Nothing else in the room except a mattress and a pile of clothes in the corner and a tattered easy chair. On the kitchen counter there was a mound of old dishes and fast-food cartons. The smell was somewhere between fried meat and sour wet laundry.
"You’ve done wonders with the place," I said. “I can see why-"
When I turned around the coach was standing behind me and his fist was a few inches from my face, coming in for a landing.
I twisted out of its way and pushed down on his wrist with one hand. With the other hand I slammed up on the elbow, bending the joint the wrong way. I’m sure I didn’t break it, but I’m pretty sure it hurt like hell anyway. The coach fell down on the kitchen floor and I went to check out the bathroom. A toothbrush, one towel, the new Penthouse on the toilet tank. All the comforts of home.
It took about fifteen minutes to find a roll of garbage bags and stuff the coach’s things into them.
"You broke my arm," he told me. He was still sitting on the kitchen floor, with his eyes tightly closed. I unplugged the TV and put it outside.
" Some people like ice for a joint problem like that," I told him, moving out the chair. “I think it’s better if I you use a hot-water bottle. Keep it warm for a while. Two days from now you won’t feel anything."
He told me he’d sue, I think. He told me a lot of things, but I wasn’t listening much anymore. I was tired, it was hot, and I was starting to remember why I’d stayed away from San Antonio for so many years. The coach was in enough pain not to fight much as I tucked him into the cab with most of his stuff and paid the cabby to take him to a motel. Leaving the TV and easy chair in the front yard, I brought my things inside and shut the door behind me.
Robert Johnson slunk out of his cage cautiously when I opened it. His black fur was slicked the wrong way on one side and his yellow eyes were wide. He wobbled slightly getting back his land legs. I knew how he felt. He sniffed the carpet, then looked at me with total disdain.
"Row," he said.
"Welcome home," I said.
2
"Was fixing to evict him one of these days," Gary Hales mumbled.
My new landlord didn’t seem too concerned about my disagreement with the former tenant. Gary Hales didn’t seem too concerned about anything. Gary was an anemic watercolor of a man. His eyes, voice, and mouth were all soft and liquid, his skin a washed-out blue that matched his guayabera shirt. I got the feeling he might just dilute down to nothing if he I got caught in a good rain.
He stared at our finalized lease as if he were trying to remember what it was. Then he read it one more time, his lips moving, his shaky hand following each line with the tip of a black pen. He got stuck on the signature line. He frowned. “Jackson?"
"Legally," I told him. "Tres, as in the Third. Usually I go by that, unless you’re my mother and you’re mad at me, in which case it’s Jackson."
Gary stared at me.
“Or occasionally ‘Asshole,’ " I offered.
Gary’s pale eyes had started to glaze over. I thought I’d probably lost him after "legally," but he surprised me.
"Jackson Navarre," he said slowly. "Like that sheriff that got kilt?"
I took the lease out of Gary’s hand and folded it up. "Yeah," I said. “Like that."
Then the wall started ringing. Gary’s eyes floated over listlessly to where the sound had come from. I waited for an explanation.
"She axed me for the number here," he said, like he was reminding himself about it. "Told her I’d change the name over to you t’morrow."
He shuffled across the room and pulled a built-in ironing board out from the living—room wall. In the alcove behind it was an old black rotary phone.
I picked it up on the fourth ring and said: “Mother, you’re unbelievable."
She sighed loudly into the receiver, a satisfied kind of sound.
"Just an old beau at Southwestern Bell, honey. Now when are you coming over?"
I thought about it. The prospect wasn’t pleasant after the day I’d had. On the other hand, I needed transportation.
"Maybe this evening. I’ll need to borrow the VW if you’ve still got it. "