Bingo You're Dead

by Lou Fletcher

  Guenther snorted. “The stupid prick thinks he can outsmart me. We’re going to …” he stopped. “Do you hear something?”

  “No,” Perry said. “You’re just nervous and so am I. Now, look here, we don’t need to get greedy. I say we stick to the plan.”

  Frenchie saw her opportunity and bounded out of Tippi’s arms. She trotted around the corner toward the men.

  “Damn that dog,” I swore under my breath while I helped Tippi to stand. Guenther appeared in the doorway, carrying the dog in one arm and a long-handled axe in the other. Perry peered out from behind him.

  “Hi guys,” I said, acting nonchalant. “What’s up?” Tippi held on to my shoulder for support.

  Guenther glared at us. Perry finally spoke. “We’re looking for something heavy to break up the ice on the walk out front. Tried the shovel but it didn’t work. Damn stuff must be a couple of inches thick.”

  “What are you doing in here?” Guenther said. He swung the heavy axe in his free hand. I moved between Tippi and the men.

  “Brought Frenchie out for her evening bathroom run. She got away from us, and Tippi sprained an ankle trying to catch her.” I shrugged. “Say, can you guys give me a hand getting these two back inside?” I kept my eye on the axe that Guenther continued to swing back and forth. Despite the cold, I felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck.

  Guenther looked from me to Tippi, who peeked at the pair over my shoulder. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, until Guenther set the axe down and I felt myself exhale.

  Perry stepped around Guenther, where he stood like a granite statue. Only his eyelids moved, blinking over steel-colored pupils, hard as the nails spilling out on the workbench behind him. He scowled at us, all the while stroking Frenchie, who licked the stubble on his cheek like it was covered in liver.

  “Come here, girl,” Perry said, gently taking her from Guenther. “You’ve had enough excitement for tonight.” He started back toward the main building.

  I put my arm around Tippi’s waist so she could hop on her good leg and keep the swollen ankle up. Guenther watched us leave, not speaking or moving to help. Once we were safely inside, Joe ran forward to help get Tippi settled on the couch. I fixed an ice pack and some tea laced with brandy from the party cupboard. “Here you go,” I said. “I hope you remember what a great nurse I was, should the tables ever turn.”

  “Hank.” Tippi’s eyes filled with tears. “What just happened out there?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Now, bonne nuit.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Perry tapped me on the shoulder. “Hank?”

  I turned and waited. I didn’t trust what I might say or do, I was so angry.

  “I, um, just wanted to say I’m sorry if we scared you out there. Guenther and I was just talking, private, you know, and you surprised us.” He pushed both hands hard into his pockets. “We didn’t mean nothing by it.” He stood staring at the carpet, shifting his weight from one stocking foot to the other.

  I almost felt sorry for the guy but when I thought about how frightened Tippi looked, I couldn’t think straight. “Okay,” I mumbled and left him standing there alone.

  “There you are.” Applebee rolled up beside me. “Everything okay in here?”

  “Yeah, just dandy,” I answered, watching Perry make his exit.

  “If you say so but...”

  “I do, Bob. It’s fine.”

  “Then grab your kazoo. We’re going to make some music,” he said and wheeled away.

  “I have a better idea about what to do with that kazoo,” I called to his back.

  The Schmidt sisters were already warming up, if one can call it that with a tambourine or a washtub. Hazel dried off the washboard the women had been using to rinse out their delicates. I would say “unmentionables”, but the garments were hanging on makeshift clotheslines all over the kitchen, so the word seemed inappropriate. Gert and Ernie agreed to fill in for those more fortunate kazooists who had escaped the captivity caused by the storm and I hoped were safe in their own homes.

  Everyone else pulled chairs close to the fire while Mr. Wittekind and Marcy passed out songbooks. Perry brought out his accordion, and Guenther stopped glaring at Tippi and me long enough to take a songbook and join the group. The boredom of our confinement even brought Herb B. out of his office, selecting a seat near the door away from the rest of us.

  “I wanna hear Let It Snow,” Mr. Wittekind called out when we were all assembled. That generated boos and jeers from the group, but Applebee laughed and we plunged in. We followed with some old favorites, Waltzing Mathilda and Bicycle Built for Two.

  We began singing You Are My Sunshine when a deep tenor rose above the other voices. Guenther sat, eyes closed, his deep, mournful voice singing the words loud and clear. We all stopped and listened while he sang the words alone. An embarrassed quiet fell over the room until Guenther opened his eyes and realized what had happened.

  “What’re you all lookin’ at?” He got to his feet, and then threw the songbook at the fire. “Thought this was a sing-along. Why ain’t nobody singin’?” He strode up to Applebee and towered over him. “Let’s sing,” his voice boomed.

  Applebee sat silent, stunned.

  “I said, let’s sing—now.” Guenther grabbed the little baton from Applebee’s hand and waved it around his head in angry circles. “Go on, now,” he raved. “You are my effin’ sunshine.” He threw the baton across the room before storming out. Herb B. followed and I could hear him trying to calm the distraught man.

  No one moved or spoke until Perry broke the tension with a round of Lady of Spain on the accordion, followed by Rocky Top. We all joined in, band and singers alike. He kept the group engaged for a while longer until everyone relaxed and seemingly shrugged off Guenther’s outburst as the result of stress from the storm.

  …

  We were sitting around in small groups talking or playing cards, when suddenly the lights came on and we heard the furnace blower kick on. A huge group cheer blotted out memories of the earlier confrontation, and it felt as though a black cloud had finally lifted and blown away. Now it was a real party, all unpleasantness forgotten for the time being in the relief of having the power back on.

  When I checked on Tippi, I could see her swollen ankle was responding to the ice pack. “How’s it feel?” I asked.

  “It only hurts when I laugh. My pride I mean, not my ankle.”

  “You see now why you need me around?”

  “Yes, Hank. You’re my hero, can’t get along without you, blah, blah, blah.”

  “That sounded awfully sarcastic, Ms. Mulgrew. I’m deeply hurt.” I wiped away some crocodile tears.

  Violet, Mary, and Hazel joined us for a brief gossip about Guenther, his singing, his temper, and his life.

  “How should we celebrate our last night as captives?” I said to change the subject.

  Hazel suggested a “get out of jail free” theme, but after exchanging shocked looks, Tippi and I vetoed her idea.

  Gus came along right then and suggested a Thanksgiving theme. “It’s only a few weeks off and given all we’ve survived, I’d say we have something to be thankful for.”

  It was settled and the women went back to the kitchen to check on the food and drinks for what Violet described as our biggest party yet.

  “Does anyone know if the phone is working?” I asked Joe, who was passing by with a box spilling over with cardboard cutouts of pumpkins, pilgrims, and crepe paper.

  “Don’t think so,” he said. “No cell service either.”

  I was anxious to check on Rachel and Noah but felt confident my very resourceful daughter would be handling the emergency “just fine, thank you.” I also wanted to ask Sheriff Grange to stop in when he had a chance, even though I wasn’t sure what I would say to him. After all, it seemed pretty lame to tell him I had a “feeling” this latest accident was another failed attempt on the life of one of our members. My evidence, some pape
rs and a misplaced cane wasn’t exactly incriminating. A couple of ugly incidents could easily be explained away by the stress of our confinement, concern about our homes, and in Guenther’s case, his animals, which had been unattended since the storm started. I decided to shove my concerns aside and concentrate on the party and going home.

  Little did I know how sorry I’d be I’d ignored a nagging little voice warning me to be alert.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Hank, we need you in here,” Violet called from the kitchen.

  “Get the punchbowl down,” Hazel said, pointing to the cupboard above the refrigerator.

  “We ought to store that somewhere…”

  “Not now, Hank,” Violet barked as she took the bowl. “Check with Wittekind or Applebee—they’ll find something for you to do. Help with decorations, maybe?”

  Okay, then,” I said, my ego bruised. “Guess I’ll get out of your way.”

  I stopped to check on Tippi. She had her ankle propped up on pillows and a colorful meringue of paper napkins covering her lap. Marcy sat next to her, wrapping the napkins around plastic forks and knives. Tippi cussed under her breath as she tried to tie yarn bows around the packets.

  “Help me.” She held out an assortment of plastic ware.

  “No can do. My skills are needed elsewhere.” I patted her on the head before making my getaway. I knew I’d pay for that later.

  Applebee supervised the men in putting up the decorations. We really went all out with paper cutouts and crepe paper hanging from every light, corner, and wall. Nothing was considered too gaudy, and I have to admit the overall effect was cool. I suggested we add twinkle lights from the Christmas box so we did. Then we stood back to admire our handiwork.

  “I could go for a cold beer right about now,” I said out loud.

  Elrod, dozing nearby, opened one eye, and pointed a finger at his chest.

  “Catch you next time, buddy,” I said. Elrod was asleep before I finished my sentence.

  I followed Applebee and Mr. Wittekind into the clinic. Wittekind went over to the refrigerator, and instead of the vials of insulin or other medications maintained by the nurse who visited the center twice a week, the fridge held beer—Fosters, Sam Adams, and two Bud Lights.

  “Now don’t go shooting off your mouth about this, Hank,” Mr. Wittekind said. “This here is from Herb B.’s secret stash. Elrod led me to it.”

  “Guess I owe Elrod,” I said.

  “Fosters?” Applebee asked, pulling out three cans.

  There was a timid knock at the door.

  “Hide the beer,” Mr. Wittekind said.

  I took another long swallow before stashing the can behind the drapes, then cracked open the door. “Hey, Gus, come on in.”

  “Welcome to the pre-party,” Applebee said, opening the refrigerator. “What’ll it be?”

  The rest of us pulled our Fosters out of hiding, so Gus chose the same.

  “Gonna have to catch up, Gus,” Mr. Wittekind said, helping himself to a second.

  “You don’t have some cigars stashed around here?” I asked Applebee, only half joking.

  “Sorry. Maybe there’s something else in here we could do to amuse ourselves.” He surveyed the room. “We could take each other’s blood pressure or how ’bout a game of wastebasket b-ball?” He wadded up a sheet of paper from the desk, aimed, and missed the can.

  I said I could beat him blindfolded and everybody laughed some more. It felt good.

  We started reminiscing over local sports teams—the University of Cincinnati Bearcats, the glory days of the Big Red Machine. We argued about whether Pete Rose should be admitted to the Hall of Fame, which got Gus so riled up he had a second beer.

  “All those years lost, “Gus said. “The guy should have been able to enjoy his accomplishment. No player ever gave what Pete gave to the game.”

  “It was the gambling,” Applebee said.

  “The Hall isn’t The Hall of Fame for Nice Guys,” Gus shot back. “It’s for outstanding players and nobody denies Pete is the best. No drugs, no gimmicks, just plain, old-fashioned hard work and dedication. The guy has heart and talent,” he added. “He’s a Hall of Famer. I don’t care what anybody says.”

  Images of an afternoon down at the Great American Ballpark played in my head; the sea of red, the pitchers warming up in the bull pen, the vendors with their aluminum chests of beer and ice cream, the whistles of barges warning the small boats on the Ohio River right below the stadium and the banners blowing in the breeze above us. I could even smell the spilled beer and the hot dogs no game would be complete without. I pictured Noah and me behind first base, fielder’s gloves ready to catch a fly.

  “Hank, you falling asleep?” Mr. Wittekind said, bringing me back to the present.

  “Baseball nostalgia,” I said.

  “Say, how about that business with Guenther?” I wanted to get the guys’ read on the man. “He’s got some temper.”

  For a minute, no one said anything, just sipped their beers.

  “Another round?” Applebee said. We all nodded, and the sound of pop tabs broke the silence.

  “Well,” Gus spoke first, his words coming slowly and deliberately. I had never seen him drink before, and I sensed the alcohol was affecting him more quickly than the rest of us.

  “I probably shouldn’t say anything,” he said. “But I had a funny feeling when I was out cleaning off my car. Guenther asked me to move it long enough for him to plow out a path. I agreed but remembered thinking about Applebee’s trip down the front hill, and I worried about a similar fate with the Caddy.”

  “Your car is a real beauty,” Mr. Wittekind said. “Primo.”

  Gus kept the Cadillac in pristine condition. The baby blue exterior was as perfect as the day he pulled it out of the showroom in 1999. That was just the outside. The white leather upholstery was soft and supple with hardly any sign of wear. Under the hood, the engine, the radiator—all shone. The guys at Goose Down Motors all fought for the opportunity to work on the car whenever Gus took it in for maintenance.

  “I was hesitant, especially with the condition the drive was in, but then Perry came out, and after he’d helped me finish scraping off the ice, he offered to move the car for me. I said I’d do it myself but I asked him to watch me in case I ran into trouble. So I got in, turned on the ignition, and the next thing I know, I’m in a ditch about a hundred feet from the driveway, nearly buried in snow.”

  “You’re saying Perry was there?” I couldn’t believe it. If he were, it would change everything. For starters, I thought, it might let Joe off the hook.

  “Yeah. I mean I assume so. He said he’d wait.”

  “I don’t get it. If he saw you slide down the hill, why didn’t he get help? Or tell anyone?”

  Gus shook his head and shrugged. “I have no idea. He sure could have saved me a lot of grief.”

  “Possibly your life,” Applebee added grimly.

  Gus waited before he spoke again. “Then there’s the thing with my cane. I’m sure I must have had it with me. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

  “I know,” Applebee said. “It would be like me trying to go somewhere without my chair.”

  “Could you have asked Perry to hold it for you? While you cleaned off the car, I mean? You would have needed both hands for that,” I suggested.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess.” Gus took a long swallow of beer. “The knock on my head is still making my memory of everything kind of woozy.”

  “Is there another reason you had a ‘funny feeling’? Was there something about Perry that struck you as ‘off’?” There, I’d said it. I felt as much trepidation in putting my fear on the table as I did relief. Applebee and Mr. Wittekind both stared at me.

  “No, I’ve never had any dealings with him other than to cut him a check whenever he performs for a center function. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my temples to clear the fog. “It seems like he’s always been around la
tely when bad stuff happens. I’m just grasping at straws.”

  “This is strictly confidential, mind you,” Gus said.

  We all nodded.

  He spoke slowly, weighing his words, “There is something else and I don’t know if it’s related or not, and I don’t see how it relates to Perry...”

  “Tell us what you think, Gus,” Applebee urged.

  “Understand, I’m just speculating at this point.” He hesitated. “I think Herb B. is up to no good. I just can’t prove anything yet.”

  “You mean, like, sex?” Mr. Wittekind had a one-track mind.

  Gus chuckled. “No, it would be no problem for me, anyway. Herb B.’s wife might have a thing or two to say about it. Or Angie. No, what I think,” he paused, “is Herb B. is cooking the books. I just haven’t figured out exactly how.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “There you are,” Tippi shouted, pushing the door open with a wooden crutch. She leaned heavily on the other and glared at me, ignoring the other guys. “We’re all out there working our butts off on this damn party, and you’re sitting around with them getting drunk. Really, Hank.” She pointed the tip of the crutch at my nose.

  Applebee, Gus, and Mr. Wittekind headed for the door.

  “See you, Hank. The boss wants a word,” Applebee called over his shoulder as he wheeled down the hall. His laughter was joined by guffaws from the other two.

  “Where’d you get the crutches?” I asked, trying to divert Tippi’s attention. “Here, sit down.” I pulled out a chair. “Want a beer?”

  Tippi sat but was definitely chilly. “All right.”

  I opened another can for each of us. “How’s the ankle?”