Caught in a Trap

by Keith Gilman

Marion Lombardi drove a big yellow Chrysler. She drove in the left lane, ten miles an hour under the speed limit. A line of cars rode close behind her, crowding her. A black coupe, right on her tail, flashed his lights and leaned on the horn. Frank sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, eyes fixed straight ahead. Marion had insisted on driving and Frank didn't argue.

“They're right up my ass Frankie...Jesus Christ.” A lit cigarette danced between her lips as she cursed. She rolled the window down and flung it out.

She rode the brakes and heard tires squeal behind her. Some guy yelled out his window. Marion ignored him.

“You shouldn't drive with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake, Marion . You're beating the hell out of this thing. How many times I got to tell you that? It ain't good for the car.”

Frank's finger wagged as he spoke. His upper lip curled like a worm in the hot sun.

“I've been driving like that my whole life and it never done any harm. When are you going to stop telling me about it?”

“When you start listening,” Frank answered.

“Like you listen.”

They passed through a crowded intersection. Marion concentrated on the array of traffic signals hanging overhead. The road opened up into four lanes. A few cars zipped past them in the right lane. A blond haired, fat faced girl in the last car threw them the finger. Marion never saw it. Frank did.

They were on their way to the Staircase Lounge to see a show called J.D. does Elvis. The guys name was actually Jackie David, an aging Elvis impersonator with a twelve piece band and a couple of black girls doing back up.

Frank and Marion both liked Elvis and they hadn't been out in years. Marion would have gone with her sister if Frank hadn't reluctantly agreed to take her. He put on his only dress shirt, a powder blue with a permanent ring around the collar and a twenty-year old navy sports jacket. He stood by the front door for half an hour and waited for Marion to come down the stairs.

“You don't even want to go and still you're worried about being late. What the hell's the matter with you? You don't know how to have a good time,” Marion said as she navigated the stairs in her high heels.

Not even out the door and already her mouth is moving faster than her feet, Frank thought.

“I'll warm up the car, meet you outside,” Frank said, his hand on the doorknob.

“No way mister. I'm driving. Hand them over.”

Marion held her hand out flat in front of her and Frank dropped them in.

He actually preferred that she drive. After twenty years of driving a truck, Frank could have cared less if he never got behind the wheel again. He was content in the passenger seat, giving Marion directions, watching the passing traffic, a world of women drivers.

Marion didn't know her way around too well. She didn't get her license until she was well into her twenties and never had a car of her own. She drove her father's car until she got married and then drove Frank's, whether he liked it or not.

“It's down on twenty-three. Ain't it Frank,” Marion asked?

Frank nodded. Marion didn't notice.

“I asked you a question Frank.”

“Yeah, it's on twenty-three but all the way down, past the old train station. You're better off taking the expressway. It'll cut ten minutes off our time.”

“But I don't know that way Frank,” Marion whined.

“I'll show you.”

Even with Frank barking orders, that old marine rising to the surface, Marion drove past the turn. Frank's badgering drummed in her ears. She circled around the block and made the left where Frank first told her to make a right. She often got her lefts and rights mixed up.

The Staircase Lounge was built to look like one of those Vegas nightclubs. The facade was a series of arches, plastered with stucco, supported by round concrete pillars. There were a lot of spotlights and blinking colored lights. It could hold close to a thousand people but rarely brought in much more than a couple hundred. The parking lot was huge.

Marion pulled in and stopped the car right in front of the place. She jammed on the brakes and almost rear-ended the car in front of her. She hopped out, slammed the door and told Frank to park the car, smiling at him with that little girl smile that looks ridiculous on a grown woman.

Frank got out, walked around to the other side and got back in. The seat was up too far and he banged his knee on the steering column. He put it in drive and drove to the back of the lot where he found a spot in the last row.

He pulled a black comb out of his back pocket and looked in the rear view mirror. He put it through the permanent wave of dark hair across the top of his head.

He walked back through the lot, between parked cars to where Marion and her sister, Carol, were talking so loud he could hear them from across the lot. Carol was a younger version of Marion, three inches shorter and about forty pounds lighter. If Frank had to pick his favorite sister-in-law, and he had five to choose from, Carol wouldn't be at the top of the list.

Both of them were puffing away on those cheap, extra-long cigarettes, on sale, two for one, at the Convenience Store. Both carried huge purses hooked onto their meaty arms. Their make-up was as thick as a rubber mask.

“Hey Frankie,” Carol screeched, waving the hand with the cigarette, ashes tumbling to the ground.

He hated when she called him Frankie, like he was her little brother, like she would tug on his ear if he wasn't nice.

“Hi Carol. You look great.” Frank forced a smile and lied. He spit on the black pavement. “I never knew you liked Elvis.”

“Yes you did, you little liar.”

“Since when. You're not even old enough to remember that far back.”

Frank lit a cigarette and winked when he said it.

“I remember fine. I came to see Jack. You remember Jack Davidowicz from Pettibone St., his old Elvis routine. You're the one getting old Frank. I think you're memory is gone.”

“Frank, quit teasing my sister. You remember Jack,” Marion said, looking at Carol. “He remembers Jack. We talked about it just last night.”

“You mean you talked about it.”

“Shut up Frank.”

“Yeah, I remember that guy, always singing to a group of giggling girls up at Sumner School yard, putting his fingers through that greasy mop of hair and then wiping them off on a pair of skin tight jeans. Thought he was hot shit until he tried sweet talking Sharkey's little sister and Sharkey busted his nose for him.”

“You're just jealous Frank,” Carol quipped.

“Like hell.”

“Like hell you're not,” Marion said. “Just because you didn't get the attention he did, didn't become a star.”

“A star! He ain't no star. He's more like a girl than any guy I ever knew. And everyone in that neighborhood will tell you the same thing,” Frank bellowed.

“That's why they're all here to see him. You're a jerk. Don't listen to him Carol.”

“Don't worry, Marion. I won't.”

Frank threw down his cigarette and stomped on it. The ladies threw their cigarettes past Frank like lit firecrackers and stood in the short line forming at the front entrance. They inched forward, handed the usher their tickets and wandered wide-eyed into the lobby.

“We're going to the little girls room Frankie. Be right back,” they said in unison.

Frank lit another cigarette. He leaned against the back wall, one hand in his pocket and scanned the room for an ashtray. The drifting smoke burned his eye and he held it closed like he was winking at the buxom blond in the movie poster pinned to the wall.

An usher stepped lightly alongside Frank and tapped him on the shoulder. He was just a kid in a black suit jacket and a pair of shiny black shoes.

“I'm sorry sir. There is no smoking in the building. You'll have to step outside.”

“For Christ's sake, I'm waiting for somebody.”

“I'm sorry sir. You can't smoke in here. Either put it out or go outside.”

“Well, if you had a god-damn ashtray in here, I could get rid of this thing and I wouldn't have to go outside,” Frank said, holding up the smoldering cigarette.

“Please sir,” the boy pleaded, pointing to a red exit sign over a set of double doors.

Frank leaned on the crash bar and flicked the cigarette out. He snapped the door closed and smirked at the usher.

“You happy?”

Marion and Carol came out and waved Frank over.

“What were you going to skip out on us? The way you were looking out that door, like you were trying to escape,” Marion said

“You don't have to yell. I can hear you fine,” Frank said.

“When you want to,” Marion said. “Leave if you want to. Go ahead. We don't care.”

“Frank, I thought you were deaf in your one ear,” Carol added.

“That's just an excuse he uses so he don't have to listen. He hears fine when he wants to,” Marion said. “We're going to find seats, Frank. Why don't you get us drinks from the bar and bring them over.”

Frank meandered toward the bar. He ordered a couple of tequila sunrises for the girls and a double scotch and water for himself. He took a quick sip from his glass and stuck the straw between his teeth before he scooped up the three drinks and went looking for his wife.

On the way, Frank ran into Tony DelRosso and Paul Savini. Tony grew up on Richmont St. and Paul lived right around the corner on Diamond. He still waved to them from his front porch as they drove past. That was about the extent of it.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in,” Tony shouted at Paul, nudging Frank with his elbow, some of the tequila sloshing over the side of the glass.

“Frank Lombardi, how the hell are you,” Paul said, slapping Frank on the back, more liquid spilling over Frank's fingers and onto the maroon carpet.

“I won't have much left to drink by the time you guys get through.”

“Where you been keeping yourself, Frank,” Tony asked, all smiles, his dentures too big for his mouth, his tan as dark as ever?

“I've been around. Doing a lot of fishing. Not much else,” Frank answered.

“You got Marion here with you, Frank,” Tony asked? “Why don't you go get her and join me and Paulie and the girls. We got a big table down front.”

“She has her sister Carol with her,” Frank said.

“So what. Bring ‘em both. It'll be like old times.”

Frank nodded, still holding the glasses, his fingers getting cold and sticky. He went to find the girls.

“How long does it take you to buy three drinks, Frank? You've been gone almost half an hour,” Marion complained. Carol shook her head like a puppet on a string.

“It hasn't been that long. Not even close,” Frank replied.

“Sure it has. I was about to send Carol looking for you.”

There was a sudden blare of trumpets and a pounding of bass drums, a big sound meant for gladiators entering the arena. The chandeliers went dim. Teardrop ornaments of cut glass dangled like faded stars overhead.

“Sit down Frank. The shows about to start,” Carol said, taking the words out of Marion's mouth.

“You know who I ran into,” Frank whispered, his eyes moving back and forth between them.

“Shush!” Carol said, waving him away.

“I saw Tony. Tony DelRosso. He was with Paulie. They want us to join them.” Frank was talking but no one was listening.

“Will you shut up Frank. We're trying to watch the show,” Marion demanded.

“It didn't even start yet, for Christ's sake.”

Just then the curtain opened and a cloaked figure appeared, hidden in shadow at the back of the stage, a guitar slung low around his neck. The crowd was silent for a moment. The figure sauntered casually forward like a gunfighter at a duel, dimly backlit, the floor shaking with the heavy heartbeat of the drums. The spotlights searched him out and the crowd erupted into applause. They clapped and roared for an image of Elvis Presley, head bent in profile, one knee sharply angled, jacket and pants a shimmering reflection of colored light.

The knee began to rotate, the flared leg swinging with every kick. A woman in the audience screamed just as Jackie David doing Elvis brought up his guitar and hit the first cord of Heartbreak Hotel. He put his mouth close to the microphone and yanked on the neck of that guitar like he would shake the life out of it.

Frank rolled his eyes and took a big slug of Scotch, tasting the whiskey, breathing it in as it slid down his throat. He slammed the glass down on the table, which got the attention of the girls, drew an ugly stare from Marion especially.

“I need a refill. You two ok?”

They didn't hear him and abruptly turned their attention back to the stage where Jackie was strutting his stuff, beginning a raucous version of Hound Dog.

Frank marched back to the bar where Paulie held two glasses over his head, one in each hand, trying to get the bartender's attention. Frank came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Order one for me while you're at it, huh Paulie,” Frank said.

“Sure Frank. What are you drinking?”

“Scotch and water.”

Paulie paid the bartender, stuffed a dollar in the glass tip jar and passed Frank his drink. Their eyes were drawn to the stage where Jackie wiped his brow with a white towel, facing his band, amidst an enthusiastic applause. The piano player touched a few gentle notes, coaxing the sweating, aged image of the King, his make-up running down his face, to the center of the stage, where he hypnotized the crowd with a baleful rendition of Love Me Tender.

“How do you like our boy up there, Frank? Pretty good, huh,” Paulie said.

“He's all right,” Frank responded.

“All right! He could be the King himself. He's got the voice and the moves. Don't you think?”

“Then why don't you go up there and crown him if you like him that much.”

Frank gulped a mouthful of the whiskey and grimaced.

“Ok, don't get sore. I was just making conversation. I mean, we're all here to see Jackie, show him a little support. You know, being from the old neighborhood and all,” Paulie explained, making it sound simple. “Hey, wasn't Jackie sort of sweet on Marion at one time? I seem to recall you guys had a big blowout behind Sumner School. You're not still mad about that. Are you Frank?”

“That's ancient history, Paulie,” Frank said.

“Cause that's a long time to hold a grudge, Frank, even for you.”

Paulie poked Frank in the ribs, held his forefinger out like a gun barrel.

“What do you mean by that,” Frank asked?

“Relax Frank, I'm kidding. What do you get so uptight for?”

“What I want to know is why everybody keeps sticking up for that Jackie David does Elvis crap. The guy's a creep. He was always a little strange, even as a kid, queer, you know. He ain't like us Paulie but everyone keeps saying he's part of the gang, part of the old crowd. The way I see it, he was never part of nothing. He's lucky to have any teeth left in that big mouth of his.”

Frank's tirade coincided with a standing ovation, Jackie David down on one knee, head bowed. Before the clapping could recede, the beat picked up and there was Elvis swinging the microphone cord like a like a lasso to Jailhouse Rock.

“Why don't you come on down Frank. Everyone is anxious to see you,” Paulie said as he ambled down the aisle.

Frank looked toward his table where his wife and her sister were out of their seats, holding hands, doing a modest version of the twist. Their cheeks blushed and their skirts climbed gradually over their knees. Frank hesitated and then approached the table. He looked lost.

“Where's our drinks Frankie,” Marion asked, licking her dry lips?

“I didn't know you wanted one. Sorry.”

“Didn't think to ask either, did you? Don't worry, Carol and I'll get them ourselves. C'mon Carol.”

Marion pulled her sister off balance and flew past Frank like he was a piece of furniture.

Frank sat at the table and sipped the whiskey. His face was red and tight. He started to light a cigarette and remembered the no smoking rule. He watched the women at the bar. He watched Marion pull a roll of bills from her purse. He watched a guy in a brown blazer and a wavy brown toupee whisper in Marion's ear. She giggled and pushed him teasingly with a hand against his chest. The ringing in Frank's ears grew louder until it drowned out the crooning voice of Jackie David singing his last song of the set, Teddy Bear.

His hips swayed. His head tossed in time. His capped teeth were bright and straight against his tan skin. His eyelids drooped just enough. His sleepy gaze cast a spell over the room. All eyes were on him, convinced for that moment that the illusion was real.

The lights came up slowly for intermission. People flocked toward the rest rooms. Marion and Carol did the same. Frank needed a smoke as bad as he needed to piss. He decided to step outside.

He took a deep breadth of the cool night air. He walked toward his car and got a sudden urge to jump in and drive away. He tapped a cigarette from a pack of Kools and lit it.

He wandered around to the back of the building, away from the clamoring groups of chatty women and drunken men. He sucked down the cigarette and started a second. Frank looked for a discreet location to take a leak.

He slid in between two minivans parked against the fence and unzipped his fly. The stream ran down the sun bleached wooden slats onto a thin strip of grass and weeds. A puddle of urine flowed over the curb and back onto the pavement. The sole of his left shoe was wet before he realized what happened.

Frank stepped out from between the vans and almost ran right into Jackie Davidowicz. Jackie smiled, so Frank did too.

“Frankie Lombardi, long time no see,” Jackie said.

“Hey Jack.” Frank stuck out his hand and they shook.

“It has been a long time. You look great Frank. Must be taking your vitamins.”

“You're doing pretty good yourself. All that singing and dancing must keep you in pretty good shape.”

“I guess so. But it ain't getting any easier. And I'm not getting any younger. There's no two ways about it. You enjoying the show?”

“Yeah sure, we all are. You'd be surprised at how many people from the old neighborhood came out to see you. Marion's been looking forward to it for weeks.”

“I'm glad. But this might be my last performance.”

“Why do you say that?” Frank pulled another cigarette out of the pack and offered one to Jackie.

“Getting old Frank. And there's no real money in this. How long can I expect to dress up like Elvis, pretend to be someone I'm not? No one listens to this kind of shit anymore. I'm not even looked at as a musician. I'm an impersonator. This has become a freak show, nothing more. The crowds are getting smaller. Sometimes they come just for a laugh.”

Frank squinted at him curiously. “Well, what would you do?”

“I'd stay in show business. I don't know nothing else.”

“Why don't you just be yourself? Cut Elvis out of the routine.”

“You know what else I've been doing, sort of on the side. I don't know why I'm telling you this. There's this drag revue over in Jersey called the Blue Angels. They call me the Devil in the Blue Dress. I sing the song and everything. I never realized how those places packed them in. I make twice as much there as I do here.”

The expression on Frank's face froze for a second like he was holding his breadth.

“You dress up like a girl?”

“I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.” Jackie tossed the lit cigarette on the ground.

“You dress up like a girl.”

“It's not that much different than what I do now. A different costume, a little more make-up, a different song, that's it,” Jackie explained.

Frank wasn't listening. He seemed stuck, repeating the same phrase, a mocking, comical note seeping into his voice.

“You dress up like a girl.”

“I'm late for my second set. See you later Frank.” Jackie disappeared through a backstage door.

Frank got back to his seat just as the lights dimmed, Marion aiming daggers at him with her eyes. He leaned back until the legs of his chair lifted slowly off the ground. He smoothed the wrinkles on the white tablecloth with his hand. He balanced the chair on its hind legs with the tips of his shoes and waited for the curtain to open.

Spotlights searched the stage until they found a pair of tapping shoes, blue suede shoes. The circle of light increased in diameter until it enveloped a 70's version of Elvis, sideburns and lapels to match. Marion and Carol screamed. Frank pulled the chair out from under him and stalked to the bar.

He bought the girls drinks without being asked this time and brought them back to the table. He placed them down on green cocktail napkins and then stood like a waiter waiting for a tip.

Jackie David dropped his voice as low as it would go for Hard Headed Woman and kept it there for In the Ghetto. Marion had her lips pursed tightly around the thin straw like she couldn't suck the booze down fast enough, like all that alcohol and crushed ice would quench her thirst. Carol wasn't far behind.

Half the audience sang along, closed the song with the band, a steady rhythm thumping expectantly in the background. Jackie took hold of the microphone and moved lazily to the front of the stage. He waved to a couple of smiling faces. The favorite part of the show, he announced, was requests. If Elvis sang it, so could he.

Hands went up and shouts rang out. He had them eating out of his hands. He looked from one middle-aged woman to the other, their faces smeared and running. His wandering gaze fell on Marion Lombardi. She was out of her seat, waving her hand, yelling at the top of her lungs.

“Play Caught in a Trap for me Jackie. Play Caught in a Trap.”

Jackie quieted the crowd and in a smooth, flowing tone, he spoke into the mic.

“I want to thank everybody for coming out tonight. You guys have been great. Now, for my first encore, I'd like to do a number for an old friend of mine, Marion Lombardi. She calls it Caught in a Trap but we all know it as, Suspicious Minds.”

Frank thought Marion would collapse as she listened to the words filter through the speakers and fill the room. She held her sister's hand. They grew suddenly silent, a song meant just for her, the words ringing true in her ears. If she started to cry, Frank was going to puke.

“It's like old times, ain't it Frank,” Marion said.

“You think so,” he said.

“Sure. Remember that old record player in the parlor. You'd play Elvis records and sing to me while we cleaned up the supper dishes.”

“Sure I remember. That damned thing sat there, gathering dust, for three years after it broke.”

“Well you kept saying you were going to fix it. But it never got fixed.”

“What did you expect. It was a piece of junk.”

“Why don't we get one of them stereos Frank, the kind with the CD player and the big speakers? We could set it up in the living room. I think I'd like that. I always liked music. You know that.”

“It's all right with me Marion.”

Jackie went right into Kentucky Rain and as a final encore, closed the show with My Way. As his voice trailed off, the place went dark and when the lights came on, he was gone.

Marion walked out wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. Carol blew her nose in one of the napkins off the table. Frank went to get the car and bring it around.

He inched along in a line of cars that circled the lot. A large group was forming by the side exit, waiting for Jackie to come out. Marion and Carol were among them.

He eased the car parallel to the front of the building and honked the horn for Marion and Carol. They ignored his insistent beeping. Jackie had come out. He was smiling and signing autographs. Some of the men were even shaking his hand. Marion pushed her way toward him.

He took her hand in his and kissed it. She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. The crowd stood in a circle and applauded like they were about to drive off into the sunset, live happily ever after.

Frank peeled out, punched the gas pedal to the floor. The crowd parted in a panic. Jackie pushed Marion out of the way just before the car hit him. He rolled up onto the hood of the car and fell to the ground. His legs snapped like a couple of matchsticks and a shallow pool of blood formed where his head hit the pavement.

Frank got out, ran to Marion and helped her up. Someone called the cops and Frank claimed it was an accident, another old timer with his foot stuck on the gas. The cops bought it and they hauled Jackie away in an ambulance, his eyes open and fixed on Frank, his lips moving but nothing coming out.

On the drive home, Marion sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, looking out her window at the streetlights zipping past, at the moon and the night sky.

“Why'd you do it Frank,” she asked?

“If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else. He deserved it.”

“You are one jealous man Frank.”

“Do you blame me? I'm married to you, ain't I.”

“You still love me Frank, don't you, after all these years. I should have known.”

They both laughed. They looked in each other's eyes for the first time in twenty years and laughed like a couple of kids. The same way they laughed at Sumner Schoolyard when Frank climbed the rain gutter, acted like a monkey, teased old Mrs. Gellati's dog until she chased him with a pitchfork, and followed Barb Pellegrini, lifting up her skirt just to hear the way she screamed, like a cat in heat.

Frank decided to take the expressway. It was faster. He pulled into the left lane and zipped past a few slow moving cars. He had the big Chrysler up over sixty-five, twenty miles an hour over the speed limit.

Traffic was moving in both lanes. The flashing red signal at the bottom of the hill must have been new. A truck was coming down the ramp, right at them. It was too late to stop. Frank didn't see it. Marion did. Her scream was the last thing he heard.