” I fold the check and throw it at his chest. A strong throw.

  Gus tosses it back. “I’m not leaving here with this check, Mark. I mean it.”

  He wins. Again. I tell him, “I’ll be at her bar tomorrow night.”

  “Great!” Gus claps his hands, then shakes one of mine and says, “All right, I’m out of here. Call me tomorrow night.” Still standing, but swaying side to side, he writes down his cell number and the other details I’ll need for to
morrow night.

  “Thanks again, Mark. I’ll talk to you soon.” He backs out of my office, pointing at me like everyone should be looking here, at me, hiding behind my desk, the not-so-incredible shrinking man in his shrinking office, same as it ever was.

  When the door shuts, I give the check my hairy eyeball. I might cash it, or I might lose it. I open my top drawer and put the check inside, wedge it under a cigarette lighter shaped like a handgun. It was a gag gift from my late best friend George, the one who died the night of the van accident. I don’t want to think about that now, so I won’t.

  Instead, I think about turning on the computer and checking e-mail, but I decide to call it a day. My days usually end early anyway. The bag of amphetamines, almost forgot about the little fellas. They’re still on my desk. A bag of promises. A bag of threats. I don’t know which. Probably both. I pick up the amphetamines and tuck them inside my suit jacket. They make a lump on my chest.

  Maybe I trust Gus. Maybe I don’t. I really want to, though, and it’s the want that scares me.

  Eight

  The next day comes like it was supposed to, though I suspect it won’t one of these days. I sleep in, cash the check at the bank across the street, and hit the office late—1:00 p.m. late. No one visits or calls.

  There’s no real work to do until this evening, so I try verifying Financier CEO Wilkie Barrack’s Commonwealth Avenue apartment address by calling the building’s rental agency. No go there. Then I call the Boston Herald’s Inside Track pretending I’ve just spotted Madison and her lacrosse accessory coming out of a building, and I give Madison’s address. The wonderfully helpful intern with the asthmatic voice tells me that it’s covered; they already have a freelance photographer stationed outside that address.

  So I had the right apartment, anyway. Not sure if that’s good or bad, but after experiencing a modicum of success I celebrate by sleeping.