Nobody Move by Denis Johnson Page B

fridge. Wooden floor with the finish scratched off. For a curtain, a bedsheet. “You can eat in the restaurant for the usual price, or you can make a list and I’ll bring you shit from the store in a box. It’s up to you. I’ll get Sol to go along as far as Wednesday.”
From beneath them, Anita felt the gigantic quiet of the empty establishment downstairs. “Is the restaurant closed?”
“Open for business. But most of the folks who come here are down in Bolinas for the biker convention.” Capra looked her up and down and seemed to examine her face carefully. “So what happens Wednesday?”
“Wednesday I go to court.”
“Yeah. I know you.”
“Nobody knows me.”
“You’re slightly infamous.”
“All lies,” Anita said.
“So!” Jimmy said. “John Capra didn’t die.”
“Nope. My old lady wanted alimony. That’s unacceptable. I cut her some slack. I walked.”
“Like a real gentleman,” Anita said.
“Yeah, it was, lady. I know twenty dudes would’ve taken her out to the Mojave and buried her alive for that shit.”
“I didn’t mean it,” Anita said.
Capra put his hand on the doorknob and stared at her, but he was speaking to Jimmy. “This one got the beauty that goes down to the bone. High heels or barefoot, don’t matter.”
“She can sing too.”
“I can’t tell if she’s powered by a lot of soul or a lot of psycho electricity.”
Anita said, “Do you always talk about people like they’re invisible?”
“Usually just women.”
It was one of those hippie-student pads smelling like cat shit, incense, a little dirty laundry, dirty dishes. She said, “Does somebody, you know—clean?” just to be a bitch.
“I said I owe him. I didn’t say I was his slave.” Capra shut the door softly behind him, and the windowpanes rattled as he went down the stairs.
Jimmy lit a cigarette and said, “Honey? I’m home!”
Anita said, “Is this a smoking room?”
“Yeah. I smoke.”
“Well, fine. Smoke.”
He blew smoke and opened what looked like a closet door. “Even a bathroom. No tub.”
Anita sat on the bed. “Jeez, the mattress is like quicksand, help!”
“Don’t get lost. I’ll be back.” He went out the door, and she listened to the panes rattle while he descended, and then she settled back onto the bare feather pillow. It stank. A few minutes, and someone shook the panes again coming up the stairs.
It was Sally—Sol—with sheets and a blanket. “Funky, funky, funky,” he said, “but it’s bigger than mine. I have a studio downstairs off the kitchen.” He stood by the bed looking haggard, though he smiled. “Might as well live near the job—I have to be in the kitchen by six a.m. anyhow. Can you stand it, honey?”
“Sure.”
“The renter just moved out. The plan is we clean it up and move in next week. Me and Jay.”
“You mean—you and Jay? Move in?”
“Move in. Me and Jay. That’s the situation.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Might as well take a shot. At least he’s not going anywhere. He’s stuck.”
“So you guys all knew each other somewhere. Alhambra.”
“Alhambra, USA. Jimmy burned up the life down there, huh? Fact is, there’s a real coincidence going on here. I got a little crazy down there myself.”
“Well,” she said.
“Who’s after him? Is it the cops, or is it Gambol and Juarez and all those nice people?”
“Gambol,” Anita said. “Who’s that?”
Sally still held the towels. Picking at the fabric with one hand. “So it’s Gambol.”
“I don’t know. The name just sounded familiar.”
“Gambol,” Sally said, “just keeps coming.”
“I don’t think Jimmy would hang around for somebody like that.”
“Then who’s Jimmy hanging around for now?” He looked at Anita. “Oh. Yeah.”
When Sally was gone, Jimmy came back with his duffel and their JCPenney shopping bags and set them all down beside the bathroom door. “The earthly goods.”
Anita said nothing, making the bed.
Jimmy put on a phony smile and stuck his hands in his