by Brad Carl
Contents
Copyright
Disclaimer
Thanks
Dedication
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
A Note From The Author
GREY AREAS
BY BRAD CARL
Copyright © 2015 Brad Carl
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to read this book. Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased it. Reviews are an author’s best friend, next to readers like you. And be sure to help spread the word by telling your friends about the Grey Areas series.
Thank you so much for supporting my work.
—Brad
To my father, Don, who helped me finish reading my first chapter book, Mystery of the Desert Giant, circa 1978.
I miss you every day, Dad. This accomplishment is for you.
I
"Do you believe in life on other planets?" Bruce Townsend asked.
Henry Fields stared across the counter. He wanted to pull the stray white hair sticking out from Townsend's nose. But he also wanted this job.
"Do you?" Henry asked back.
Townsend smirked. "Answering a question with a question. Classic deflection. I like that. When can you start?"
Henry wasn't surprised. The sign in the window of the Corner Store read "Help Needed" not "Help Wanted," implying desperation. He’d only noticed it because the speed limit slowed him down to thirty miles an hour as he drove past the store on Highway 57. It was as if Gable, Iowa, had chosen him.
"Whenever you want me to," Henry replied, looking around the small store.
"How about tomorrow morning? Be here a few minutes before six. Since you've never worked in a convenience store or gas station, there are gonna be a few things I need to show you. Where do you live?"
"Nowhere yet. You got any suggestions?"
"Well, welcome to Gable, first of all. You'll find some great food at Stubby's Diner right across the street there," Townsend said, pointing. "If you're a single fella you can get some porno mags right over here," he continued, strolling to the magazine section of his store. "Or when you need groceries to cook an anniversary dinner for your better half, you might wanna head twenty miles south to Adler. It's the main hub around here, a much larger town. Or you can always get your grub here but, as you can imagine, our selection for that kind of shit is limited."
It was obvious to Henry that Townsend was trying to learn more about him. Bruce Townsend was a man in his mid-fifties, bald head, medium height, pot belly, and two days’ growth of white beard showing.
"I'm on my own. Just a thirty-year-old bachelor. So, do you have some thoughts on where I might live?"
"Oh yeah, sorry. Sometimes I get sidetracked. You could live in Adler, but you're gonna spend less in gas and rent living in Gable. Plus, we don't have the crime that Adler has. Tom Chumansky has a little farmhouse just west of here. He built himself a big mansion behind it. Owns a couple of electronics superstores in Adler. I heard he's trying to rent out the farmhouse. It's a decent place."
"Sounds good to me," Henry said. He had driven through the small city of Adler less than an hour ago and estimated its population at around a hundred thousand. It seemed like a good spot, but saving money right now was Henry's best move. As Townsend began writing down directions to Chumansky's house, he remembered something else.
"One more thing," he said. "The employee you're replacing was also my accounting person. Now, I don't expect you to take that part over, but would you mind getting paid by personal check? I'll get the other paperwork and stuff handled later."
Henry decided this might be a good opportunity to push the envelope.
"How about you pay me in cash?” Henry suggested. “Banks annoy the shit out of me." May as well drop a curse word back at Townsend and let him know it doesn't offend me, Henry thought to himself.
"I know what you mean," Townsend responded. "They're always finding reasons to charge you extra—returned check fees, overdraft charges, minimum balances, the whole nine yards. Fine, then. Cash it is."
Henry walked over to Townsend and collected the directions to the farmhouse.
"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Townsend. I won't let you down," Henry said, holding out his hand.
"I know you won't, kid," Townsend replied, shaking Henry's outstretched hand. "And why don't you just call me Bruce."
"Will do," Henry said. He walked to the door and pulled his car keys out. A thought crossed his mind as he exited. He turned and added, "You can call me Hank...if you want to."
"See you bright and early tomorrow morning, Hank."
Henry walked to his dark blue Honda Civic and got in. He sighed as he turned the ignition. A new beginning. A chance to start again. Gable seemed quiet. And small. "Population 879" read the green sign that had welcomed him to town.
Following Bruce's instructions, it took less than ten minutes to arrive at the farmhouse. Henry turned in to a long gravel driveway and drove a quarter mile before he saw a small white house on his right. Sitting behind it another quarter mile or so down the drive was a large brown house.
Looks like this is the place, Henry thought as he looked around. There were trees, bushes, weeds, and grass on three sides of the small house. A faded red barn sat at the edge of a wooded area about a hundred feet in front of the house. Around the corner of the barn, Henry spotted a man driving a riding lawn mower through the yard. He was smoking a cigar and doing his best to cut the grass around two German shepherds that were frolicking in his path. The man noticed Henry, who by now had come to a complete stop. He turned off the mower as Henry exited his car and began walking towards him.
"Would you happen to be Mr. Chumansky?" Henry inquired.
"That's me," the man responded, pulling himself off the seat. He wasn't a large man, maybe five foot six, thin, with sandy blonde hair, squinty eyes, and a squeaky voice. "What can I do for you?"
"My name is Henry Fields. Bruce Townsend at the Corner Store told me I should check with you about renting a house."
"Oh yeah?" Chumansky said with a deadpan expression as he continued to approach Henry. Chumansky looked to be in his late thirties and was a good half foot shorter than Henry. But that didn't stop the smaller man from getting as close to Henry as he could. They were almost toe to toe when Henry answered him.
"Is that a problem?" Henry asked, once again answering a question with a question. It was a confrontational inquiry, but he said it in the least threatening manner possible. Henry wasn't looking for a fight; he was looking for a place to live. Chumansky immediately slumped down and took a step backwards.
"Naw, I was just messing around," Chumansky said. Henry had seen guys like this before. Taller men often referred to it as "short man syndrome." Pint-sized guys with an attitude, at least until someone stood up to them or knocked them out.
"Tom Chumansky. Nice to meet you, Henry." Chumansky stuck out his hand. Henry returned the gesture. He could feel the calluses on the man's palm.
This guy might be in the electronics business, Henry thought, but he has spent some time working with his hands, too, more than likely on the farm.
"This is the house right here," Chumansky confirmed as he began walking in that di
rection. The dogs followed, occasionally jumping on Henry. He wasn't much of a dog lover, but that didn't stop Henry from making an attempt. The problem was, every time he pet one it only encouraged them both to jump on him even more.
"My wife and I just moved out of it a couple of months ago," Chumansky continued. "We finally got the idiot contractors squared away and finished with the new one. You might've seen it when you were coming down the drive."
"Yes, it looked nice back there. Kind of imposing with the woodsy backdrop." Henry dropped the compliment like a butt-kissing used car salesman.
"Thanks. You know, whatever makes the wife happy. And she's happy. For now, anyway. Cost me a fortune, but what the hell. You only live once, right? Can't take the money with you when you clock out, so..."
Chumansky opened the front door of the rental house, and the two men entered the living room. The dogs remained outside.
"We left the old furniture here and put all new stuff in the new house. That's the lazy man's way of moving. The only things you won't have here are a TV and a phone. I can get the electricity and water turned on with a phone call."
Henry was happy to see the furnishings, especially the bed. Otherwise he'd either be sleeping on the floor or driving to Adler to buy an air mattress that evening.
"The sheets on the bed are clean, as are the towels. They're yours to use. There's even a washer and dryer downstairs, so you don't have to haul your clothes to the laundromat. A couple of empty rooms down there, too. Otherwise not much else. Well, maybe a mouse or two. This was a farm, you know." Tom Chumansky was quite the talker.
"Don't do any farming anymore?" Henry asked. He didn't really care, but thought he should pretend like he did.
"When my old man died I phased most of it out and invested in the electronics business. I've got two stores in Adler called Mecca Warehouse. Gadgets, iPods, TVs, headphones, DVD players, CDs...hard to believe we sell any CDs these days, but we do."
"How much you want?" Henry asked, cutting to the chase. He was getting hungry.
"For CDs or for this place?" Chumansky chuckled.
"This place," Henry replied. "I'm more of a radio guy, myself. I prefer a variety."
"I can understand that. But just so you know, you can get outstanding variety on an iPod," Chumansky said.
This guy doesn't miss an opportunity, Henry thought. He was almost scared to find out how much rent Chumansky wanted.
"Two-fifty, including utilities," Chumansky offered, before Henry could ask again. "I won't even charge you a deposit."
"That's a fair price," Henry said. Actually, it's an excellent price, he thought to himself. "You've got yourself a tenant, Mr. Chumansky."
"Mr. Chumansky was my father. Everyone around here calls me Chum," he declared. "Well, everyone except for the darling creature who shares my bed, of course." he added.
"Makes sense...Chum," Henry responded with a smile while reaching into his front pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills and counted out some twenties. "Here's my first month's rent," he said.
"We're already five days into the month," Chum said. "Let's just call it a prorated two hundred."
"Fair enough," Henry replied, handing him ten twenty dollar bills.
"A cash man. I like that. I think we're gonna be buddies," Chum proclaimed.
#
There was one speed limit sign on the county highway leading from Henry's new home back to Gable, and he was pretty sure it read fifty-five, but he couldn't be certain. Nonetheless, he found himself hitting seventy-five during some stretches, and he didn't really care. Henry was so hungry he was beginning to feel sick. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten.
The only parking available for Stubby's Diner was on the street. Henry thought about parking at the Corner Store but didn't want to push his luck before even working an hour for Bruce. He parallel parked on the street and entered Stubby's through the creaky screen door.
It was clear to Henry that Stubby's Diner had been around for a while. The wooden floor was worn. The tables, chairs, and booths looked as though they had been around since the early seventies. The place smelled like burgers and fries. Henry could tell by their uniforms that many of the clientele were first-shifters from the dairy plant in Adler. The rest were older folks having an early dinner.
Henry sat down at a table for two near the middle of the restaurant. The older, portly hostess brought him a glass of water and a menu, and let him know that his server would be with him shortly.
It had only been a couple of hours, but Henry was already growing rather fond of Gable. It seemed quiet, cozy, and unsuspecting. He felt confident he was going to like it here.
"Well, you're new," his waitress proclaimed as she interrupted Henry's thoughts and stood next to him. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her hazel eyes sparkled in the dim light of the mid-afternoon as she smiled.
"Yes," Henry said. "I'm new...I guess." He looked up and returned the smile. She was attractive despite the fact she had been working in a grease pit for God knows how many hours.
"What brings you through town? Business? Family?" she asked, wiping up a wet spot on his table.
"Actually, I just moved here," Henry answered. "Moved into Tom Chumansky's farmhouse just a while ago," he said, pointing with his thumb over his right shoulder.
"Oh, really? Interesting," she said. "Chum, eh? Quite a character, isn't he?"
"That's a fair way of putting it. My name's Henry Fields," he responded, holding his hand out.
"Claire Mathison," she said, shaking his hand delicately. "What are you drinking?"
"Coke would be good. And how are the fish sticks?" He was so hungry he couldn't wait a second longer to get his order in.
Claire inhaled deeply through her nose. "You smell all the grease in here? Fried foods are our specialty. The fish sticks are huge and fried in their own vat so our French fries and onion rings don't taste like Chicken of the Sea."
"Fish sticks it is then," Henry agreed. Claire grinned and walked away through the kitchen door.
Henry leaned back in his chair and took a drink of water. He ran his hand through his brown hair and gazed around the restaurant. The middle-aged barmaid was chatting it up with two older men sitting at the bar. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but these days that didn't mean much. It was just far less likely for a married woman to be ringless than it was for a man.
Two men were sitting in the corner booth, yakking over their beer and nachos. Occasional bellows of laughter would erupt and rapidly die down. Henry guessed they were talking about their boss, but for all he knew they could be talking about him. He was a stranger in this town, and Claire had proved it by immediately picking him out of the afternoon crowd. Maybe this place wasn’t such a good idea after all, Henry thought.
Before he had time to contemplate further, Claire was placing a huge glass of Coke on his table. She stood next to him for an extra beat as he thanked her.
"So, how'd you end up in the middle-of-nowhere-Iowa?" she asked, handing him a straw.
Henry wasn't in the mood to construct a backstory at the moment, so he elected to keep things short.
"It's a long story," he said with a sigh. "I'm from out there." Henry pointed towards the door. Claire smiled again. "Being here just kind of happened, I guess," he explained.
"Gable doesn't just happen to people," she said. "Not usually, anyway. I was born and raised here. Went to high school right out there down Highway 57. For some reason, I'm still here. It's like the Mafia. If you're born in it, it's almost impossible to leave."
"Maybe you just haven't found the right reason to leave yet," Henry suggested while picking up his Coke glass.
"Maybe," Claire replied. "Fish sticks are coming in about three minutes," she said, changing the subject and heading to the kitchen.
Henry's meal arrived shortly after and he inhaled it as fast as his mouth would allow him to chew and swallow. Claire was polite but not as chatty while he ate. Traffic
was picking up in Stubby's as the evening hours approached. He paid for his twelve dollar tab by laying a twenty on top of the check. As he moved towards the door, Claire called out to him.
"Hey, Henry!" He stopped and turned as she walked up to him. "What was your reason for leaving where you came from?"
This girl is relentless, he thought.
"Fate, I guess," he said with a shrug.
"Wow," Claire said with a wry smile. "You're relentless, Henry."
Henry grinned and shook his head as he opened the door. He was going to like this girl, which was good since she obviously wasn't going anywhere.
"Thanks for stopping by, Mystery Man. Come back and see us soon!"
#
Henry lay down on his new bed and put his hands behind his head. His two duffel bags and backpack were still on the floor next to him where he had dropped them earlier after returning from his meal. It was now nine-thirty in the evening. The house was dark. The entire area was quiet except for the occasional bark from a German shepherd or two. The dogs seemed to be guarding the area and protecting the land from owls, deer, and passing cars.
As Henry drifted off to sleep he chuckled to himself. He wondered what the Vegas odds would have been a month ago that he would end up living on a farm in Iowa, by himself. This wasn't what he’d had in mind when he was growing up. His parents had always led him to believe he could do anything he wanted in life. He’d spent hours daydreaming about being a fireman, a detective, a doctor. Almost every day it was a new career, a new life. Sometimes his daydreams were influenced by a TV show or a movie, like the two-week period he became a Jedi after seeing Star Wars for the first time.
It was nobody’s fault he was here now. Henry had stopped playing the blame game a long time ago. Like the saying goes, "Life is twenty percent what happens to you and eighty percent how you react to it." He was reacting to life every day now.
