The Paradise Gig Read online

  “When they lost the notebook?” Pete put in.

  “Ah,” said Bert, “nice ta see you’re payin’ good attention. Right. When they lost the notebook.”

  “So what happened?”

  Bert plucked at Nacho’s ears and gestured for another drink before he answered.

  “Okay, so the thing goes on practically till dawn, plus everyone’s hung over, so next day the schedule is all screwed up. By the time the boys go down for breakfast, it’s more like lunchtime. By the time they’re checking out, it’s late afternoon. Me, I happen to be walking through the lobby toward the phone booth to place a call to a colleague in the Bronx, and I hear this big to-do going on at the reception counter. People are upset. Very upset. So, being of a naturally curious or you might say inquiring turn of mind, I sorta linger near a potted palm to observe what’s goin’ on.

  “And it turns out that what everyone’s upset about is that John and Paul can’t find their notebook. It’s missing from their room. They left it, or at least they’re pretty sure they left it, on a corner of the dresser. They come back from breakfast and the room’s been cleaned. I mean, housekeeping has a schedule, too, right? Doesn’t change just ‘cause guests stay up all night and get hammered. Anyway, the room was clean and the notebook was gone.

  “So the manager, who as you can imagine looks like he’s about to pop an artery, sends someone to check the room, then sends someone else to double-check the first guy. No notebook. So he sends someone to find the housekeeper and, in a few minutes, in walks this little lady who looks half-scared to death. Hair net, blue smock, you get the picture. She’s tiny. Maybe five feet tall. Doesn’t have much English. Those years, she’s probably from Cuba, maybe just arrived. Who knows if she even has any idea whose room she just cleaned up. Anyway, the manager starts asking her if by any chance she saw a notebook in the room. It’s obvious she can’t quite follow what he’s sayin’, and she looks around like a cornered cat to find someone who can translate for her. There’s a bellman who speaks both languages. They start to pow-wow. I hear one of the very few Spanish words I recognize. Basura. I.e., gahbidge.

  “The bellman listens to her, frowns, clears his throat and says, ‘Nilda says she is very sorry, but there was a dirty old notebook in the wastebasket and she threw it in the big blue trash bag then put it in the bin.’

  “And Paul says, ‘It wasn’t in the wastebasket, it was on the dresser.’

  “And John says, ‘Well, Paul, it had been on the dresser, but we were pretty pissed and wobbly and halfway blind when we rolled in last night. Maybe one of us hit it with an elbow or a guitar case or a shoe and knocked it into the wastebasket?’

  “’Well, I didn’t,’ says Paul.

  “Anyway, while they’re talkin’ it over, gettin’ a bit testy if truth be told, what wit’ the hangover and all, the manager sends someone to check the gahbidge bin. It’s empty. No gahbidge. It’s already been picked up. Which means that the notebook has by now been mashed up by a gahbidge truck and mixed in with the dead fish and coffee grounds and mango pits and Kotex and is on its way to Mount Trashmore if it isn’t there already. The manager turns purple. His hands start to shake. He’s terribly sorry, hugely embarrassed, he’s moppin’ the floor wit’ his tongue, but that’s it, the notebook’s gone, it can’t be helped. As a token gesture, he offers to fire the housekeeper.

  “George, who doesn’t talk much but seems like a gentle sort of guy, speaks up and says, ‘No, please don’t do that. It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t know.’

  “Paul says, ‘I still say the book was on the dresser.’

  John says, ‘Come on, Paul, let it be. Most of ‘em were shite songs anyway.’ Shite, ya know, that’s English for shit. Anyway, John shrugs and says, ‘We’ll just write more. We’ll write better ones.’

  “And that was pretty much it,” Bert said. “People calmed down. The bellmen loaded up their stuff, they got into the limo for the short ride to the airport, and they left Key West sans notebook.”

  Pete had finished his wine by the time the rambling tale wrapped up and was now contemplating his empty glass with sorrow. “What a loss,” he said. “All those songs. Probably some classics in the pile, all just gone like that. What a waste.”

  “Shit happens,” Bert observed, and gave his dog a slow, reflective rub along its spine. “But I’ll tell ya what really struck me. What struck me is that after all the ruckus or you might say the brouhaha, once it was clear that the search was over and the notebook was really gone, Paul and John, especially John, just kinda shrugged it off. Like okay, screw it, we’ll just write new ones. And I remember thinkin’, Man, that’s confidence. The kinda confidence that only really young people can have. Like they’ll never run outa ideas or opportunities. Like the well will never run dry. Like they got all the time inna world, time to finish anything they start. Amazing confidence. Then again, I dunno—who knows?—maybe confidence ain’t the exact right word. Maybe faith is more like it...But anyway, shit, I didn’t invite ya here to reminisce about The Beatles. Lemme tell ya what went on wit’ Callie.”

  5

  D usk had deepened into evening. The first few stars were out, at moments bold, at moments coy behind a scudding veil of cloud. In the terraced restaurant above the bar, dinner was in full swing. Forks and knives were clanking on plates. There was the occasional snap of crab claws being cracked, random honks of sudden laughter rising above the general hum of conversation. The smell of drawn butter spiked with lemon wafted over and merged with the smell of the sea.

  Pete had a fresh Sancerre in front of him, a generous pour and a very cheering sight. Condensation frosted the bowl of the glass and trickled down the stem. Pete traced its course with a fingertip, blotted each drop on his cocktail napkin, and braced himself. “Okay,” he said, “so tell me about Callie.”

  “Jeez,” said Bert, “I sorta don’t know where ta start.”

  “How about at the beginning?”

  “Very clever, wiseguy, but it so happens that if you really pay attention and consider the nuances and such, it ain’t always so easy to say when or what the beginning was. Like, lemme ask you somethin’. Y’ever have that experience where ya sorta half-see somethin’ that ya don’t quite know what to make of? Like, ya notice it but it doesn’t quite register? Like, you’re seein’ it wit’ your eyeballs but it takes a little time to make it to your brain, capeesh? So in that kinda situation, when did somethin’ really start? When it first hit your eyeballs or when your brain got around to makin’ somethin’ out of it?”

  “Bert, we’re talking fractions of a second here.”

  “For you maybe. Maybe a little longer for us seniors. But anyway, I’m tryin’ ta be precise. Precision is somethin’ I respect. Then again, it’s difficult t’achieve. Lotta complicatin’ factors. Moods. Emotions. Like, ya see somethin’ and your gut reaction is to be worried. So that colors how ya see it, right? But then maybe, next moment, ya think, nah, screw it, it don’t need worryin’ about. But you can’t just totally erase the fact that you were worried in the first place. I mean, that feelin’ didn’t just come outa nowhere. And this is where the dog comes in.”

  “The dog?”

  At the sound of the word, Nacho had stood up in his master’s lap and was doing a little dance around his crotch.

  “Yeah, the dog. Y’ever have a dog, Pete?”

  “Me? No way. Way too much commitment.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real pain innee ass sometimes.”

  Nacho lay down again and sulked.

  “But onnee other hand,” the old man went on, “in a situation like this, where ya see somethin’ and you’re not sure if it calls for bein’ worried about, well, sometimes ya get the feelin’ that the dog is worried too. Which can be very reassurin’ as like, ya know, a gut check. But then again how the hell can you decide if the dog looks worried because you’re worried, or you’re worried because the dog is actin’ weird? I mean, chicken and egg, which came first, how the hell can you tell
?”

  “Bert, could you maybe just tell me what happened with Callie?”

  “Well, yeah, sure, that’s what I been doin’.”

  “Could you do it maybe a little more directly?”

  Bert seemed only very slightly miffed. “Well, okay, Pete, sure, whatever ya like. I just thought you were more, ya know, a nuance guy. But hey, can I ask ya a question?”

  There seemed no point in saying yes or no, so Pete just drank some wine and Bert went on.

  “Prob’ly none a my business, but I couldn’t help noticin’ that when you say Callie—that word I mean, that name—well, I sorta sense or you might say detect a certain hint of wistfulness or perhaps nostalgia creepin’ in, and so I’m thinkin’, well, Callie’s an attractive woman, and you’re not too bad yourself, and you’re kinda in that same age group, and Key West is a very small town when it comes to single, straight individuals of a given age, so it occurred to me to wonder if you and Callie were socially acquainted or if you ever, um…Shit, I don’t even know what you’re supposed to call it anymore. Went out? Dated? Had a thing? Just curious, y’unnerstand.”

  Pete looked down at his fingernails. He had a policy about old girlfriends. He did not discuss them, ever. It seemed unchivalrous to do so. But this was Bert. “Okay. Yeah. We had a thing, as you quaintly put it. It ended. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Not that it’s any a my business.”

  “That’s true, Bert. It isn’t.”

  “Must make it tougher, though. Worryin’ about her, I mean. If youse were once close and all.”

  “Yeah, it does. So can you please tell me what’s up already?”

  At that, the old man finally got around to relating the sequence of events that had occurred on Smathers Beach three days before: Callie standing on her head; Nacho’s excited but socially inappropriate reaction; the opportunity this presented for Bert to strike up a conversation; the sudden arrival of the guys in the shiny shirts; the departure from the beach.

  Pete said, “So let me make sure I have this right. She’s standing on her head and they just walk over and push her down?”

  “They chat first. Very briefly. Couldn’t hear a word. Then one of ‘em, the tall one…well, I don’t know if he exactly pushes her. How do ya define push? Is a push less than a shove? More? Ya know, that’s really kinda funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Push comes to shove. I mean, how many times have ya heard that expression? How many times ya used it? Wit’out really thinkin’ about it in what you might call a scientific way. And now here we sit, two grown men, talkin’ about the finer points of pushin’ as opposed to shovin’. Bottom line, who the fuck knows which is the stronger move? He touched her foot. At least I think he touched her foot.”

  “You’re not even sure he touched her foot?”

  “Pete, I got pretty old-ass eyes. I’m not sure of anything. My impression was he touched her foot with some degree of force that mighta been a push or mighta been a shove or mighta been a mere graze or maybe even just a gesture that fell short of bodily or you could say physical contact, and she went down in a manner that didn’t look exactly kosher.”

  “And they left the beach together?”

  “Correct.”

  Pete barely had time to wonder if he’d ever before heard a one-word answer from Bert. Then the old man went on. “But here’s somethin’ that struck me as a little strange. Two guys. Tall guy, short guy. Dressed exactly the same, right down to the shoes. They almost looked too much like goombahs to be goombahs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They were too perfect. Shirts tucked in, pants that fit, matching shades. Like goombahs inna movies. Real-life goombahs, let’s face it, they tend to be a little onna slobby side. Someone’s gonna have a shirttail hangin’ out. Someone’s pants are gonna be creepin’ up his ass. But these guys, I dunno, they just sorta looked like they’d been practicing the goombah bit in front of a mirror. Like it was a costume. Like it was a game or somethin’.”

  “But why would someone try to look like a goombah if he wasn’t a goombah?”

  Bert stroked his dog and shrugged. “How the hell should I know? You’re the detective.”

  “No I’m not,” said Pete. The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees and his glasses were fogged up. He mopped them on a cocktail napkin. “Okay, so she leaves the beach with them. Willingly?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Who could tell? She’s walkin’ between ‘em. They don’t seem to be pushin’. Or shovin’. Are they makin’ threats? Who knows? Plus, if these guys were really pros they coulda had a muzzle in her ribs the whole time and no one woulda seen it.”

  “But you just said they weren’t really pros.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t think so. What I said, I said I had a funny feelin’. I said I couldn’t tell.”

  “Okay, fine, you couldn’t tell. So they leave the beach—”

  “But wait. There’s somethin’ I forgot ta mention. Just a tiny thing. Maybe doesn’t matter a damn, but it struck me. Right at the start, when Nacho goes over and kicks sand on her, ya know what she says?”

  Pete took a wild guess. “Get your fucking dog out of my face?”

  “No, that ain’t what she says. What she says is kinda the opposite. She says she’s sorry.”

  “She’s sorry?”

  “Right, she’s sorry. It’s her fault. She upset the dog. And I’m thinkin’, well, it’s very nice of her to see it like that, but what must it be like if, every time life kicks sand in your face, ya blame yourself? I mean, let’s face it, over time and all in all, life kicks a shitload a sand at ya. It’s your own fault? You’re the one supposed to be apologizin’? Anyway, it struck me. Ya know, first impressions.”

  Pete said nothing for a moment. He was thinking about Callie as he’d known her before, flamboyant, impulsive, irresistibly flirtatious and completely unreliable. Back then there’d been no apologies. Maybe now she felt there could never be enough. People did change, after all. And maybe Callie was owed a few apologies, too. Like maybe one from Pete for giving up on her too easily and with more relief than understanding, for walking away with too much left unsaid. Trying and failing to ignore a pang, he got back to business. “So, okay, they leave the beach. What then? They get into a car? A limo? A taxi?”

  “No idea. They get past the seawall and I lose sight of ‘em.”

  “Christ, Bert, that isn’t much to go on.”

  “Never said it was.” He petted his dog, glanced up at the bustling restaurant, then looked out at the ocean.

  Pete drummed his fingertips on the table and went through a round of the pre-shirking that seemed, for him, to be an inevitable part of the process of getting sucked in deeper. “And maybe it’s just no big deal,” he said. “Woman leaves beach with friends. Happens every day.”

  “True,” said Bert, but of course he couldn’t it leave it at that. “But friends who knock her over while she’s standin’ on her head? And lemme tell ya one more thing that kinda gave me a bad feelin’. What gave me a bad feelin’ is the way she just left all her stuff behind. Yoga mat, nice towel, fancy water bottle. That seemed strange, just leavin’ it lay there. So I stayed onna beach till way after sunset, waitin’ to see if she’d come back for it. She didn’t. The beach got empty. Finally I figured I should bring the stuff to my condo before some dirtbag stole it or it got bulldozed off as gahbidge. So I got it home and sniffed her water bottle.”

  “You did what?”

  “Her water bottle. I sniffed it.”

  “Jesus, you’re nosey.”

  “Natural curiosity. Had some really nasty stuff in it.”

  “Booze?” said Pete. It’s what he would have expected of the Callie he’d known before.

  “Nah, not booze. Somethin’ weird. Smelled like a cross between pickle juice and rotten mushrooms.”

  “Ah,” said Pete. “Kombucha.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “I didn’t sneeze. I said kombucha.�
��

  “Gesundheit. Cold or allergy? Don’t sneeze onna dog.”

  “It’s a drink, Bert. Health food.”

  “I think I’d puke.”

  “Very popular with younger people and yoga types.”

  “I’d rather go thirsty. I mean, why would anybody drink that shit?”

  The question went unanswered because that was the moment when Callie came strolling into the bar looking whole and healthy and none the worse for having possibly been abducted lately.

  PART TWO

  6

  L et’s back up a couple of years, to when Pete and Callie first met and got together.

  It was a summer evening, hot and muggy. There’d been downpours almost every afternoon for several weeks; fallen fronds lay rotting in puddles everywhere and it was a bad season for mosquitoes. Pete was just getting home from another of his family trips up north; another reminder of how fortunate he was to have the life he’d chosen, another chance to feel guilty that he was getting away with having it. He went straight home from the airport. But his house had been closed up for several days and it stank of mildew. There was nothing in the fridge. He opened up all the windows, maxed out the exhaust fan, got on his bike and headed out for some dinner and some wine.