Glad One: Starting Over is a %$#@&! (Val & Pals Book 2)

by Margaret Lashley

  “Tom, you saw her in action! I can’t imagine Tony leaving that woman a pile of his own shit, much less his estate! If I was him, I’d have burned the place down before I gave it to her!”

  “Since you put it so eloquently, I’ll concede your point, Val. But the slight name difference could have just been a clerical error. Do you really think Glad and Tony’s child could be this mysterious Thelma G. Goldrich?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say I have a gut feeling.”

  I heard Tom blow a sharp breath through his nose. “I guess that just leaves one option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve got to find Thelma G. Goldrich, and fast.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Got any ideas?”

  Tom laughed. “We can start with the three hits that came up on the DMV.”

  “But Tom, if Glad’s baby was adopted, it might not even have that name.”

  “I know, Val. But it’s all we’ve got at the moment. It’s still possible that one of them is the heir. We might as well start with the obvious and rule things out from there. And, like I said, if we’re going to put Bulldog Woman on a leash, we need to throw a bone into the works and pronto.”

  “Now you’re being eloquent yourself.”

  “What can I say, you bring out the best in me.”

  A tingly feeling shot through me. Tom and I were flirting! It was time to slide into my usual motif operandi and set about sabotaging myself.

  “That’s a first!” I snorted.

  “I guess you just never barked up the right tree before.”

  “So now I’m a dog, too?” Shut the fuck up, Val!

  “That’s not what I meant….”

  Time to go in for the kill. “All right, enough with the canine crap. How do we get these other Thelmas into the catfight?”

  “So now we’re into cats, are we?”

  “Meow.” God, I’m such an ass!

  “I’d say we need to call these women and tell them they may be heir to a fortune. Whether it’s true or not, who knows. But that ought to get their attention.”

  That last comment did it. He’s back to business. Satisfied with yourself? Shit. “I guess all we need now are the phone numbers.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Call me when you’ve got them, Tom. I’ll do the dirty work.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Tom? Thank you for your help. I mean it.”

  “My pleasure, Val. Sleep on your back tonight. Goodnight.”

  What? Oh yeah. I’d forgotten all about my busted nose.

  “Okay. Roger that. Goodnight, Tom.” Roger that? I am such an ass!

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke up the next morning with the left side of my face stuck to my pillow. Startled, I sat up with a jerk. The pillow came up with me. Horrified, I ripped the pillow from my face without thinking. A flood of pain washed over me, carrying with it the grisly memories of yesterday like dead fish on the tide. Oh yeah. Busted nose. I’m damaged goods.

  “Shit!”

  I winced and stumbled to the bathroom mirror for a look. During the night blood had drained from my nostrils down the left side of my face, leaving two paths like dark-brown slug trails that crossed my cheek and disappeared into my matted hair. Ugh! Otherwise, I felt okay. My tooth was still hanging in there, so I figured there was nothing wrong that a good hot shower couldn’t solve. I reached for the shower dial, turned it all the way to the left and waited for steam to fill the air.

  ***

  I’d just stepped out of the shower and was toweling off when the phone starting ringing. I checked the number and cringed. Jamie. I took a deep breath and clicked the green answer button.

  “Hi Jamie!” I said, in a tone ridiculously cheerful for a naked woman of my age. “You’re up early!”

  “Hi Val. Just a wake-up call.”

  “I’m awake,” I said more seriously. I wrapped a towel around my torso.

  “This is a wake-up call that your chance at a career is going down the crapper, girl! You need to submit that story outline by Monday. And it better be good.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “I’m holding you to it,” Jamie said in a tone that smacked of mistrust with a hint of friendly camaraderie. “Call me tonight. Give me a rough outline. Let me sleep tonight without taking a Xanax.”

  Jamie had a knack for making me feel loved and guilty at the same time. “Okay,” I acquiesced. Today. Tomorrow. What difference would it make? Squat was squat.

  “Call me at six. Sharp!”

  “Okay, okay! Talk to you then.” I clicked off the phone and felt a trickle run down my back. Was it shower water or sweat? When the heat was on this high, it was hard to tell.

  I walked back into the bathroom. The mirror reminded me that I was probably better off not being seen in public. My nose was as big as a plum. A bum with a plum.

  “Just call me plum bum,” I said to my reflection. Neither of us looked amused.

  I got dressed, plugged in the computer and had a conjugal visit with old reliable, Mr. Coffee. I was steaming the milk when it frothed over and scalded my hand. “Shit! You too?” I bitched at the appliance. He just sat there like an inanimate object, as if he had nothing to do with my sour mood. “Typical man!”

  I spooned the milk foam over the espresso and took a sip. My sour mood sweetened on contact. “Mmmm! I forgive you,” I whispered to my old buddy. From his blank stare I got the feeling Mr. Coffee really didn’t give a crap one way or the other. But I knew that Jamie did. I had to do right by her. I logged onto my computer and opened a new file. I called it Double Booty, since I had absolutely, positively no other ideas. I needed five hundred words for the book synopsis. Only four hundred and ninety-eight more to go….

  But staring at the blank screen made me itchy, as always. I needed a break. I checked the freezer. The Tanqueray bottle was as empty as I was. But I knew where I could get a pocket flask really cheap….

  ***

  I climbed aboard Shaggy Maggie and she flew west on First Avenue North, like a homing pigeon, toward Water Loo’s. I didn’t even try to stop her. Fuck it. I had to admit it. I wanted some company. I missed Glad something awful. So what if the only people in my life happen to be dumpster divers. What’s the big deal?

  On the drive over I rationalized that I was going there to conduct research. I would turn this coffee break into a working meeting. Yes, I would pump the stooges for theories about Thelma G. Goldrich. Hopefully they could give me some ideas, crazy or otherwise, that I could use in my book outline. God knew, at this point I had nothing to lose.

  As I drove into the lot, I could see the gang was all there, safely huddled together in their greasy brown corner of the world. I opened the glass door and stepped inside. The lukewarm air wheezing from the asthmatic wall-unit air conditioner was thick with the aroma of burnt coffee and desperation. The sour smell wasn’t as overpowering as usual. Maybe it was growing on me.

  Winnie the waitress squinted at me through her red, cat-eye glasses as I entered. She saw my nose and her face softened perceptibly. She served me a milder-than-usual look of disgust. I must be moving up in her world. I flashed her a red-nosed smile and wondered how it could be that a girl half my age would even think of being jealous of me. Sure, she was a little plump. But she was also cute and stylish in her own funky way. Then I remembered. Of course! The age-old female Achilles’ heel: low self-esteem. The insidiously feminine plague. It continued to knock down women around the globe. Most men seemed to have developed an immunity to it, either through mama’s love, work achievement, self-delusion or sheer stupidity. Lucky them.

  I glanced around the restaurant. Water Loo’s was nearly empty, save one old man at the bar and three lunatics in the corner booth. All three stooges were present and at full attention, waving and smiling at me. I smiled and waved back. As I did, I felt something inside me relax and go slack. I think it was the tattered remnants of my a
mbition.

  As I picked my way around sticky tables and crusty linoleum stains, I studied Winky, Jorge and Goober. Each looked genuinely…what’s the word for it…content. Fuck me. It never failed to surprise me that a man could be fat, bald, ugly, broke, missing teeth or other body parts, lack personality, charm and erectile function and still think he’s god’s gift to womankind. The male capacity for self-delusion almost made me wish I had a pair. Almost.

  “Do you guys live here?” I teased. My simple joke caused the stooges’ smiles to evaporate into thoughtful, blank stares. Apparently, my lame attempt at humor was a serious inquiry to the downtrodden. A red flash of heat swarmed across my face, and for a couple of seconds I felt the full force of the enormous social gulf between us. I was here by choice. Perhaps they were here because they had nowhere else to go.

  Red-faced and humbled, I set my jaw to lockdown and slid into the booth next to Winky. He reached over to give me one of his signature, headlock-to-the-armpit-muff hugs. I managed to block his attempt with a defensive Karate-style chop to his freckled forearm.

  “Hey, not cool, Val Pal,” Winky sulked, looking genuinely hurt.

  “Gotta protect the old schnoz, Winky,” I said, reminding him of the obvious.

  “Oh yeah, sorry ’bout that.” His face brightened as he studied mine. “She’s a real beaut!”

  “Thanks.”

  “To answer your question, Val, no, we don’t live here,” said Goober. He removed his mirrored aviator shades. “But Winky here might if he ever gets the balls to put the moves on Winnie.”

  “Shut your pie hole!” Winky bellowed. His bright mood evaporated. He slumped into the booth and stared at his coffee mug.

  “You’re a grumpy one today, bud. Somebody piss down your tent hole again?” Goober punched Winky good-naturedly on the arm. Winky swatted Goober’s hand away.

  “Wait. You guys live in tents?” I asked.

  “Just me and Winky,” Goober answered. “Jorge over there’s got it good. His mamasita lets him live in the garage at her house.”

  “Jus’ until I get back on my feet,” Jorge said defensively, shooting Goober a dirty look. Jorge glanced shyly over at me with his huge, blackish-brown eyes and smiled brightly. “It’s got air condition an’ everything!”

  “A regular Taj-a-Maholic,” sneered Winky.

  “At least it’s got a roof and walls,” Jorge sneered back.

  “So where do you guys camp?” I asked. I tried to sound cheerful in an attempt to defuse yet another potential squabble amongst the boys.

  Goober nearly choked on the spoon clicking around in his mouth. “Camp? You make it sound like a vacation, Val. Living in a tent for a week is camping. For a month it’s an adventure, maybe. Any longer than that and you’ve got to admit to yourself that you are just one thin sheet of fabric away from being homeless.”

  I swallowed hard. “So you and Winky camp…uh…are neighbors?”

  “Yeah. There’s a makeshift camp out in the woods nearby. About half a dozen guys call it home. I’d tell you where it is, but then…”

  “You’d have to kill me, right?” I joked.

  “No. I wouldn’t want to be woken up with you bothering me every night for a quickie.” Goober grinned luridly at me from under his moustache. His tongue worked the handle of the spoon in his mouth, making it move rapidly up and down. The spoon clinked against his teeth with a tinny, hollow sound as his eyebrows made their own set of obscene movements. Jorge and Winky snuffed back grins and redneck guffaws while they watched my expression morph from dumbfounded to disgusted and back again. Actually, I’d found Goober’s contorted face both hilarious and horrifying, making me unable to decide whether to laugh or scream. So I did neither. I opted to smile calmly, look away and change the subject.

  “So, what do you guys think of Tony’s wife?” I asked Jorge and Winky.

  “That bulldog bitch can suck my boner,” said Winky sullenly.

  “What I mean is, do you think she’s really Thelma G. Goldrich? The one in the will? If not, what’s her motivation?”

  “What’s her motivation? What are you, some kind of detective?” asked Goober. “With your big, swollen nosy-nose we might start calling you Stephanie Plum.”

  “I think that’s been taken,” I said snidely.

  “No shit.”

  Goober’s retort bucked me off my high horse. Val, you’re being an asshole! These guys aren’t dumb. At least Goober isn’t. But why, then, do they live their lives on the edge? Just one short step away from oblivion? I saved my questions for another time, swallowed my snooty pride, and returned to the topic of discussion.

  “So, really, do you think she’s Tony’s wife?” I asked meekly.

  “At one time, apparently,” said Jorge. “Tom did said her name was Thelma Goldrich.”

  “Speaking of Officer Foreman, how’s it going with Tommy dearest?” Goober interjected. He leaned over the booth until his face was just inches from mine. The close-up view and accompanying aroma made me flinch involuntarily.

  “Nothing to report,” I said.

  “No man down yet?” Goober asked. He sat back and pretended to write in an imaginary notepad.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Won’t be long, now. It’s hard to keep a good man down, you know.” Goober’s eyes glanced up from his imaginary notebook just long enough to shoot me a lewd look.

  “Don’t you mean it’s good to keep a hard man up?” Winky bellowed.

  All three stooges burst into a cacophony of raunchy laughter. After a few minutes of my enduring being the red-faced butt of their jokes, Winnie walked up and actually handed me a cup of coffee. I noticed her face was almost as red as mine.

  “A toast!” I said, raising my mug. I was on a mission to kill this conversation and get the hell back home. My request caused the men’s laughter to sputter out like an engine taking on water. Each put a left hand over his heart and raised his cup to meet mine.

  ***

  “What a fucking waste of time,” I muttered to myself as I stomped across the Water Loo’s parking lot toward my car. What did I expect? That these burn-outs would have ideas? I must be getting as demented as they are.

  I climbed into Shabby Maggie, cursed the red-hot-lava seats, and twisted the key into the ignition. I was about to shift into reverse when I was caught off guard by the presence of an old man standing near my driver’s side door. He was short and wiry, with a full head of straight, steel-grey hair. He was dressed neatly in a clean white t-shirt and white plaid shorts held up with a white leather belt, white socks and white tennis shoes. He stood motionless, about three feet from the car, with his palms open to show he was harmless, I supposed.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. The man nodded and took a tentative step toward the car. I slid Maggie into reverse and kept my hand on the shifter.

  “I heard you talking in there about Glad and Tony Goldrich,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew Glad and Tony pretty well.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You did?”

  “Yes,” said the old man. He nodded his head slowly, as if stirring up the memory in his brain. “I knew Tony from way back. College days. Oh. Excuse me! My name is Jacob. I used to be Tony’s roommate at school.”

  Something clicked in my brain. Tony’s letter to Glad from the academy. He wrote that if she received the letter, it was because his roommate Jacob…. Jacob! “You’re the Jacob who smuggled Tony’s letters out?”

  “Uh…yes. How did you know that?”

  I shifted Maggie back into park. This was just the break I’d been looking for. “Oh my god! Mister, have you got time to talk?”

  He glanced at his naked wrist, then back. “Miss, I’ve got nothing but time.”

  For a split second I thought about going back into the Water Loo’s with Jacob, but then I remembered how hopeless it was to try to get serious with the stooges around. I sized Jacob up. He seemed harmless enough. I decided it would be better
to make a clean getaway with him.

  “Great! Hop in.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  My curiosity about Jacob had also revived my appetite. I needed a snack, and a place to write down whatever useful information the old man had to say.

  “You hungry?” I asked Jacob.

  I studied the small, immaculately clean man as he climbed into the passenger seat. Everything about him seemed neat and orderly, including his movements. He strapped Maggie’s after-market seatbelt across his lap and settled himself in. Only then did he turn to me and speak.

  “I could eat.”

  “You like beer?”

  “I could drink.” He smiled at me wistfully and looked away.

  “I know just where to go.”

  I shifted gears and pointed Maggie south on Gulf Boulevard in the direction of Bill’s Sand Bar. It was a small, open-air beach bar butted right up to the sand behind the nostalgic Bon Aire Motel on St. Pete Beach. By nostalgic, I mean the motel was the kind of place that still advertised rooms with air conditioning and color TVs. Bill’s bar wasn’t much to look at either. But as they say, looks could be deceiving. This little beach dive happened to have the coldest beer and the best fish spread in town. The view of the Gulf from the barstools wasn’t half bad, either.

  “So what are you doing down here?” I asked as we tooled down the tourist strip. With the top down, we both enjoyed an unbroken view of the summer sky, clear and blue as a robin’s egg. The purity of the blue sky made the puffy clouds seem whiter somehow. Laundry fresh.

  “Well, I saw Tony’s obituary online,” Jacob explained. He held his hands in front of him in an apologetic, open-handed gesture as he talked. “I know it sounds weird, but it’s kind of a hobby for me. Online obituary surfing. There’s not much else to do when you get to be my age.”

  Jacob looked over at me as if seeking forgiveness. I shrugged at him. That seemed to be enough.