TOWNHOUSE By Richard B. Schwartz "I've never heard of such a thing," he said, measuring out the final sips as if they were his last. "What, a guy disappears? That happens all the time." "No, a beer for seven dollars." "Six ninety-five." "OK. Six ninety-five. For you that's a big difference?" "You're not just paying for the beer, Billy. You're paying for the leather seats without any cuts or holes and the shiny walnut bar and the chilled mugs and the gold design on the wall paper and the fancy art work and the men's room that don't smell bad and the hot snacks, and . . . and all that stuff. Especially the hot snacks. The fact that you don't eat 'em means that you're not taking full advantage of the situation . . . you're not gettin' your money's worth, but that don't mean that the price is too high." "Where else in the world is six ninety-five for a beer a good deal?" "Lotsa places." "Like . . . ?" "Like at Harry's Bar." "What Harry? Harry Billings? Harry Kahlmeier?" "No, just Harry." "Harry who?" "The Harry in Harry's Bar, the Harry in Venice. How should I know his last name?" "Venice? You mean like in L.A., with the rollerbladers with the shorts climbing up their ass and the sweaty muscle boys and the guy who juggles chainsaws?" "Venice, Europe, Billy. Harry's Bar. It's famous . . . and it's pricey." "And how often do we drink there, Larry?" "It was just an example, Billy. I saw it in this magazine at the barber shop. If you'd read you'd know these things." "I wouldn't know about that Venice, Europe shit, since my barber don't have real magazines any more, just those plastic folders with the pictures of the pretty boys with the perfect beards and the gooey shit all over their hair. The ones with the names of the haircuts underneath. The Princeton. The Rugged. The Windswept. The Grease-Ass." "Forget it; we're here, we're thirsty and the food is free. They've even got those scallops with the half-cooked bacon wrapped around 'em." "You think those are scallops, Larry? I hear that most of what passes for scallops are really pieces of shark. They scoop 'em out, kinda like those little melon balls. They're practically the same size. Maybe they use the same tool." "And can you tell the difference, Billy?" "No, 'cause I wouldn't eat 'em anyway. That's not the point. The point is that the six ninety-five is not that good of a deal, even if you eat the hot snacks. Not when the snacks are some phony-ass kind of shark and not real scallops -- not that anybody would want to eat scallops anyway, especially when they're wrapped up in greasy pieces of bacon." "Well, I'm gonna eat 'em." He walked over to the silver-plated steam tray, reached for a scallop, paused, thought better of it and then picked up some miniature drumsticks from the adjoining tray. "Not in the mood for shark, huh?" "That's not it; the chicken just looked better." "Enjoy it." "And I'd appreciate your not saying that it's actually pigeon . . . or worse." "Pigeon is very big in Europe, Larry." "Yeah, and down on the square with the big fountain in the center." The bartender nodded and Larry said, "Yeah, hit me again . . . and one for my partner." "Very generous, Larry," Billy said. "So what did you think of that house?" "The townhouse?" "Yeah, the townhouse." "Very strange. I mean, who builds an expensive place like that in an expensive neighborhood like this and doesn't put any friggin' cupboards in it?” "Larry, I explained that to you. How many of those beers have you had? I thing your mind's goin'." "Oh yeah, I forgot. Don't you ever forget anything, Billy? Jesus, I can't believe you'd say something like that to me. It wouldn't hurt you all that much to try to be a little more sensitive. I mean, not every day or anything-I don't want your head to explode - but maybe once in awhile. Lemme see . . . the house was originally for the guy's kid, who's going to the toney private college down the street. He doesn't want him to become too, what did they say - materialistic? So he doesn't leave him any place to put anything. This guy must be really rich, 'cause who's gonna buy a house without any cupboards. I mean, he's not worried about resale; he's only worried about his kid and about how he grows up." "Probably too late by then anyway," Billy said. "I mean, you know there must have been cupboards at home. The kid must of had a mother, right? What kind of woman would live in a house without cupboards? The kid must of grown up with cupboards full of shit . . . and he must of gone home for vacations and stuff. By that point he took 'em for granted. And he filled 'em all up." "The resale doesn't matter anyway," Larry answered. "The kid graduated and the old man sold the house to the college, probably made a shitload of money on it. Then they could use it for a buncha kids, put up some of those standup cupboards . . . what do they call 'em?" "Standup cupboards." "No, there's a term for them. Wardrobes." "The wardrobe is the shit you put in the standup cupboard," Billy said. "It's the same word for both, Billy. You put your wardrobe in the wardrobe. If you'd study you'd know that kinda shit." "Whatever. Besides, it don't matter anyway, since the college gave it to the guy who disappeared, and anyway, since it's burned down now there won't be any students or wardrobes or wardrobes in wardrobes or any of that shit." "So why do they give a house without cupboards to a guy in the first place?" "It's a townhouse, not a house," Billy said. "You figure the guy has a real house someplace else. This is for when he was in town. It's like a cabin or a fuckpad; you don't live there." "But the guy did live there," Larry said. "I know, I know, but you're missin' the point," Billy said. "That's the concept of a townhouse. This neighborhood is filled with 'em. I know . . . it's the only place some people got, but other people don't know that. They think it's like some kind of toy. Think about it this way, Larry. It's like a boat. They don't have a lot of space, even the big ones, but they're still expensive and only the rich people have 'em. So it makes you look like King Shit to live there. For this particular guy it was like a major bennie. I mean, other people get hired but they don't get a house, especially a townhouse in a neighborhood full of rich pricks." "Without any fucking cupboards." "Jesus," Billy said. "I'd draw you a picture, but it wouldn't do any fuckin' good." "Maybe they were trying to punish the guy," Larry said. "I mean, I hear he was a first class asshole. So they hired him and gave him a free house and gave him this big desk and title and told him he could fuck over everybody, and he buys into the deal and then suddenly realizes, Hey, this fuckin' house they gave me ain't got any fuckin' cupboards. So, where he thinks he's the top dog, playing kiss-up-and-shit-down, he's actually takin' it up the ass too. That's the theory, at least." "If you want to believe that," Billy said, "it's fine with me." He signalled to the bartender. "Yes, thank you, me and my pal here would like another round." "Her name's Sarah." "Whose?" "The bartender's. Pretty fancy name for a bartender," Larry said. "But then, this is a pretty fancy place." "There's a student place downstairs," Billy said. "Burgers and pizza and cheap beer and shit. Upstairs here it's fancy. This is where the parents eat." "It's like Cheers." "You mean on TV?" "Yeah. The bar is in the basement and then there's the pricey place upstairs, with the bald-headed prick owner." "I think the same guy owns all of this," Billy said. "It's probably not some guy; it's probably some chain," Larry said. "That's the most intelligent thing you've said since we walked in here," Billy answered. "Yeah? Well here's another one. I don't understand them hiring this guy and giving him the townhouse." "What do you mean? What don't you understand?" "Well, this college costs a fucking fortune to get into, right?" "Right." "So you get a lot of rich people, right?" "Right." "So these rich people . . . they got, like, . . . expectations, right?" "Yeah." "They want to be taken care of. They want service. They don't want to make their friggin' beds and wait in friggin' lines. They want their computers and shit to work 24/7. They want to be able to throw their shit on the ground and have somebody else pick it up. They want it to be just like at home, with maids and shit and gardeners." "Right." "So this asshole with the townhouse with no cupboards comes in here and he starts slashin' and burnin'; he's downsizin' and rightsizin' and outsizin' and firing people right and left . . ." "Outsourcing, not outsizing." "Whatever." "That's modern business, Larry." "Listen. This is what you call a service operation, Billy. They ain't making things or emptying things or cleaning things. It's part of what you call your information industry." "Yeah, OK. So?" "So how can you cheapen the product and still bring in the business? If this asshole's job is to fire everybody, then what's left? Who in the hell is gonna pay big money for some kind of bargain basement shit?" "What am I, some kind of economic genius? Maybe they were chargin' too little; maybe they give the client somethin' new instead. Video games. That's it. That's what the kids want anyway. You let 'em kill dragons or invaders from Mars or something. No, wrestling. That's big now. You get the WWF games. Let 'em piledrive each other, throw their ass on boards covered with tacks or throw shit in their faces." "They already got those, Billy." "Where?" "I don't know, but they've got to have 'em somewhere; that's what's making the money these days." "Fine, they already got 'em. You know what? This bullshit of yours is giving me a helluva thirst. Sarah . . . " "Two more, gentlemen?" "Yes, and have one for yourself, on us," Billy said. "Thank you sir, but I'm not permitted to drink while I'm working." "OK. Classy place. I'm sorry." "That's quite all right, sir," the bartender said, as she handed them new beers in fresh frosted mugs. "So Billy, let me have it again. Who was this guy?" "He was a lawyer, Larry; I told you that. The college was on the ropes because they got a president who couldn't find his dick in the dark. The money's goin' down the tubes and they bring in the lawyer to stop the bleeding." "You mean fix the plumbing," Larry said, smiling and tipping his glass. "Whatever. They bring him in to bail out the dickhead and keep the place from goin' under. Which he tries to do by cutting costs. Which means firing people. Only he fired a few too many. Plus he pissed too many people off. He's takin' away their fringies, freezin' their salaries, and jackin' up parking fees -- makin' people ride the fucking bus. Meanwhile, he's sitting in a fucking townhouse a block from campus." "Which . . . " "I know. Which don't have any fucking cupboards, but the people on the bus don't know that and they're still pissed off." "So finally they can't take it anymore and . . . he disappears." "Yeah, he's gone. Sure as hell. He's gone." "And they gave us ten large to make sure he never comes back." "That's right. Which I finished up personally, so they don't have to leave the fuckin' porchlight on, waiting for him." "And we torched the townhouse too." "That was part of the deal. It really pissed 'em off and they didn't want to see it anymore either." "So isn't this a little risky, returning to the scene and all that?" "Not in the least," Billy said. "I did the oily rags thing in the garage, right next to the gas can and the lawn mower. Totally kosher. Nothing suspicious. Nothing." "OK, so the townhouse is gone, everybody can see that, but what about him? When he don't show up for work won't people start to get a little suspicious?" "I don't think so." "Why not?" "Because they'll think he ripped off the college and took off with the money." "But why burn down the house, excuse me, the fucking townhouse. Won't that be a little too much of a coincidence?" "If they don't think it's an accident, they'll think maybe he did it out of spite. But they won't be able to prove it. Like I said, it was strictly according to Hoyle. My best work, Larry." "Wait a minute, I get it," Larry said. "People will like it, because they'll figure he took off when his boss screwed him somehow. The guy hired to screw everybody else gets screwed himself. Plus, he may have torched the townhouse too, just to get even with the boss who was behind the whole deal anyway, so the dickhead boss - who nobody likes either - is left with his mouth open and his thumb up his ass. So what we got here, Billy, is what they call a fucking 'win-win-win'." "I don't know about that; you may have one too many fucking wins in there, but I think they're all gonna like it." "So who bought the hit and the torch job, Billy?" "I can't tell you that, Larry. For your own protection. I can tell you this much; it wasn't the dickhead boss. I mean, this lawyer guy was becomin' a bigger and bigger liability, but it still wouldn't help the dickhead that much. Now he don't have anybody to blame for all the shit that goes wrong except himself. Plus he's got to do the job alone, instead of hanging around back stage, lettin' the lawyer take the hits for all the nasty stuff he was doin'." Larry smiled. "But there is some bright side for the dickhead. At least he don't have to pay the bastard anymore. If he don't show up for work he ain't gonna draw no paycheck. And the dickhead'll get the insurance payoff on the townhouse so he can rebuild the sonofabitch and put in some proper fucking cupboards. All thanks to you, because you, like, take so much pride in your work, and did the full greasy rags number." "It's what they call a subsidiary benefit," Billy said. "So you still haven't answered my question. What are we doin' here?" "Come on, I'll show you," Billy said. Leaving the spine-chilling air conditioning they stepped into warm, humid air. The joints of the red brick sidewalk had been freshly topped and the footsteps of countless walkers had formed the dense wet sand into waffled layers or pushed it toward the gutters in tiny waves. The smell of the taxis' exhaust outside the restaurant mingled with the kitchen smells drifting in from the alleyway. Except for the façade of the upscale restaurant the rest of the street consisted of functional shops, most now closed. A beggar sat in a storefront on a foldup chair, balancing a portable television on his knees. When the two men passed him he extended a can wrapped in white paper. He didn't look up. "He don't wanna miss nothin'," Billy said. "So what are we gonna do?" Larry asked. "We're gonna take a little walk," Billy answered, "just down to the townhouse." "I don't think that's a very good idea," Larry said. "It'll be fine," Billy answered. "Just two guys out for a stroll. Happens all the time. Especially in this town. If anybody says anything, just hold my hand, like as if we're on a date." "I don't think so," Larry said. Billy smiled. "Relax," he said. "Just follow my lead." They walked another block, past a row of buildings that were owned by the university, but now sat vacant. ("He downsized their ass," Larry said.) When they came to the corner Billy turned left and Larry followed. The scent in the air changed as a breeze came in from the southwest. It carried the harsh smell of wet charcoal. A minute and a half later they stood in front of the townhouse. The brickwork had survived the fire, but the metal roof was twisted and scorched, the windows were shattered, the woodwork reduced to rows of black chunks. There were pools of water everywhere, each filled with nondescript pieces of rubble and twisted metal. The doorway was covered with a piece of makeshift plywood and a yellow notice with a black border had been stapled to it at eye level. "No police tape," Larry said. "Nah. They don't suspect anything," Billy answered. "Come here a second. I wanna do something." The side of the townhouse had a parking space for a second car; the paving then narrowed to a passageway between the burned townhouse and the adjoining building. "Where are you going?" Larry said, growing more and more nervous. "Relax, come on." Behind the house was a small porch and a garden area, no more than eleven or twelve feet wide and about twenty deep. Some rattan furniture on the porch had been scorched when the back door blew out. Except for some blackened muck scattered around the back of the house the garden had been spared. "Have a seat," Billy said, pointing to a stone bench in a rose arbor. Larry sat down, uneasily. "Maybe just for a minute or two," he said. "I think we should get the hell out of here." "Relax," Billy said. "I've got to do something." He reached into each of his jacket pockets and pulled out two clear plastic bags. "Sort of like saddlebags," he said. "I needed to be balanced out." He put the two bags on the stone bench next to Larry and reached into his pants pocket. "What's in those?" Larry asked. "Fertilizer," Billy answered. He removed a knife from his pocket, opened it, picked up one of the bags, and gently slit open the top. "Fertilizer? What the hell do you need fertilizer for?" "I like roses, Larry. Don't you? You have to take care of 'em if you want to see 'em bloom right." "Sure, but this ain't your place," Larry said. "No, but it's nice to bring a little color into the world. You see, Larry, I'm one of those guys who practices random acts of beauty or kindness, or whatever the fuck it is. I'm like, civic-minded." Taking the first bag he sprinkled the contents on the bedding beneath the west row of roses. The fertilizer was gray and dusty. Then he opened the second bag, closed the knife and put it back in his pocket, and sprinkled the contents on the bedding of the opposite row. "There, isn't that nice?" he said. "Jesus, it's him, isn't it?" Larry asked. "I think I'd say was rather than is, Larry. Kinda completes the circle, doesn't it? This was his place; nobody thought he shoulda had it; the only thing nice about the whole thing is the flowers. He's gone, the house is shot to shit, and the flowers are still here. So we put the sonofabitch to good use. He's able to sorta stick around, but not so's he can do any damage. This time he only does good. Kinda pretty when you think about it." "Let's get outta here," Larry said. "No, let's just sort of enjoy the moment," Billy said. "Here . . ." He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a half pint of Johnny Walker black. "Let's toast the bastard. First we roast, then we toast, what do you think?" Larry took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a deep drink. "I don't like this," he said. "What's the matter? You don't like graveyards? Here, gimme . . ." Larry handed him the bottle and Billy took a drink. Suddenly Larry heard some movement on the sidewalk. He put the back of his hand in front of his mouth. The sound increased; someone was coming through the passageway on the side of the charred townhouse. "Relax," Billy whispered, slipping the bottle into his jacket pocket. "Gentlemen?" a voice said. A figure emerged and stood in the shadows. He was dressed in a dark uniform. There was a slight gleam from the silver badge over his shirt pocket. "Evening, officer," Billy said. "We was just sorta taking our leisure." "Odd place," the officer said, "what with the fire and all." "We figured it would be quiet," Billy said. "How 'bout a drink? We was just sorta toasting the evening." He reached for the bottle but the officer held up his hand. "Not while I'm on duty," he said. "Besides, you're not supposed to have an open bottle on the street like this. You could if this was your backyard, but I'm thinking that that's probably not the case." "Oh no," Billy said. "This ain't my place. Nor his . . ." His eyes turned toward Larry, but Larry kept looking down at the ground. "Besides, I hear this place never even had cupboards. A fancy place like that in a nice neighborhood like this. What were they thinking?" Larry shifted his weight. Jesus, Billy, he was thinking, shut your goddamned mouth. How are we supposed to have known that the fucking townhouse didn't have any cupboards? "Yes, it was sort of famous for that," the officer said. Larry relaxed, but only a bit. "The guy who built it had it built for his son, who was a student at the University. He wanted him to be able to live in a safe part of town, but he didn't want him to get too comfortable, if you know what I mean. Kids now . . . they want fancy clothes and fancy cars . . . all that stuff. Apparently the old man wanted the kid to live simply. Kind of a good idea, when you think about it." "So he wouldn't get, what would you call it, too materialistic," Billy said. "Yes, exactly," the officer replied. "Then the old man sold the place to the University and it sat open for a few months until the President hired this new Vice President, who got the townhouse as part of his appointment deal." "Pretty nice bennie," Billy said, "even if it didn't have any cupboards. I mean, you could always put in - what do you call those things - wardrobes." "Right," the officer said. He slid a long flashlight out of the case on his Sam Browne belt. "Look here . . . " He turned on the light and shined the beam into a second floor window. "If you look to the right you can just see what's left of one of the wardrobes." "Oh yeah," Billy said. "So that's where he put his clothes . . . he put his wardrobe in the wardrobe." "Right," the officer replied, smiling. "I hadn't thought of it that way." By now the flashlight was pointing toward the ground, at the base of the rose arbor. Larry scooted to the left of the bench, trying to block the beam. "You know, that Vice President was never very popular," the officer said. "Really?" Billy replied. "No. He was brought in to save money, and I guess he did that, but he sure hurt a lot of people in the process." "Really?" Billy replied, as Larry started to squirm. Goddamn it, Billy, he thought, let's stop the Sunday Social bullshit and get the hell out of here. "You know what he used to call himself?" the officer asked. "No, what?" Billy answered. "The President's Son-of-a-Bitch." "And I guess he sort of earned the title -- right, officer?" Billy said. The officer nodded approvingly. Billy turned to his left and said, "What do you think of that, Larry?" (I'm gonna kill you when we get out of here, Billy. That's what I think of that. Why in the fucking world did you have to tell him my name?) "Oh yeah," Larry said. "Quite a title, but it sounds like it fit him." "It sure did," the officer said. "The only thing anybody ever said good about him was that he took care of his garden. Especially his roses. Aren't they beautiful?" The officer directed the beam at the blooms and buds and then along the stalks to the bedding beneath. Larry tried to look as if he was listening politely, turning his head and following the light. "Very beautiful," he volunteered. Suddenly he noticed something at the base of one of the stalks. It was white, with some dark shading, about the size of a fingertip. Jesus Christ, Larry thought to himself, it's a piece of bone. He scooted back toward Billy, trying to block the beam. "I've always loved roses," the officer said. "My mother grew them. Did you fellas know that in ancient times they used roses for medicinal purposes?" "I didn't know that," Billy said. "Yes, they did. And you still see rose hips, right?" "Oh yeah, I guess so," Billy said. "The Romans loved roses; they thought they were sacred to the goddesses. They ate roses in salads, too. Isn't that interesting?" "Yes, it sure is," Billy said. (We've got to get the fuck out of here, Larry thought. What is with all this rose bullshit. Come on, Billy . . .) "Of course the English people just love roses," the officer said. It was the East India Company that brought roses from the Orient. I mean, the English had roses before that . . . sure . . . but these roses were different. I mean, they were all from the same family, I think, but these particular roses bloomed all the time. You know . . . like little tea roses and such . . ." "You really know your roses," Billy said. "I don't know that much," the officer said. "My mother did. She knew everything about roses. Grew them herself, of course. Not all of them - that'd be too many for anybody, but she grew a lot. I can't always pronounce their names right, but I can remember some of her best ones: Adam Messerichs, Belle Nanons, La Reine Victorias, Zigeunerbluts, Boule de Neiges, Reveils, Province Panachees; I mean she had rows and rows of them. Something always seemed to be in bloom. Of course, she had to have the greenhouse. It does get cold here, not like in the north or anything, but it does get too cold for roses. Now these roses . . ." He directed the beam at the blooms. (Just don't go down that fucking stalk, Larry thought. He could feel his heart beating faster and felt a set of sweat beads forming on his forehead, just above his left eye.) "These are just common roses, but you can tell that they've been cared for. See there . . . that one has been pruned and look at all the flowers now. It's funny-you cut something away and it makes you stronger. That's what that Vice President always said. Of course, he was doing a lot of cutting . . ." Billy stood up, slowly. (Finally, Larry thought. Let's get the fuck out of here.) "It's been great talking to you," Billy said, "but it's getting close to our bedtime. Actually, it's not really that close to our bedtime, but I'm kinda thirsty and I think what we're gonna do is go home and have another drink. I don't want to break any laws or anything here, you see." He was smiling. "You're sure you won't join us?" (Great, Larry thought. He already said no. What are you gonna do - fucking tempt him again?) "No thanks. I feel good just looking at these flowers." He shined the light up and down the stalks again, as Larry clenched. "What's this?" he said, reaching down toward the base of one of them. Larry tightened up. If he tried to leave, the cop would be suspicious and if he ran he might even get shot. If he attacked him and the cop - who was pretty good sized - won, he'd either be shot or get convicted and face life. His mind jumped to both possibilities and back again as he froze in place. The officer picked up the piece of bone between his thumb and forefinger, looked at Billy and then at Larry, and suddenly flicked the piece away, over the fence and into a neighbor's yard. Larry exhaled slowly as the officer held the flashlight under his chin, made some notes on something attached to a miniature clipboard and then pressed it into Billy's hand. He patted Larry on the shoulder, and said, "Nice talking to you fellas. I think you'd better go now. This neighborhood can get a little edgy after dark." They cleared the passageway and walked east as the officer walked west. They could hear the click of his heels against the sidewalk bricks. Larry turned; he could see him more clearly now as he passed under the streetlight. He wasn't wearing a gun or nightstick. "What the hell?" he said. "What?" Billy answered. "He wasn't wearing a gun. I thought we were dead there for a second, but he was so fucking big I didn't hit him. I just sorta stopped for a second. Then he flicked the bone into the other yard." "He's a campus cop, Larry. I thought you saw that. Was that what he picked up, a piece of bone?" "Jesus Christ, Billy. Welcome back to the fucking planet. We're two steps away from a life sentence and you're talking about the fucking roses." "Here," Billy said, opening his palm and revealing a small money envelope. He opened the top and slid out four thousand-dollar bills. He handed two to Larry. "What the hell is this?" "Read what it says. It's a bonus," Billy said. "A bonus for a job well done. You gotta start learning how to trust people, Larry. Jesus, you think everybody's like that asshole lawyer, just trying to screw people so he can live in a fuckin' townhouse and feel important? We did our job and we got our pay. That's the way it's supposed to work. It's not all cutthroat, Larry. It's not all dog eat dog. Thank God," he said, pausing for a moment, "there's still some fuckin' trust left in the world." ********** Richard B. Schwartz is Professor of English and Dean of the College of Arts and Science at the University of Missouri-Columbia. The author of Frozen Stare and The Biggest City in America, his story "Freelancer" appeared in the March 2000 issue of NEFARIOUS.