Merlot

by Mike Faricy

  “What, go to the Viking’s game?” he asked.

  “No, moon all those people. You know that would be so awesome, just hang it out there. This is what I think of you alls,” Celeste turned to shove her fairly well formed rear in his direction as La Tondra came up behind her.

  “How’d it go with the car Saturday, girls? Were you able to pick it up?”

  “Sure did Sugar. It’s back in the lot. We ended up talking with that Bernice for a while so we didn’t get back until last night,” La Tondra said.

  “Last night, you mean Sunday?”

  “Yeah, well, we started talking and then things sort of turned into a little bit of a party and the next thing you know it was Sunday afternoon. She’s got all these really cute cats and she gave us each a kitty, too.”

  Jesus, he thought, shaking his head, “how bout the keys?”

  “Keys?”

  “Yeah, for the car?

  Check the pockets, check the pockets,” Celeste said turning round.

  “How about you hand me the keys and then I can pay the two of you, like we discussed. Deal?” he said.

  “You’re no fun,” Celeste groaned.

  * * *

  He was standing in the parking lot sweating in the midday heat and humidity looking at the recent damage to the Saab. The left front quarter panel was scraped and dented, and the front headlight was broken. He didn’t know if he should scream or just drive home to his garage, pull inside, and sit there with the engine running until he was asphyxiated.

  They had obviously hit something. The crease extended beyond the wheel well and across the driver’s door. The good news was it appeared to have been an object as opposed to an individual.

  He opened the car door and immediately recognized the heavy, stale smell of dope, noticed the empty malt-liquor cans on the floor and a condom on the backseat. At least they were practicing safe sex.

  He crushed the malt-liquor cans, tore a stick off a tree to remove the condom. He started the car just to make sure it ran, and left all the windows down to give it a good airing.

  * * *

  Otto had been wondering all day what line would work best with the teller at the bank. He decided it was better to keep the information to himself for a while. Maybe spring it on her at just the right time. A combination of black mail and her dreams come true all at the same magical moment.

  The sun had been merciless all day, burning through the haze from the heavy humidity. He had long ago sweated through the Vikings jersey, and he was still getting flipped off by folks. His forearms, the back of his legs and the back of his neck were burned a nice nuculear red. His ears were painfully blistered from sunburn. His nose would have been the same except that he had the presence of mind to slather it with zinc oxide, which gave him more than a slight resemblance to a clown.

  He didn’t care and in fact, it never even dawned on him that he looked ridiculous. Hell he’d always looked ridiculous. He was trying to decide if he should choose a particular Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon for his favorite little bank teller or just give her a sampling of all the flavors and let her decide which one she liked the best. Then she could tell all her girlfriends.

  “This really cool guy, Otto. I told you about him, he invented Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick!”

  “The regular?” someone would ask.

  “The maple flavor?”

  “The Cajun Bar-B-Que?”

  “Of course, he invented them all,” she’d say, then gaze off dreamily.

  Yeah, that was how it would work. She could leave that teller job, come and work for him. Course she’d get her own apron, one with the pig roasting in the sun and the butt crack.

  “He invented this logo, too,” she could brag.

  Then, at night when they got home she could cook dinner, after she fixed the pan of Epsom salts for his feet. Eat in front of the television. Watch the weather for the next day. He could load up the truck twice as fast in the morning because she could carry the sacks of batter, learn the business from the ground up. Free him up to invent more flavors.

  He had been sort of mulling over the idea of a drink, not exactly pork juice but something that went with the whole theme. Sauerkraut juice might be a thought. Maybe experiment a while, a mint jelly shake had been rattling around in the back of his mind. She could start doing some of the more mundane chores that were taking time away from Otto’s creative endeavors.

  He waited in her line again, thought he caught the hint of a little smile directed across the crowded lobby. He touched the forty-five stuck in his belt beneath his sweat-soaked Vikings jersey. Looked around the place just to make sure it was safe for her. There was a new sheriff in town partner, Otto O’Malley’s the name and I’m here to see that this pretty little girl stays nice and safe.

  “Next,” another teller called to him.

  He blinked his eyes and wiggled his zinc white nose as he came to his senses, shook his head no, pointed to Cindy and said, “She wants to talk with me.”

  Cindy looked up for a moment and thought, what?

  He gave her a meaningful nod, subtly patted his jersey where the forty-five was tucked, letting her know it was okay, she was safe, the Sheriff was here.

  Oh God, thought Cindy, and slid the Lysol can closer to the window.

  “So, how’s it going?” He asked a few minutes later, opened his briefcase and took out two grease stained bags crammed with cash.

  “Just fine,” she said, grabbing the bags as quickly as possible, the sooner she finished the sooner he would leave. The heavy air in the tellers area suddenly smelled a lot like bacon.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I did it all. First year there was just the regular flavor.”

  “Twenty, forty…”

  “Then came the maple flavor, later on the hickory, folks raved about it, said they’d never had so many choices. Of course this year, there’s my new Cajun Bar-B-Que. You were right, I invented them all, came right from here,” he tapped the side of his head.

  “Three thousand, twenty, forty, sixty…”

  “Working on the drink thing just now, letting it percolate through, something unique. Say, I, ahh caught you yesterday morning,” he said giving a little nod.

  “Yesterday?” She wasn’t tracking this conversation, didn’t think she was hearing correctly.

  Here it was, he thought, moving in for the kill. Their first moment, they would laugh about this later on while she fixed him dinner or mixed his Epsom salts or hell, even folded his laundry.

  “Yeah, yesterday, Sunday morning. You get up early for a girl. Or maybe you were just coming home!” he winked.

  “Oh, my, God!” she half screamed, loud enough for the tellers on either side of her to look over as she brought her hand to her mouth in absolute horror.

  “Yeah,” he had her full attention, so he moved right up next to the glass, steaming it with his breath.

  She did the same, in shock, not quite believing she heard correctly. She grasped the counter for support.

  “I was thinking,” he half whispered, so close to the glass that the white zinc on his nose was leaving a smear as he moved his head slowly down toward her change well. “Maybe we should get together you and I.”

  He stood up straight, grabbed his deposit slip, then reached into his briefcase, pulled out a pile of what looked like dog poop on a grease saturated paper plate and crammed the whole mess through her cash well.

  “Here’s a little sample of all my flavors, just a little thank you. Maybe a taste of things to come.” He grinned, pushing three pieces that had fallen off the plate through the cash well.

  “Oh, thanks,” She shuddered.

  He blushed even redder than his sunburn.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he said, giving her his two-fingered salute.

  “Hey, Cin, you okay? You don’t look so good, honey.” Carol, a teller at the next window asked.

  “Oh, my, God! Dog poop on a stick,” Cindy said, carrying the plate to the trash. />
  She took a minute or two to calm herself, caught her breath and returned to her window. She saw the streak of zinc oxide from Otto’s nose running down the length of her window and wished she could just crawl down on the floor and cry.

  Well, that seemed to go pretty well, Otto thought driving back. He could just hear her bragging to all her girlfriends,

  “Well, my new boyfriend, Otto, he invented these. You can go to his stands. He’s got five. Mention my name.”

  He tried to figure her out, was she a Maple, Hickory or Cajun gal? The timing could not have been better, by the end of the week he was going to have a lot of laundry.

  * * *

  Osborne answered the phone. A reptilian sneer crept across his face. He wore a heavily starched pale pink shirt, a pink-and-blue-striped tie, plaid boxer shorts, and tan knee-high stockings.

  “Excellent, excellent, have her highness wait right there. Milton will be down to fetch her momentarily,” he said, snapping his fingers to get Milton’s attention.

  “Milton, you oaf, quit whining about that hand. Go downstairs and fetch this Sassie wench, already crawling back to grovel at my feet for her petty little job. I’ve half a mind to slap the little vixen. If things were just slightly different I’d throw that tie-dyed twat out in the street but I’ve got to get the dancers back on stage. I’m going broke with the Fat Farm down there, not to mention my phone revenues.” He tossed a stack of disheartening financial reports on his desk.

  “I’ll have to bide my time with Sassie, but her days are numbered. Milton, get up, come on, let’s not keep her waiting.” With that he strode purposely to the wardrobe and retrieved his trousers.

  “Damn hand’s killing me. Between that bitch’s bite and that metal bat yesterday, I should get it checked out.” Milton held his swollen right hand out for Osborne’s inspection. There was a twinge of greenish brown around the edges of the purple bite wound, the throbbing had gone from intermittent to nonstop.

  “Your hand!” Osborne half shouted. He buttoned the waist of his trousers, zipped his fly, and turned to face the massive beveled mirror on the wardrobe door.

  “You’re worried about your hand when I’m about to be locked in negotiations with the very witch who’s tried to ruin me. All because a simple beer bottle was surreptitiously shoved up her shapely posterior! I simply won’t have it! Now get down there before she has a change of heart.”

  “I’m just thinkin’ that…”

  “Milton, please stop, listen to yourself. Thinking? You? Quickly now, move along, that’s a good man, left, right, left, right.” Osborne adjusted his belt in the mirror while counting cadence, then donned a blazer and waited for Sassie to crawl back.

  “So, you’ve returned to the scene of your crime, Sassie,” he said as she flew into his office, her hair a cascading vignette of white blond at the crown to electric blue at her shoulders. He had positioned himself behind his desk, trying to look intimidating while at the same time keeping a safe distance from the little tramp. God only knew what germs she carried.

  “We can start by you calling me Ms. Sassie. For your information, this is my lawyer,” she said as a short, round little creature in a baggy suit followed her into the office.

  Her lawyer, a weasely, bald little man wearing a look of complete exhaustion, shuffled hesitantly into the office. He carried a worn leather satchel under his left arm. He needed a shave and probably a good night’s sleep. Clearly she’d paid in advance.

  “My card,” he said in a voice that suggested sinus blockage. He laid his card on Osborne’s desk with a trembling hand, sniffled, pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose.

  Osborne quickly reached for his disinfectant and sprayed the plague carrying card. He silently cursed Serpentina for not being on duty to deal with this situation. He picked up a pencil from his desk and used the eraser end to drag the card slowly toward him.

  “Prescott Spaulding the second,” he read, glancing up first at Spaulding, then over to Sassie before returning his withering gaze to Spaulding.

  “At your service, sir,” Spaulding whispered.

  “Would second be the same as Junior?”

  “I prefer second,” Spaulding said, a slight tremble in his voice.

  “I prefer not to waste my time. What is it that you want?”

  “We only want what’s fair here, Osborne. We want you to give us some heat on that damn stage down there. We go home it takes two hours just to thaw out. No more bottles on the edge of the stage and we want you to sell beer in smaller bottles, just in case.”

  “Yes to the smaller bottles. I can increase our profit there. No to restricting bottles on the stage, despite the somewhat unappealing image your particular situation presented. We’ve a large clientele who drink heavily while being enraptured with your entertainment. No to your request for heat. It will cost me money and frankly, the cold temperature adds to everyone’s overall performance.” He cast an understanding eye in Prescott Spaulding‘s direction, looking for agreement.

  “Umm, ok?” Spaulding looked hopefully at Sassie.

  She sighed and shook her head. “You might just as well go home ‘cause you ain’t doing nothing here and you ain’t getting’ nothing else for doing it.”

  Spaulding seemed to deflate, looking even more rumpled, if that was possible.

  “And Osborne, I’ll take this to the ladies, but I got a feeling they gonna give you a big, fat no. That’s N-O, then we just might have to come up with something else to get your attention.” She swung her purse over her shoulder, turned and walked out.

  Spaulding watched her admiringly for three or four paces.

  “Ah, nice to meet you, sirs,” he nodded to Osborne, then Milton before running to catch up.

  “Burn this,” Osborne directed Milton, sliding the offending business card across his desk with the pencil eraser, then furiously misted the desk and surrounding area with disinfectant spray.

  “There goes exactly the sort of woman who gives strippers a bad name.”

  * * *

  “For goodness sake, Anthony, what were you thinking? Your uncle called me at seven o’clock this morning. All the way from St. Petersburg, Florida…” Merlot’s mother was standing at the ironing board, shaking her head, saying the exact same thing she’d said during every one of her phone calls throughout the day.

  “Honest to God Anthony, I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

  He was just as tired of hearing it. He wished she would hurry up and finish ironing his jeans so he could get the hell out of there. Christ, you’d think the way she was going on that it had been his ass hanging out on national television instead of Dickie’s.

  “I don’t know, I’ll have to move somewhere. Lord knows if I can even find someone to buy this house after what’s happened.”

  “Mom, Jesus Christ it…”

  “Don’t you use that tone and language with me, Anthony. Maybe that’s just who you should begin paying a little more attention to, your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Instead of these, these bums you seem to want to cavort around town with. I’ve told you before what you need in your life is a nice girl. Start to think of a family, that’s, what’s that sound? That horrible noise?”

  “It’s my phone, Mom. I’d better take this, excuse me, it’s probably work.” He replied, not disguising the relief in his voice.

  “How do you get anything accomplished, Anthony, with all these interruptions you have in your life? Now don’t you go anywhere, I’m not finished!”

  “Tony?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Cindy,” she said waiting for a moment.

  “Hi Cindy, how’s it going?”

  His Mother’s ears perked up as she ironed the crease in his jeans.

  “Oh God, it’s been one of those days. I never thought it would end. Did you ever have a day like that? It just keeps getting worse.”

  “Yeah, I think I can identify with that,” he said, glancing at his
mother.

  Cindy waited a moment for him to say something else.

  “Look, I just wanted to apologize, again, that’s all, for the other night. I’m really sorry. Anyway, I just hope you’re doing okay, and I guess I’m interrupting something,” She thought he was probably on a date with some woman who won’t throw up.

  “Oh no, I’m just at my Mom’s. I’ll call you later, when I’m free to talk.”

  “Great,” she said.

  “Who was that, Anthony? Anyone I know? What can’t you say in front of your own mother?” Ironing the same crease for the sixth or seventh time.

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Well, I can only hope she’s the good woman I’ve been praying for all this time. My God, what has been my crime in life?”

  “Yeah sure, maybe, Mom,” he said, picking up the folded jeans, placing them on top of his shirts and the home made cookies.

  “Be a good boy. I’m praying for you, Anthony, and I’m praying for a good woman,” she called out the door after him.

  He nodded, waved, quickly jumped into his car and sped away. Thinking Cindy, maybe he could still end this completely horseshit day on an upbeat note.

  * * *

  T.J. looked at his watch and then put down his book, The Survivalist’s Field Manual. He had been trying to read and steal furtive glances at Miss Suzie Q for the past two hours. Eventually his glances had turned to stares.

  It was a little after 9:45 and he always drove past the OK Corral then returned home and climbed into bed.

  “I’m going down to the Corral, Suzie,” he sighed, bending to kiss her on the forehead.

  “Be careful, baby,” she called vacantly, not leaving her show. They were cleaning a former fatty’s teeth right before giving her a complete makeover, including tummy tuck.

  God damn mindless shows the woman watches he thought, pulling into the empty Corral parking lot. He enjoyed this time. It gave him a chance to get the GTO out, go for a short ride, listen to the engine hum, and not worry about other fools on the road. The car boasted twenty-two coats of lacquer shimmering over the diamond blue finish, and it was his pride and joy, next to Suzie Q that is, a four-speed, posi-traction GTO.