Felony Juggler, page 17
I flipped the notebook open, about halfway. There were no numbers. There were no bank addresses. It was all words. It had to be some alphanumeric code.
Waking up in sheets still smelling of you
Where did you keep our coffee?
Let’s see. Have you figured it out already, smarty-pants? Huh? “W” is 19, “A” is 1, “K” is 11, “I” is 9, “N” is 14, “G” is 7. So, that number was 191119147. Was that a bank account number? What was I looking for? Add them all together and it was 60. So “waking” was 191119147, or 60, or divide one by the other and it was 3185319.11667. Multiply them and it was 11467148820. Or maybe it was just the first letter that corresponded to a number and then we’d use “W,” “U,” “I,” “S,” “S,” “O,” “Y.” Now, change those to numbers and you got 1921918182025. You’re not even reading this, are you? You’re going to skip the rest of this paragraph and just see what the answer is. But someone reading this book is bothering to check all the arithmetic, and God bless you, but please keep in mind there’s a mistake in there on purpose because only God is perfect.
This is where you skip to. It’s not a numeric code. How do you get offshore bank account numbers to spell words? Even if you set up a program, and this was before that was easy to do, how does it come out as bad poetry? And this went on for pages and pages, and there weren’t any odd letter combinations or nonsense words in there anywhere. I mean, it wasn’t nonsense, it was just poetry. Not good poetry, but also not nonsense.
Does he put your hair behind your ears before he kisses your lips?
It looked like DK had written his own Blood on the Tracks, in the same kind of notebooks.
Oscar Wilde supposedly said, “All bad poetry is sincere.” This was as sincere as a hard-on. Awful. Nothing but pain. Watson, the computer, looked over all of Bob Dylan’s compositions and summed them up for an IBM commercial: “Time passes, love fades.” They probably cherry-picked that summation for the ad. It doesn’t just sum up Bob Dylan, it sums up all human experience. That’s all we know, that’s all we’ve learned. That and π. And we still don’t live our lives as though time really passes and love really fades and that π goes on forever. If there were a god, love would last forever and π would be 3.
On the boardwalk, the cold coloring your cheeks red
We fed seagulls and laughed while we shivered
My heart shivers and flies away like those loud sad birds.
I’m not a violent man, but if this were my poetry, I’d send Jerry out to kill anyone who saw it.
CHAPTER 31
I kept looking for a code. There had to be one. This doggerel could not exist unless it contained a billion dollars in offshore accounts, designs for cold fusion, and side effect–free cures for the cold, COVID, and AIDS.
I got back to the hotel and walked up to my room with my little bag of little notebooks of dog shit.
Here’s the horror. There was no code. There really wasn’t. The writing just sucked. Did he put it in a safety-deposit box because he never wanted anyone to see it? Nope—if you don’t want anyone to see it, you burn it. He put it in a safety-deposit box to keep it safe to save it, it’s right there in the name safety-deposit. Maybe he didn’t write it. Maybe his daughter wrote it and then she was killed by rival bad guys, and he wanted to remember her. Nope, not a chance. This was written from a vanilla talentless cis white grown man to a traditional woman who he had probably called “bitch” more than once and beaten like Tina Turner when she sassed back. Let’s do some shaving with Occam’s razor here. The simplest explanation is that he had written this poetry. But it got worse. There were letters at the top of some pages. Letters like “C Am D G.” The chord progression for every doo-wop song. I know it from doo-wop, but it’s pretty much the chord progression for almost everything unless Steely Dan gets in there and adds numbers to the chords to fuck them up.
These were songs. DK had played these on guitar, maybe piano, since it was in the key of C. He’d have to modulate to Bb for his sax solo. I knew nothing about offshore accounts, but I had an intimate first-person familiarity with bad lyrics. I could have filled these notebooks three times over myself.
I was going to die for shitty poetry. I guess I’m supposed to have an epiphany here. I’m supposed to read this and realize that this gangster who paid someone to threaten the love of my life had paid to have me threatened and beaten; this dangerous, amoral scumbag had had his heart broken just like everyone. I’m supposed to realize we’re all the same. Time passes, love fades. There was no epiphany. I knew we were all the same before reading his shitty poetry. I knew it before Jerry beat my face and threatened to rape the love of my life. I knew it before I was a felony murderer. I learned it in biker clubhouses and in jail way back at the start of this book. (Wait, I left out the jail part. Never mind.) We’re all the fucking same. There’s no god and there’s no free will, but when all is said and done, there is love. “yes I said yes I will Yes.” I didn’t get all the way through Ulysses. Even with an annotated and explained version I couldn’t do it, but I know the last line. I didn’t need DK to send a guy to beat me up to understand love, and I sure didn’t need his shitty poetry.
But here I was, in possession of DK’s dog shit, probably with another hit man hunting me. I needed to be smart.
CHAPTER 32
“Hi, how are you? Is this the super-big bossman?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m the guy who has your notebooks that were stolen from your safety-deposit box at the bank. I also have a notebook from Jerry. Jerry, the guy whose head was blowed off by a shotgun. I have his notebook too. That’s where I got this number.”
“You fucking fuck.”
“So, you are the boss? What do I call you?”
“You don’t fucking call me anything.”
“So, you don’t want the notebooks, I guess I can keep them. I can just read, ‘There’s a hole in my heart and rain leaks into my soul.’ I can just read that over and over to myself.”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, let’s just go with, ‘You said goodbye, but I could never say it back, I never will say it back.’ Just tell me, does it go to the A minor on the first ‘back’ or do you finish the line and then do the chord change?”
“Okay, so you have my notebooks. I want them. What do you want?”
“I want to meet you and give you your notebooks.”
“What do you want?”
“You’ll find out.”
“You fuck.”
“You want to stop talking to me like that. You no longer have your notebooks and Jerry no longer has a face. I have the notebooks and a face.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to meet me. Just you and me. I guess I could say ‘no police’ but you probably want police around less than I do. If we meet, I will show up with two notebooks. If you’re nice to me, you’ll get the third, you’ll get back all your notebooks. Maybe it’s worth it to kill me as punishment and get only two of your notebooks. If you do that, the third will be gone forever, and I’ll make sure it’s the best one. At least I’ll try to figure that out.” I paused. “Do you know the only game one can win playing against an omniscient god? Do you?”
“What?”
“Chicken. I didn’t just call you ‘chicken,’ or rather I didn’t only call you that. The name of the game that you can win against God is the game of chicken, you chicken. If an omniscient god can look into hearts, He will know that His opponent is really not going to turn the wheel. And if He knows that, the opponent wins or at least ties. Chicken is a game you can always win or tie, if you can prove to your opponent that you are unable to change your mind. If you take all options away from your future self, you can’t chicken out. You can’t change. It’s the way you safely listen to the Sirens. I will do that to myself with you. In chicken I must let you watch me rip the steering wheel off my car and throw it out the window. Then you know I’m not going to turn, because I can’t turn. At that point there’s nothing you can do to stop me from winning or at least tying at that game of chicken, you chicken. I’m doing that with these notebooks for our meeting. I will let you know with certainty that the last notebook will be destroyed if you hurt me. You can torture me, and I will not be able to change things. Once you hurt me, that notebook will be gone forever no matter how much more you torture me. Your only option, if you want all three of your notebooks, is to be nice to me. If you hurt me, you might as well kill me, because you’ll never get your last, maybe best notebook after that no matter what. That’s the deal I will make with my future self. I will win this game of chicken, chicken.”
There was a long pause.
I continued, “I guess you don’t understand. Chicken is a game where you drive cars at each other and the first one who turns for self-preservation is ‘chicken.’ You can also play it with cars driving over a cliff. You can play it with anything, I suppose. Is your problem trying to picture God driving a car? If it helps you, picture Him as God in the flesh, like Jesus. And if you want, you can picture that silly hippie white Jesus driving a needle-dick black Trans Am with a screaming chicken painted on the hood. And Jeez is driving that car right at my car. JC can see into my heart, so He knows I won’t turn, but just for good measure, I rip the fucking steering wheel off its stem, show it to Him, and throw it out the window. This deity with a dick knows I’m not turning. I can’t turn. I can’t change my mind. The steering is out of my hands. Is that your problem? The visualization? Or is your problem how exactly I’m going to make sure your precious notebook is destroyed if I’m hurt. I can’t explain my plan yet, but I’d be happy to brag about how clever I am—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“How about you look into my soul right now, motherfucker. How about you do that? You’re already losing this game of chicken. And it’s heartbreaking, because it’s so easy for you to win. You don’t have to drive some needle-dick Trans Am off a cliff, you simply have to be nice to me. That’s all. Have you ever been nice to get what you want?”
“I want the notebooks. Where do you want to meet?”
“Listen. I’m going to give you all the notebooks. They are yours. It would be wrong to keep them because they belong to you. That’s my motivation. I just want to make sure I can go on with my life after. That’s all I want. If you get the notebooks, will you be happy? Can you walk away? If I can trust you to do that, we’re done, you’ll have your notebooks.”
“I want the fucking notebooks.”
“And I want to give them to you. I can meet with you tomorrow. I don’t ask you to trust me, but I would like you to think hard about the game and what cards you’ve been dealt and what cards I have. I’ve told you how I’m going to play my cards. The only question is how you’re going to play yours. I’m not going to rat you out. I’m a bank robber and a felony murderer. I’ve never been caught. I don’t want to be caught. The … do you use the term ‘pigs,’ or is there some other colorful term you use nowadays for law enforcement? Is it now ‘five oh’? Is ‘pigs’ too old-fashioned collegiate? Is it like I just said, ‘You’re the bees’ knees’?”
“Okay, you don’t want the police involved.”
“Correct. And the notebooks aren’t of value to me. I mean, I like good poems and lyrics, but … never mind. I hope you understand I didn’t steal your notebooks. I was part of the … is the word ‘heist’ old-fashioned too? ‘Job,’ maybe? Never mind. I was just the front man. Part of my pay was supposed to be the contents of one random safety-deposit box and that happened to be yours. But I didn’t show up to collect because I was too … chicken. Jerry thought I did collect. He thought I had your notebooks, so he came after me and got his face blowed off. I wanted you to not send anyone else after me once Jerry was dead, so I did Jerry’s job better than he had and I found your notebooks. Now I will give them to you, if you don’t hurt me and don’t send another Jerry to hurt me. I don’t want anyone else to get their face blowed off, I don’t want to be hurt, and I don’t want my girlfriend raped. Did you tell Jerry to rape my girlfriend? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. I need to find a way to like you.”
“Tomorrow at noon, bring me the notebooks.”
“To your house? I guess it makes no difference. If you aren’t nice to me, and don’t make me feel secure, you’ll forfeit one of your precious notebooks. I guess you’re not worried about me blowing your face off. I mean that’s one way for me to get my life back, but I’m not going to do it. I want to meet you alone.”
“Fuck you, I’m not scared of you, but we’re not meeting at my house.”
“Chicken. Do you think of this as being nice to me? Remember, I can just destroy the notebooks right now, and if you keep hiring guys to keep finding me and get their faces blowed off, you’ll never get them. I bet it gets more expensive every time to hire a guy to go get his face blowed off for doggerel notebooks. How about you just be kind and get your notebooks back?”
“Meet me at the Polish American Cultural Center in Port Richman. Be there at noon. There will be no one there except me. And don’t call me chicken.”
“That’s all you heard? Okay, I’ll be there.” The third club was in the air.
CHAPTER 33
I walked up to the Polish American Cultural Center carrying a rented guitar in a rented guitar case. It was just a big stupid hall. If a miracle happens and this book is bought for a movie or TV show, they could use the same interior location for the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and this Polish American Cultural Center final scene. Although now that I think about it, I bet the Alcoholics Anonymous scene would be cut from any adaptation. The Alcoholics Anonymous scene will most likely be cut from this book.
I knocked on the glass storefront door, stood in the cold, and waited. A guy came to the door. He was a stereotype. Really big square-headed guy. Not as big as me, but again, scary big. He was wearing a suit, in the phony bullshit respect way those fucking losers dress.
“Hello. I’m the guy with your boss’s notebooks.” He stood aside so I could walk in. At least the big boss wasn’t sitting at a table eating galumpkis with his fingers and grease dripping down his fat face. He wasn’t even there.
The gorilla spoke for the first time: “Stand right there.” I did. He started feeling me up, patting me down all over. I liked his hand brushing my cock more than either one of us wanted me to. Sorry, I like people touching my cock. There was no weapon to find. He then opened my rented guitar case. He took the guitar out and looked in the sound hole; it was an acoustic. He opened the little compartment for picks and strings and stuff. He picked up the little notebooks that were in there and looked under them. There were a couple of picks that advertised the guitar-rental place. He put the notebooks and the guitar back in and closed up the case. He saw no weapon in there because no one had told him that, in the right hands, the machine inside that case could kill fascists.
The boss was making me wait. I’m not being fair to him—I was early, several minutes before our noon meeting time. The gorilla didn’t pull out a chair for me, but I pulled a chair to the middle of the room where the guitar case was and sat down.
I looked at my watch. I no longer had the James Bond watch from my old Philly days. Now I had a Casio Databank. It was an early calculator watch that held phone numbers. This was the calculator watch that I wore when I performed at RenFests. I would not have fooled any time travelers. Other than my fancy watch, I was just a hippie. I was wearing a Dylan T-shirt, from his Blood on the Tracks days.
I had set my watch alarm for eleven fifty-five a.m., and it went off as I sat down. I hit the button to stop it and sat quietly for five minutes. The guy who let me in didn’t seem chatty and there was nothing I wanted to say to him, nothing I wanted to know about him.
Right at noon, the big boss walked in from the back room. He was a different stereotype asshole. He wasn’t a fat greasy fuck; he was a well-groomed fit fuck with one of those dark close-trimmed beards that I hate.
“Give me the notebooks.”
“Sit down.”
“You aren’t giving orders.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not. I was offering a suggestion. Just like when you said, ‘Give me the notebooks.’”
He nodded to the gorilla, who brought over a chair, and the boss sat across from me. He looked me in the eye. “What do you want?”
“I want to give you the notebooks.” I reached for the guitar case. Bossman twitched and looked over to the gorilla, who nodded. I also reassured him: “He already checked. This guitar case contains a guitar.” I pulled out the instrument and held it in my lap. I didn’t need a strap; I was sitting down. I reached around the neck of the guitar with my left arm and opened the little pick and string compartment, and pulled out the three notebooks. I held them in my left hand as I grabbed a pick with my right hand.
I sat up. I had the guitar on my lap in playing position, and a Rental Center pick in my right fingers. I reached out and offered the notebooks to the boss. There was no table between our chairs, making this gesture a little awkward. He reached over and took the notebooks, freezing for a moment when he first touched them. Our hands were close to touching. His hands were well-manicured and clean. My hands had tiny scars all over them from years of bullshit knife and axe juggling. I held my hand there, just looking at it, after he took his notebooks away.
He placed the notebooks in his lap. I put my left hand on the guitar neck in the configuration of a C major chord. As he opened the notebook, I started quietly strumming. This machine kills fascists. Third club in the air. I can’t play guitar. I play bass. But I do know how to play an open C chord. I know a few chords in open position, and I can play basic barre chords. I’d learned all the chords I knew from a Dylan songbook my mom bought me. I had a guitar when I was a child. I can still play all those chords—not well, and I can’t change smoothly from one to another, but I can get them to sound with my fingers in the right place.
