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Order this writing in the collection book Layers of Creation available for only 1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Vishnu Afternoon
Mark Scott
Before I went to Texas, I was one of the vice presidents at Sporting Arbitrage, which means I was more or less a traveling bookie. Two guys named Jesus were fighting in Austin, and the boss-man told me to bet ten thousand of his money on Chavez to beat Dejesus before the fifth round. No delays, no substitutions, he told me. A car dealer he knew would take all ten G’s of his action.
I thought Jesus of Jesus would win or at least go ten, being way too fast and shifty to get knocked out. “He’ll lose,” Boss-man says. “His name is all wrong.”
As far as names go, I actually knew a guy once named Richard Richardson. Don’t people think? Anyway, it was my first time in Austin, and I stopped at a place called Saritas, that I thought was Tex-Mex but turned out to be Indian. The hostess gave me a menu and said her name was Indiresh, which sounded to me like some Commie goddess they worship in foreign countries and parts of California. I didn’t hold that against her. That’s the way I am”open minded. She looked mighty fine in those pajamas she was wearing, silk pants with yellow moons down by her calves. Her backside rippled under the silky fabric, as taut as a black leopard when she showed me to my chair.
That bet on Chavez was weighing on my mind as I ate a big plate of rice and lamb, covered in cream sauce. Damn, if I bet my way and lost it would be my ass. The hostess with the most-est was sashaying around, with all that long black hair and a red dot on her head. It was distracting me from my figuring.
To my right a table full of giggly young women, talking all college-smart about the syllabus over at the U of Texas, caught my eye while I was adding up the action I had on the early fights. All six girls had jet-black hair, dark brown skin and eyes, wearing blue jeans, cut-offs, flip flops and assorted skimpy garments. I stood to go get more food from the buffet and realized I had a raging hard-on like nothing since high school.
Indiresh saw my plight and came over to the rescue. “May I bring you another dish, sir?” Her teeth sparkled so white against her cherry-red lips that for a second I wondered if the food was doped to make me see colors that bright.
“Um, that would be great.”
“I see you like our Indian lamb. Shall I get that for you?”
I mumbled a yes and she brought a plate filled high. “It’s very tender,” she said. “Are you in town on business?”
“Yeah, that’s right, business.” She asked me some stuff about how long was I in town, had I flown in... It felt good but a little funny to have a top notch gal chatting me up, like I was her colleague. It was funny on account of this was Texas, and I thought they were hicks, from what the Baltimore bookies said.
“Are you a salesman?” she asked. “I see that you have your accounts receivable book.”
“I’m not exactly a salesman. Hey, would you like to sit down a while? It looks like the lunch rush is over.”
We talked a while. I said, “Ma’am, I know that red dot on your head is a sign of religion and it may not be a proper thing for me to ask, but this evening–”
“Are you busy the rest of the afternoon?” She looked at my credit card. “Mr. Edward Mann?”
“Call me Eddie, Indiresh.”
She walked over to lock up the cash register, her flip-flops clapping and her dress swooshing around so I could see all the way up to Vishnu land. Me being a successful fight bookie, and on top of that my savvy of the finer things in life, people get surprised to know I’m a high-school drop-out. I keep my hair cut in a spiffy style and get a shoe-shine and manicure on a regular basis, so a lot of times the ladies think I’m a college man.
My uncle, the one from Detroit who got me into this business, drummed it into my head that keeping the book right is what separated a good betting establishment from one that’s broke or paying vig to a New York family. It wasn’t just the ledgers of who owed how much, it had details of the fighters, trainers, referees and all manner of things that go into a good “dope book,” as he called it. That afternoon the dope book was telling me to bet on Dejesus every way I looked at it.
“Day-Hay-Zooz?” Indiresh said. “How certain are you?”
“Pretty damned sure.”
“You are too tense, Eddie.”
On the way to her house she asked me if I knew about Carmen Sootra. I said I didn’t but I knew all about Carmen Basilio who twice fought fifteen rounds with Sugar Ray Robinson.
“No, Eddie, I mean Kama Sutra. It’s a book about love and sex. What are your thoughts on that?”
We drove through Austin and I couldn’t tell the hippies and students from the bums on the street. We were driving through swarms of all three when suddenly she pulled into the driveway of her little casita that had all manner of vegetation crawling over the sides and roof-top.
“Love and sex? I’m in favor of both.” I was getting more that way every minute”I’m here to tell you. On the shelves and coffee table were all manner of books, and I figured she would want to know how I opined on whatever topic was weighing on the mind of the nation. But she pulled out a big picture book instead.
“Well, Eddie, welcome to my humble abode.” Like I said, I keep my hair real nice and put a high-dollar cream in it, which is how I account for my success with the ladies. That plus my self-education efforts often as not have the ladies eating out of my hand. But Indiresh had taken a fancy to my belt and kept looking down there. It’s true I pay a little extra to get the best leather.
If you can put in your mind’s eye large-color-graphic cartoons having all kinds of wild sex, you’ll know what I looked at for the next half-hour or so. Indiresh had eased into my lap and started kissing me in such a gradual manner that I didn’t even think about us being buck-naked a short time later.
Often when you open a nice pretty package it doesn’t look as good without the wrapping. That was not the Indiresh case at all. The mound surrounding the treasure downstairs was shining like blue-black jade. She used both hands to guide me, and let out a little yelp when it was all the way in. Her legs were strong and she directed the tempo until I came the first time. Without more than a couple of minutes in between, I was rolled onto my back, Indiresh like a jockey on a colt. She teased her outside with the head a while before she slid down and arched back to take it all in.
Twice in an hour was already a record for me, but she told me that anyone who knows the three Vishnus can be liberated from material entanglements. Just as she said it, she put her hand around where her mouth had just stopped for a break. I was having a good feeling about these Vishnus, you know what I’m saying? Man, I coulda gave up beef on the spot for the sake of any one of the Vishnus.
We were lying on the bed eating kus-kus or some kind of rice crispy bird food when her little brother the math whiz kid, professor in training, shows up. By the time the sun had receded in the west-Texas sky, he had me going with his exponential equations and all manner of things to convince me to bet on one-minus the probability of some crap, and the next thing I know I’m on my cell phone making the call.
Well, I ought not to have done that. No longer am I welcome in my home town or with my prior employer. But now Indiresh and I are coming up on page 23 of the Kama Sutra, and I’m told 23 is a prime number.
