by C. F. Waller
There are half a dozen locals waiting for the next bus at the corner. I know a few by sight, but no one by name. I’m trying to decide between the Waffle House and the breakfast buffet at Harrah’s. I prefer Waffle House, but you don’t have to tip at a buffet. Being somewhat cash poor at the present, the decision is made for me.
I’m lost in thought until I notice my stalker. He’s leaning on a light pole twenty yards down from the corner looking much like the day before. Eighties feathered hair, suit jacket with the white shirt cuffs rolled over the ends. He wears a look of utter calm. Before I can look away, he pushes off the pole and starts walking towards me. The urge to leave is strong, but I am in a crowd. This is a fairly safe place to let this play out. He stops short of me and with his hands in his pockets.
“Arron, I would like to buy you breakfast,” he announces confidently.
“And you would be?”
“William, William Gates, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he sighs, holding out his well-manicured hand.
“We have met in a way,” I counter, not taking him up on the handshake. “You have been stalking me.”
“I was considering you, not stalking,” he asserts, pulling his hand back. “There is a difference.”
“Funny, they both feel creepy.”
“Never the less, I have a rather profitable proposition for you. I think you might be interested if you could spare a few moments to hear me out.”
“Not gay,” I blurt out in a half chuckle and am quickly joined by several of the others standing around. “I’m not gay.”
“Nor am I,” he states putting a finger to his forehead before pointing it at me. “It’s more of a job offer really. Let me buy you some breakfast and you decide if it’s something that’s of interest to you.”
“Sorry, on the way to work.” I grumble, waving around the crowd of workaday people.
“You’re on your way to breakfast and then several wasted hours playing Blackjack,” he insists. “Shall I meet you at Treasure Island for a chat?”
I don’t reply.
“You do plan on playing there, don’t you?”
“Just tell me what you want already?” I mumble, seeing the bus turning the corner a block away. “I have to get on the bus.”
“I’d like to hire you,” he states, clearly annoyed that I won’t agree to dine with him.
“I have a job. Thanks anyway,” I say dismissively.
“Right, yes, a bartender,” he scowls. “What I am offering is much more rewarding.”
“I’m sure it is, but no thank you.”
A man in a tattered flannel shirt and desert camouflage cargo pants brushes my shoulder as he leans past me. The scent of sweat and spoiled milk assaults my nose as he pushes on me.
“I’ll take it,” he demands aggressively. “I’ll do anything. Just tell me what it is?”
“Thanks, but no,” my new friend Mr. Gates explains, taking a step back. “I was rather hoping Mr. Wessker was available.”
“Your name is William Gates?” I interrupt, as it dawns on me why it’s familiar. “Bill Gates?”
“Yes, not the famous Bill Gates of course.”
“Yeah, I know that much.”
“So, we were talking breakfast,” he sighs, turning the conversation back in his direction. “What’s your pleasure? Waffle House maybe?”
“Yeah, Waffle House,” the smelly bum agrees loudly. “Take me to Waffle house and I will do whatever you want.”
“Bill Gates. Got a driver’s license to prove that?” I inquire, elbowing flannel shirt guy off my shoulder.
“Afraid not,” he explains. “That’s rather why I am needing your assistance. I don’t drive.”
“You need me to drive you somewhere?”
“Yes,” he nods. “In a way.”
“I don’t have a car,” I argue, trying to poke holes in this guy’s argument.
“Me either. No worries on that point,” he explains. “I’ll buy one.”
“You’re just going to buy a car so I can drive you somewhere?”
“Obviously,” he shrugs as the bus pulls up.
I watch people shuffle past and climb on the bus. Mr. Gates just stands there with his hands in his pockets. Flannel shirt guy looks desperately at my stalker, but receives a silently mouthed no. Before he can slink onto the bus, Mr. Gates steps forward and slips a folded over bill into a sagging pocket as the man climbs in the bus. The bum isn’t aware of this and Gates presses his finger to his lips to make sure I remain quiet.
When everyone is onboard, the driver peers out with his hand on the door handle. He raises an eyebrow in a questioning way. What am I doing? I hesitate before waiving him off. The door squeaks shut on long hinges and the bus pulls away with a hiss of air and a diesel motor drone. I am left standing in fumes looking at the odd man who now wears a wide grin.
“That was awfully decent of you,” I admit, referring to the bum.
“But for the grace of God go I,” he recites, looking over his shoulder at the fumes left by the bus.
“Fine, I’ll listen, but breakfast is on you.”
“Understood,” he agrees, before putting up a hand to hail a taxi.
One of the yellow minivan taxis brakes quickly and pulls over down the street. He gives me a short glance before turning to go to the taxi. The voice in the back of my head is begging me to walk the other way, but the one in my stomach is dead set on pancakes. My stomach wins the argument and it’s not even close.
His offer would be a good one if he wasn’t insane. Bill as he prefers to be called, would like me to drive him around Vegas for the next three days. No sum of money has been offered, but he did ask how much I make a week. As I sit picking at my pancakes he sips a glass of orange juice and watches the waitress behind me. At one point he actually leans out into the aisle as she passes, the tight-fitting mustard yellow uniform a bit too short for good taste. Anywhere but Las Vegas and it would seem almost lewd. When he sees me watching this, he straightens up in his seat and rolls his eyes.
“You sure it’s me you need?” I tease him, pointing a stick of bacon at the waitress.
“Were I to offer her a position it would not be as my driver.”
“At least you’re not gay,” I mumble as I chew. “So why me?”
“You in fact are an excellent driver. Are you not?”
“Told you already,” I snort. “I don’t own a car.”
“But you have driven one. I was lead to believe you used to drive a taxi right here in Vegas.”
And once again he knows just a little bit too much about me. I did drive a taxi seven years ago when I moved here. I hated it, but it was a job. The idea that I could start by dealing Blackjack or Poker and then move up to actually playing cards for a living had been a delusion of mine. This is easily blamed on television shows like the World Series of Poker that glorify wealthy people throwing money around. Once my feet hit Las Vegas Boulevard it was clear I needed to adjust my goals. A few years behind the wheel of a taxi paid the bills while I got settled. Being a bartender was easier than a dealer so I wound up doing that. I keep telling myself I need to do something else, but at thirty-two I don’t have much on my resume to warrant a better gig.
“Yeah, I drove a taxi,” I crack. “So, what?”
“No accidents,” he explains calmly, back to watching the yellow uniform as it slinks past.
“No what?”
“Accidents,” he replies pausing to finish gawking and then returning his attention to the table. “The traffic here is awful. Per capita Las Vegas has one of the highest rates of car accidents. You, my friend, never hit anyone.”
“I cannot be the only person who didn’t wreck a taxi cab,” I counter, but then something else dawns on me. “How do you know my driving record?”
“Public record,” he assures me. “You’re not the only taxi driver without any accidents, but you have other qualifications.”
“Such as?”
“Under fift
y, still live here, not still driving a taxi,” he drones on as if I am being very demanding. “No felony convictions, English speaking, single, no girlfriend, no local family, hates current job.”
“I have a girlfriend,” I interrupt, but wish I hadn’t lied almost immediately.
“Really,” he quips. “Tiffany would probably go out with you, but you’re too afraid to court her properly. Sitting at a Blackjack table and over tipping a pretty girl is not a committed relationship Arron.”
“Excuse me?”
“I actually prefer Darla,” he goes on. “You should give her another try.”
I glare at him across the table. How does this guy know about that?
“A solicitor friend of mine told me that ten percent of his divorce proceedings contain some reference to Facebook infidelity,” he presses forward.
“Exactly how long have you been stalking me again?”
The waitress passes and he holds up a finger to stop her, never answering my question. They exchange some chit chat complete with big fake smiles and over the top head bobs. He turns and whispers in her ear, before glancing at me. Once she goes, he holds his hands out as if he’s teaching me something.
“You two engaged now?” I grumble.
“Not in the slightest, but you miss every shot you don’t take.”
“That’s a Michael Jordan quote,” I point out.
“This Jordan, he a lady’s man?” he inquires absentmindedly as he dips his fingers in his water glass and wipes them with his napkin.
“He’s a basketball player. Well, was a basketball player.”
“If you say so. I’ve never been very sporty. Unless you’re talking croquet. I am a wizard with the mallet.”
“Whatever,” I sigh growing weary of the chase. “That’s not even a sport.”
“Define a sport?” he demands, seeming to like verbal sparring.
“Played with a ball, two or more players on a team and includes physical contact,” I lecture.
“Then croquet qualifies,” he argues.
“Teams?”
“You can play in teams,” he insists.
“Physical contact?”
“Of course,” he asserts, tapping a finger on the table.
“Sorry, it’s an activity, not a sport. I’ve never been cross checked playing croquet.”
“You never played with the Romanov sisters,” he announces with a head bob. “I barely got out alive.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he rambles on. “Contact with either Katya or Talia was well worth the bruises, but---.”
“So, you’re looking for a safe driver?” I interrupt, trying to get off the subject of rough and tumble croquet.
“Exactly right.”
“I drive you around town for the next three days, then what?”
“I am waiting for someone,” he explains, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. “If she’s not here in three days, then she’s not coming and we can leave.”
“Hold on there,” I blurt out. “Not we, you can leave. I’m might take a few days off and drive you, but I am not leaving town.”
“Putting down roots here?” he asks snidely as the waitress slips past and lays the handwritten bill face down on the table.
“Maybe,” I reply, beating him to the bill and flipping it over. “Aw, no phone number. I guess the engagements off.”
“Witty,” he mumbles, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from somewhere under the table and setting it on top of the check. “How much for you to work for me on a permanent basis?”
“Well, I’m not letting go of my place and leaving town to be a chauffeur,” I declare as the waitress comes by and slowly takes the check, looking as if she doesn’t see too many big bills.
“Confident man calling that roach motel your place,” he quips as he mouths to the waitress to keep the change.
“It’s a roof over my head.”
“You make what?” he asks and hesitates. “A week?”
“A grand,” I declare confidently, even though the actual sum is much less.
“I doubt that, but after taxes that’s what?” he whispers, looking at the ceiling and moving his fingers like a calculator. “Assuredly some is tips, which you don’t claim so let’s say you bring home six.”
“Your point being?”
“If I give you all the holiday time you don’t actually work, adjust for sick time they don’t pay you for, then that’s maybe thirty a year.”
“Your low, but what’s your point?” I demand, thinking the number on my last W-2 form was less than he calculated.
“I’ll pay you five a month to drive me,” he offers watching my face carefully. “We travel, so I pay all the expenses. All you have to do is drive and try to be helpful.”
“Five thousand?”
“Yes, are we are agreed?” he presses, as the waitress returns, setting a second receipt on the table as she passes.
“I don’t know you. You’re a total stranger, emphasis on strange,” I stutter. “How do I know you’ll pay? I quit my job and work for you a month or two and then you bail. There isn’t any way for me to trust you.”
“How much up front?” he demands, pulling the receipt back slowly. “How about six months in your bank account to start? Would that buy me any trust?”
This stops me in my tracks, as it’s a large sum of money. It drifts across my mind that this might still be a sexual thing.
“We discussed that I am not, or ever will be gay, right?” I make clear, stalling to do the math.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he chuckles, finishing his orange juice. “I’ll put thirty thousand in your account today via a wire transfer. Tomorrow we can do some clothes shopping and get a nice car.”
“Today?” I exclaim, thinking this is a prank. “You’re going to do what? Go to the bank with me right now?”
“If you like,” he tells me. “Do you have a phone?”
“A cell phone?” I stutter, becoming lost in this ever-changing conversation.
He nods.
I pull my cell phone from my front pocket and hold it up.
“Yes, good, let’s get a taxi and run over to your bank. If possible, I’d like to use your phone when we are done,” he requests in his normal mysterious way. “I don’t have one of those and it seems phone booths have gone out of vogue.”
“Because everyone has a cell phone. Eight-year-old kids have nicer ones than I do.”
“I don’t know any eight-year-old children,” he says absentmindedly. “Sort of alarming that a single man like yourself does.”
“Good grief.”
“I’m not judging you, but maybe keep that to yourself next time,” he rambles on.
I can’t muster the strength to reply. How we got on this topic is beyond me.
“Right, well now I have access to your phone. I’ll pay the bill whatever it is,” he explains. “Are they expensive?”
“About what you tipped her just now.”
“Per call?” he reacts in a surprised way. “No wonder I don’t have one.”
“A month,” I chuckle.
“So not expensive,” he states as if using my phone is assumed. “Tonight, you can sort out your work and figure out how to store your stuff, although I am thinking a dumpster is really the perfect option.”
My annoyance with his opinion regarding my belonging must show on my face. Changing his approach, he smiles and holds up his hands.
“No offense intended.”
“And, where are you going to be?”
“I have plans,” he mumbles and pauses. “Or I will have plans. We can have breakfast tomorrow and look for a car.”
“You have plans?”
“I do,” he replies pushing the receipt across the table.
Flipping it over I see a phone number and the name Amiee written next to a smiley face. I hold it up and frown.
“You tipped her eighty bucks,” I say a bit too loudly and then lower my voic
e. “She’s not going out with you for the reason you think.”
“It’s irrelevant why she agreed to go,” he counters, standing up. “The point was I asked her.”
With this, he rises and straightens out his jacket, pausing to nod to Aimee at the other end of the room. She nods and waves a hand, a huge smile passing over her face.
“With enough money, you can get people to do lots of things,” I declare as we walk to the front doors.
“That’s a valid statement,” he agrees holding the door open and letting me go first. “Well illustrated by the fact that you now work for me.”
On the sidewalk in the bright sunlight he grins at me, clearly satisfied he made his point. While I find him annoying, he is interesting just the same. He is right about one thing. I had no intention of doing as he asked until he threw a bunch of money my way. Even if I only get the first six months, this is a great deal for me. I don’t have any debt, but no savings either. I make a mental note to buy a carton of cigarettes for Steph and Melody back at the apartment complex. He is still staring when I notice I have been deep in thought.
“So, we have an arrangement?” he asks again.
“Yes, we do,” I nod, putting out my hand, which he shakes. “To be clear one last time, just because you throw money at me I am not gay.”
“Obviously taking money doesn’t make you homosexual,” he replies, stepping to the curb to hail a taxi. “For the record, I am hoping Aimee isn’t gay either.”
I’m trying not to laugh when the taxi pulls up. He turns back and raises an eyebrow waiting for a reaction, but I just shake my head. I watch as he climbs inside and begins chatting up the driver.
“Not dull,” I whisper to myself. “He’s anything but dull.”
Chapter Five
Dominick Dunn
The Hotel has a decent breakfast, but I take a pass on the fancy cutlery and atmosphere. Down the street a half mile sits a Denny’s more to my liking, so I hike away from the more upscale option. I grab a back booth and order pancakes. The waitress brings me coffee and I thank her before pulling out my phone. When I try to call my employer, no one answers. I have three numbers and none of them are answered. Leaving messages is frowned upon, so I wait impatiently for someone to call me back. No calls were answered last night either. I try and remember if this has ever happened before, but wind up with only one such occasion.
