Strange Trades Page 6

  “Sorry, Rory!”

  From his right, a paraphrastic echo from Studs: “Yeah, sorry, Honeyman.”

  “That’s okay, girls,” replied Honeyman, immediately bending low and executing some broken-field running to avoid the expected barrage of pebbles and verbal abuse, which indeed quickly materialized.

  “You jerk!”

  “Don’t call us that!”

  Attaining the shelter of a doorway, Honeyman straightened up. He dug his fingers thoughtfully into his rufous beard. Now why had he gone and annoyed Leather ’n’ Studs like that? He normally went out of his way to be nice to them, harboring no ill will toward anyone of any sexual stripe whatsoever. But here he was starting the night off by deliberately—sorta deliberately, anyway — insulting people. He supposed it stemmed from his own unhappiness, as the bad attitudes of most folks did.

  During the past week, Honeyman had created and spent spondulix with a wild abandon bordering on inebriation. Erlkonig’s devil-may-care attitude had infected him—Honeyman had allowed it to infect him—and he had dived blindly into the deep end of the algae-topped pool of monetary irresponsibility. As a result, all his debts had been extinguished. The local merchants reacted at first with doubt and caution, but in the end mostly agreed to accept this novel kind of payment, in lieu of anything better. With the U.S. currency thus saved, Honeyman paid off those institutions such as the regional electric company which would never, he was sure, recognize spondulix.

  And, as Erlkonig had maintained, fewer spondulix returned than went out, thereby creating a positive cash flow. Honeyman had no idea where the missing spondulix were. Perhaps they had all gone through a wash cycle or two, forgotten in pants pockets, and been rendered into fibrous lumps. He fervently hoped so.

  The lifting of his fiscal obligations should have lightened Honeyman’s spirits. He should have been feeling on top of the world right now. Instead, he was plunged into an ever-deepening gloom.

  Despite his actions at the Olympics two decades ago, Honeyman had never considered himself a rebel. All he had ever wanted was a little niche in society, a moderate income, a few of the simpler pleasures. True, he had once dreamed of exhibiting his diving skills for the admiration and pleasure of the public—either solo or horsed—but even that modest ambition had been twice by fate denied. All he wanted now was a quiet, contemplative existence.

  Instead, though, he found himself flouting the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and God knew what else, all by creating and putting into circulation a kind of mock currency in direct competition with the almighty United States dollar. He was hard pressed to put a name to his crime—he knew it wasn’t counterfeiting—but he was certain it was a crime, and a heinous one at that. You might spit in the eye of the U.S. Olympic team and expect nothing more deadly than a draft notice as response. But to steal money, in effect, out of Uncle Sam’s Treasury, to set yourself up as some kind of sovereign on a par with the government— Honeyman couldn’t imagine what kind of punishment would be deemed draconian enough by an incensed bureaucracy.

  Looking out over the verdant, path-slashed campus, which was filling up with the throngs anticipating an evening of Outlaw revelry, Honeyman sighed deeply. A couple walked by, hand in hand. Honeyman was too wounded even to sigh.

  What about someone to share his hoped-for simple existence? Was that asking too much? He had thought Netsuke was the one. Had thought she felt the same. Then she had thrown him over for Erlkonig. Perhaps the age difference had been too great. And now he would have to confront her tonight, as she hung all moony-eyed over Erlkonig.…

  Mustn’t become bitter. Get a grip on yourself, Honeyman! Look on the bright side: a single man, relatively good-looking, under forty, resident in a metropolitan area where such specimens were at a premium.…The feminine world should be your oyster. (But what did that cliché mean, anyway? Oysters were tough to pry open, and you could rip your hands to shreds on them.) As long as the cops weren’t battering down his door, he’d try to maintain his usual optimism.

  Honeyman stepped forth from the shadowy doorway, resolved to have a great time tonight.

  He tripped over someone who had come to sit unnoticed on the single step before him. Both Honeyman and the unknown figure went tumbling to the turf.

  Recovering, Honeyman confronted Hilario Fumento, writer with a peculiar mission.

  Fumento had become fixated early on in his career by a certain frisson provided by the best fiction: the encounter in print of a commonplace mundane item, experience, or sensory datum which was instantly recognizable but also previously unrendered in print. The famous shock of recognition, in fact. It was Fumento’s dream to construct a novel made entirely out of these gems. He was still in the process of collecting them, leaving the arrangement into a narrative, however bizarre, until later. Lacking money for materials, Fumento pilfered call slips and pencil stubs from public libraries, and used these to record his epiphanies.

  Fumento, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket now—Honeyman had a brief fear that it would turn out to be a spondulix ready for redemption—said, “Hey, Rory, what do you think of this one: ‘Washcloth hanging over a shower-curtain rod: its lower, wetter edge is darker.’”

  “Beautiful, Hilario. It’s got an almost haiku-like quality.”

  Fumento smiled bashfully and stuffed the paper back into his jacket. “Gee, thanks, Rory. It just came to me this morning, while I was washing up. We’ve got water at the Brewery now, you know.”

  Honeyman’s curiosity was piqued. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Earl swung it. He’s got big plans for fixing the whole place up.”

  It flashed on Honeyman how Erlkonig intended to pay for these dream renovations, and he grew angry. He must confront the albino before he went any further. “Well, we’ll see how far he gets. Listen, I’ll catch you later, Hilario.”

  “Bye, Rory. Have a good time.”

  Honeyman got to his feet and moved off.

  Attracted by a scattering of airy multicolored spangles, he found himself at a broad, flagstoned pavilion at the western edge of the campus. Here, the trees had been bedecked with strings of fairy lights. A bandstand had been erected, and a crew of volunteers was arraying speakers and other equipment atop it, under the direction of Hy Rez, the Beer Nuts’ technical expert, and his assistant, Special Effects.

  Special Effects’s given name was Saint Francis Xavier, commonly abbreviated S.F.X. His father was a defrocked Jesuit. Special had long red hair down to his shoulders, and a dopy broad face. These looks, however, belied a quick wit.

  “Hey, Special. Seen Earl around?”

  Walking backward, laying cable from a coil, Special replied, “He was overseeing the fireworks, last time I spotted him.”

  Fireworks. Did the man’s temerity have no end? This night would see them all in jail for sure. Honeyman debated leaving the party before it had begun, then decided against it. He was in no mood to mope in his apartment alone. And he had to confront Erlkonig about his cavalier spending of spondulix.

  Honeyman spotted the refreshment table, and decided he could use a drink. Nodding in that direction, he asked Special Effects, “Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks. Hy and I are permanently wired now.”

  Honeyman smiled, certain that Special was joking. The man stopped playing out wire and lifted a strand of hair. In the dim light, Honeyman thought to detect something behind his ear. Special Effects resumed his work. Honeyman shrugged and moved away. Chances were Special was just yanking his chain, but he didn’t care to inquire further.

  From an aluminum keg, Honeyman drew a big plastic cup of beer, sipped. Belhaven Scottish Ale, imported from Glasgow. This must have cost a fortune. He would wring Erlkonig’s neck.

  The crowd was thickening now, as full night descended and the party began to really take off. The lines were several deep at the several kegs. Someone stuck a box of donuts under Honeyman’s nose.

  Beatbox. “Have one, Rory. I made them mys
elf.”

  Honeyman took a donut, bit. “Taco flavored?”

  “It was only an experiment. But the owner—he ain’t no experiment’ man.”

  Honeyman was sorry Beatbox had lost his job, but in a way was also selfishly glad. Perhaps now, he faintly hoped, Nerfball would have to return to taking sandwiches in trade.

  Munching his taco donut, more out of habit than desire, Honeyman idly watched a drug deal being consummated in the shadows. The seller proffered a Ziploc; the buyer handed over … a napkin?

  No, impossible, things were too far out of control.…

  Sounds of tuning up wafted over from the musicians assembled onstage. “Who’s playing tonight?”

  “The Millionaires.”

  “Don’t know ’em.”

  “They’re just a pickup band. Local guys. Some from the Broadcasters, though.”

  The opening to Pink Floyd’s “Money” rang out: sampled cash-register noises. The singer came in: “Money, it’s a drag.…”

  Honeyman sampled his beer. Beatbox had left to circulate with his Mexicanized crullers. Honeyman threw the remainder of his donut surreptitiously down underfoot. Courtesy only extended so far. Drawing another cup of dark ale, he went in search of Erlkonig.

  The pavilion was filling up with dancers. Honeyman traveled along its balustraded perimeter, as alert as anyone who had just polished off eighteen ounces of Glaswegian beer could be, for a glimpse of Erlkonig. But the man was nowhere in sight. Netsuke neither.

  Beyond the stone rampart the land fell vertically away, straight down some fifty feet to Sinatra Drive. Just beyond the busy highway lapped the Hudson. Across its width loomed the fabulous gemmed cliffs of Manhattan, remote as the mirage of some Arabian seraglio.

  A woman Honeyman did not recognize was leaning on her forearms on the stone railing, looking out toward the distant city. A thick mane of brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a halter top. Her bare coltish legs were displayed attractively by a short skirt. She was shod with leather sandals.

  Moved by a powerful attraction, Honeyman fell into the same pose beside her. The band was playing an old fifties tune, once covered by the J. Geils Band: “First I Look at the Purse.” There was an odor of coffee in the air.

  Honeyman was tongue-tied, an unusual occurrence. The woman did not look at him. He wetted his dry throat with a sip of beer. Said at last, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  The woman turned toward him. Her face was not young, but it was beautiful. Honeyman was surprised to see she was roughly his own age. She wore prescription glasses with a cord hanging down from the stems like reins.

  “Oh, I guess so. But I don’t know anyone here. I just moved to Hoboken from Chelsea. My building went condo.”

  The woman’s lack of connection to the Beer Nuts or anyone in their crowd only increased her attractiveness to Honeyman. “My name’s Rory.”

  “Addie.”

  They shook hands. Hers was slim and warm. Honeyman felt his own to be a big sweaty paw.

  “That’s an unusual name,” said Honeyman.

  “I was just going to say the same thing about yours. Mine’s short for Atalanta. Atalanta Swinburne.”

  “Mine’s not short for anything.”

  She went back to gazing at the river. Honeyman could think of nothing else to say. Desperate, he blurted out: “Honeyman.”

  “Please?”

  “My last name’s Honeyman.”

  “Do you own—”

  “The sandwich shop on Washington? Yup, that’s me.”

  “I’ve been meaning to try you.”

  Honeyman gulped. “Oh, please, come on in.…”

  “I will.”

  Honeyman timed the silence at thirty seconds. It seemed much longer.

  “The water looks so cold,” she said finally. “And a breeze is coming up. Do you mind if we move?”

  Honeyman’s heart raced. She had said “we.” The pronoun had never sounded so seductive.

  They moved off among the dancers. Trying to stay together, Honeyman dared to grip her upper arm. She didn’t complain.

  Back on the grassy area, Honeyman spotted Erlkonig.

  “Wait here just a second, please. I gotta talk to that guy.”

  “All right.…”

  Honeyman hailed the albino. “Hey, Earl!”

  Erlkonig, either alarmed by Honeyman’s attitude, or having something to hide, began inexplicably to run.

  Honeyman set off in pursuit.

  He trapped Erlkonig near the fireworks.

  “Earl, be cool. What’s the matter? I just wanna talk.”

  Panting, Erlkonig said, “I can’t discuss anything with you when you’ve been drinking. You’re too liable to get mad.”

  “Why should I get mad? What’ve you done? It’s nothing to do with spondulix, is it? Tell me!”

  “Later, moll, later.”

  Erlkonig looked about for an avenue of escape. He began to clamber among the fireworks arrayed on the ground in their tubes, upsetting the jury-rigged arrangements. Honeyman strode implacably after him.

  Erlkonig looked backward over his shoulder, tripped, and sprawled across the control panel.

  Everything went off at once.

  Honeyman felt he knew what he had missed in ’Nam.

  Rockets zipped by parallel to the ground. Fireballs burst against the sides of buildings. Great crimson and lemon-yellow starbursts broke at treetop level. Fiery chrysanthemums flowered, only to shatter the next moment against the sides of parked cars, their life spans briefer than mayflies.

  There were screams, explosions, wild feedback as the Millionaires, unfazed, improvised to the unexpected lightshow. Sirens began to sound, distant, growing nearer.

  Honeyman dove to the ground and began crawling.

  Fireworks continued to roar by overhead.

  A few feet away, he encountered Addie, who had followed him.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted above the noise.

  She nodded mutely.

  They wormed their way out of the path of the seemingly inexhaustible fireworks, stood up and began to trot away. At the edge of the campus they were nearly run over by a screaming patrol car. They ran then, laughing, and didn’t stop till they fell into Honeyman’s bed.

  5.

  Off to War

  Amid the noises of hammering and sawing next door to the sandwich shop, and of Nerfball performing his hourly nasal irrigation in the employees’ restroom, Honeyman stood transfixed. In his hand he held one of the new spondulix.

  The material of the crisp bill was good linen bond. It was printed in tones of mustard-yellow. On its front was a rendering of a giant hoagie sandwich. On its obverse was a portrait of Honeyman, complete down to his Mets cap. Under the hoagie was the legend: in pumpernickel we trust.

  This bill was denominated “FIFTY SPONDULIX.” There were others—mayo-white, ketchup-red, pickle-green —in various lesser and greater denominations, lying in Honeyman’s till. And with every passing minute, more spilled out of the presses set up in the basement of the Old Vault Brewery. Each one, in Honeyman’s eyes, a little ticking time bomb bound to explode one day right in his very own hairy face.

  It was this new wrinkle in the evolution of spondulix that had caused Erlkonig to react so nervously two weeks ago to Honeyman’s attempted approach. The Black albino, exhibiting the initiative and ingenuity which had led him to his position of preeminence among the Beer Nuts, had taken it upon himself to professionalize the production of spondulix. Having come to rely on them to further his manifold schemes, Erlkonig felt he could no longer make do with scribbled napkins, which were likely to disintegrate with constant handling, or, even worse, to be mistakenly used for some ignoble purpose such as blowing one’s nose. Moreover, the napkins were bulky and hard to carry in one’s wallet.

  All these arguments and more had Erlkonig adduced to Honeyman shortly after the disastrous conclusion to the Outlaw Party, as he tried to convince him of the necessity of th
is step. Honeyman had not been easily swayed.

  “C’mon, Rory, loosen up. What’re you worrying about anyway? There’s nothing illegal in what we’re doing. Just look at these things as coupons, like. Yeah, manufacturer’s coupons, that’s all they are. When Kellogg’s gives you thirty-five cents off on Raisin Bran, are they trying to subvert the government, like you claim we are? And what about when the supermarket doubles the coupon? They’re adding some incremental value to that piece of paper—which, by the way, even says on the back in fine print, ‘Redeemable for one-tenth of a cent.’”

  Honeyman shook his head in weary dissent. He knew in his bones that all this was wrong, and that they were going to have to pay the piper one day, but he just couldn’t summon up the logic to counter Erlkonig’s snaky persuasiveness.

  “Look,” Erlkonig continued, “even if these things are money, so what? Don’t look so shocked, I mean it. So what? You gotta get some historical perspective on this, my moll. You know, the government wasn’t always the only one who minted money in this country. Right up to the mid-1800s, private banks issued notes that were supposedly backed by their deposits, and which circulated as legal tender. And lots of times a bank printed so much that the collective value of the paper was two or three times the bank’s holdings. Of course, the whole system eventually went bust, causing quite a shitstorm, but that doesn’t apply to us, since we’re going to keep tighter reins on things.”

  The phrase “went bust” made Honeyman’s vision waver. “Earl, I just don’t feel right about—”

  Erlkonig brooked no naysayers. “And during the Depression, all across the country individual stores issued scrip redeemable only at their establishments. Same thing we’re doing. And the Confederacy—don’t forget about them. What was the first thing they did? Right, issue their own money.”

  “They were seceding from the Union, Earl. We’re not doing that, are we?”

  “No, of course not. But you must admit that these are uncertain times, Rory. A few years ago we went through the worst depression since the thirties. The homeless, the unemployed, the people whose jobs went to Asia—this government is fiscally fucked up. If we can help people by printing spondulix, why shouldn’t we?”