Cruz knew how efficacious that could be.
He began to get into his role, stroking his chin and pondering. 'I'd say the first pile is for street bindles and back alley deals. This one's for regular customers you want to fool into thinking you love 'em, so they're getting something special. And the middle pile is for real.'
Chari 's face was in Bauhaus' crotch, trying to milk him. Krystal Swayed on her stool as though someone had slipped her some catnip. Bauhaus applauded.
'Atta boy. Good. Damn good. Trust old Rosie.'
There was close to twenty large in street bucks on the bar between them. Only the ladies were mesmerized by its holy white light.
Bauhaus yawned bearishly, almost oblivious to the pumping and suction going on below the fighter planes on his belt. 'Just great. Sold! Listen: Tonight you stay here. Mi casa es su casa, right? Manana we go for a local tour. You want one of these?' He meant Chari or Krystal.
Cruz returned a dour grimace. Only one woman he thought of lately. 'I want to eat for real. You think I'm sleepy after this?' He indicated the trio of piles.
Krystal seemed to hinge at the waist, hungrily dropping her face into the middle pile, scattering it, making clouds, sniffing and snorting and rooting about in it as though starved for breath. When she surfaced her face was kabuki-white.
Bauhaus lumbered off to the rear of the apartment, Chari in tow by one wrist. No formal goodnights. Krystal passed out on the kitchen floor and started snoring.
Cruz's day had begun with a party a thousand miles or so away. He had hated the unconscious drones there, and he hated them here. The day had ended with another, more intimate party. Hell of a way to drag down a living. Rosie had known how good Cruz's nose was, like that of a wine connoisseur. He had seen what a waste, to terminate talent such as Cruz's for the sake of an empassioned gesture. New Chiquitas would soon be lined up for Emilio. Noses like Cruz's determined the local gold standard; how many of him were available?
He hoped Rosie was pulling strings apace. The sooner he could jump from this place…
He managed a few more bites of food but the cocaine had beheaded his appetite. That came with the job. He took nourishment anyway, knowing he'd need it later.
He moved closer to the smoked glass windows and gazed reflectively toward greater Chicago. Snow rolled past in dust devil clouds, swirling and restless. The lights of the distant city were fire, seen through ice. It seemed compelling and romantic somehow. Cruz knew it was probably just the drugs, fucking with his head.
SIX
It occurred to Mrs Elvie Rojas that she might have been possessed by her apartment this night. The alternative was that she had gone bad in the head, and the word senile had never been an acceptable vocabulary-builder.
Elvie was stout, barrel-shaped and thick of calf. A penguin waddle had governed her stride for the past twenty years, but she made sure and steady progress whenever she opted to be a pedestrian. Elvie Rojas was not an old lady who fell down, dim and blinking, to bust her bones. Her bowed and sturdy legs had seen her through life's travails. Back during the War she had been nearly a foot taller, almost willowy for her era, dark-haired, coffee-eyed, attractive enough to draw more notice than most attractive women would need in Francophile Spain.
She had spent her nineteenth and twenty-first birthdays ripe with child, and squeezing out those first two had started the irreversible pelvic spread, like tectonic plates drawing apart inside of her. After Emilio and Cristina had come three more children. Her first husband, Esteban Mercurio, had been a battle casualty of the final poisonous year of the Good War, and in his wake had come an American sergeant named Bryce Cannom Welch. She had experienced her first real orgasm with Bryce. He brought her to America, legally, just in time for the McCarthy witch hunts. Once a staunch old war buddy from Bryce's Army Air Corps unit decided that Bryce's studies in comparative sociology were hot copy, Bryce found his qualifications as a bonafide war hero (two Air Medals, two Purple Hearts) less important to investigators than his newfound role as a Commie. Some bitternesses never went away, or paled. Betrayed by his own country, Bryce drank himself to death by the time Kennedy was elected.
Elvie persevered, marrying, a third time.
Carl Rojas had been a grocer; had not gone by 'Carlos' in over three decades. Leukemia had knocked him down ten years past. Bryce's eldest, Robbie, had fathered two grandchildren and gone on to die in the acidic flames of a chemical detonation at a Dow plant. His last wife, and children, were well compensated, so the attorneys said. James, named after Bryce's father, had eaten a Bouncing Betty mine in Vietnam; half of him died in the bush while the other half hung on for thirty hours in a field hospital. Elvie had no idea what had become of the middle child, Loris, except that like her mother, she had gone through many husbands in her life.
Elvie could enumerate such minutiae of her personal history lucidly, at whatever depth of scan civil conversation required. She was clear-headed. No tumors, no strokes. She had not needed glasses until her sixty-second year. Her diet was conscientious and she cooked most of her own meals. Knowing Carl Rojas had provided an unanticipated windfall later in life, when it came to eating healthily.
Not being able to open the windows in her room had been the first thing leading Elvie to suspect Godless presences. Instead of complaining or lamenting, the incident caused her to sit and evaluate herself… to insure that a potential problem was not with her before taking such overt action as blaming other people or agencies.
The building's windows were large casement jobs with swivel latches. From the day Elvie had moved in, the upper-most windows had been too thick with paint to budge. Temperature could coax the lower ones to swell or jam. True, this was the thick of the winter season, but the turkey casserole she had prepared in the apartment's cubbyhole kitchen had rendered the air dense, and she craved ventilation. Snow could do such marvelous things to the air one breathed! It could be so cleansing. That was why it was frequently soot-colored by the time it stopped on the ground.
Oomph,
and nothing. The window was unyielding. She got out a little pry bar, one of those special tools that evolves from years of residence at a single location. That was when she noticed that the gouge in the sill - the fulcrum of her custom-fitted lever, also the product of years - was no longer there.
She made a small, inquisitive sound and ran her finger along the sill. She no longer painted her spade-shaped fingernails, although she lacquered them to prevent splintering.
Nothing.
It was as though the sill had been patched, sanded and flawlessly repainted. Her searching fingernail proceeded upward. The frame of the window had joined with the wooden track as an uninterrupted surface.
A cursory eye would have dismissed this as a slapdash paint job, clogging the groove Elvie knew to be there. But this was too perfect. Each detail of the window and casement remained, except that now they were not separate. They did not manufacture good casement windows like these anymore, she knew. Nowadays they touted thin sliding glass in harsh aluminum track frames. Component windows with no molding, no detail work, no pride, only mechanistic repetition. Perfection in ceaseless encore. She wondered how the craftsmen so common in the 1940s fared today.
On tiptoe she peeked at the top of the window that worked. The brass hasp moved freely enough, hampered by the thick gluey quality of the cheap paint that drowned out every other detail of this building; no pride, no pride at all. Elvie had patiently scraped the foul stuff away so the latch could do its job. But now there were no distinct sections of the window to lock or unlock. The grit-filled gap separating upper from lower had vanished, or been erased. Sometimes that gap had proven so annoying that Elvie had stuffed it with newspaper to evict the seepage of chilly air. That shortcoming no longer existed.
She could not have opened the window any more than she could enlarge her tiny apartment by pushing against the walls.
She scrutinized every surface accessible to her. Even the dust lay in a homogeneous coat, mocking undisturbed snowfall. Diplomatically she chided herself for not dusting more often.
Defeated for now, she returned to her cane rocker. Her hands sought surcease in her rosary and crucifix. After a while she ate more of the casserole, which tasted even better at room temperature. She'd cut the spices by nearly half without harming the flavor. Eventually the television was switched on and the outside world rolled on without her, as usual.
It had become immeasurably quieter in her corner of the building since the young hoodlum upstairs had relocated. Elvie was over-tolerant, a believer in the status quo and not making waves unless provoked beyond manners. She tended to mind her own business even on weekends when things got noisy. Many of the tenants were young; weekends were for the young. She had seen the upstairs occupant a grand total of twice in her life, and had never spoken to him. He was what they called a punk these days. The word was freighted with entirely different connotations for Elvie: Jimmy Cagney in White Heat was a punk. Richard Widmark in
Kiss of Death
was a punk. Bryce had loved action movies, and had instructed her well. During the time federal goons were poking into Bryce's geneology and hobbies - he had married a foreigner, after all - he had told her that Marlon Brando and any booger-nosed brat who wanted to emulate
The Wild One
was, de facto, a punk. As in punk lad.
Today punks were still kids, but looked more like the storm troopers of a bizarre alien strike force, their costumes complex and reeking lethality, their eyes metallic and sullen. Elvie saw the kid upstairs as brash, brassy, loud, probably terrified of human interaction. He wasn't even a punk to her.
He had generally thumped in about four in the morning, and Elvie was usually roused by his stomping around. She decided that she generally needed to get up to visit the bathroom about that time, regardless. Sometimes talk seeped through the ceiling, too loud, possibly accelerated by narcotics. Nothing was comprehensible to Elvie's ear; her hearing was unimpaired, but her schooling in slang had come from a past era. She could hear fine. The spectacles she wore were a very mild prescription. Her hair, even now, was more iron than snow. Her fingernails were not brittle from a lack of calcium.
Sometimes the upstairs rhumba got rhythmic enough to shake or sway the dusty light fixture depending from her ceiling. She deduced body heat in collision, and if a whoop or gasp bled through, often smiled to herself. A vacant niche of her heart, mostly dormant but for memories, had forever been overseen by the taste Bryce had given her for lasting, vigorous sex. It lent her a tiny pang whenever she guessed the people above her were copulating.
Lately these predawn commotions had stopped - Elvie instantly noted any disruption in the calm waters of her daily routine. The world might not notice she existed, but she maintained a certain succor in her own careful custodianship of one small and inoffensive life. So long as bad things were not her fault, Elvie felt at peace. For now it looked as though her quiet sufferance had paid off. The upstairs quakes and blarings had calmed on their own.
The boy who thought himself a punk had moved on. In this class of building, they always moved on.
Except, Elvie thought, for folks like me. Another of her roles was to keep some aspect of this building eternally stable, and she cherished it. As an elder tenant she outdated those who came and went, fading like matchflames on a moonless night. As an anchor, she balanced the building's occupancy against the transients. The world needed Elvie Rojas and those like her, even though they would never be noticed individually, like gravity, like air to breathe. As far as she was concerned, she played her part.
The matter of the noisy adolescent had been resolved. Now the matter of the windowsill distracted Elvie from her enjoyment of the television. During commercials, her frustration magnetized her back to the sill. Both windows, her eyes onto the world at large, had changed identically and without a clue or suspicious noise. She used a reading; magnifier to squint at the smooth commingling of sill and sash and windowframe. It was all a single piece, as seamless as her ordered life.
Perhaps this was a punishment.
The only disruptions in the settled grit were made by Elvie's gently tracing, questioning fingers. She had spent her life refining her life, as a woodworker sanding and beveling: and varnishing, and now that life, completed, needed no more work. She was left with an existence. Life had been evacuated; pride remained. Pleasure in the detail work. A vast canvas painstakingly committed with a three-hair brush, relegated to a dim corner of a dismal building with no audience and certainly no appreciation. Three husbands, she thought. Five children borne in sweat and pain, taxing the nether regions of her femininity until they sundered to yield new life. She felt phantom stabs of memory in her abandoned womb. The pain of childbearing always ran in inverse ratio to the pleasure of their seeding. Her harvest of offspring had edged her to the brink of death. For James and Robbie the clock had begun ticking with their first draw of breath. Elvie could not even name where her other children were today. She had outlasted three husbands, yes, but not by effort. She had not intended to survive them; it had simply curved out that way, planless. Without making the careful accounting of each plane and angle of her residence here important, she had held onto nothing. So perhaps obscurity was her lot. Old women on modest incomes never enjoyed a wide breadth of options.