Nailing Down the Saint Read online

  He handed Vilma back her phone.

  ‘You think he’ll come in tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tomorrow night?’

  He sighed. He was trying not to get his hopes up. If Motta was in town for more than a couple of days, he usually called into Sforza’s for a plate of manicotti and a diet Coke. Sometimes it was Duncan’s North Hollywood unit. Sometimes Bell Gardens or Reseda. When the famous director did appear — normally with his assistant, Uffy Golinko; once with two studio stiffs who struggled to conceal how sinking to Sforza’s level made them feel — Duncan would take the opportunity to ask Motta how his meal was or deliver the check. Enough that his face was familiar, that they were establishing a rapport. The Staff Manual expressly forbade servers pressuring hosts or management to have ‘a specific type of guest’ seated in their section, or approaching a guest in another server’s section, but placed no sanctions on Assistant Managers.

  With middling power comes middling opportunity.

  He and Motta had shared maybe six conversations over the last year, none lasting more than a minute. Duncan never once mentioned cinema, or his own last name. There was a chance Motta knew of him. They’d both been at the Toronto International Film Festival four years earlier. A remastered version of Motta’s 1991 film, The Book of Corners, was screened as a Special Event, followed by a Q&A with the director. Curio Bay won the FIPRESCI Discovery Award, the first in a minor cascade for Duncan, which caught the attention of Second Wave, an eco-terrorist group, who used clips from his film in recruitment/ransom videos. All of this hubbub played its part in Echo Park Pictures (which bankrolled most of Motta’s films) asking Duncan to take the helm of Fury’s Reach. But, to the best of his knowledge, he’d never been in the same room as Motta until he clocked on in this red and white Rat Pack sepia ruins and toothpick shakers perdition that couldn’t even muster the nerve to call itself a restaurant.

  He knew the eyes and ears of every Sforza’s crew member were fixed on him whenever Motta dined in. They gave him grief after each appearance for his reluctance, his false modesty. If he wasn’t going to take the chance, at least let someone else. He could point to the Staff Manual, but knew that was weak sauce after the Bill Gobbins incident. Gobbins was Sforza’s North Hollywood General Manager. Duncan’s boss. He walked the floor maybe one dinner service a fortnight and still harboured dreams of adding to his IMDb profile (KNOWN FOR: BAD LIEUTENANT — POLICE OFFICER; K-PAX — TRANSIT OFFICER; ARMY OF DARKNESS — FAKE SHEMP). The one time his and Motta’s orbits coincided, Gobbins had been reduced to a frothing, genuflecting stooge at the director’s feet. Duncan had the same checked shirt, the same power, but refused to abuse it. They’d hate him, his crew, if they weren’t so baffled.

  Vilma had clearly picked up on all this. ‘You gonna make your move on Motta one of these days?’ she asked now. Duncan thought he remained perfectly still, his face expressionless, but she said, ‘You fucking are! Look at that grin. Jesus. You’ve been playing the long game.’

  If she could figure this out after four weeks and one proper conversation, how transparent would he be to Motta?

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me your grand plan.’

  ‘No way. I never said I—’

  ‘Enough of that shit, D.’ No one at Sforza’s called him D. ‘I’m on your side. I want to ride your coattails. Okay, listen. What about I tell you something in exchange?’ She got up from the plastic crate and stubbed out her cigarette on the side of the food-waste dumpster.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘So this was like two months ago, before I started here. I’d been in town a while and was, you know, broke as shit. No gainful employment. My friend, she says, “What about porn? I know a guy.” I say, “No fucking way,” but then two nights later I meet this guy in the club, and it’s Eva’s friend—’

  ‘The pornographer.’

  ‘Right.’ Vilma pulled down her shirt, which was designed to ride up every time a server cleared a table or lifted a high-chair. ‘So he’s this fucking huge black guy. Not fat. Like, linebacker huge.’

  ‘Vilma—’

  ‘Fine, you don’t wanna hear? This isn’t your average Unsuspecting Jane Stumbles Into Porn story.’ Duncan was looking at his black Oxfords. ‘Meh, okay,’ she said, ‘but I asked you a question a minute ago and I tried to share. Your turn to pony up. What’s. Your. Plan?’

  ‘Look at the time,’ he said, not even bothering to lift his wrist. ‘Break’s over. For both of us.’

  ‘D,’ she pleaded. ‘I took this job because of you. My friend told me you worked here.’

  ‘The same one who got you into porn?’

  ‘It was just the once and it’s a funny story, man. But I ain’t telling that shit to you no more. And no, a different friend. Pinkie.’

  ‘Oh, Pinkie. She’s great. How’s she getting on?’

  She stuffed her phone back into her server’s pouch. ‘Break’s over, D. For both of us.’

  RETURN TO CASTLE WOLFENSTEIN

  That night Duncan dreamed of flying. He was able to lift his body off the ground and breaststroke through the air. He was inside a house. It was somebody’s home, their minimalist haven, unlike anywhere he’d ever lived. He had enough control not to bump into the ceiling, could ease under lintels in his hunt for something or someone.

  It occurred to him, in this dream, as he passed from room to vacant room, that it was like a video game. Wolfenstein or Doom. Retracing his steps through an almost cleared level, poring over the sites of previous kills — the bodies of the zombies or Nazis having evaporated — in search of an overlooked key that would unlock the next level. He’d been there before. Both in these empty rooms and in this position, hovering five feet off the wooden floor.

  He felt long-dormant muscles stretch and strain.

  The memory of previous flights came back, not as individual scenes but as a collective wave. I’ve always been able to do this. Why did I forget?

  I have special powers.

  But how special was such a slow and pillowy form of flight? What use could it have? Surveillance? Burglary? No. No one is a villain in their own dream. If the key or whatever it was he searched for was not his to take, there’d be a good explanation. The theft would be justified by the game-logic of the dream.

  But there was no quest.

  He continued breaststroking from room to room, feeling more at home in his floating body. Only then did he pass into larger rooms with higher ceilings, more space to perfect his flight, to test its limits.

  In the morning, he felt it in his pecs. All that dream-swimming.

  And he felt it in his gut.

  I have flown before.

  In dreams, perhaps, but I have flown.

  ADULT-FILM-ACTOR

  ‘Kari tells me you’re now working tonight?’ Teresa said, placing a hand in the small of Duncan’s back. He was at the kitchen sink, filling a glass of water for his son, Zeb.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Cindy, the other manager, her daughter’s sick.’ Teresa’s blank expression told him to continue. ‘I said, “Can’t you get your mom to look after her? I got my folks staying from out of state.” But Cindy was in a real bind.’

  Teresa was a great mother-in-law in many respects. She’d spent time on a commune as a child — just how long, Duncan never got a fix — and there were hints of this in the cheerful, off-hand way she dressed, how she sat on the floor cross-legged in the company of adults or, as she had that afternoon, to play My First Carcassonne on the coffee table with Zeb. She liked to talk, to discuss things from the news, things that had occurred to her in the course of her day. An apparently able-bodied man parking in a handicapped space. How much immigration was too much? Conversations that could be like pulling teeth in the wrong hands, but she knew how to draw people in, help tease out their views, without ever seeming to judge which side of the moral dilemma they eventually came down on. What she could not abide, however, was prolonged shyness or reticence, which
she read as iciness and hostility.

  Since Duncan was family, she had particular demands. He must call her ‘Mom’ and, by extension, he must refer to all mothers, except his own mum, the American way. Teresa and David Sedlak were to be his ‘folks’, never his ‘in-laws’. This troubled Duncan, the way it served to overwrite his own parents back in New Zealand. That his parents were divorced and living in different towns seemed to vex Teresa, as if the lingering chill in her not-so-new son’s demeanour was the result of the failure of his genetic forebears to stick together. After six years with Kari, three of them in the US (and almost two of those dealing with Sforza’s patrons flummoxed by anything other than American English), he made the many small but necessary linguistic tweaks — ‘vacation’ for ‘holiday’, ‘drugstore’ for ‘chemist’, the total abandonment of the metric system — almost automatically, though he often found himself gritting teeth at the end of sentences.

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ Teresa said, walking into the living room and finding Zeb had disappeared. ‘I was looking forward to another game of Catan.’ The Sedlaks were big on tabletop games. Talking to David, Duncan’s American dad, you’d think board games were the big cultural phenomenon. That movies and video games were niche interests. Maybe such a universe would be preferable: more sedate, less sexualised, less violent — though not everyone could take a tabletop drubbing as well as David. He’d smile as you took one of his keepers in Fluxx and say, ‘Nicely done,’ or ‘There’s always next time.’ That was as animated as he ever got. He was shorter than his wife, thinner too, but Duncan could always feel his quiet, steady presence in the room, like a cup of dust from a dwarf star that weighs more than a dozen Earths. Or maybe that was how all husbands felt about their fathers-in-law.

  ‘The three of you can still play tonight,’ Duncan said to Teresa, placing the glass of water on the only corner of the coffee table not covered by game tiles, ‘once Zeb’s asleep.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Teresa said. ‘Won’t be the same, will it David?’

  David gave an untroubled shrug.

  Kari came in carrying Zeb, who was almost four and too big to carry far. Something had upset him, though that wasn’t saying much. He’d been on the cusp of tears — if not tears then catatonia — for weeks. Bad enough that one month felt like a lifetime. That the futures Duncan imagined for his son had begun to morph and contract, their colours drained.

  Kari worked office hours as a graphic designer and handled evenings with Zeb while Duncan was at Sforza’s. Duncan spent his Mondays and Tuesdays off with Zeb, putting on elaborate puppet shows and enjoying other people’s dogs at nearby parks, though even the sight of a golden retriever puppy the other day had failed to elicit a smile. He worked shifts on Sundays and alternating Saturdays, which meant he and Kari and Zeb had only one day together a fortnight. Today, however, instead of the three of them knocking around home, it was five. Subtraction by addition. The plan, before Duncan had swapped shifts with Cindy, was to go out for dinner, a five-thirty booking at an unfranchised neighbourhood place so they could get Zeb to bed before eight. That could still happen, of course. It’s just Duncan wouldn’t be there. Subtraction by subtraction.

  ‘There you are, Zebbie,’ Teresa said. ‘Fancy another game?’

  Zeb started bawling.

  ‘Hey,’ Kari said. She placed him on the ground, where he lowered himself on to his stomach and lay flat on the sun-parched rug. ‘He’s tired.’

  ‘It’s two in the afternoon,’ Teresa said.

  ‘He normally has quiet time after lunch.’

  ‘We had quiet time, didn’t we, Zeb?’

  The boy stopped for a moment to lift his head from the rug and wipe his nose with his forearm, then went back to sobbing.

  ‘Playing a board game with a three-year-old isn’t quiet time.’

  ‘A kids’ board game. We had fun!’

  ‘Has he been drinking water?’

  ‘I just got him a glass,’ Duncan said, somehow entering the conversation for both the prosecution and the defence. Mother and daughter looked at him, betrayal on both faces.

  ‘He probably wants to play outside,’ Teresa said, ‘with other kids.’

  ‘He has friends,’ Kari said. ‘This is supposed to be family time.’

  Duncan picked up Zeb and brushed the biscuit crumbs from his forehead, which bore tiny waffle patterns from the rug. ‘You thirsty?’ He stooped to pick up the water glass. ‘Have a drink.’

  Zeb held out a hand to say no.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Teresa said.

  ‘No, Mom,’ Kari said, ‘you’re not saying it, but I read you loud and clear. It’s not okay that he’s an only child. That we live out here, so far from you and the umpteen cousins you have on tap in La Crosse. As if we could do what we do in La Crosse.’

  ‘We have a Sforza’s opening—’

  ‘What if we were trying for a baby, Mom? What if there was something medical?’

  ‘Are you? Is there?’

  ‘How ’bout I fix you a snack?’ Duncan said to Zeb, loud enough to stop the other conversation. ‘Then I’ve got to start getting ready for work.’

  He carried Zeb into the kitchen and placed him on the counter. He’d done this ever since his son could sit up straight. It helped that the kitchen was a small, galley-style affair so they were never more than an arm’s length apart. Of course, Zeb was old enough now to look after himself, which meant he was too old to be sitting on the counter — as was Kari’s stated opinion — but Duncan persisted, making a game of it with Zeb, who had to keep a lookout for his mom.

  ‘Chopping board,’ he told Zeb, who slid it from its nook beside the microwave. ‘Knife.’ Zeb splayed his legs and reached between them to open the cutlery drawer. Duncan, keeping an eye on him in case he toppled over, grabbed bread, Blue Bonnet and the last remaining jar of Marmite from the stash his dad had brought from New Zealand on his last visit. Duncan had encouraged his son to develop a taste for it to forge a link to his Kiwi heritage, a taonga tuku iho he could bestow/inflict as a father. His success in this endeavour, however, meant three jars had lasted less than two months and he had no clue where their next fix would come from.

  Zeb sat quietly, watching his father make two sandwiches and cut them into quarters.

  Duncan helped him down and handed him the chopping board with the sandwiches. ‘To the table.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ Kari asked as Zeb exited the kitchen. Of late he was prone to knock over bowls of cereal, trip on his own feet. A side-effect of his sudden inward turn? A growth spurt? Perhaps the fact he’d never once slept through an entire night was finally catching up with him. There was no shortage of explanations, but it was easier to blame Duncan for placing the bowl too close to the edge of the table — You know how he is at the moment! — or selecting the wrong shoes.

  Before Duncan could respond, Zeb had swooshed to the table and placed the board and its sandwiches on top without incident. Duncan and Kari exchanged Fancy that faces, and he took the chair next to Zeb.

  ‘Here you go,’ Teresa said, putting Zeb’s water glass in front of him. ‘That looks yummy.’

  ‘You want one, Mom?’ Duncan asked, teasing.

  ‘You know, I think I’ll pass. Maybe when you start drinking coffee. But you two enjoy your snack.’ She pulled Kari into the kitchen.

  He had told Cindy he needed some time away from his in-laws, and there was some truth to this, but it wasn’t the main reason he’d asked to swap shifts. Frank Motta hadn’t come into the restaurant the night before, which meant there was a chance of him appearing that evening and every subsequent one until he showed up or left town. Duncan wasn’t convinced it was the right time to make his play, even after his conversation with Vilma, but he needed to be there. To have the opportunity and make that call.

  Cindy was an actress (KNOWN FOR: BEETHOVEN’S 5th — DENISE; CARS — CINDY COPTER (VOICE); DECEPTION (TV SERIES) — REPORTER) and would be pissed if she found out the real reason for t
he swap, but she wouldn’t have to know if Motta didn’t show, or if he did but Duncan continued to play it cool (or dumb, in the eyes of Vilma). And if he did throw himself upon Motta’s mercy, chances are he’d be done with Sforza’s, whichever way the encounter went, and Cindy’s wrath would have little chance of reaching him.

  Zeb: ‘Something in it.’

  ‘Yeah, bud,’ Duncan said, buoyed by the sound of his son’s voice but not registering the words.

  ‘There’s something in it,’ Zeb repeated, and started pulling the pieces of bread apart. Duncan reached out to stop him — once he started playing with his food it was all over — but he didn’t pivot at the waist, just made a heavy, bear-paw swat that clipped Zeb’s water glass — of course it did! — which rocked one way then the other before dumping its contents on to the table and down into Duncan’s own lap.

  He stood, instinctively.

  His son looked up at him, stony faced, bone dry.

  Teresa reappeared. ‘What happened, Zebbie?’ she asked, which set him off.

  ‘Daddy!’ he cried.

  ‘Dunk.’ Kari sighed and turned back into the kitchen to grab tea towels. ‘You know how he is at the moment.’

  ‘It was me, actually.’ He looked at Teresa, who’d put the water glass there, but why even get into that?

  Zeb stood up on his chair, the hysterics escalating.

  ‘God, no, don’t do that,’ Duncan said, but didn’t pick him up because he was still standing hopeless and frozen with his saturated crotch. This gave Teresa her opening. She scooped up her grandson and started mussing his fine sandy hair. ‘Maybe me and Grandpa can take you to the park?’ she said softly. ‘To the park with the swings and the slides. With the kids and the people walking dogs.’

  ‘Aladdin,’ he said, still wailing.

  ‘What’s that, sweetie?’