With Death Laughing Read online

  WITH DEATH

  LAUGHING

  peter plate

  a novel

  SEVEN STORIES PRESS

  New York ▪ Oakland ▪ London

  Copyright © 2019 by Peter Plate

  a seven stories press first edition

  All events, characters, and places in this novel are fictitious, and any resemblance to real events and persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Seven Stories Press

  140 Watts Street

  New York, NY 10013

  sevenstories.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Plate, Peter, author.

  Title: With death laughing : a novel / Peter Plate.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Seven Stories Press, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018044587| ISBN 9781609809256 (paperback) |

  ISBN 9781609809263 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Crime. | GSAFD: Noir fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3566.L267 W58 2019 | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018044587

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For

  Jimmy and Donald,

  Curt and Robert,

  Glitter Doll, Dennis, Ricky,

  and Montano Shoe Repair.

  What the masses refuse to recognize is the

  fortuitousness that pervades reality.

  —Hannah Arendt

  PART ONE

  THE BAD DAYS

  WILL END

  ONE

  December is my favorite month. That’s what I’m thinking when I look out my hotel room window and see a flurry of motion at the halfway house next door. A consumer—one of the house’s residents—dances alone on the sidewalk with her arms held high, her costume jewelry bracelets a riot in the sunlight, an empty weightless plastic bag swirling on the pavement by her dirty, bare feet.

  Sugar Child is the finest poetry I’ve seen in a long while.

  I met Sugar Child earlier this morning while I was taking out the trash. Perching on the halfway house steps in a green spandex pantsuit, she’s a revelation of reedy shoulders and bird-thin legs. A quality platinum wig frames her sharp grill. Her blood-rimmed brown eyes, ringed by artfully applied layers of blue mascara, examine me with x-ray intensity.

  “Hey, daddy, you have a cigarette? No? Well, shit. You know I just got out of county jail. I did a year because I had no permits. I’m going to be here for ten days, then I got to find me a treatment program. But right now I want to party. Uh, you want a date? I don’t do young guys. I do older men like you. Easier to handle. You interested?”

  I’m in my underwear, too shy to flirt. “No, baby, I have to go to work in a little bit. Maybe some other time.”

  “Okay, daddy. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Quicker than a hummingbird, she lunges at me, planting a hard, cough-syrupy kiss on my mouth. An anvil of a kiss. Then she whirls away into the house.

  I’m still looking out the window, reliving this memory, getting lost in its creaminess, when it’s interrupted by a social worker rocketing out of the halfway house. He scuttles partway down the steps, stabbing the air with his clipboard. “Sugar Child! You need to stop dancing! What the hell is wrong with you! Get inside and take your meds! You’re hours behind schedule!”

  Ignoring him, Sugar Child does a fandango, the plastic bag at her side a perfect dancing companion, matching her athleticism with its own elegance. The social worker turns around and climbs the stairs, shaking his head and whooping: “Damn it! You’re in trouble! I’m calling SWAT!”

  He understands nothing about poetry.

  Sugar Child knows even less about halfway house rules. She pirouettes in a counterclockwise circle with her eyes squeezed shut, kicking her grimy feet to an imaginary music’s beat.

  Four minutes later, a black SWAT van eases to the curb by the halfway house. Three uniformed cops sally from the vehicle, two Mexican women and a pink-faced white cat. The cops saunter toward Sugar Child feigning nonchalance, the way law enforcement officials usually do when they’re tense and don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.

  Without any preamble, Sugar Child challenges the first officer. “Get the fuck away from me, man. I haven’t done shit to nobody. I’m just doing my thing here.” The second cop unholsters her taser. The last cop whips out his baton and wallops Sugar Child in the ribs.

  The three officers shove Sugar Child onto the ground—she greets the pavement chin first. The women cops kick her in the head, then roughly handcuff her hands and feet. The white cop jogs to the van and comes back with a long chain. He attaches the chain to Sugar Child’s ankles, connecting the remaining length to her manacled hands.

  Sugar Child is hogtied.

  Trussed like an animal in a stockyard.

  She lies in the street, unable to move a muscle. Mascara runs down her cheeks, the wig bereft and friendless on the sidewalk beside her. Next, she’s loaded into the SWAT van.

  I pull the curtains shut, blotting out what I’ve just seen. I can’t deal with it now. Christ only knows. I limp to the mirror on the other side of the room. I stare into the cracked glass. A bald ex-con with lines of disappointment around his mouth and sorrow in his eyes stares back at me. A middle-aged man in a priest’s black robe adorned with cigarette burns. An ill-fitting polyester cleric’s collar imprisons his neck. A .25 pistol nestles in his purple sacramental cummerbund.

  I draw the .25. I point it at the mirror and smile. The mirror smiles at me, satisfied with the image I present. I restuff the gun in my cummerbund. I pat my pockets, checking to see if I’ve got my travel permit card and enough change for the bus.

  It’s time to start my shift.

  I’m an ordained priest and professional donations solicitor. I work downtown, where I bang a tambourine and beg for money in the mellifluous, singsong voice beloved by children worldwide: help the needy, give to the poor, amen.

  TWO

  My bus hiccups through the northbound SWAT checkpoint at Base Line, the traffic behind us nothing but dusty pickup trucks with gun racks. E Street’s bail bond offices, liquor stores, thrift shops, and palm trees are aglow in the vaselined daylight, pigeons slanting over the power lines. A wind blows from the desert, inciting clumps of dead palm fronds and empty crack vials to mutiny on the sidewalk.

  Exiting the bus on Fourteenth Street, I set up camp by the old McDonald’s—the first one in the world. A cornerstone of our civic heritage. I place a white plastic donations bucket on the pavement. I pop a breath mint in my mouth. I spank the tambourine and dance like an organ grinder’s monkey to entertain passing Christmas shoppers.

  “Help me, help me, help me if you can.”

  After a slow start, the money is trickling in. A dollar here, a dollar there. Two white guys pause to watch my act. They’re tall and pulpy shouldered with long stringy hair. Styling flannel shirts, baggy non-designer jeans, and white sweatshop trainers. Total fashion assassins. You could mistake them for winos—it doesn’t take a college degree to see they’re plainclothes SWAT cops.

  I panic: the .25 under my robe is a surefire felony bust. With my record, good for a dime in the joint. Before I can do anything, the plainclothes men start toward me.

  “Hey, hey, Pastor. How’s the hustle this afternoon?”

  “Hello, boys. You here to make a donation? Your generosity will sweeten a poor ch
ild’s holiday. A solitary dollar can do it.”

  The stouter of the two cops, clearly the senior officer, smirks at me. He aims a nicotine-stained finger at the donations bucket. “It doesn’t look like you’re doing so great today.”

  “The day is young. My resolve is strong. I have hope.”

  My inane homilies wipe the smile from his bearded face. “Cut the bullshit. You got permission to be here?”

  “Yes, I have god’s permission. I’m a priest with Blessed World. The church and charity.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You have a license?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shut the fuck up. I ask the questions. You supply the answers. Got that, dickhead? For your information, you need a license to work this street. You have one?”

  I’m ticked off, but given the circumstances, it’s best to practice the anger management techniques I learned from shrink sessions in the pen. My answer is restrained, priestly.

  “Not on me.”

  “How do I know you’re a vicar or whatever, and not a fucking con artist?”

  “You don’t.”

  “That’s right, shitbag. I don’t. What’s to stop me from hauling your ass in on fraud charges?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right again. You’re learning fast. So let’s move on. I’ll let this slide. But I want something from you.” He lowers his voice a tad, just enough to let me know he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “Listen closely, Pastor. Some fuckwad with a gun is robbing banks downtown. He’s been seen on E Street. A young dude. Maybe a Mexican. You’re out here every day, right?”

  “That’s my job. It’s my volition. I’m trying to—”

  “Save the sermon for church. He’s gonna contact you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re a priest. You attract trouble.”

  “Then what?”

  “You let me know, dumb fuck.”

  “But who are you?”

  His hebephrenic black eyes slice into my face. Unblinking, I gaze back at him. Kapow: we’re having a full-blown staring match. My strategy—I won’t let him punk me. We stay like that for several seconds until he says, “I’m Dalton.” He jerks a thumb at his partner. “That’s Cassidy.”

  Dalton kneels in slow motion and fishes three bucks from the donations bucket. My entire take for the day. Pocketing the greasy bills, he stands up with a self-satisfied smile. He and Cassidy then stroll southward to Base Line, a handful of adoring, timid pigeons scattering in their wake.

  I watch them disappear into the smog. Disgusted, I spit on the sidewalk. There is nothing in the donations bucket.

  I end my shift at midnight. I haven’t made one red cent since this afternoon. I’m exhausted, almost delirious, my right hand cramped from shaking the tambourine for the last eight hours. To boot, it’s after curfew—I’ll probably get rousted at the southbound Base Line checkpoint.

  A long time ago my uniform—my robes—meant something important. They were second only to Superman’s costume in the hearts and minds of the young and old. They represented a power for good. But the modern world has laid to waste the myths and symbols of yesteryear—I’m an object of ridicule and scorn. A lesser man would be daunted. Not me. Not yet.

  THREE

  At one in the morning, after negotiating the Base Line checkpoint, I round the corner onto my block. The sidewalk is empty, apart from a lone sneaker orphaned in the gutter. I walk to the halfway house and stop short. The house is dark, the consumers asleep.

  Sugar Child’s arrest lingers in the air with a magnetic residue that clings to my skin and won’t let go. I struggle to remember her face, a heartwarming memory to comfort me at this late hour. I fail, due to the fact she’s in the psychiatric lockdown ward at General Hospital on Gilbert Street.

  I duck into the California Hotel through a revolving door that deposits me in a near-dark lobby. I wait until the front desk clerk turns his back—I haven’t paid rent in weeks—then I sneak across the lobby, making a beeline for the elevator.

  The elevator drops me off on the third floor. I tiptoe to my door, unlock it, and step inside a roasting hot two-room suite. My first stop is the kitchenette. There, I peek in the countertop mini-fridge—I’m welcomed by its sole occupant, an unopened pint of plain nonfat yogurt. I take the yogurt into the other room and plunk myself in a battered wingback chair.

  I remove the .25 from my waistband. I set it and the tambourine on a three-legged coffee table, the fourth leg a stack of paperbacks. Then I cram the donations bucket under the chair. I dislike the bucket. It’s a junkie with a bitter habit. The bucket doesn’t like me, either—I didn’t bring home any cash. It snarls: you lame fuck. I’m not satisfied with today’s take. I need more money. You worthless asshole.

  So here I am. Flat broke. For the life of me, I don’t know what to do. And I can’t get Dalton’s words out of my head: you’re a priest. You attract trouble.

  Maybe he’s right.

  I flash on the second-to-last time I made love.

  I’ve been out of the pen one night. Back in the world for twenty-four hours. I can’t cope with it. There’s too many colors, too many people. It’s enough to drive me nuts. To relax, I cuddle with my wife, Rhonda, in bed. After a spate of kissing and snuggling, I position myself between her legs. I take her in my mouth. I haven’t done this in years. Frankly, I’m rusty.

  I tongue her labia. I gently nip her clit. At first, nothing. Rhonda doesn’t call my name or go overboard with ecstatic groans. I continue to labor until my jaw aches. I can’t breathe; pubic hair and vaginal fluid clog my nostrils.

  Finally, she responds with a precious trembling in her legs. I strive onward. I get into a rhythm: tongue up, tongue down. Pause and repeat. It’s a wicked formula—she bucks her pubic bone hard against my nose. At long last, she comes. I smile, victorious. I pull myself up into her arms to share the moment. I want to savor it. It’s been a long time. Too damn long. But she recoils from me, repelled by my nearness. Curling into a fetal ball, she whimpers: “Leave me alone, please leave me alone.”

  Shortly after this erotic mishap, my parole officer orders me to find gainful employment. To keep me from returning to the joint. Through the grapevine, I hear about Blessed World.

  Blessed World is an evangelical church and nonprofit charity established in the late 1980s. They work with underprivileged communities in the Southland. Their membership is modest—a few thousand parishioners. I apply for an internship with them.

  Blessed World’s job application form asks if I’m a felon. I don’t answer the question. Too risky. Luckily, I’m hired for the secretarial pool. I staple papers, xerox reports, whatever needs to get done. When a slot opens up to be a donations solicitor on E Street, I jump at the chance. I pay a fifteen-dollar fee and undergo a five-day training session. I’m assigned a secondhand cleric’s uniform—I rent it by the week. I receive a beribboned certificate that proclaims I’m an ordained priest.

  Presto: it’s a whole new me.

  E Street had been the Southland’s second-biggest cruising strip in its heyday. Frank Zappa cruised it. Along with Hells Angels on Harley panhead choppers.

  That was a long time ago. The strip isn’t famous anymore. But I don’t care. I just fantasize how much money I’ll bring in. Oodles of cheese. Baskets of it. Thousands of dollars, thanks to my winning personality. Nobody will be able to resist my sales pitch.

  Of course, I bring the .25 with me.

  □ □ □

  I’m ten when my father buys me the .25. He purchases it from a pawnshop on D Street. “You’re old enough to own a weapon,” he pontificates. “Old enough to learn to use it.” With a child’s wisdom, I’m ambivalent about the pistol. I’d rather have a skateboard. Yet I religiously practice firing it. Plinking daily at bottles and cans. One summer evening I’m shooting in the backyard. An older neighborhood kid jumps the fence. His zit-embattled face lights up when he spies the .25. “Let me see that thing,” he clamors.
Cowed by his biological seniority, I hand it to him. Since I’ve already decimated every can and bottle in sight, there is nothing left to destroy. Providentially, a snow-white rabbit hippity hops into view. A renegade pet that has escaped its owners. “Watch this,” he brags. “I’ll nick that rabbit in the ear.” Lo and behold—he misses by a mile, drilling the bunny’s guts. Drenched in its own blood, the animal drags itself under an oleander bush to die. The kid tosses the .25 at me like it’s got cancer. “I’d better split,” he dithers.

  I never see him or the rabbit again. That’s my life.

  I drowse in the chair while the night spins a path toward morning. The room is hot, but I’m too tired to crank up the air conditioner and too tired to undress. The yogurt has been abandoned on the chair’s armrest. I’ll have it for breakfast, if it isn’t spoiled.

  FOUR

  SWAT sells authorized internal travel permits—a hundred bucks a pop. You can’t buy one if you’ve got an outstanding warrant, or you’re undocumented, or don’t have a legal residential address. That means homeless people can’t purchase them. Decently forged permits are half the price but don’t always see you through the checkpoints. Having no travel card is murder—if you’re on the bus and get caught without one, it’s a year in county jail. I think that’s what happened to Sugar Child.

  An excessive heat warning has been issued for today. Children and seniors are advised to remain indoors. I’m eager to catch the afternoon Christmas traffic. So I set up shop in Pioneer Park, eight blocks south of McDonald’s. The park grounds are rife with flies, the air smells like ten days in jail.

  I play the tambourine with consummate skill.

  But I’m not raking in any dough.

  Begging for donations is psychological warfare. Some folks can’t give alms. I hear their rejections all day long. Sorry, Pastor. I don’t have no cash. I lost my job. My dog is sick. My children have the flu. My wife has boils. I have leukemia. Leave me alone. Get out of my face. Asshole. Faggot. Leech. Fuckhead.