C17 Christmas cheer and holiday goodwill
Chauncey Gibbons careened off the freeway and sped through Civic Center as the rain came down in torrents. He had stum- bled out of the dining room at Nora’s parents’ house and tumbled
into the Bentley at the foot of the front stairs, still trying to conceal his nosebleed.
He had begged forgiveness and made pledges to return for eve- ning cocktails with the engagement ring. He had left them all sitting wide-eyed, open-mouthed, standing on the top of the front stairs, watching him speed away, bent over the steering wheel as if possessed by a demon.
Christ, I can’t see two feet in front of me, Chauncey thought to himself as he drove through the downpour.
Then it started to hail. The pellets of ice pummeled his wind- shield. He wasn’t exactly sure where China Doll’s Dumpster was. He just knew it wasn’t on this side of the city.
As he drove through the Tenderloin, he saw hundreds of people in line at every corner, waiting for a handout of sandwiches. Bands of Sarah’s Solders and Young Zealots stood by large coolers giving them away, along with a small cross where Jesus of Nazareth now hung in peace.
His cellphone rang. It was El Presidente.
“El Presidente!” he answered, trying to recapture his charm.
“How nice of you to take time out of your busy schedule on Christmas Day to call me.”
“Señor Chauncey,” El Presidente spoke in a dire tone. “I wish it was all about Christmas cheer and holiday goodwill.”
“You sound depressed, El Presidente!” Chauncey said, still try- ing to keep it upbeat.
“Indeed, Señor,” he said. “It is a sad day not only for me and my family but my entire country is in mourning.”
“What happened?”
“My wife of thirty years suffered a massive coronary at Midnight Mass while the choir was singing ‘The Gloria.’”
“Oh, El Presidente, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Chauncey said. “Will she be all right?”
“She will not be all right, Señor Chauncey. She is dead.”
“But she found your daughter at the top of the stairs when she arrived at the Basilica?”
“She was devastated by the appearance of our daughter at the church when she was released from her captives.”
“Surely, it was the rebels,” Chauncey said.
El Presidente was quiet for a moment.
“Well, just in case it wasn’t, Señor Chauncey,” he said. “El Generalissimo has sent you a little Christmas gift.”
Chauncey felt his heart stop.
“By FedEx,” El Presidente continued. “I’m surprised you haven’t received it yet.”
Chauncey’s voice faltered.
“I haven’t been home since I talked to you, sir.”
“You will be quite surprised by its contents, Señor Chauncey.” “I can’t wait to open it,” Chauncey said, grasping at straws.
“How very thoughtful of El Generalissimo.”
“Might I suggest that you open it sooner than later, Señor Chauncey,” El Presidente told him.
“Do you have any hints, El Presidente?” Chauncey asked with child-like enthusiasm.
“Let’s put it this way, Señor Chauncey—he can’t masturbate anymore without it.”
“I see,” Chauncey said, befuddled. “What else can’t he do with-out it?”
“Sign checks.”
“Well, that would be a problem,” Chauncey said nonchalantly. “Could you give me something a little meatier?”
“His right hand, Señor Chauncey,” El Presidente added. “I see,” Chauncey said, losing his breath.
“It was severed at the wrist.”
“And you’ve sent it to me in a FedEx package?”
“That’s correct,” El Presidente said.
“And where is the rest of El Generalissimo?” Chauncey asked. “In various parts of the country, Señor Chauncey.”
Chauncey took a deep breath and threw his fate to the wind. “Well, I’m sorry to hear you’ve had a permanent falling out,” he said.
“I’m embalming his balls as we speak,” El Presidente said. “Well, I certainly hope it doesn’t impact our deal in any way.” “I’m afraid it impacts our deal immensely, Señor Chauncey.” Chauncey clutched his balls.
“But I’ve already put in the order for those slave girls I promised you last night!”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I put three million down! In cash! No refunds!”
El Presidente paused and then cleared his throat.
“That’s even more unfortunate, Señor Chauncey.”
“But—”
The phone went dead.
The pebbles of hail were the size of golf balls now. They pounded
the windshield and crashed against the roof. The din of it was mak- ing him crazy.
He was already in the throes of a headache, a nosebleed, and a dead woman with Nora’s engagement ring.
Did he fuck her? Did she fuck him? What was it with that little dick of hers? She was still wearing the cute little yellow dress. Then she pulled out the canister of amyl nitrate. Identity melted. Faces blurred. They both went into a dream state.
He opened his eyes to see her riding him.
A thump beneath the car brought him back. He thought he might have run over someone. He kept going. No one screamed after him. No one noticed.
Bodies were piled everywhere, along the sidewalks, along the curbs. A block of people stood in line, waiting for a free candy cane from a band of Sarah’s Soldiers. A group of Muslim men were being loaded into the back of a police van.
Chauncey slowed down, hanging over the steering wheel and peering through the onslaught of whiteness in front of him. It might have been a snowstorm anywhere else, the snowstorm from hell. His phone rang. He took it from the seat beside him.
It was Joe China.
On impulse, he answered. It was the wrong impulse.
“Joe!” he said, as perky as he could be. “Merry Christmas!” “Mr. Gibbons,” Joe replied coldly. “I’ve left you three messages
and you have not replied.”
“Joe—it’s been such a great Christmas since I left you that I haven’t had a minute to catch up on my messages. I thought for sure you must be secluded for the day with your wife and girls.”
“This is not a good time to mention my daughters, Mr. Gibbons,” Joe said. “Or the disposition of my wife.”
Chauncey tried to sound concerned.
“I hope everything’s okay, Joe.”
“My wife had a miscarriage this morning. It was a boy. My son is dead.”
“Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry,” Chauncey said. “Are you at the club right now?”
“I am at the club right now, Mr. Gibbons. I am sitting alone in the opium den nursing my sorrows.”
“You gotta watch out for that shit, Joe.”
“My habits are no concern of yours, Mr. Gibbons. My father was an opium addict. My grandfather was an opium addict. I come from a distinct line of dreamers.”
“Whatever gets you through the night, Joe. That’s what I always like to say.”
“It is not night, Mr. Gibbons. It’s Christmas Day, and I want to talk to my China Doll.”
Chauncey swerved out of the way of an oncoming car and slammed the side of another. He careened off that car and pulled the wheel straight again.
“Jesus, Joe,” he spat into the phone. “It’s like a snow storm in Siberia out here today!”
“That’s not my problem, Mr. Gibbons. My problem is that I want to talk to my China Doll.”
Chauncey paused and breathed deeply. Time to get the lie roll- ing. Where it would stop was anyone’s guess.
“She’s my China Doll till the end of the week, Joe,” Chauncey said lightheartedly.
“I need to talk to her.”
Chauncey’s chuckle was meant to mitigate and evade. “Speaking of talking, Joe. The reason I was hoping you were at the club is because I wanted to stop by and talk to you.”
“I don’t do business on Christmas Day, Mr. Gibbons. Pleasure is my only concern. Put China Doll on the phone.”
“She’s asleep, Joe. We had a long night, let me tell you. That girl’s a comer.”
“It’s all fake. The only person she genuinely comes with is me.” “Well, let’s talk about fake,” Chauncey said, hoping to recapture the strong side of the argument. “That little girl seemed a bit confused between the legs. What’s the deal, Joe? You stuck me with a post-op thirteen-year-old.”
“She is eighteen, Mr. Gibbons. I have papers. Put her on the phone. Wake her up if you have to.”
“But let me finish, Joe. What I want to talk to you about is the hundred slaves I ordered—no wee-wees, I hope. Genuine pussy.”
“I inspect all the merchandise myself, Mr. Gibbons. None of them have wee-wees.”
“Well, why don’t I come by the club first thing tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”
“She’s my girlfriend, Mr. Gibbons.” She was telling the truth.
“I want to wish her a Merry Christmas.”
He thought she was joking.
“Me Joe China girlfriend!” she told him with her last four words. He thought she was joking.
The joke was on him.
“Listen, Joe—” Chauncey began, thinking he better bite the bullet now. “What I think we better concentrate on right now is some pressing business.”
“No business, Mr. Gibbons. Not till I see my China Doll. Tell her to call me the minute she wakes up.”
“About the down payment I gave you last night—”
“I put the order in immediately after you left. Million in cash is on its way to Israel at this very moment. The girls will be here in time for delivery.”
“Well, that’s just what I want to talk to you about, Joe. You see, there’s been a last minute change of plans.”
“Change too late, Mr. Gibbons. Order placed. I need the rest of the money. Nine million.”
“You see, Joe—that’s just the thing.”
“Nine million. I want to hear from her in next two hours.” “For Christ sake, Joe, what are you doing with thirteen-year-old queer boys?”
“One thing you want to do in this town to stay alive, Mr. Gibbons.”
“What’s that, Joe, old buddy?”
“Don’t piss off Joe China.”
Joe hung up.
Chauncey slipped the phone in his breast pocket and found Rudolph Valentino’s silver cigarette case waiting for him. He nimbly slipped it out and popped the lid. He removed the black diamond straw that had once belonged to Marlene Dietrich. He held the steer- ing wheel with his knee and took the straw between his fingers and pressed one end in his nose. Then he lifted the cigarette case and sank into a good, strong hit.
The coke burnt the back of his throat.
It felt erotic. He did another line. It felt erotic. He set the works on the seat beside him and took the wheel. He promised himself he wouldn’t do another line until he found the Dumpster. He must maintain clarity.
He headed down to Market Street and then over Third, heading toward the old ballpark, now leveled by a terrorist bombing, along with fifty thousand fans and two baseball teams. Chauncey had no idea where the terrorists were now. As long as they didn’t get in the way of business, none of it mattered to him.
The phone rang.
It was Nora.
He punched her in.
“Chauncey!” she screeched at the other end. “Delia Ross just walked in!”
But he knew what the screeching was about.
“I’m driving through a hail storm, Nora—can I get back to you?”
“We’re sitting at the dining room table after you left to get our engagement ring—and she walks in unannounced!”
“Delia has a way of showing up, Nora.”
“She could barely walk, Chauncey. She was wearing the same dress she was wearing in the limo!”
“Delia likes to party, Nora,” Chauncey said to calm her. “That’s why you like her.”
“She wants to know where the engagement ring is. I tell her Chauncey isn’t here yet. She wants to know about your plate at the dinner table—the one with the blood on the tablecloth. Oh, Chauncey, I do hope your bloody nose doesn’t slow you down. We need you back here!”
“It’s still going to take a bit, Nora. I haven’t even gotten home yet.”
“Do you remember where you left it?” “The engagement ring?”
“No, Chauncey, your brain.”
“What’s Delia doing?”
“Oh, she’s kneeling beside Mummy begging forgiveness for being such a little whore.”
“I think you better go back there, Nora. Make sure it goes smoothly.”
“Oh, Chauncey—you’re not backing out, are you? Is that why you forgot the ring? Were you unconsciously telling yourself you really didn’t want to marry me?”
“Nothing could be further from the truth, Nora.” “Will you bring me back some coke, darling?” “You know I always do, darling.”
“I miss you, darling.”
“I’ll be there for drinks,” he assured her and hung up.
Chauncey’s brain began spinning in several directions at once. All he did was get off the freeway. All he did was take a few phone calls.
What could he tell Joe China that would ease the pain?
What could he tell his investors about the evaporation of a hundred million acres of the finest forestland and water tables on the planet?
What was he going to tell Nora the next time she called?
Suddenly, he stood on the gallows. The noose grew tighter and tighter. The gallows looked over a precipice. The balls of hail became more intense.
What did she say?
“You have tiny dick!”
“I fuck you with my tiny dick!”
Is that what he paid Joe China a million dollars for?
Chauncey got the shivers. He started sweating. He got the chills. Joe China would call again. Nora would call again. El Presidente would never call again.
The sound of the hail against the car now equaled that of a mis-
sile barrage pounding an armored tank.
He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what turns he’d
made. It was like his mind was running by GPS. And then it was there.
It was just up ahead.
The red Dumpster was sitting right where he left it.
He pulled over. He got out of the car and ran toward the Dumpster. The hail was so thick that he could barely see in front of him. He covered his head with his hands. The pellets bounced off the sidewalk and stung his legs. But nothing slowed him down.
He got to the Dumpster and lifted the lid. He leaned over and looked into the dark. He saw nothing.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked the lighter and searched the Dumpster. He saw nothing.
He dropped the lid and let his head fall on the Dumpster. The body was gone. The ring was gone. His future was gone.
It was time for that hit of coke he had promised himself.
He turned away from the Dumpster and found himself looking at the point of a gun. A giant rat was standing there. The rat was as tall as he was.
It was eating a sandwich with one paw and pointing the gun at his head with the other.
Its beady eyes glared at him. The rat said nothing. Chauncey felt a sharp pain.
