Merlot

by Mike Faricy

  “I don’t think we stand a chance of making it out of here,” Wiener said

  “Oh yeah, fuck all of ya, you hear me, fuck all you bastards!” Dickie roared back to the stadium. Another deluge of cups and debris rained down in their direction.

  “Sit tight, someone’s bound to come and get us, they can’t just leave us here. Can they?” Merlot scanned the aisle for police protection.

  Security was coming down the stairs, and it wasn’t usherettes. Merlot counted ten large, muscular guys, five cops behind them. They were coming to escort Dickie out of the dome, in fairness, for his own safety. He turned, dropped his plaid shorts and custom-made boxers to the ground, and mooned the bunch of them. It was a solid three hundred plus pounds of broad, hairy, Dickie backside.

  “This is for you!”

  There was a gasp from the middle of the stadium as people shielded their eyes in horror. The beer vendor, already fidgety from the insults and debris being hurled, poured a final beer, grabbed his case, and ran off with Dickie’s change.

  “Break to commercial, break to commercial,” the director screamed into his mouthpiece.

  The phalanx of security engulfed Dickie, swarmed over him, keeping away from his massive rear end. They not so gingerly handcuffed him, pulled his plaid shorts up, then glanced over as if to ask, “You guys want some of this action?”

  Merlot surrendered his hands palms up, suggesting they didn’t even know Dickie as he was escorted handcuffed, up the steps and into the bowels of the Metrodome giving the fans something to finally cheer about.

  “Did you know that guy?” Wiener yelled to the couple seated behind him.

  “No, we thought he was with you.”

  “No, he just sat down over there,” hoping they’d pass the information on.

  It was early in the fourth quarter before the Vikings finally managed to get on the scoreboard with a field goal making it 63 to 3. They joined the mass exodus leaving the dome in absolute disgust, trying to blend in as much as possible.

  “So much for purple pride,” said Wiener.

  “Shhh, keep your voice down,” cautioned Merlot.

  “We have to get him out of here,” Victor said.

  “Get him out of here, how? You plan on using a crane?” asked Wiener.

  “No, I mean it. Look this thing’s going to be national, he doesn’t need an arrest photo and all of that. He could loose his job.”

  “His job, Christ, we’re lucky he didn’t get us all killed!” Wiener whined.

  “You mean we bust him out?” Merlot said.

  “Not like that. Andrew, will you represent him?”

  “Against my better judgment,” Andrew said.

  ***

  They entered the security area down in the lowest level. It had that damp concrete smell, like fresh air or sunlight never ventured this close to hell. Merlot’s restaurateur’s nose caught the hint of mold lurking just beneath the chemical air freshener. They waited patiently in an outer area for forty minutes before being ushered in.

  There was a Minneapolis Police sergeant on duty, seated at a cheap chrome and wood-grained Formica desk, elbows on the desk. The desk bare except for a phone and one thin manila file. The file was labeled, Ulmbacher, Hans in handwritten red letters.

  The sergeant read Andrew’s card completely unimpressed. He glanced at Andrew, back at the card, then glanced at Victor.

  “You’re a lawyer, too, I suppose?”

  “Yes sir,” Victor smiled, reached into his pocket to produce a card.

  “No thanks, that won’t be necessary.”

  He was an older guy, late forties Merlot guessed, gray crew cut, blue eyes and a skin pallor that suggested he perhaps lived down here.

  “Um-hmm, your firm’s seats?” he asked, Andrew.

  “As Mr. Ulmbacher’s legal counsel, it’s my duty and frankly my concern that…”

  “Look, save it, Clarence Darrow, this ain’t the courthouse. Before you get too far ahead of yourself, let me remind you that your, Mr. Ulmbacher’s behavior was beamed across all fifty states on national TV. He was handcuffed in an effort to secure his own safety,” he sighed.

  “Prior to the arrival of our security people he was filmed committing an act of indecent exposure. Indecent exposure in front of minors, I might add. I’m sure you two legal beagles are aware that’s a level four sexual offense in the State of Minnesota. As you might guess, we are not exactly lacking for witnesses.”

  “Now, quite frankly I really don’t care what happens to Mr. Ulmbacher,” he drew out Dickie’s last name, making it seem somehow obscene.

  “But I also don’t want to have to transport him, fool around with booking and everything else tonight. I’ve got a sister living up in Chisholm and I had it with that damn Wild Card nonsense weeks ago. Mr. Ulmbacher and I had a little chat.”

  “Without representation?” Andrew interjected.

  Victor elbowed Andrew, mouthed the word “blind” to the Sergeant, then added, “excuse us Sergeant, you were saying.”

  “Yeah, as I was saying, once he had some time to cool down, I had a chat with Mr. Ulmbacher, so I’m citing him for indecent exposure, public intoxication, and we’ll let it go at that, provided,” he shook a finger at all of them. “I don’t see any of you in the Metrodome for the coming year.”

  “I’ll remand Mr. Ulmbacher to your custody but I recommend you remain out there in the holding area for maybe another hour or two before heading out of here tonight. His fat butt spread across the dome screens won’t be easy to forget but it wasn’t the only disgusting thing out there this afternoon. And now we’ve got an ugly crowd on our hands. It would be like sharks to blood, a regular feeding frenzy. Frankly I couldn’t guarantee your safety if you decide to leave now. Good God, 63 to 3, Christ on a carpet!”

  * * *

  It was another hour before Dickie joined them, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Guys thanks for hanging in here with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Did we win?” he whispered looking up.

  “Win? Are you fucking kidding? No, Dickie, we didn’t win.” Wiener said.

  “Any news on the Wild Card? He okay?” Dickie asked.

  “I think right now there are a couple of other items you should probably be focusing on,” interjected Andrew.

  “Yeah, ‘spose so. Like I said, really appreciate you guys hanging in there with me, sorry if I caused you any problems.” He stared down at the floor again.

  “We need to just sit tight for a bit longer, let things calm down out there. Then Dickie, neither Victor nor I can handle the charges against you. But, you should get legal counsel, and fast,” Andrew said.

  “We can give you some names. Just don’t say a word to anyone, and I mean anyone, including all of us, until after you’ve talked to your attorney,” added Victor.

  “Look, guys, I didn’t mean…”

  “No, not another word!”

  They sat in virtual silence for another hour. Dickie occasionally shifted his massive bulk, creaking the steel-frame chair. Otherwise he just stared at the floor, and except for the odd sniffle, never uttered another sound.

  “Okay fellas,” the sergeant poked his head out. “You can go, but I’d head right out of town. Anyone recognizes you we probably couldn’t respond fast enough.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Victor said, taking Andrew by the arm.

  “Wiener, Merlot, you guys get on either side of Dickie.”

  They climbed up two different stairwells and then a long ramp to reach the main floor. The wide hallways were devoid of anyone except the cleaning crews pushing broad brooms, sweeping up remnants of the day’s disaster. They waded through cups, napkins, crumpled programs, wrappers, peanut shells. The debris of a dashed afternoon.

  A couple of the cleanup personnel pointed at Dickie as he waddled past. It was pretty hard not to notice him, still in his plaid shorts and number thirty-five purple jersey, eyes downcast, carbonless copies of his citations clenched in his
fist.

  They made it to Victor’s car unmolested, drove out the Sixth-Street exit, east onto I-94, back to St. Paul. They all wanted to just get home and put some distance between them and the sordid afternoon.

  “I hate fucking Minneapolis,” Dickie said softly, the only words he’d uttered in the past hour and a half.

  Monday

  Cindy’s alarm went off at 4:30, kicking off the week from hell. Amazingly, given the fact she had spent virtually the entire Sunday in bed, she was still tired. She took comfort in the fact that the pounding in her head had stopped, her tummy had stabilized, and after a hot shower and a microwave breakfast of cheese pizza she mustered the courage to face the workday.

  By 5:45 she was on her knees pulling out bag after bag from the stuffed night-deposit vault. She had to verify each deposit, enter it, get the currency sorted accordingly for a mass counting and banding before packing it all for transport to Central. Then deal with the onslaught of customers that was bound to wash over them.

  When the lobby doors opened at 9:00, a dozen people swamped the teller area. From there things grew to a nonstop roar, a continual line of customers with overflowing bags of cash.

  * * *

  By noon the temperature was in the upper 90’s and climbing. The armored car couriers were sweating in the heat and humidity.

  Billy Truesdale looked dejected as his helper, Trevor, complained.

  “Jesus Christ, this is the Dark Ages meets convict labor, that’s what this shit is. You kidding me?” He hefted a trash bag out of the grocery cart and swung it into the back of the armored car.

  “Ugh, man, couldn’t they come up with a ramp or something? I mean, you want a ramp, I can design you a ramp, man.”

  Billy checked off the bag on his manifest, then set the clipboard down before he smashed it over Trevor’s head.

  “God, Billy, I think I threw my back out. Man, this is barbaric. These bags must come in at about seventy five pounds.”

  “More like fifteen. Climb in there. Move some of those bags out of the way.”

  Once Trevor stumbled in Billy locked the door. Then pushed the grocery cart back to the bank and knocked. A bank officer named Sidney opened the door and wheeled the cart in.

  He was an exceptionally thin man, just a whisker over six feet with thin, wispy tufts of hair combed over a shining dome. What little color he had was pale, he looked frail. The brown polyester suit coat, the bank uniform, hung shapelessly over sharp shoulders, seemed to create a sense of dust about him. He was never Sid, always Sidney.

  “Billy, you want some water or something. This heat, diabetics like you and me gotta watch it.”

  Billy took off his hat, wiped his brow, looked up at the unrelenting, cloudless sky. Things were only going to get worse weather-wise.

  “Thanks, Sidney but I’ve got some in the chariot. Just in a horseshit mood after that Vikings fiasco yesterday, that’s all. You know they don’t have to win all the time, but how about at least showing up to play. Christ, the neighbor kids would have given a better showing.”

  “Oh, tell me about it, and that guy, did you see that fat guy there?” asked Sidney.

  “That Wild Card guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Where’d they dig him up?”

  “Just one of the idiots attending the game,” Billy said, a touch of yesterday’s fury returning.

  “They must have hired that guy, the size of him, I mean that had to be a special-order jersey. And getting the crowd to its feet, great fun until it actually came time to run a play. I told the wife we might be going for some long Sunday afternoon walks this fall by the looks of things. That guy was a plant, had to be.”

  “Gotta go,” Billy said.

  “Everything okay?” Gary the driver asked.

  “Fucking Vikings,” Billy responded.

  “Christ, tell me about it. And that fat ass! What an idiot!”

  * * *

  Otto was on another run to the bank. It had been a strange day, walking around from stand to stand picking up deposits. He had the sense people were staring at him perhaps a little more than usual. It was after the third or fourth group of kids had given him the finger and called him names, that he offhandedly mentioned it to one of the college kids working at his stands.

  “Josh, what is it with everyone to day? Man, talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed. I’ve seen nothing but people looking pissed off. A couple of kids gave me the finger. There something in the water?

  “You’re kidding me, Otto, right?” Josh asked, continuing to roll skewered slabs of bacon through a long pan of batter.

  “No, I’m not kidding, it’s just... There, did you catch that?” Otto turned excitedly in the direction of two sixtyish women walking away from the stand.

  “See, see, they just sneered at me like I ran over their dog or something. I mean what is it?”

  All of his stands were built a few feet off the ground. As Josh talked to Otto he looked down on him by close to four feet.

  “You’re serious? Not kidding?”

  “Hell no, I’m not kidding, I’m gonna get a complex if this continues. Go ahead, enlighten me.”

  Josh continued skewering thick slabs of bacon onto wooden sticks, dipping them in the batter and locking them into a wheel that worked as a sort of rotisserie.

  “You listen to the game yesterday?”

  “Vikings? Not really, tuned in for a minute or two but they were down by something like fourteen points. Why?”

  “They lost 63 to 3,” Josh said, slicing open another twenty-five pound bag of bacon slabs.

  “You kidding me? So, why’s everyone taking it out on me? What’d I do?”

  “Otto, man, you got that number thirty-five jersey on. Dipshit ran the wrong way then basically handed the ball to the Seahawks, scored against his own team! Folks are trying to get their lives back together after yesterday. They don’t want to think about the Vikings let alone Jerry Cardy. I gotta believe it’s a pretty safe bet you are the only person in the state wearing a number thirty-five jersey today.”

  Otto made his way to the truck, flipped off by a couple of cute looking coed types along the way. He handed the kid in the parking lot another greasy paper plate, maple flavored, keeping the kid on his side.

  The kid nodded at Otto’s jersey.

  “Yeah, like thanks. Man they suck, eh?”

  * * *

  “Take us past the bank again,” Mendel said to Lucerne.

  They were on their way to a gun shop. Elvis sat in the backseat concerned about the wisdom of breaking into a store full of guns.

  He leaned forward, centered between Mendel and Lucerne, turned his head, and fixed his good eye on Mendel.

  “Can’t we just buy some guns?”

  “Not likely since we’re felons and broke. I got a sneaky feeling they wouldn’t be happy with our IOUs.”

  “You think they know that was us, with the dead banker?” Elvis asked.

  “Not yet, dumb ass, but why chance it? All we’re gonna do today is just look around a little. Get the flavor of the place, then come back after business hours and take whatever we need, simple as you please, waltz right on outta there,” Mendel said.

  “What about just buying the guns from someone else, ya know?” Elvis asked.

  “No, as a matter of fact I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me who we gonna buy AK 47’s from, Elvis. Because I been thinking and I can’t come up with anyone, not that we got any money, anyway. Lucerne, you know someone wants to sell AKs to three broke felons who ain’t got a pot to piss in?” Mendel growled.

  Lucerne shook his head, checked his mirror and made the turn onto Como Avenue that would bring them past the bank.

  “Okay, Elvis, I don’t know nobody, Lucerne here, he don’t know nobody. You tell me, who you know got all these AKs they want to sell?”

  “Well, I…”

  “They must be real good friends of yours ‘cause me and Lucerne, we ain’t got a clue, man.” />
  “I don’t know nobody, exactly, I just think it’s gonna be hard to grab em from a store is all. Know what I’m saying, Mendel?” Elvis said.

  “Maybe you should wait and see how hard it is. You just maybe might be surprised. Maybe they got AKs stored in a box outside, and we can just help ourselves. Maybe I’m working on a plan for us. Maybe it would be better to see, first, Elvis, before you go pissing all over a man’s idea.”

  “Here, here we go. Pull behind that pickup truck and wait for me. I’m going into this bank and look around.” Mendel shouldered the door open before Lucerne stopped. The door dragged and scraped along the curb.

  “Why you get him mad like that, he just gets pissed off?” Lucerne asked, looking in the rearview mirror at Elvis.

  “I’m worried for all of us, ain’t afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking, but to break into a gun store, man, it ain’t that easy. Our luck ain’t been the greatest lately, ya know. I mean there’s folks with guns in gun stores, get it? I just don’t think it’s gonna be the cakewalk Mendel says, is all.”

  “I think he’ll see that it ain’t that easy and he’ll forget about the AKs. Maybe forget about this damn bank, and we can go back to knocking off liquor stores and folk’s homes like the good Lord intended.”

  * * *

  It hadn’t been the longest line but it was the slowest. Figures, Otto thought. All he wanted to do was get a feel for this party-girl teller he saw yesterday morning coming out of DiMento’s, so he had stepped into her line and hadn’t moved since.

  “Hi,” he said in response to the stare from a guy in the line next to him.

  “God damned Cardy, that boy’s history. That takes some brass ones,” the man nodded at Otto’s jersey.

  Otto waited for what seemed like an eternity, cursing the two women ahead of him, eventually he stepped to the window.

  “Hi Cindy,” reading the teller’s name badge as the hint of a leer crept through the zinc oxide smeared across his face.

  Only Porky would wear a Viking’s jersey today, she thought.

  “How are you today, sir?”

  “Fine, just fine,” Otto leaned in close to the glass, fogged it slightly as he spoke.