Chapter One
JIMMY LUNTZ had never been to war, but this was
the sensation, he was sure of that-eighteen guys in a
room, Rob, the director, sending them out-eighteen guys
shoulder to shoulder, moving out on the orders of their
leader to do what they’ve been training day and night to
do. Waiting silently in darkness behind the heavy curtain
while on the other side of it the MC tells a stale joke,
and then-“THE ALHAMBRA CALIFORNIA BEACHCOMBER
CHORDSMEN!”-and they were smiling at
hot lights, doing their two numbers.
Luntz was one of four leads. On “Firefly” he thought
they did pretty well. Their vowels matched, they went easy
on the consonants, and Luntz knew he, at least, was lit up
and smiling, with plenty of body language. On “If We
Can’t Be the Same Old Sweethearts” they caught the wave.
Uniformity, resonance, expression of pathos, everything
Rob had ever asked for. They’d never done it so well. Right
face, down the steps, and into the convention center’s basement,
where once again they arranged themselves in
ranks, this time to pose for souvenir pictures.
“Even if we come in twentieth out of twenty,” Rob
told them afterward, while they were changing out of their
gear, the white tuxedos and checkered vests and checkered
bow ties, “we’re really coming in twentieth out of a hundred,
right? Because remember, guys, one hundred outfits
tried to get to this competition, and only twenty made it
all the way here to Bakersfield. Don’t forget that. We’re
out of a hundred, not twenty. Remember that, okay?” You
got a bit of an impression Rob didn’t think they’d done
too well.
Almost noon. Luntz didn’t bother changing into street
clothes. He grabbed his gym bag, promised to meet the
others back at the Best Value Inn, and hurried upstairs still
wearing the getup. He felt the itch to make a bet. Felt lucky.
He had a Santa Anita sheet folded up in the pocket of his
blinding white tux. They started running at twelve-thirty.
Find a pay phone and give somebody a jingle.
On his way out through the lobby he saw they’d already
posted the judgments. The Alhambra Chordsmen ranked
seventeenth out of twenty. But, come on, that was really
seventeenth out of a hundred, right?
All right-fine. They’d tanked. But Luntz still had that
lucky feeling. A shave, a haircut, a tuxedo. He was practically
Monte Carlo.
He headed out through the big glass doors, and there’s
old Gambol standing just outside the entrance. Checking
the comings and goings. A tall, sad man in expensive slacks
and shoes, camel-hair sports coat, one of those white straw
hats that senior-citizen golfers wear. A very large head.
“So hey,” Gambol said, “you are in a barbershop
chorus.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came here to see you.”
“No, but really.”
“Really. Believe it.”
“All the way to Bakersfield?”
That lucky feeling. It had let him down before.
“I’m parked over here,” Gambol said.
Gambol was driving a copper-colored Cadillac
Brougham with soft white leather seats. “There’s a button
on the side of the seat,” he said, “to adjust it how you
want.”
“People will be missing me,” Luntz said. “I’ve got a
ride back down to LA. It’s all arranged.”
“Call somebody.”
“Good, sure-just find a pay phone, and I’ll hop out.”
Gambol handed him a cell phone. “Nobody’s hopping
anywhere.”
Luntz patted his pockets, found his notebook, spread it
on his knee, punched buttons with his thumb. He got Rob’s
voice mail and said, “Hey, I’m all set. I got a lift, a lift back
down to Alhambra.” He thought a second. “This is Jimmy.”
What else? “Luntz.” What else? Nothing. “Good deal. I’ll see
you Tuesday. Practice is Tuesday, right? Yeah. Tuesday.”
He handed back the phone, and Gambol put it in the
pocket of his fancy Italian sports coat.
Luntz said, “Okay if I smoke?”
“Sure. In your car. But not in my car.”
* * *
Gambol drove with one hand on the wheel and one long
arm reaching into the back seat, going through Luntz’s
gym bag. “What’s this?”
“Protection.”
“From what? Grizzly bears?” He reached across Luntz’s
lap and shoved it in the glove compartment. “That is one
big gun.”
Luntz opened the compartment.
“Shut that thing, goddamn it.”
Luntz shut it.
“You want protection? Pay your debts. That’s the best
protection.”
“I agree completely,” Luntz said, “and can I tell you
about an uncle of mine? I have an appointment to see him
this afternoon.”
“A rich uncle.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Nobody Move
by Denis Johnson
Copyright © 2009 by Denis Johnson.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC
Copyright © 2009
Denis Johnson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-374-22290-1
