by Chris Bauer
Squinting through the pain and having trouble staying between the lines, he guided the car to wherever this road was taking him, as long as there was a motel on the way. Motherfucker did the pepper spray still sting, a thousand hot pinpricks to his eyes and face. He’d wash out what he could, planning to hole up for a few hours.
The kid could ID him, so Randall would need a new look, would lose the beard, dye his hair, and get another car; regain the upper hand. And yet, even with this setback, he was still having way too much fun. Except for what he’d seen in the dirt behind the barn. That shovel, restrained by, at closer examination, a tangled tree root, something that his wild shoe-scuffing and blind hand-grope of the layered dirt eventually confirmed.
Except it for sure first looked like a dead person’s hand, the boney thing holding on long enough for the kid to clear his head then surprise him with the pepper spray from behind. Not fucking possible, but it sure as hell had looked like it.
Fucking pepper spray.
At the Red Roof Inn in Clarks Summit, the sting was gone from his face and hands, and his hair color was now a light strawberry blond with white at the temples. No more beard, only a trim white mustache, the rest of the gray-white stubble washed down the sink of the motel room.
A longer look at himself in the bathroom mirror.
The surgeon had been an all-star. A new cheek structure, a reconstructed jaw, both necessary after the buckshot to the face and upper torso that had almost killed him. His chin also acquired a dimple, covering in part a scar; facial markers that the beard hid. A change of clothes, into tan Dockers, a belt, and boat shoes, and he was back in business, this time as a clean-cut, middle-aged man.
Randall left his room, walked the motel parking lot on recon. He needed another car.
And he would have one. A newer, silver Caddy sedan with the keys still in it, right here in the parking lot, late afternoon delight going on inside one of the rooms. No, the noise level in the room had just increased, tunes a-blasting. Sounded more like the start of a par-tay, with a few other cars there apparently for the same reason. They wouldn’t miss the Caddy for a while.
He pulled his newly acquired vehicle around to his room in a rear building, quickly packed up his things, and tossed the Buick’s keys into a dumpster.
Some funny cigarettes and other drugs—in large quantities—were in the Cadillac’s glove compartment. Funnier yet considering the bookend rear bumper stickers, a red-and-black D.A.R.E. on the left, a Just Say No on the right. Out on the road he lit up, sucked in the weed, mellowed out. With the stash he’d found, there was no chance the car would be reported stolen. Then again, a stash like this meant the owners would be extra interested in getting it back. He’d deal with it, or with them, if he had to. Right then, he was feeling lucky. Also hungry and horny.
A check of his watch. Still time for the early bird specials at the Greek diner, but only if he hustled. He’d press the honeypot blonde waitress about his former girlfriend. He’d gotten “never seen her before” answers to his photo reveal, but if cocaine entered the discussion it might loosen some lips.
27
“Ma. Mom. Charlie.”
“Yes, Andy. No need to shout. I hear you, dear.”
Andy entered his mother’s bedroom in her assisted-living apartment, part of a retirement community its developers labeled as five-star living in Clarks Summit, ten minutes from the B&B. A comfortable one-bedroom accommodation. Charlotte, seated, lifted her arms in front of her face, her hands unwavering as they gripped a quilt like she was exhibiting a piece of juried artwork. The steadiest of hands, Andy reminded himself; a necessity for a surgeon. Considering his mother’s mental challenges of late, her hands occasionally shook when she didn’t concentrate. Not this time.
“How do you like it, Andy?”
Another themed quilt. Crazy quilting at its finest, this one more so than others, and even more deserving of the quilting genre’s name. “What am I looking at?”
“I call it ‘Three Hundred Game.’ Isn’t she a beauty?”
Twelve fabric panel jumbles spread out haphazardly across the quilt’s landscape, all odd cuts that depicted the twelve strikes needed to earn a perfect score in bowling. Twelve balls striking twelve ten-pin sets of glacier white pins with red collars, the twelfth ball a flaming crimson. The representations of the pins in different crisscross patterns were detailed enough that Andy could almost hear the clatter of wood against wood as they scattered from the impact.
“Very nice, Ma. So you remember what tonight is.”
“Indeed I do.”
Bowling and surgery, the two topics where his mother was at her sharpest. “I’ll be by after dinner to pick you up. Promise me no X-rated talk tonight, otherwise your cheerleading will end early.”
Charlotte lowered her hands, looked offended, but that wasn’t what this was; her mind had already made a sharp turn. The quilt became an unruly mountain of folds bunched up in her lap, her forgetting she was holding it. She raised her finger, shook it at Andy. The quilt tumbled off her lap.
“No hanging around with your aunt Kitty tonight, Andy. She’s a bad influence. You hear me, young man?”
An age digression, out of the blue. Lately, her sideways comments had become more common. Andy wasted no time getting right to the point. “Aunt Kitty’s dead, Ma.”
“Oh.” A few hard blinks, then Charlotte was back in the present. Almost. “Yes. Right. Because of your hedonistic wife. I hate her for what she did. Somebody should—”
“Somebody did, Ma. She’s dead too.”
Andy moved to his mom’s closet, preoccupying himself by shoving aside hanging blouses to find her red satin bowling shirt with black stitching. He pulled it out; it needed pressing. He moved to an open ironing board, put the iron’s temperature setting to low, let it warm up. “I’ll be back sometime before eight,” he said then started in with the ironing. “Can you get ready by yourself after dinner and be waiting for me downstairs?”
“Of course I can, dear.”
Charlotte straightened her back, cleared her throat like she was about to continue, then restrained herself. Andy felt his mother’s stare just outside his peripheral vision; he continued pressing the shirt. Silence meant Mom was loading up. Andy admonished himself that he needed to remain gentle, not be short with her.
“Andy.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I want the gun.”
Andy stopped pressing the shirt but didn’t lift the iron. Steam rose from underneath. “What?”
“Aunt Kitty’s gun. The old Colt. I want it. With bullets.”
“Why?”
“You and I know what this disease is doing, Andy. It’s only fitting that I use that one. When the time comes.”
Over breakfast, at restaurants for occasional brunches, when out to dinner, during his mom’s infrequent nightmares, Charlotte often brought this topic up, espousing that there was only one surefire way to address her dementia, but before now, she’d never been so direct.
“You’re doing fine, Ma. No need to be talking that way. I love the time I spend with you. All of it, under all conditions.” More steam from the iron. “They’ll be no more talk of any ‘when the time comes’ bullshit today, okay?”
“No more talk,” Charlotte parroted. Then, “But when you find someone you want to grow old with, and I hope so much that you do”—she was fully lucid now, pausing for effect—“that will be the when.”
The bowling shirt burned. “Damn it,” Andy said, parking the iron upright. He held the shirt up in both hands. Ruined. Not to worry. He was pretty sure Ma had a backup in the closet. Andy flipped through the hanging blouses and found the spare. He started ironing again, his gaze at his mother warm, reassuring. This woman, his mother, was the closest friend Andy had, inclusive of any age and either gender. Friends this close deserved to be heard, and accommodated.
“If the time ever comes, Ma, there will be no gun. I’ll take care of things. I promise.”
His mother’s puzzled face told Andy the lucidity window had already closed. “Things?” Charlotte said. “What kinds of things, dear?”
Patience, Andy told himself. Another example of why it was a virtue. With his mother, nowadays the subject matter changed without warning.
Besides, her wandering mind missed one important point that rendered her need for Aunt Kitty’s gun moot: Charlotte already had a gun. It was in the quilting supplies bag sitting in her lap. No bullets, but she had a gun.
Still, his mom was right on one point. An elderly woman in possession of an old gun was a morbid, yet perfect, association.
28
I was preoccupied with swinging-door glimpses of the diner’s kitchen. A guy in street clothes sat casually at a butcher-block counter, sampling a dessert. Within his reach next to his bowl, a large handgun loomed. He spooned pudding into his mouth, dripped some on the gun, fumed in Greek about the mess he’d made.
I blinked hard, second-guessing about this armed, barking restaurant boss. Where the hell was I? A saloon in Tombstone?
Andy faced me in the booth. He’d asked to meet for dinner, here, local, no big production. I was here to eat first then talk, then after that maybe we’d see where things took us. He was here to talk first then maybe eat, but there wouldn’t be any of that after-that stuff for the two of us together, me forgetting his mixed seniors league bowling finals at Thunder Wonderland tonight. I stopped midchew when I caught that first glimpse of that dark smudge of a weapon so out of place against a backdrop of stainless steel and soapsuds, all of it showcased by the shiny white-light glare of a gleaming kitchen. Andy read my mind.
“That’s Mr. Stavros,” Andy said. “Gun enthusiast. And a perfectionist about his diner’s rice pudding. The gun is here for show, Counsel. He’s probably never shot anything worse than a groundhog. Relax.”
I grunted. Whatever sexual chemistry there was between us went to the back burner. We would break bread, acknowledge our incredible afternoon together, and talk more about what else had gone down today. I worked on my meat loaf platter. Andy sipped his unsweetened iced tea. He’d barely touched his Cobb salad. Tess and Fungo awaited me in the van, parked beneath our diner window, the van windows open enough for someone to reach a hand inside, but that would have been ill advised.
“Shooting groundhogs,” I said, playing it back to him. I helped myself to a forkful of gravy-soaked ground round, chewed and swallowed, offered a smile. “I thought Groundhog Day made shooting groundhogs in Pennsylvania a-number-one illegal.”
“Punxsutawney’s on the other side of the state,” he said, enlightening me. “Morally questionable, there and elsewhere, to shoot them, but not illegal. They can be real pests. Personal property damage, family safety, people looking to protect themselves and their possessions—when people feel threatened, they respond.”
My comment was meant to be light and silly. His feedback was as serious as a body bag.
“Counsel,” he said, averting his eyes; heavier feedback was forthcoming. “You seem like a great person—”
Aww, fuck. He was about to discuss our afternoon. A thanks-but-no-thanks, I-changed-my-mind, I’m-just-not-into-you was on its way. I had a mouthful of green beans that I needed to not choke on when he said it. Seeing this, he waited for me to finish chewing and swallowing.
“Today was a wonderful… gesture, on both our parts,” he said. “Incredible, actually, but… there’s just too much baggage here. Mine more than yours.” He rethought his comment. “Mine way more than yours.”
His eyes were an intriguing, milky indigo. They searched mine for understanding. I was pretty sure my face reflected his revelation as nothing short of a kick in the nuts, so to speak. I powered through the pending low blow. “There’s a but, I gather,” I said.
“Look, I’m sorry, Counsel.” A doleful glance at his salad, then he was back for another serious-as-all-hell look at me. “Once you take care of your business, maybe you should do yourself a favor and head home.”
Maybe. He was closing the door, but I didn’t hear the lock turn.
Too much baggage. For once the hey-it’s-not-you-it’s-me wasn’t coming from my own lips.
Do yourself a favor. He’d convinced himself it really was about him. Fine. I went with the ambiguity. Gratuitous, self-serving ambiguity, but in this case I knew the truth. He had underestimated my baggage, saw only the Tourette’s, and might have even thought I’d been too easy. I liked him already, lots. Maybe too much for my own good, or his. I wanted to show more of my cards, let him know I felt a connection. But whatever I would offer, a similar response from him wasn’t likely. So what came out of my mouth instead was an arms-length, Teflon-dipped reflex.
“Too much baggage. Sure. Me too. Enough to fill a circus train.” I let that settle in for the both of us, for this moment at least, then, even though I might cry some of it out later, I forced myself to move on. “What’s up with that waitress over there?”
My chin gestured at the far corner of the dining room, near the restaurant’s rear exit. Andy took a peek at the chatty, sweet-faced forty-ish waitress lingering at a booth. Bottled honey-blonde; cute. She was interested in the booth’s male customer, was way too obvious about it. He tucked money—a single bill—under the tall sugar container. Her eyes lit up; it had to be at least a twenty. The smile she gave him was take-me-home-with-you-size.
We were back to an equilibrium, the both of us focused on someone else’s issues.
“Be nice, Counsel. Rosie’s led a tough life. Married twice, some boyfriends before, during and after. Likes to party. She’s too much like her younger sister, the other waitress. Eternal flirts.”
Rosie left her customer, whispered to the other waitress, who then pulled her into a hallway. I now saw the resemblance. Gesturing arms and elbows and pointing fingers, and the back of the younger sister’s black-haired head, bobbing and weaving and thrusting, made for a spirited argument. She was dressing down her older sister and doing a good job of it. Rosie’s gentleman customer paid his bill at the register, winked at the elderly cashier, then stuffed a few bucks into a Maurice Fund helmet at the exit, this one a baby blue. Outside, he stepped between a Cadillac and my van. He admired Tess a moment, asleep in the van’s passenger seat. He backed the Caddy out; it disappeared around the rear of the diner. Tess’s head popped up. Her nose snaked out the window opening and sniffed, her animation too late to do anything about her sleep disturbance. She settled back down into her nap.
Rosie removed her server’s apron, said she thought it was the flu, shoved the apron into her sister’s chest, and disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Mr. Stavros scolded her in Greek when she stormed past him and the big black gun-phallus, now in his lap.
“New topic,” I said, except I was nervous, the baggage thing and all. He didn’t need to think I was nuts, but he might. “Something odd.”
“Uh-huh.” He lifted a forkful of lettuce heart, ate.
“Today I experienced an… unexplainable event.”
I got into it. The pothole in the park. My slip off the ledge, down the slope. The rock that wasn’t a rock that had saved my life. Al Pemberton, the Iraq One sheriff, also a lifesaver. Andy heard it all, smiled, wasn’t creeped out, stayed quiet.
“A hand,” I repeated, giving him another chance to comment, on my sanity, potential drug use, senility, something, anything. “It felt like it gripped my heel. A hand, protruding from a dirt-and-stone wall.”
Andy’s lips pursed. “It could have been Maurice.”
“Maurice.” I looked at him deadpan. “Maurice-Fund Maurice?”
“Yeah. My dad. It could have been him.”
Andy laid it out for me, was totally serious. Spooky shit. Rancor had been a hot bed for it over the years. Dead coal miners. Mining accidents. Widow suicides. A bowling alley poltergeist or three. And predating the one murder committed during a bank robbery that had been so very personal to him, were a few murders with lingering paranormal afte
r-effects.
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” he said. “Unless you tell me you were coked up, overmedicated, and drunk.”
Funny guy. Liking him even more.
“Otherwise, if it was a paranormal event, it could have been Maurice or some other guardian-angel type. Maybe a miner coming back to finish the job, as local folks like to say.” More Cobb salad. “Part of the charm of this town. All pretty benign stuff, but charming nevertheless, the tourists tell us.”
“Far from benign,” I said. “More like benevolent. Nothing benign about saving my life.”
“There’s that too,” he said, his smile warm, uncomplicated.
Whatever other complications he thought might exist for us, I wanted to un-complicate them.
29
Time for a quick party. Randall and the waitress left the diner’s rear parking lot in the Caddy together.
“I’m Rosie. We’ll go to my place,” she suggested, her giggle not befitting her age. She looked extra comfortable in the front seat, her hands caressing the plush leather, her mood playful. She opened the glove box without asking. Out came a large plastic bag. “This is a lot of coke,” she said.
“Yeah,” Randall says. “Crystal meth in there too.”
“You are full of surprises, Mr. Isaacs. I want some of this. Right. Now.” She gave him an expectant look.
“Call me Howard. Go for it.”
She fumbled around for something in her purse. Randall pulled the Caddy up to an intersection, next to a late model metallic blue Dodge Challenger with a wide white racing stripe, the traffic light red, the Challenger in the left turn lane. Cars on the cross street with the green light whizzed by the intersection in front of them. The Challenger’s driver was a guy in Risky Business sunglasses super interested in the mobile device in his hand. Randall watched closely as Mr. Challenger absentmindedly revved the throaty engine, nourishing it with big gulps of clean, Pocono Mountains air. The driver sneaked a look at their long red light then zoned back into thumbing more letters of text into his phone.
