“How about the cookie jar and fifty dollars, cash?” Flip offers.
“I could do the pig and thirty cash,” she sticks out her manly hand to shake. He hesitates. “Best offer,” she says. He shakes on it. Her moustache bristles when she smiles.
Ten minutes later, he leaves Family Pawn with a cookie jar in a box and a little more cash in his pocket.
He spends a couple of hours sitting on a stool, down the bar from a couple of other noncommunicative old fellows, eating bar snacks and sipping light beer. He thinks he has nothing in common with these sad old guys, staring into their half-finished beers. But then he realizes, they are all men without women. He keeps an eye on his remaining watch and pushes back from the bar long before it’s time to go.
He takes the Passat through a bank and empties his checking account at the ATM.
Flip slides into a booth at the Food Time Diner almost an hour before the appointed time. The beer made him hungry, so he orders a cup of French onion soup and half a turkey club from a girl born in 1991 but who is dressed like a teenybopper from the fifties.
He sips coffee before the food arrives and sips more after the empty dishes have been cleared away. He double-checks his cash on hand and separates enough dough for the contraband.
At four forty-five he decides Chad has bailed out. He’s relieved and disappointed in equal parts.
Then the door opens and a kid with a maroon Gamecocks hat walks straight to Flip’s table and slides in opposite.
“Mr. Mellis, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m Chad,” Chad says. He puts his elbows up and folds his arms on the tabletop. He looks around like he’s nervous and tugs the brim of his cap down a bit, hunches his shoulders as if he’s trying to pull his head in, turtle-style. “You bring the money?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me under the table.”
Flip takes the cash from his pocket and passes it under the table. Chad takes it and holds it low, counts it, and sticks it in his jeans. He nods his cap brim. Then says in a whisper, “You go to the bathroom. When you come back, I’ll take a turn in the restroom. You take my seat. The merchandise will be in the crumb catcher.”
“Okay,” Flip says, and slides out. “What’s a crumb catcher?” he whispers.
“The seat, the seat. The big gap in the corner of the seat,” Chad says. It’s clear Chad does not think Flip is taking this seriously enough, or being cool enough.
“Right,” Flip says. He gives Chad a two thumbs-up/big smile combo and leaves.
Flip needs to pee anyway. He realizes Chad might just take off with the gun and the cash. If he does, that would be fine. If not, that would be good too. Flip is past the point of caring.
When he returns, Chad slips out of the booth and heads to the bathroom, according to plan. Flip scoots into the spot Chad vacated and looks around the restaurant. A thirty-year-old busboy is clearing a table across the room. The teenybopper is seating some teenagers and chatting in the partitioned area that used to be a smoking section.
He casually slips his hand behind him and feels around the crack of the seat. He feels a package there, wrapped in paper. He pulls it on to the seat beside him and unwraps it, takes it out of the Admiral Chicken to-go bag it’s been hidden in. He hefts it in his palm; it’s heavy, different from what he expected, long and angular with a worn, ridged, plastic grip. He slips the weapon back in the bag, scrunches the paper around it, and tucks it under his leg. Chad joins him.
“We good?” Chad asks.
“What is this thing? It looks ancient. Does it work?”
“It’s a Walther P38. My grandpa took it off a German officer during World War Two. Some famous battle. I forget. He’s dead now.”
“So it works?”
“It’s German, man. They really make good stuff. It works. Watch out, it’s loaded too.” Flip feels the hard chunk of metal stuck under his thigh, lifts some of his weight off, just to be careful.
“It’s so heavy.”
“I know. It’s a steel gun. All steel. Heavy stuff.”
“That makes sense.”
“So we’re good,” Chad states.
“Yes.”
They shake on it. “Remember. That didn’t come from me. My dad’s a preacher, for Christ’s sake. You get busted with that thing, you don’t want to try to implicate me. My dad will tear you a new asshole.” With that parting comment, he walks away.
Flip feels a little smug; his opinion of all Chads has been confirmed.
He leaves cash on the table and tucks the wrapped Walther in his waistband at the small of his back. He tugs his shirt over the lump and exits quickly.
At the car, he stuffs the gun in the side of one of his clothes cartons and drives straight to the Lakeside Motor Court.
As he pulls into the front lot, near the Lakeside’s office, he notices a police cruiser following, its lights start flashing silently.
The Walther!
The Walther is just behind me.
In his mind’s eye, he sees himself slipping the gun, still stuffed in a paper sack, between the side of the cardboard box and a stack of boxer shorts. It should be fine.
The officer sits in his squad car, talking on the radio, probably calling in his plate number. Flip checks his seat belt, adjusts his mirrors, and turns off his engine. He slowly rolls his shattered window down. Then he remembers his conversation with Officer Steve Hartman. A few days earlier, Flip had belligerently bashed Officer Hartman’s car and then given him a fake name. Maybe someone cool or lucky could get away with that. But not Flip. What was I thinking?
Flip tips his rearview to get a better look at the cop. He’s sporting a severe looking blond flattop. Not Officer Hartman. That’s good. But the cop could be on the radio with Officer Hartman. Or Hartman might have found the dent and put out an all-points bulletin.
The officer steps from his cruiser and walks slowly toward Flip, one hand resting casually on his gun. When he draws near, he takes out a flashlight and shines it in the back seat of Flip’s car for a long, deliberate moment. He flicks the cast beam around, a spotlight in a prison yard.
Perhaps Flip has been the unwitting victim of a police sting operation. His gun purchase was filmed. Chad was wearing a wire. So stupid. So stupid.
The officer leaves the giant flashlight on, tucks it under his arm, and somehow manages to aim it right in Flip’s face. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” The cop has a soft, ragged voice, a little too much like Dirty Harry.
“No, sir. Officer,” Flip says, holding his hand against the glare. “But I have my driver’s license and proof of insurance. I think this has all been a big misunderstanding.”
“What has?” the officer asks.
“This. Getting pulled over,” Flip explains.
“You seem nervous. Are you nervous about something?”
“No no. I am not at all nervous. Not a tiny bit. I am very not nervous. Even less nervous than usual.” Flip knows he should stop talking. “Well actually, maybe a normal amount of nervous. Or just the right amount of nervous for being pulled over by an officer of the law, such as yourself. Maybe not nervous. Just concerned. Or curious.” He drops his hand and tries to make a reassuringly honest smile at the officer. But, squinting as he is, it looks more like a scowl. “You know. Curious about why you would pull me over. That’s it. Just curious.” He nods to show he’s completed his circuitous thought.
“I will take that license and insurance,” the officer says. He peeks into the cab of the Passat and looks around a bit more. Flip reaches into the glove box and takes out his insurance card. He passes it, along with his driver’s license, to the officer.
The officer steps back a few paces and pulls a microphone from where it’s clipped to his shoulder. He keys the mike, twiddles a knob on the radio on his belt, then keys it again. He spends a couple of minutes reading numbers off the cards. He takes the flashlight from his armpit and shines it on Flip’s license. He finishes reciti
ng numbers and reclips his mike, takes a slow circuit around Flip’s car, casting the light along the car’s exterior and again illuminating the cartons in the back seat. His radio starts squawking. Flip can’t make out the words. The officer keys his mike again.
“Thanks, Janie,” he says.
He walks up to Flip’s window again. “You’ve got a box full of clothes back there,” he rasps.
“Yes,” Flip acknowledges. The officer looks irritated by the response. Flip adds, “I was doing my laundry at the X Press Laundromat. Just heading back to my place in the back here.”
“Okay,” the officer says. He takes his time before speaking again. “Well, the reason I pulled you over is because you have a busted taillight. Were you aware of that, sir?” He uses the light to point out the shattered taillight. Flip leans out of his window and looks back down the side of his car.
“Oh. Yes. I was. It just happened. Yesterday. It happened in a parking lot.” The officer nods and sticks the flashlight back under his arm.
“Well. You know you need to get that fixed, don’t you? You can’t drive around like that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can I ask why you didn’t get it taken care of today?” He holds Flip’s ID into the light so he can read it. “Mr. Mellis?”
“Honestly, Officer. I just forgot. Well, I remembered this morning, but I forgot as the day went on. Time just gets away from me.”
“Well, get it taken care of, okay?” The officer passes his cards back through the window.
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a good night now.” Officer Aryan walks back to sit in his car.
Flip doesn’t want to move. But the cruiser doesn’t budge from its position behind him. Flip rechecks his seatbelt and mirrors, then turns the ignition and pulls around the Lakeside.
“Can I give you a hand?” Dean asks without giving any indication that he intends to rise from his chair.
“No thanks.” Flip carries the box with the hidden weapon.
On his next pass, Dean says, “You want me to pour you a drink?”
“Yes,” Flip says. “Give me a few minutes. But I think today calls for a drink.”
“Ooooo goody. I smell a story. I shall be waiting with bated breath.”
Flip retrieves his cell phone from under his seat, makes a last trip for his suit, decides the piggy jar can stay put, locks the car, and walks inside to the closet. He rips the plastic away and looks the suit over. It’s pressed and presentable. He leaves the cartons on the bed and goes out to pass a little time with Dean.
They spend a while drinking wine, as Dean flicks ash from his cigarette. He tells Flip he met a new man.
“He is very lovely: my age, gentle, sweet, and thoughtful. He’s a retired professor of Romantic poetry. He throws a lot of quotes from Shelley into casual conversation. But it never feels forced. Well, almost never. For fun and profit he organizes tours for other retirement-age Americans, takes them to poets’ homes in England, the Lake District. Supposed to be lovely. Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, et cetera.”
The only Byron Flip has ever heard of is his father. Flip had been a business major, very practical. Unlike all those liberal arts students with their humanities and soft sciences, he had valued financial self-reliance over self-actualization. But he guesses these are the kinds of names educated people are supposed to know, so he says, “He sounds pretty great.”
“Yes. I agree. He has invited me to travel with him on his next trip. As his guest.”
“That seems fast. Exciting, but fast.”
“Oh. I agree,” Dean says. His legs are crossed at the knee and he leans down now to stub the butt of his cigarette on the bottom of his brown leather lace shoe. When he finishes, he pinches and twists the remaining tobacco and paper and scatters it in the evening breeze. He puts the spongy, used filter in his shirt front pocket. “But,” he adds thoughtfully. “Neither of us is young anymore. We know what we like. We know what we need. And neither of us has time to waste. Only so many good years left to us.”
“Good point,” Flip says with complete conviction.
“Conversely, the whole situation feels like a practiced pick-up line. Don’t get me wrong. I am flattered to be picked-up. Especially by someone I find very easy to be with. But I want it to be special. And I’m afraid I will simply be the most recent in a long list of similar companions.”
“Also a good point.” His previous position completely supplanted by Dean’s own counterargument.
Dean doesn’t speak, just looks into the night. Flip wants to say something helpful. “What did you say, when he asked you to go with him?”
“I said I was interested, but undecided.”
“That sounds right. When do you need to give him an answer?”
“Oh. There’s no real rush. I suppose I have weeks before the trip.”
“Well, you shouldn’t get in a hurry. Take some time to get to know him better. Then decide.” Flip recalls the kind things Dean has said to him and adds, “You are a handsome man with a lot to offer.”
Dean reaches over and pats Flip on the hand. “Good suggestion,” he says. “And thank you.” He gives his head a slight shake, as if his train of thought is an Etch A Sketch that can be cleared, just so. “And you? What has been going on?”
“A lot.” Flip turns across the table and tells Dean about being interviewed by security at Bull’s Eye, about little Caroline and her mother. About D asking to marry his teenage daughter. He omits the stolen belt. Pointing to his car window, he mentions the redneck and his hammer. He tells Dean about the laundromat and what happened with Dottie and Buck.
“Oh my,” Dean says, pressing his fingers to his chest as if he has a mild case of the vapors.
Flip mentions his mother-in-law’s insinuations about Lynn, the crazy islander with the aggressive chest, and the stern, blond officer. Finally he recounts the dinner with his father and the fact that his father is ill and his mother may have died without ever having shared the truth about his parents’ divorce.
“That is a lot,” Dean agrees.
“Buck, at the coin laundry, was such a bitter, mean asshole. I was kind of proud of Dottie. But, I don’t know. I hate to think she wasted her whole life being miserable. Still, I feel for the old man too. He was broken and down on his luck. Now he’s those things, plus completely abandoned. Alone.”
“Maybe so,” Dean agrees. “But, I have lived with others and lived alone. I find both states of being have their drawbacks and advantages.”
“I know you’re right, Dean.” Flip turns in his overtaxed metal chair and stares into the void of the surrounding darkness. “Buck and my dad,” he says. “They’re alone, alone at the end of their lives. And it just seems so—I don’t know the right words—tragic, I guess. Tragic that they would spend their lives among people, yet have no one there for them. It just seems tragic.”
Dean pours the rest of the wine and drinks. Flip drinks too.
“Maybe someone does care about your father enough to be there.”
“Who?” Flip asks.
“You, his estranged son. He needs you, and you know it. And it’s working on you. I can see it. Do you know the reason it weighs on you? Because you are a decent person.”
“I can’t even hold my own life together, Dean. I don’t have the time, means, or know-how to help my father.” Without intending it, Flip’s voice rises and his tone becomes harsh. “Plus, I hate him. He’s gross and unpleasant and selfish.”
Dean nods his understanding. “My mother was an unpleasant woman who never really accepted me. But in the end, I was the only one able to take care of her. Well, not really. My sister Beth could have helped. But she basically refused and left it all to me. It didn’t matter that I never felt she loved me in all the ways I wanted. That ship had sailed. I realized, I was a grown man. I had to forgive her shortcomings as a parent and just do what needed to be done.
“Listen, I know everyone’s situation is different. I’m not
telling you that you have to do anything. Not at all. But I will say, it was good for me to be there at the end with my mother. It gave me some closure and peace. I think, in the end, she appreciated it. And if I’d hesitated, it would have been too late. There are always excuses not to get involved when someone is ill. But, when it’s a parent, in your case I imagine your children or spouse would count also, you have to be there if you’re needed.”
Flip turns his head to look at Dean. He can feel he’s scowling. But he doesn’t care.
“I will keep out of it if you’d prefer, and I don’t mean to sound condescending. But I have been where you are now. So I just want to help.”
Flip continues to glare. But his expression softens slightly.
“If you don’t want my opinion, you should keep your stories to yourself,” Dean says flatly.
Flip drinks more wine. “You’re right,” he says. He thinks about how angry and uncivil the man at the Drum Roaster had been, how on edge the trucker had been, and even the little church boy with the Bible. Every other person he’s crossed paths with has been ready to explode.
Sitting here, across from Dean, he’s tempted to stand up and walk into his apartment, slam the door. He’s angry at Dean’s intrusion. He sees the wisdom in his comments, but doesn’t want to hear it. If he stormed away, that would get his point across.
That’s what he wants, to give in to his simmering rage and just let it carry him where it wants. But, for the first time in a long while, he really considers his actions. He doesn’t want to be like Buck, the trucker, or his father. There are enough shitheads in the world already. Plus, he likes Dean. Really likes him and meant what he wrote in the Van Gogh card.
So he says, “You’re right about that, Dean. Thanks for being honest with me. I will think about it.” He swallows the last gulp of wine. “Dean, I should go get ready for bed now. Tomorrow morning is the interview. It’s my last shot at turning this ship around.”
“Okay,” Dean says. Flip can see Dean stop himself from commenting further, notes his restraint, and commits to exercise some of his own.
Flip stands from the chair with a creak, excuses himself. Inside he exerts some energy on pushups and sit-ups. He sets his box of clothes on the closet floor and pulls out underwear, dress socks, and a white T-shirt the size of a twin sheet. He spends some time rubbing his dress shoes with a washcloth. He checks over the suit and dress shirt. He selects a tie.
Good for Nothing Page 20
