Sullen Sunshine
“DEAD?” David and I cried almost in unison.
“Since when?” I demanded.
“End of January.” Smokey said.
“Middle of.” Sunshine corrected toward the windshield.
Smokey accepted the correction with another drag on his cigarette. “Middle of January. Was changing oil and his car skipped off the jack. He had a great big Cadillac, and...”
“LaSalle.” Sunshine corrected.
“Same thing!” Smokey yipped through another exhale of smoke. He bristled at Sunshine’s comment. Smokey seemed not to appreciate Sunshine’s constant corrections. Sunshine shrugged his small shoulders like Smokey’s objection was neither here nor there.
Smokey noticed his cigarette was almost burned down and paused to fish another from his pocket. I wished he hadn’t. The car’s windows were down, but the air around us was still and heavy. Smokey’s cigarette smoke had filled the interior of the car and formed an acrid wall in the back seat that was as thick as cordite smoke on an active battlefield.
The smoke played hell with my fragile well-being. It was hard on my lungs, and it upset my uneasy stomach. The smoke also threatened to bring the hangover back to my head. I tried to ignore the smoke to listen to Smokey’s story, but it was difficult.
Smokey chain-lit his cigarette and tossed the first butt out the window. He went back to his tale about Karloff. “Either way,” he breathed more smoke toward me, “Karloff was under his car, and it crushed him.”
“In the middle of January.” I said for clarity. “Not the beginning of February. He couldn’t have been at the races on Friday, February 6th?”
Smokey set himself to answer, then stopped. He searched his mind through another puff on his cigarette. He exhaled toward me when he found his answer. “Karloff died on the 19th.” He announced with certainty and a single cough.
Sunshine contradicted Smokey again. “It was the 20th.” He insisted toward the windshield.
“Like HELL!” Smokey argued.
Sunshine ignored Smokey and turned in his seat to face David and me. “Karloff voted for Adlai Stevenson…you know, for president.” He explained. “He hated Eisenhauer. Karloff was only twenty or a little older. He was a kid during the war. He didn’t know what Eisenhauer did for this country.”
Sunshine shrugged his small shoulders again. “Anyway,” he said, “when Ike won, Karloff got mad. He said he’d work on his car instead of listening to the inauguration on the radio. He died on Inauguration Day.”
“January 20th.” I said.
My acknowledgement of the date rubbed Smokey the wrong way. “Oh, so everybody knows Inauguration Day but me, huh?” Smokey stuck his cigarette in his face and pouted around it.
I paid no attention to Smokey because my mind was working as hard as the engine in Sunshine’s Lincoln had been during the race. I looked toward David through the pall of Smokey’s cigarette smoke. David had a question on his face. “Law, what does it mean?” He asked.
I was ready to tell him. “It means Stan isn’t just a smug son of a bitch. He’s also a liar.”
Sunshine and Smokey wanted to know what I meant, so I told them. David and I explained the entire situation to the men who’d worked with Larry. As we got to the end of the explanation, I asked if either Sunshine or Smokey knew Stan. Sunshine said he didn’t, and Smokey rolled his eyes. The eye roll suggested that Sunshine knew Stan but didn’t want to let on. I wondered why.
Smokey said he knew Stan by his reputation from the races. Stan’s reputation was a bad one. Smokey explained that almost everyone who encountered Stan thought he was a smug son of a bitch. About half of that number thought he was crazy. Stan was known for episodes of temper. He was also known as a ruthless racer, someone who was regularly accused of cheating. The races didn’t have rules like formal races did. They were illegal, after all. They did have an unofficial code of conduct for the racers to observe. Most did, except for Smug Stanley.
Stan was known for dirty tricks. One trick which he used regularly was to veer into his opponent’s lane at the start of a race to intimidate the other driver. After the race, Stan would claim the power of his car got away from him, and it wasn’t his fault. The trouble was, the power of his car only seemed to get away from him when he was lined up against someone who he was unlikely to beat.
Smokey told us about other tricks Stan liked to pull. He did his talking through a steady stream of cigarette smoke, periods of coughing, and constant minor corrections from sullen Sunshine. By the time Smokey was finished his tale about Stan, my head ached from the smoke. Sunshine had also corrected Smokey one too many times. Smokey had grown peevish over the corrections.
With the topic of Stan disposed of, I asked about Ted. Smokey grinned a devious smile and blew smoke out between his teeth. “We knew him.” Smokey said through his grin. “Sunshine knew him better than me.” He admitted and added a teasing chuckle to the end of his words.
Sunshine’s sullen face squeezed itself into an angry scowl. “Fuck you Smoke.” He grumbled.
“Oh no.” Smokey retorted. “You had your fun tryin’ to make me look stupid in front of Smiley and the Big Guy. Now it’s my turn.” Smokey chain lit yet another cigarette and started a story designed to embarrass Sunshine.
“Ted loved comin’ to the races. No matter what, every Friday and Saturday night, Ted would be here. He was like that sayin’ about the mail.” Smokey asserted. “You know. Neither rain, nor dark, nor sleet, nor green men from Mars will stop the mail. Ted was like that.”
Sunshine shook his head at Smokey’s paraphrase of the Postal Service motto. He opened his mouth to correct Smokey, but Smokey didn’t let him. Smokey shoved his hand into Sunshine’s face to keep him quiet. Sunshine put his hands up to push Smokey’s arm away. By the time he did, Smokey was well-launched into the next part of his story.
“Ted would come down here and offer to help with the iron. He was good. He was real damn good. Was great with carburetors. Could tune them in sweet. The carb wasn’t the only thing Teddy wanted to help with. He’d tune the carb, then he’d offer to tune your meat whistle. Sunshine liked the music little Teddy would play.”
Sunshine’s scowl deepened and a red flush returned to his face. He obviously didn’t want Smokey to air his dirty laundry in front of David and me. Smokey noticed the anger in his friend’s face. He let it encourage him to tell us even more.
“Oh, yeah. Sunshine was a big fan of the music.” Smokey grinned some more and tossed his cigarette away. He finally seemed to have enough of them and didn’t light another. “Sometimes Sunshine wouldn’t even let Ted work on the carb. Sometimes he’d tell him to get right to work on his skin flute. He’d tell me to go for a walk while Ted worked. I guess Sunshine didn’t want me to see how much he liked little Teddy.”
Sunshine’s anger grew as Smokey talked. He tried to menace the larger man. “Keep it up, Smoke. See what the fuck it gets you.”
Smokey yipped at Sunshine. “Don’t you threaten me! I’m tellin’ the truth. My mama always said not to do nothin’ in private you wouldn’t do right in Macy’s window. If you’re ashamed, maybe you hadn’t ought to have taken advantage of that boy.”
“Fuck you and your mama.” Sunshine rumbled from deep in his throat.
“Fuck you right back.” Smokey rasped. “What else did you do with red-headed Teddy while I went for all them walks. You return the favor maybe. You swallow some ginger prick? What’s ginger prick taste like, Sunny?”
Sunshine’s face turned purple. Veins stood out on his high forehead. He lunged at Smokey and tried to close his hands around the larger man’s throat. Smokey was the stronger of the two. He threw Sunshine off. Sunshine crashed backwards into the driver’s door. He shook his head to collect his wits and lunged at Smokey a second time. Sunshine grappled and hit. Smokey tried to fend him off, but Sunshine was all arms and legs. He was too fast for Smokey.
I didn’t want the two men to kill each other in my presence. I also wanted the information they had between them. I decided to separate them, but I had no means to do it. I instructed David to help me. “Take Smokey.” I said.
David was confused for a second. At first, he didn’t know what I wanted him to do. He caught on quickly and got into the fray. David took advantage of the small amount of room between the front seat and the dashboard. He threw his shoulder against the folding passenger seat and jammed it forward to pin Smokey against the dashboard.
With Smokey caught against the seat, Sunshine had to retreat to the driver’s side of the car because there was no room on the passenger side. I mirrored David’s idea on my side of the car and shoved myself against the seatback to pin Sunshine against the steering wheel. The vast size of the wheel helped because it left no room for small boned Sunshine to slip out from between the two objects. The horn sounded from Sunshine’s chest being pressed against the big round button in the center of the wheel.
Both men stopped fighting and waited to be released. David let Smokey go first. He took his weight from the seatback and let it slam into its normal position. Smokey slumped against it. He was spent from his fight with Sunshine. Smokey’s breath came in labored gasps as he tried to recover his wind from the exertion. He alternately coughed and gulped air into his rattling chest.
I wanted to let Sunshine go, but since he was the aggressor, I planned to make sure he wasn’t going to fight anymore when I did. I heaved myself against the seatback to press the air from Sunshine’s chest. I growled at him. “Are you finished?” I asked.
Sunshine nodded in the limited space he had to move.
I sat back in my seat and allowed the front seatback to slam into its regular position. Sunshine fell against it and shook his head like he needed to get the clockwork inside his skull to start ticking again. Sunshine twisted himself around to kneel on the seat and face me. He scolded me for involving myself in the fight between him and Smokey. “How dare you?” He said. “You’re in my car. You asked for my help. You don’t ever lay your hands on me.”
I lunged at Sunshine and laid my hands on him. I grabbed him by the upper arms and heaved the small man over the low front seat. I jammed him into the back between David and me and screamed in his face. “FUCK YOU!” I bawled.
Sunshine cringed away from my rage. He shrank into the seat and stayed still. His idle state gave me a chance to take stock of the situation in the car. I decided I needed a moment to think. I also wanted to keep Smokey and Sunshine apart until their tempers calmed and I could question them together. I judged that Smokey had more to say which he hadn’t yet said. I waited for him to catch his breath.
He caught it eventually, but the effort took longer than I thought it should have. When he could breathe again, I ordered Smokey out of the car.
“Slide over to the driver’s side and let me out.” I commanded. “You and me are going for a walk.”
Even though Sunshine was cornered and beaten, he still tried to act like a tough guy. “Don’t you say a fucking word!” He shouted at Smokey.
I ignored Sunshine’s bluster and waited to be released from the back seat. Smokey got out of the car and held the seatback while I got out. I gave David some instructions before I closed the door on him and Sunshine. “Keep him here and keep him quiet. Don’t let him out of the car and don’t let him near the driver’s seat. If he acts up, slug him until he stops.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I slammed the door shut and turned to check on Smokey. He was breathing as well as he ever did, but he still looked a little shaky. “Are you alright?” I asked.
Smokey nodded and fished a cigarette from his pocket. He struck a match on the back of his heavy, canvas work pants and lit up. Smokey breathed the smoke and coughed it back out. He tried again. The second time, the smoke stayed in his chest until he breathed it out.
I pointed my finger down the block toward a streetlamp at the corner of a nearby intersection. Smokey and I walked slowly along the oiled dirt of the unimproved street.
When we reached the lamp, Smokey leaned against the post and drew on his cigarette. He coughed the smoke out with a wheezing sound and thumped his chest with his fist. Smokey’s cough didn’t end quickly. It went on until the man turned away from me and bent double. He choked and hacked and spat on the ground.
The sound of Smokey’s cough brought my mind back to the memory I’d chased during the last coughing fit he’d had. My stomach tightened as the distant memory rose to the surface of my mind. I realized that Smokey’s cough made me uneasy because it reminded me of a sound I’d heard during the Great War, the sound of the aftermath of a gas attack.
I remembered a specific instance when us doughboys had been warned about the enemy who’d set up mortars to launch gas canisters into our trenches. When a canister landed, I was ready and so was Peter. We got our gas masks on before even a whiff of the deadly phosgene entered our lungs. Unfortunately for some of the other men, mostly green recruits, they weren’t so lucky. They panicked and fumbled their masks. They breathed the gas.
Poison gas destroys the lungs. The victim drowns in their own tissue. The drowning starts with a cough, like Smokey’s cough, then it gets much worse. I watched men die for want of air. I watched them suffocate as bloody red foam and chunks of lung ran from their mouths. The sound of the deaths of those men was a sound I never wished to hear again.
As Smokey coughed, in my mind I could see the dying soldiers as they choked and strangled their lives out. I could see their fear as they clawed at their closed throats. In the trenches, had Peter not been there, I would have shot those poor bastards to end their suffering. I didn’t because I couldn’t have done it in front of Peter. He wouldn’t have understood. Because of his frailty, I had to watch and listen while the soldiers died, painfully and slowly, right before my eyes.
I wished Smokey would stop coughing so I wouldn’t have to relive the memory. He coughed and spat and coughed some more. Eventually he got control of himself and stood up. He thumped his chest with his fist again. “Dust from work.” He said to explain the coughing fit which almost incapacitated him. “I’m always choking on dust.”
I watched as Smokey took another cigarette from his pocket to replace the one he’d tossed away while he coughed. He lit the cigarette and breathed the smoke. I was horrified by the sight. In the back of my mind, I heard Walt’s voice as he gave me grief for inhaling the smoke of the cigarettes I enjoyed. ‘I just don’t see how smoke can be good for you.’ Walt always insisted. For the first time, I agreed with him.
“How many of them do you smoke a day?” I asked Smokey.
Smokey glanced at his half-smoked cigarette and lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug like the answer barely mattered. “I don’t know. Three packs, maybe four. Something like that.”
My mind did some automatic math. Each pack contained twenty cigarettes. Twenty multiplied by three was sixty and twenty multiplied by four was eighty. Smokey smoked between sixty and eighty cigarettes a day. I never thought that my pack-a-day habit would hurt me very much, but I knew that three or four times twenty would be bad for anyone. I dug in the front pocket of my jacket to find a cigar to offer to Smokey.
He shook his head at it. “Never liked ‘em.” He said.
“Chew it.” I suggested. I showed Smokey what was left of the cigar I’d been working on. I bit the end from it and chewed the tobacco into my cheek. I explained the process to Smokey and offered a fresh cigar to him a second time.
Smokey flung away what was left of his cigarette and bit the end from the cigar like I had. He chewed the tobacco into his cheek and waited. I watched his eyes flare when he felt the nicotine flow into his system. “Wow.” He said. “This is great. Tastes pretty good too.”
I mentally agreed with Smokey. I usually enjoyed the mellow flavor of good tobacco. Still, after listening to Smokey cough, I made a mental note to reevaluate my own cigarette habit. In the meantime, I put my attention back on the case. “Tell me about Ted and Sunshine.” I said to get the conversation moving.
Smokey wrung his yellow-fingered hands together and shoved them into the pockets of his pants. “Sunshine’s alright.” Smokey said to open his oration. “We’ve known each other for years…since we were kids. His real name is Arthur, Arthur Constantine. He’s Greek. I get mad when he corrects me like he does, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Sunny just needs to be right. I shouldn’t let him get to me, but I can’t help it.
“When we were kids, the bunch of us who ran around together called Sunny ‘Little Artie.’ He hated the name. When I got him his job at Newlin, Wiry named him ‘Sunshine’ because he’s always down in the dumps. He didn’t like it at first. In fact, he hated the name until I reminded him it was better than being ‘Little Artie.’ He got used to the name.”
I spat on the dirt at my feet as I listened to Smokey. I was glad that Little Artie found a place to belong where everyone liked him in spite of the fact that he was a sullen little prick, but none of that meant a damn to me or David or Larry. I repeated my order from before. “Smokey, tell me about Ted and Sunshine.”
Smokey took his hands from his pockets and looked at them like he didn’t know what they were for now that they weren’t needed to hold a cigarette. He stuffed them back in his pockets and spat on the ground. “Sunny liked Ted. That don’t make no difference to me. I been friends with Sunny for too long to care about stuff like that. I hadn’t oughta rib him about it. I get wound up sometimes and shoot my damn fool mouth off.”
I was about to beg Smokey to come to his point when he did so on his own. “Sunshine is scared.” Smokey announced to my surprise. “He’s scared of Stan.”
