Armageddon Rag Page 9

  Sandy shuddered and smiled at her.

  “And you’ve done well personally, love,” Maggie went on. “You’ve written books. That’s something. You’ve made a mark on the world.”

  Sandy’s tentative smile withered, and he looked away from her, thinking, yeah, in wine there is truth. “I’m a real big success,” he mumbled, with more than a tinge of bitterness in his tone. “Every book I write sells less than the one before, my agent is about to fire me, the Times says I have as much literary relevance as Steal This Book or The Greening of America, and I’ve got this terrific case of novelist’s constipation, which is a real good metaphor now that I stop to think about it, because if I ever do get this goddamned novel written I have a hunch it’s gonna be a turd. In eight months I’m going to run out of money for my half of the mortgage payments, which ought to confirm all of Sharon’s ideas about how irresponsible I am. Sharon and I have this great relationship. We’ve got a contract, you know, sort of like a marriage contract except we’re not married, spells out everything in writing, everything, like all the housework, and the financial shit, and what happens if we decide to split. Every goddamned thing, except what we do in bed. That we play by ear, so’z we can keep things spontaneous. It’s wonderful, our relationship. We share equal responsibility, and we give each other space, and it’s all open so we can both fool around. The only thing wrong is that I don’t think Sharon likes me very much.” Sandy felt very drunk, and very sorry for himself. He picked up his glass and found it empty. “Need more wine,” he said.

  “All gone,” Maggie replied.

  Sandy stood up. “Then I will get some!” he announced. “You have to come with me. Otherwise I’ll get lost. Point me to a 7–11, crazy lady. Besides, you got to meet Daydream.”

  Maggie pulled herself up and took his hand. “Daydream?”

  “My car!” Sandy said. “I named her. It’s your fault. You shamed me into it. Come on.” He pulled on her arm and dragged her out the front door and down the block. At some point they started running, hand-in-hand, with Maggie laughing as she ran. Sandy wasn’t sure what she was laughing about. For that matter, he wasn’t sure why they were running.

  By the time they stumbled up to his Mazda, they were both out of breath. “There she is,” he proclaimed with a sweep of his hand. The street was dark and deserted. There was only the two of them, in their shirtsleeves, Maggie barefoot. It was cold out, Sandy realized suddenly. But Daydream waited silently under the yellow halo of the streetlamps, surrounded by other parked cars. Sandy made a trumpeting noise. “I want ooohs and aahs, woman. This is no ordinary vehicle. This is a Mazda RX-7, with powers and abilities far beyond those of ordinary Fords. This is Daydream.”

  “Oooh,” Maggie said, giggling. “Aaaah.” She moved into the shelter of his arms, looked up at him, kissed him on the nose.

  “Don’t you want to go for a ride?” Sandy asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said, smiling slyly. She moved closer, put her arms around him.

  “Wine,” he muttered. “What about wine?”

  “Had enough wine,” Maggie said. She was looking at him. Her eyes were big and green and playful.

  “Had enough wine,” Sandy said. “Good, because I can’t find my keys. In my jacket, I think. Back at your place. We have to go back.”

  “Oooh,” Maggie said. “Aaaaaah.” She started to unbutton his shirt. One button. Two. Three.

  Sandy didn’t resist. “You’re as drunk as I am,” he said accusingly.

  Four. Five. She tugged, and the shirt tails came free of his jeans. One button left. Six. Then she was yanking it off.

  “Here?” he said. “Here? Daydream is watching. She’s only two years old. Can’t see filth like this. We’ll give her a trauma.” He blinked.

  Maggie dropped his shirt on the concrete, pulled up his undershirt. It got stuck as she tried to get it up over his head. She left him that way, pressed against the car. He reached up and tried to untangle his tee shirt, and felt Maggie kiss his bare chest. It was cold out there. He pulled the tee shirt free, dropped it, and she ran a tongue around one nipple, making him shiver. Her hands were undoing his belt buckle. “I had a hard-on like this once in 1959, when I saw my cousin Sally taking a bath,” he announced. “It was so hard it hurt.”

  Maggie pulled down his jeans. “This isn’t fair,” Sandy said. “I’m freezing to death, and you’re completely dressed.”

  She stood up, grinning, and undid her own blouse. “Fair enough,” she said. Her breasts were pale in the dim light of the Cleveland street. No bra, Sandy thought. Still. Some things never change. Never any bra. But she was lovely. He reached out, very tentatively, and touched her left breast. “The left was always my favorite,” he said solemnly.

  Maggie stepped free of her jeans. “Hi,” she said, grinning wickedly. “You’re not naked.”

  Hurriedly, awkwardly, Sandy stripped off his briefs. “I’m going to die of the cold,” he said. “Come here.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. She bent quickly, snatched up the pile of clothing, and took off.

  Sandy watched her run down the block, flabbergasted. It took him a long time to figure out what was going on. Then he realized that he was standing stark naked on a street in Cleveland at some ungodly hour of the morning, alone. “Hey,” he yelled, and he began to spring after her.

  His legs were longer, but he wasn’t used to running barefoot, and stones underneath hurt like hell, and anyway he was in rotten condition. Maggie increased her lead. He saw her wheel around a corner, put his head down and rushed after her, and bowled right into a big black dude in a pimp suit who had materialized out of nowhere. The guy glared at him, and backed off. Strange naked white guys running through the night were clearly outside his realm of everyday experience. “Sorry,” Sandy muttered. “Just training for the Olympics.” Then he was off again, thinking that the guy probably didn’t even realize that the original Olympics had been conducted in the buff. “Missed the whole fucking point,” he muttered, and he ran.

  Maggie was waiting in the door of her apartment. Sandy came panting and staggering up to her. “You evil bitch,” he said, trying to catch his breath. His heart was thumping in his chest. All the running seemed to have dissolved the miasma of the wine. Only the lust was left.

  “Hi,” Maggie said softly. She took his hand, pulled him inside, and shut the door. It was warm, but Sandy was still shivering. Maggie put her arms around him and kissed him.

  When she broke away, they were both smiling. “Sure you want to go through with this?” Maggie asked.

  Sandy groaned. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. Her breasts were brushing against his chest, ever so lightly, the merest touch. He wanted her so badly he ached.

  They kissed again. “I’ve got a bed now,” Maggie said. “A real one. Think you can handle it?” Her hand went down between his legs, touched him lightly, and then closed firmly around him. “Come on,” she said, and she led him into the bedroom.

  “Oooh,” she said as his hands roamed across her warm, smooth skin. “Aaah,” she said, when he began to kiss her. But then the playfulness stopped and things got more fevered, more urgent. They were hungry, both of them. Sandy remembered her body, remembered the things she liked. He did them, and she responded, and one thing led to another, and the darkness seemed lit by their heat. When Maggie came, her arms grew tight around his chest, squeezing with a terrible desperation, and her mouth opened soundlessly. Sandy came a few strokes later, but he did not pull free of her afterward. It was warm inside of her, warm and safe and comfortable, and he liked the feel of her arms around him, and so they held each other and savored the fading moments of the after time, and Sandy felt her tears on her face but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  Finally, as if by unspoken agreement, they broke apart. Sandy could see Maggie smiling in the darkness, inches from his face. She kissed him lightly on the end of the nose. “Bastard,” she said affectionately. “You haven’t changed. You sti
ll leave me with the wet spot.”

  “Oh, Maggie,” Sandy said. He felt himself tremble, though it was warm in the bedroom, in the afterglow of their lovemaking. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this. You’re crazy. I love it. I love you. I never did know what you were going to do next. You turn me into a horny thirteen-year-old.”

  He could feel Maggie’s smile as much as see it. “And Sharon?” she murmured. “Doesn’t she make you crazy, love?”

  Sharon’s name sobered him a little. The mention was enough to change things, somehow. Sandy could sense himself drawing back, though he did not move an inch. “Sharon,” he repeated reluctantly. “It’s different. Not bad. We’re good together, at least in bed. At least in the sack we both want the same things. Sharon’s very sexy. Uninhibited. Giving. Only, I dunno, it’s different.” He sat up, wrapped his arms around his knees. “She’s not crazy. Maybe that’s it. She’s not even the least little bit crazy. I need crazy.”

  Maggie’s fingers traced the curve of his spine, gently, idly. “You need sanity too, love,” she said. “Remember? That was why we broke up. I was too crazy for you. You wanted more stability. You wanted sane.”

  “I wish I knew what the hell I wanted,” Sandy said. “I don’t think I want to go to where Sharon is headed, but at least she’s headed someplace. Me, I just kind of wander from day to day.” He turned around to face Maggie, caught her hand lightly, kissed it. “And what about you?” he asked. “I’ve been so wrapped up telling you about my life, I haven’t even asked you about yours.”

  Maggie shrugged lazily. “I tend my garden,” she said. “I work in an office, bullshit typing stuff. I read. I go out now and again and get laid. Some days I’m lonely. Mostly it’s okay.”

  “Men?”

  “Sure. A few special ones since you. Lived with a guy named Bob for two years. He taught high school. Finally I was too crazy for him. I’m active in the women’s movement. I’m trying to save money to go back to college. Never should have dropped out.”

  “I told you that,” Sandy said.

  “I know. At the time, the revolution seemed more important. Courses were such bullshit. Who needed a piece of paper. Huh?”

  Sandy smiled ruefully. “I remember the cant,” he said.

  “I’ll be all right,” Maggie said. “I missed you. I’ve made my mistakes. I get the regrets every so often. Who doesn’t? But I’ll be all right, Sandy.” There was a hint of resignation in her voice as she said it that somehow made Sandy feel very sad.

  He lay down next to her again, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her. Now that the sex was over with, the wine was coming back into his head and reclaiming the domain lust had driven it from. He muttered things softly to Maggie, and she muttered back, and at some point in the course of the muttering they crossed the line that they had crossed so often together in years past. “I’m not asleep,” Sandy heard himself declare stoutly, but the declaration itself woke him, and he realized sheepishly that Maggie’s accusation had come hours earlier, that it was almost dawn now, and Maggie was snoring softly in his arms. Her face was very close to his. In sleep, much of the animation had drained out of it. Sandy could see the lines under her eyes, the heaviness beneath her chin. Her nose was too big and crooked where it had been broken, and her half-open lips were wet with saliva. He found himself thinking of Sharon, no doubt asleep in their Brooklyn brownstone, in the big brass bed, her ash-blond hair spread out on the pillow, her trim body sleek in a silk camisole. Beautiful, as Maggie would never be beautiful. And she loved him, in her own way. She had been good to him. Yet right then, Sandy was glad he was here, and not there. He kissed Maggie softly, so as not to wake her, snuggled closer, and gave himself back up to sleep.

  SIX

  Show me the way to the next little girl/

  Oh don’t ask why, oh don’t ask why

  Sandy had known Old Town pretty well during his undergraduate days at Northwestern. Even then it had been touristy, overpriced, and crime-ridden, but you could hear some good music there. More likely folk than rock, but good stuff anyway, so Sandy wasn’t averse to returning.

  Unfortunately, Rick Maggio lived in Old Town, but that didn’t mean he played in Old Town. Sandy found himself doubling back on his own tracks and taking Daydream down the Dan Ryan south of Chicago to find the one particular sleaze-pit where Maggio’s band had its nightly gig.

  Cleveland, and Maggie, had left him feeling pretty good, but his first sight of the tavern where Maggio played was enough to sour whatever remained of Sandy’s good mood. The Come On Inn was a dismal little place sandwiched between two gaudier and larger bars on a frontage road near the Indiana border. The big C in the electric sign was defective, kept going off and then struggling fitfully to come back on again. A neon Budweiser sign occupied one window. The other displayed a cardboard placard that said LIVE MUSIC—NO COVER. All around the country, Sandy thought, bands called Live Music were playing badly tonight in bars called Come On Inn on highways known only as Frontage Road. It was a species of generic entertainment; they ought to make the musicians wear white jumpsuits with BAND on their backs in plain black lettering and the UPC symbol on their pockets. He sighed and went on in.

  Inside, the Come On Inn was a narrow place with a beery smell, mirrored to make it look larger. The band was laboring away on a crowded stage behind the bar. They weren’t playing very well, but it didn’t matter much, since no one was listening. Sandy went to the back and found himself a table against one mirrored wall. He glanced around while he waited for the waitress to notice him. Only one other table was full, occupied by a glum graying couple who were more interested in staring at their drinks than in talking to each other. Three more customers at the bar: a solitary woman drinking alone and watching the act, and two men in workshirts arguing about the Bears. They were loud enough so that Sandy caught snatches of their conversation above the raucous, uncertain music. The lack of trade didn’t surprise him. The bars next door had been topless joints, while the Come On Inn offered only LIVE MUSIC.

  When the waitress finally showed, she proved to be a hard-faced, buxom girl—barely out of high school by the look of her—with too much eyeshadow and an air of being old and cynical beyond her years. Sandy ordered a draft and resolved to nurse it well. Maggie’s Chianti had left him with a godawful wine hangover that morning, and he wasn’t up for a reprise. “Who’s playing?” he asked the waitress.

  She looked at him dully. “Playing what?”

  “The music,” Sandy said, raising his voice just a tad so she could hear him above the band’s rendition of “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”

  The waitress threw a disdainful glance at the stage. “Oh, them,” she said. “Those are the Rolling Stones. Doncha recognize Mick Jagger?” She tossed her short dark hair and walked away.

  Sandy leaned back to wait for his beer. He didn’t recognize Mick Jagger. In fact, it took him a disoriented minute to pick out Rick Maggio. Four of them were responsible for the racket up there. They had a skinny little girl on keyboard, a drummer who looked like he’d just gotten out of Treblinka, a red-headed kid on bass, and a big, grossly fat man playing lead guitar. Maggio wasn’t the sort to dye his hair or go in for a sex change, which meant he had to be the lead guitarist, but it was hard to accept. It wasn’t until the singer turned and faced him directly that Sandy could discern a hint of Maggio in the puffy face under those lights. When recognition came, it depressed him.

  He remembered older, better days. He remembered a scrawny kid who could make a guitar scream and wail and thrum and beg for mercy. He remembered a singer so energetic that his shirt would always be dripping sweat halfway through the first set. So he’d take it off, ball it up, and flick it out into the audience, playing on bare-chested, his ribs etched clearly under his skin. Girls would scream and fight over those sweaty shirts, usually tearing them to sweaty ribbons. “I love it, man,” Maggio had told Sandy in an interview once. “Makes ’em cream in their jeans.”

  If
he took off his shirt now, Maggio might provoke screams, but more from disgust than sexual frenzy. He’d gained all the weight that Gopher John had lost, but on him it looked worse. Where Slozewski had been big and broad, Maggio was just sloppy fat. His face was puffy, the once-sensual sneering lips gone blubbery. His long Fu Manchu mustache had been cut and trimmed and now had a beard to keep it company, but the beard was scraggly and looked like a mess of used Brillo pads glued to his face. Sandy suspected that it hid a double chin. Maggio wore jeans, a gold lamé vest, and a green tee shirt with big dark patches under the arms where sweat had soaked through. The tee shirt was too small. It bound around the stomach, and when Maggio twisted too quickly it rode up on him, giving a glimpse of pale white skin.

  The waitress put his beer on the table, on top of a cocktail napkin decorated with mother-in-law jokes. “Two dollars,” she said.

  “For a draft?”

  She shrugged. “It’s one dollar when the Stones ain’t playing.”

  Sandy pulled out his wallet and extracted three dollar bills and one of his purple-and-silver business cards with the hedgehog cartoon. “Two for the beer, and one for you if you give this card to Mick Jagger when the band takes its break. Tell him I want to talk to him.”

  She looked at the card uncertainly, and then back at Sandy. “You a real reporter? For true?”

  “Sure. Doncha recognize Dan Rather?”

  She snorted and moved off.

  The beer had too much head on it. Sandy sipped it and leaned back again to listen to the music. The band was truly ghastly, he decided after listening to them butcher “Michelle” and derail “The City of New Orleans.” The red-headed bass player was faking most of the lyrics. The drummer was off in a world of his own and liked to jump in with drum solos at totally inappropriate times. The girl on keyboard sometimes seemed to be playing different songs than the rest of them. As decayed as he might be, Maggio was still clearly the only thing that gave the group any professionalism whatsoever. He played listlessly, as might be expected, but every so often you could hear a flash of his old style, and his voice still had the same raw raspy edge to it that had worked so well as a counterpoint to Hobbins’ singing in the days when the Nazgûl were flying high. It was a nasty voice, full of poison and pain and possibilities. It made Sandy sick to hear it singing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree.”