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Wednesday, Nov 25, 2009
I was listening to Bauhaus when Hanlon called back two days later. He hadn't slept in forty-two hours, he was calling from his car and if I had time, could I come to his house that night?
About eight o'clock on a wet July night, Hanlon rolled to a stop in front of my apartment in a Nissan Stanza that had seen better days. I reached into the back of my hallway closet, trying to decide if I should put on my old leather jacket, the one with the fish-hooks sewn onto the undersides of the lapels. I hadn't worn it since the day I'd taken Megan to a movie and nearly had a heart attack when she made a grab for the shiny fishhooks with her fat toddler fingers.
But tonight, going to the house of a possibly crazy dude, I kind of wanted it on. The experts at the Ultimate Fighting Challenge tell us that sooner or later ninety percent of fights go to ground. I can confirm from my wild youth that the first couple of times some son of a bitch grabbed me and found his hands full of Eagle number 8 brass hooks, our tussle was a head butt and a broken nose from being over. Of course that was semidecent neighborhoods in the good old days, when the other guy was packing maybe a butterfly knife or a roll of quarters in his fist, instead of a Mac-10 with blazer ammo.
On the other hand, it was a muggy 92 degrees out and the whole city smelled like a crawdad boil. I put the jacket back in the closet with the feeling I was probably making a mistake.
The rest of my gear was suitably vanilla: a Men's Wearhouse shirt and black jeans over my ancient but classy pair of black Doc Martens. I don't wear jewelry any more. My wedding ring lives in an aspirin bottle in the medicine cabinet. I always mean to throw it away, but I never do. I wore a stud or a hoop in my left ear for years, but Megan grabbed it when she was little, so I took it out and the hole grew in and the whole idea of a guy in clip-ons seemed to miss the point. Now that Meg was older I could have gotten the ear re-pierced, but these days I'd need to hang a cowbell from my nipple to keep up. It's hard to make that commitment when you're over thirty and sober.
My mohawk I had shaved off when it began to recede.
I headed out of my apartment, not bothering to lock my door. The rotting gym-sock aroma of the hallway was duking it out with the scent of Vicky's cooking -- homemade tamales tonight, to judge by the smell, and pico de gallo.
I clattered downstairs and stepped out into a warm drizzle. As I walked out to the curb, a discarded condom drifted by on the current of run-off and disappeared into a gaping storm drain.
Hanlon leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger side window. "You don't have any tools," he said. "Bells and candles and Bibles."
"Is your ghost Catholic?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither."
Tom Hanlon was balding and tired. He was wearing a London Fog raincoat that was probably expensive when he bought it, sometime before the Berlin Wall came down. Now it was smudged with coffee stains and newsprint. Two of the bottom buttons were missing. His car felt pitifully lived in: Doritos bags and misfolded maps in the back seat, 7-Eleven coffee cups stacked three deep in the cup holder. The dashboard was littered with receipts from Whataburger and Dairy Queen. My powerful brain worked out that Hanlon was a salesman. My dad spent a year thinking he could get rich moving cheap air-ionizers. I know the signs.
Hanlon peered up at me. "Remember me now, DK?"
"Not at all."
"You haven't changed much," he said.
I stood beside the passenger door, rain trickling down my scalp. I wasn't crazy about getting in a car with a haunted driver who hadn't slept in two days.
Hanlon tapped his raincoat pocket. "I have the money right here. All cash. Crisp three dollar bills."
"Great," I said. I got in the car. My cousin stuck out a hand and we shook. He had the Bieler nose, like Aunt Dot; and of course the spooked eyes the haunted always have.
We crept down to the end of my block and turned right on Old Spanish Trail. The rain left needle-tracks on the windshield and the wipers cleared them off. A car rolled by with a swish, leaving treadmarks on the wet road that dissolved as I watched.
At the Fannin Street intersection, an old Korean woman carrying a sack of groceries froze suddenly in Hanlon's headlights. I grabbed for my door handle and yelled as the Stanza plunged through her. My skin prickled in a burst of cold air.
Hanlon jumped. "What the hell?"
"Sorry." I forced myself to let go of the door handle. "Thought I saw something."
"A ghost?"
"Yeah."
We passed the Astrodome, heading for the 610 Loop. "You working a shtick on me, DK?"
"Didn't know she wasn't real," I said. "Thought you were about to hit someone."
"You can't tell?"
"Not in the dark." I didn't feel like explaining the black and white thing, but it makes it harder to tell the living from the dead at night.
"Isn't that dangerous?" Hanlon said. "How do you drive?"
"I don't. I smashed up my dad's car twice, braking for dead people. Let my license lapse. Mostly I take the bus."
Hanlon stared at me. "You don't drive?"
I have ways to shock even the most jaded Houston native.
