Night Trail

1

The Director of College Counseling stared again at the pile on his kitchen table. He’d never seen ten thousand dollars in cash. He’d also never been threatened before. Stein didn’t look like the scary type, but the words spoke for themselves. Take the money and don’t complain. Or, if you prefer to complain, just realize that someone else has already received an equal amount of money to take care of you if you complain or should you not get our little Johnny into the school of his choice.

It had been such a good side business too—until the appearance of Stein. He’d gotten at least a hundred families to fork over $4,000 each. And sure, it was a conflict of interest, the stupid bastards.

But no one had dared to complain, no matter how much money they had here in Spring Harbor, home to an asshole-ridden high school and a bathtub full of sailboats. They didn’t complain because Kingman had connections and could get kids into schools. And he enjoyed having these hotshots genuflect before him while they droned on about their brilliant children.

Now, what was Kingman to do about Stein? Obviously Stein wasn’t the kind of person you could reason with. And little Johnny’s choice of school was Dartmouth because little Johnny knew Kingman had gotten many a Spring Harbor kid into that splendid Ivy League institution.

Unfortunately, little Johnny was dumb. In other words, he was lucky to get into a remedial reading program, let alone an advanced placement class. And as for sports, he’d never been on a single team. And this was the kind of school that accepted anyone on their teams, the kind of school that stroked the parents until they blasted off into orgasm land. In fact the kind of school that jerked itself off in every conceivable way.

As if these obstacles weren’t enough, Johnny Stein had never volunteered for anything and had just hint of a lisp. Yeah, that would go over big with the interviewer.

Kingman had his work cut out for him on this one.

But maybe he was being too hard on the kid. Maybe Johnny just wasn’t Ivy League material. Who the hell was? He didn’t really know the kid, who was a non-entity in a school in which every student did everything, from advanced placement to advanced volunteerism, if there was such a word.

So Kingman hit the Internet to get the lowdown on little Johnny’s father. It didn’t take him too long to figure out that Victor Stein was a serious porn king with serious mob connections. This was just great. He’d probably surfed one of Stein’s snatch-laden websites without even knowing it.

Kingman picked up the phone and dialed his brother in beautiful Patagonia, Arizona. Unlike the lazy teachers in his school, Kingman wasn’t one to waste time. Besides, if he did a really good job, who knew? Maybe Stein would shoot him up with Viagra and give him a guest porn slot. Kingman had seen worse-looking guys in skin flicks, albeit for cinematic effect, but who cared? He was sure he could do it, even with the cameras rolling. Besides, the cameras were always trained on the girls.

Hello, my brother. I figure you’re home, so pick up the phone, he said to the answering machine.

Should I be here? said an identical voice.

You still have those trailers with their own addresses? Kingman asked, never the one to beat around the cactus.

Why?

Because your brother’s a genius.

I’d expect no less from my twin.

That just makes me ugly.

How’s the teaching business?

I’m a college admissions counselor.

Oh, excuse me. So how’s that business?

Depends on you.

Here we go.

Now, don’t go saying that I only call you when I need something. It’s not like I’ve never bailed you out. Speaking of bail, I hope you’re doing something slightly legitimate at the moment. No more cargo, I hope.

The cargo Kingman was referring to were of the illegal alien variety. They traveled by truck and either made it to a couple of little trailers in Patagonia or fried like oysters on the desert. With the way immigration was cracking down, his brother was going to be the one frying.

But he imagined, after all these years, his brother had helped transport at least one academic super star. Good board scores, high average, glowing recommendations, a college counselor’s dream. Then he thought of Victor Stein, literally turning Kingman into a Dr. Frankenstein, forcing him to perform a monstrous transformation on his son.

Are you finished with the lecture, my un-esteemed brother?

Yea, I’m finished.

So what gives?

"I need to create a residency in your esteemed community for a student."

You need my damn trailer, you mother.

Maybe just your trailer-trash address.

No way, I keep my inventory there.

I don’t want to know what kind.

Give me a break, man. I’m diversifying.

You better be diversifying into something kosher.

People, plants it’s all the same.

Jesus.

Come on, it’s not Meth, You want my help or not?

Yea, I want your help.

Why does it feel like I’m going to end up on the wrong side of the umbilical cord?

Because you think I got more of the cord to begin with.

I’m surprised you didn’t try to strangle me with it.

Then you wouldn’t be here to help me now.

2

Perhaps Zig Falcone would have loved his adoptive father if he’d named him Zig instead of Bobby. But, Falcone had had to come up with the name himself. Even if Big Sal had named him Zig, it wouldn’t be as good as the Zig he had grown into. And, of course, Big Sal couldn’t possibly have named him Junior like most of the other neighborhood kids. How would it look having a little Korean kid named Salvatore Falcone, Junior?

So Falcone had come up with the name himself, but not without a little help from Tony Animone, Junior, the one who’d called him Mr. Zigzag in the first place, back in the schoolyard, before Animone’s brain got a little damaged. Yeah, little Tony was still thinking like Junior. He hadn’t aged one bit.

But you should never tell someone that his eyes are all zigzagged from his parents because that just sets things in motion. It forces you to rename yourself and not tell anyone about your secret name. You could state his eyes were slanted because that would be true. But you shouldn’t throw a kid out of whack and tell him his eyes came out the opposite way from his parents because he may have to whack you, or put you in a whacks museum, or maybe just on a respirator.

Still, if Falcone could help Tony now, he would. In fact, maybe he’d pay him a visit real soon and put him out of his misery. He wondered how Tony looked these days anyway, and if he could go to the bathroom on his own. Did someone have to shave him or did he have a beard down to the floor? Maybe his skin was looking a little yellow and he could use some sun or, in his case, the yellow son.

They still didn’t know who had introduced Tony’s head to the parked car outside of the schoolyard, but, then again, they didn’t know that Bobby Falcone was secretly the Zig. And they didn’t know any of the good shit the Zig did. Where were they today anyway, his traveling audience, his little moving targets, shopping at the fruit stand or working there, his brothers and sisters, his parents?

Let them rot in hell, Falcone thought, rearranging chairs in the empty bar. It would be nice if he had some help, here. But why should anyone share his excitement and get to the bar three hours early? They were just workers, little out-of-work actors who couldn’t even play themselves. Of course, their fathers hadn’t given them a bar to run, but then again there was only one Salvatore Falcone Senior, alias Big Sal, adoptive mob father of Bobby Falcone, aka the Zig, the Korean kid from Howard Beach.

3

Ed Kingman had a license to teach English, but that wasn’t how he defined himself. No, what really defined him was the sweet revenge he’d once extracted while working as an educational assistant and doing a librarian stint in order to get his place secured at the plush North Shore school just fifteen years earlier. As he was leaving the school with a stack of stolen books in his briefcase, one of the pimple-faced students cracked a joke about how his bag was probably stuffed with stolen books. He would have popped the student in the jaw, but instead exercised cool and patient self-control. Several months later, Kingman changed a couple of grades on the asshole’s transcript and placed a nasty note signed by a non-existent teacher in his file.

His other job at the school back then defined him, too. He would enter students’ grades and SAT scores into a computer, sit with them in a claustrophobic room just outside of the library for about fifteen minutes, and listen to their aspirations. He’d ask them all kinds of questions. Did they prefer a big city? Were they into fraternities or sororities? Did they prefer lecture halls or small classes? Then the printer would excrete a list of potential institutional fits just as he would be wishing he, and not them, would be the one about to start a new life.

And that was how he came to be who he was. It took a little larceny, some nonsense graduate courses, and a few college contacts, not to mention an older-by-five-minutes twin brother who had a real horticultural talent for growing weed. Kingman just wanted a green thumb too. At four thousand a pop, his whole hand was getting green.

4

Right from the start, the trip down to Patagonia sucked. Saturday was supposed to be a lazy day, not a day in which you woke up at 5:00 a.m. and waited two hours to get on a plane. If he hadn’t been such a cheapskate, he could have flown first class. Instead, Kingman, a pretty thin guy, found himself sitting between two fat, drooling slobs who should have been forced to purchase two seats each out of sheer spatial logic.

The only thing decent about it—no, much more than decent—was one of the stewardesses. He could tell she was getting a real kick out of his predicament. She was in her mid thirties, roughly his age, and Kingman could read her life story at a glance. He had a real knack for that. Yeah, this one had never been married and had let herself get tossed around a little too much. But there was something about her, a certain waning tautness, he decided. He didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. It was just there, right between being young and being old, dead center and sexy as hell, just like him.

Kingman also decided to pass the time by writing her a note that he would hand to her upon exiting the plane. He had about a fifty-fifty track record with this approach, provided he remembered to leave his phone number. He hadn’t changed his technique since the fifth grade.

Five hours later, in Phoenix and as planned, he handed her the amorous letter as he hobbled off the plane, his sides aching from his tormentors’ jabbing, flabby elbows. She didn’t even look surprised. Yeah, she was as dead-center as he’d ever seen. Hopefully she threw all her notes into a hat once a month and picked the sorriest one she could remember.

Kingman could have flown into Tucson because it was closer to Patagonia, but that would have meant changing planes in Dallas or Chicago. Now he faced a three-hour drive to Tucson. At least the slobs weren’t in the car with him. He’d decided to spend the night in Tucson and drive to Patagonia in the morning. It was just an hour from Tucson, but there were only two places to sleep in Patagonia—either with his brother or at a bed-and-breakfast. Neither choice appealed to him. He preferred to case out the area in the morning, checking things out before he popped in on brother dearest.

Eventually, he checked into a hotel near the Tucson airport. It wasn’t like he travelled much. But when he did, he liked staying near airports because of the strip joints—in case he got so totally bored that he had to park somewhere other than in the room. He was like his old man in that respect. He got bored easily, and enjoyed relieving his boredom with what he knew was a pathetic fantasy.

And like his father, he was an English teacher. And also like his old man, who had lived through the drug-riddled sixties and enjoyed getting high with his twin sons, as well as with his students, Kingman liked to party. He just didn’t have the twin sons’ part covered yet. Or a dead wife. And, he wasn’t dead yet himself.

Despite the fact it was a non-smoking room, Kingman lit up a joint as soon as he’d shut the door. They were obviously referring to tobacco, he reasoned. Why get depressed? He was on vacation, at least for a couple of days. The mistake had been not getting off during the drive. But he only liked getting stoned in a car when he was listening to music, and he’d never liked listening to music in a rental. It was like wearing someone else’s headphones. And with his luck, which Kingman had to admit hadn’t been too bad so far, he’d get stopped by a state trooper.

Then he would probably say one stupid thing and end up getting pulverized. Like the time when he spit a beautiful wad of teenaged phlegm off a banister and hit some older kid who turned his face into a punching bag after Kingman tried to smirk his way out.

He walked over to the bathroom and spit in the sink just for old time’s sake, half-expecting to see blood whirlpooling down the drain. Then he looked in the mirror. There he was, blue eyes and all. He still had his hair, too. He’d be plausible in a porno flick. He wouldn’t be the star, but he could fill in on a scene or two. They could use his brother as a stand-in. No one would know, not even the girls. He could go in the bathroom between scenes and his brother could come out in his place, refreshed and ready for action. They could save on the Viagra.

Kingman took a quick shower and took to scouting for strip clubs. First he looked in the Yellow Pages, which, as usual, had gone all seedy in the gentlemen’s clubs section. It still didn’t offer much comfort to know that he wasn’t the only sweaty-palmed loser that had passed through.

But he wasn’t totally gone. At least he was still introspective. There was just sometimes nothing better to do. What was he supposed to do, wander the desert and look at cacti? Instinctively, he switched on his cell phone. Sure enough, he had a message. It was probably his brother, but you never knew.

5

Carla Benton opened the curtains and looked at the real thing rather than a glossy desert sunset photograph on the wall. No doubt, the others would already be in the bar. This captain had already received one warning, but they were off-duty for seventy-two hours. Happy Hour at the hotel bar didn’t exactly slow things up, either.

Carla now turned her attention to the note written by the cute guy who’d been mercilessly sandwiched between the two butterballs. The pilots probably thought he was just handing her some trash before deplaning. She’d known right away it wasn’t trash, just some trashy thought. It even had a stain. At least it was coffee. At least the guy had a sense of humor.

You owe me for this seat and for that sly smirk. When you come to New York, call me. Call me, even if you never come to New York. Here’s my cell phone number: 631-472-7279.

He sure didn’t beat around the bush, did he? She pulled her cell phone out of her pocketbook and was going to dial the number, when the phone in her room rang.

You going to join us, smiley?

Not tonight, she told Captain Boyd.

I’d say it was your loss, but it’s mine.

There was a click and no goodbye. He wasn’t indecisive either. That was the problem. Converting his attention to friendship was another problem. He just liked her. She’d stupidly told him not to take it personally, when she knew full well pilots took rejection very personally, especially a captain like Boyd, who was in serious need of a vacation.

What a mistake, placing yourself inside a flying hell hole. It was almost as bad a mistake as who she sold her bar to. At least being on the ground, you could go out for some air. If she went out for air on this gig, she’d only get a thirty-second scream heard by no one. Well, it was finally out of her system. No more planes. She returned to the cell phone and dialed the number.

Hello, you’ve reached Ed Kingman. Please leave…

Carla hung up. He was the King, huh? Thinking of playing cards immediately, she matched him with the king of clubs—a nice chummy card. She could detect in his voice the possible need for an ace or a joker too. It was nice though, almost announcer-like, with just a taste of Brooklyn. She knew the accent well from her bar-owning days with the customers singing their karaoke. They had yet to create the karaoke machine that eliminated Brooklyn accents.

There was no reason to leave a message either. The King would know that he missed a call. If he had even a little brainpower, he might even realize who the number on his cell belonged to, unless his brain had been squashed during the flight. He looked pretty damaged as it was, but his instincts were good.

Carla walked into the bathroom and threw some cold water on her face. What was really bothering her wasn’t Captain Boyd trying to get into her pants as well as her brain. That wasn’t it at all. She could handle it for now, at least until he got drunk. But moving on as going to be more difficult this time, demanding more effort, especially since she had no clue at all what she wanted to do.

She did know one thing. The guy who’d bought her bar stopped paying the note. It wasn’t her fault New York City banned smoking in restaurants. She didn’t care how badly the bar was doing. How could she move on if she had to go backwards? Now, unless she could take the place back and make something out of