Shmucks (5 page)

The woman continued, “Yes, the garage attendant at my apartment kept telling me that my brakes were dangerously low and kept insisting that for my safety I ought to bring it in somewhere for a check out. He sort of pricked my conscience, if you know what I mean, and I must tell you I really appreciated it. There's nothing like getting a good prick now and then. Don't you agree, Mr. Pelzic?”

“Yes, yes,” Pelzic muttered. “It's good to get some prick now and den.”

“Yes, I certainly think,” Miss Peerega continued, “there's nothing like a good prick to snap us out of our laziness or whatever.”

“Umm,” Pelzic grunted, trying to ignore the woman without being too rude.

“As for the garage attendant,” she went on, “I told him he could use my hole. There are so many people wanting to park in our area, that an extra hole is always welcome to the garage men at our place.”

“Umm, umm,” Pelzic mumbled, nodding his head rapidly.

“I mean, that way the garage man might make himself a few extra dollars during the day with my hole. But I'll get it back in the end.”

“Very good, very good, Miss Peerega.”

“Yes, I mean if I let them park in my hole, they'll surely go out of their way to help me at a later date. I mean, they're perfectly polite right now. When I come home from shopping they literally fight with each other to get at my bags. There's no nicer feeling than when someone holds your bags for you. I think politeness is very scarce today. Don't you, Mr. Pelzic?”

“Yes, yes. I think so,” Pelzic muttered, wishing that the woman would leave him alone so that he could read his claim letter in peace.

“By the way, Mr. Pelzic, do you know anything about cars?”

Pelzic shrugged. “A little bit.”

“Well, what could you tell me about cleaning out my pipes?”

Pelzic stared back at her blankly, not knowing what the woman was talking about.

“The garage man told me that I could use a good pipe job as well. Yes, he told me to ask the mechanic to clean out my pipes, but the mechanic didn't have a clue as to what that was. Inexperienced, I suppose, or perhaps over-specialization. Would you know of any garage that does that kind of work, Mr. Pelzic?”

“No, I don't know,” Pelzic replied curtly.

“That's too bad.”

Pelzic looked back down at the letter. The front door opened, and Pelzic looked up to see a man wearing farmer's overalls enter the office.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Miss Peerega asked.

“Je veux voir l'avocat, madame.”

“Lequel? Il y'a deux dans ce bureau ci,” Miss Peerega said in her English-accented French.

“Je ne sais pas la. Je viens de St.-Jérome la. Mon ami la, m'envoyé ici la.”

“Oui, oui je comprends monsieur, mais à qui voulez-vous parler? A Monsieur Lecter ou Monsieur Chartrand?”

“Je n'sais pas le nom la, mais . . . c'est le Juif, le Juif la.”

“Oh, le Juif!” Miss Peerega exclaimed. “Oui, oui, ça c'est Monsieur Lecter,” she said smiling broadly.

“C'est lui qui est le Juif?” the man asked.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Bon. Je veux parler avec lui. Mon ami la m'a dit de parler seulement avec le Juif.”

“Voulez-vous vous s'assoir monsieur,” Miss Peerega said.

Pelzic sat there, having understood only the word Monsieur.

The man in the overalls sat down just as the intercom buzzer sounded on Miss Peerega's phone. She picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, said “right away, Mr. Lecter,” and put it down.

“Would you like to come now, Mr. Pelzic?”

Pelzic stood up and went into the lawyer's office.

WHEN PELZIC WALKED IN
, Nort Lecter was sitting with his feet up on the desk, scowling.

Pelzic smiled.

“Siddown,” the lawyer said.

Pelzic sat down. He noticed a loaded movie projector set up beside him on the desk. They were probably showing dirty movies, Pelzic thought. Then it occurred to him that his lawyer wasn't smiling. In fact, he seemed a little angry.

“Did I get the money?” Pelzic asked.

For a moment Lecter didn't respond. Then he stood up and walked over to the door. He flicked off the light switch and went slowly back to the projector.

Pelzic turned to look at the small movie screen which was set up against the far wall.

“Just before I show you this, I want to say a few things.”

“What is this, a dirty movie?” Pelzic asked hopefully.

“No, it's not a dirty movie. We showed those yesterday.”

“Well, what is it?” Pelzic was puzzled by the angry tone in Norton Lecter's voice.

“D'you remember what I told you when you came to ask me to handle the accident claim?”

Pelzic shrugged. “You told me many things.”

“Yes, I did tell you a lot of things, and you also told me a few things. You told me, for example, what bad luck you always had with the taxi inspectors from the Montreal police department and from the taxi companies. You mentioned that whenever you tried picking up a passenger out of your zone, you always seemed to pick up an inspector. You told me that whenever you tried to make a flat rate for a customer, an inspector would see your dome light off and make a spot check on you. You remember that?”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“And if you remember some more, you'll remember that I warned you the insurance companies also have inspectors. In fact, I stressed that they have very good inspectors. Didn't I?”

“Yes, Mr. Lecter. But why are you telling me all this?”

“Why?” Lecter asked. “Watch.” He flicked on the projector.

Pelzic was suddenly shocked to see a colour close-up of his own face on the screen. The camera drew back, and Pelzic saw himself getting out of his taxi in front of what looked like a hotel.

“Here's a picture of you picking up four heavy suitcases in front of the Mt. Royal Hotel, and carrying them to the car for the passenger.”

“Yes, yes, I see. So?”

“So?” Lecter sounded like he was choking on something. “So these shots were taken by an insurance inspector four days after your accident. Your right arm was supposed to be severely injured. We were claiming 5% permanent partial incapacity. The bulk of our claim was based on the 5% p.p. Look how you're throwing those valises around. Look, look now,” Lecter exclaimed and pointed at the screen. “There you are arm wrestling in the Carmen Restaurant with some guy. Look, you're actually beating him. Look at the arms on the zhlob. Look you put him down . . . with your right arm yet. Why couldn't you use the left one?”

“I used the left one after.”

Lecter sighed disgustedly. “Look, look now! There you are jacking up your taxi after you got a flat tire. Again with the right arm. What is it with you and the right arm? D'you have something against the left arm? To jack off you probably use the left one, but to jack up he has to use the right.” Lecter motioned with his hand as though addressing an imaginary person in the room. “Look how you're throwing the flat tire into the trunk! With one hand yet! I told you, they don't fuck around, these momsers. I told you, stay home a little bit. Put the hand in a sling. Don't take it outa the sling. Look, look now! There look at you–leaning over to open the back door for a fare with the right hand again. What d'ya have ta be so polite for! She could have opened the door herself.”

“She was a fat lady, she was having trouble,” Pelzic protested.

“Fat lady?! Let her go on a diet and learn to open doors by herself.”

Pelzic shrugged. He was very close to tears. He knew what the movie was leading up to: no money.

“We'll be lucky if they give us three days total temporary.”

“What does dat mean?” Pelzic asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking.

“It means we'll be lucky if we get two or three hundred bucks, of which you'll get, if you're lucky, maybe a hundred.”

Pelzic stood up. He didn't want to see or hear any more.

“You should have cut a hole in your right side pants pocket and played with your putz.”

“Please, Mr. Lecter, I must go now.”

“Okay, okay go. I'll call you and let you know how things turn out. But don't expect much. We don't stand a chance in court against this evidence. Do you agree?”

Pelzic nodded.

“Okay, we'll try to get four hundred bucks from them. If we're lucky, we'll get three.”

“Goodbye. Thank you,” Pelzic said and turned towards the door.

As he walked out, he caught a final glimpse of himself on the screen. He saw himself strolling out of Warshaw's fruit market carrying a gigantic watermelon, traylike on his right hand. Alone in the elevator, he let loose his frustration and anger by defacing several of the walnut panels with his car keys.

This action did nothing for him. His anger seemed to grow as he got outside and stood on the sidewalk. He sensed somehow that if he could cry now he would feel a lot better, but he knew he was incapable of crying. He hadn't done that in over 25 years. He walked slowly to the lot where his car was parked. He handed his ticket to the attendant who punched it in the time clock, studied it for a moment and then said, “That'll be $2.60, sir.”

“But I haven't even been an hour,” Pelzic protested weakly, not really caring.

“Yes, sir, you have. You've been here sixty-two minutes. It's 85c the first half hour, 75c the second half hour, and $1.00 the next hour.”

Pelzic paid. He got into his car and began to drive.

HE DROVE FOR SEVERAL HOURS
without paying any attention to where he was going. He went all over the city. A part of his mind was aware of people flagging him. Most he ignored, some he shook his fist at and cursed in Romanian, saying such things as futuţi mama mâtii, or du-t-n pizda mâtii; others he gave the gesture of the upraised third finger.

He picked up no one. His mind was occupied with trying to figure out why he couldn't make it–why an Iggy Retzic could be successful after a week in Canada and he was still failing after twelve years. It didn't make sense. Nothing made any sense, he thought.

It wasn't as if he were stupid, a moron. He went over his life–the early years in Romania, his first years in Canada–but could come to only two conclusions: something was wrong somewhere, and it wasn't fair.

He drove from one end of the city to the other, from downtown to Bout de L'Isle and back up to the west end again where he went up to Mount Royal Park. There he left his car and walked around Beaver Lake for a few hours watching the ducks and the people and the dogs. Then he got into his taxi and drove east again past the stinking oil refineries all the way to the end of the Island.

As he passed Richelieu race track, he was overcome by a great urge to go inside and try to place a bet. For some reason he felt that there was a good chance that he would be lucky. He went into the track with the objective of playing one race. He had approximately twenty dollars in his wallet. He would bet ten dollars on one race and then leave, win or lose.

By the time he got inside, the second to last race was in progress. That meant he would have close to half an hour before he had to put his bet down. Pelzic, however, felt it wasn't necessary to study the horses in the race. He chose one immediately because the stable colours were the same as the Romanian flag. Something told him with absolute certainty that his horse was going to win. He put his ten dollars down immediately, went to the railing near the finish line, and clutching his tickets tightly in his hand, he waited for the race to begin.

The pace car came onto the track and the drivers followed it around, guiding their sulkies into position as they moved around to the starting pole. As the pace car pulled away and the drivers opened up, Pelzic's horse suddenly drew up short and began to defecate on the track.

Finally, after the other trotters had progressed to the quarter-mile pole, Pelzic's horse began to move and raced after the pack at a stumbling gallop while the driver, half standing in the sulky, rained blows on its backside and screamed curses at it.

Pelzic left the track, got into his car, and headed back for the centre of the city. He had fallen into a very subdued mood. The fact that he had lost his bet at the track hadn't made him more angry, but in fact had seemed to make Pelzic feel somewhat quieter.

He drove, watching the road unconsciously as though some small part of his mind was paying attention while the remainder was still occupied with a myriad of thoughts and memories of the past years.

Somewhere on Notre Dame Street, not far from St. Emilion Street, he ran out of gas. That was only the second time in six years that this had happened to him. The first time had been almost five years before, and then he had been so disgusted and angry with himself that he had thrown a cursing fit. Now, however, he calmly got out of the car, locked it and began walking to find a gas station. He walked along Notre Dame for close to half an hour before he finally found one that was open.

The attendants was there alone and so, after having purchased three dollars worth of gas and having left a five-dollar deposit for the container, he had to walk all the way back to his car.

Forty minutes later he dropped off the empty tank at the gas station, got back his deposit, and continued on to downtown. It was a quarter to eleven when he finally got back to the centre of Montreal.

For a while he drove around the general area bounded by de Maisonneuve, Guy, St. Catherine and Peel. He observed the people out on the town, sitting in the sidewalk cafés, lined up outside the fashionable discotheques, walking, talking, enjoying themselves.

He began to feel lonely. He had been driving around without passengers for close to ten hours. Now he wanted some company. He wanted to hear someone's voice, he wanted to be asked to go somewhere specifically. He began watching for fares. He made a pass along de Maisonneuve without success. He headed up Guy to McGregor. He drove past the consulates and stopped for a red light at the corner of Mountain Street.