Merlot

by Mike Faricy

  He circled the building twice, like he did every night, then drove home.

  * * *

  Merlot had stopped at work, slow even for a Monday. He hadn’t set two feet in the door before Tommy announced his entry, “live from the Viking’s Game, I give you Merlot!”

  For once he was glad there were only four or five people in the place, and he quickly made a beeline for his office, turned off his computer and ducked out the back door to go home. He had tried calling Cindy twice, both times getting dumped into her message service. He left a message the second time.

  He was camped in front of the History Channel. The Marines had just begun landing on Tarawa when his phone rang.

  “Hello,” he answered, half distracted as he watched black-and-white footage of marines working a flamethrower in the jungle.

  “Hi, Tony?”

  “Oh hi, Cindy.”

  “Sorry, I was on the phone with Karen. She said she saw you.”

  “Really, where?” he asked absently, watching Marines roasting a section of jungle, and naively stepping into his own personal ambush.

  “Well I guess you’re really famous. I had no idea, you…”

  He bolted upright, tuned out the Marines for a moment, thought, fucking Dickie! Then dreamed of an appropriate punishment.

  “… so you were right about that, I guess. You know I actually feel better telling you this, I mean, it’s like an incredible weight off my shoulders.”

  Tuning back in, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Apparently he had managed to do something right, hard as it was to believe.

  “So, enough about me and my dirty little secret. You sounded like you were having a bad day when we talked earlier,” she giggled.

  “Sounded like you were taking a bit of a pounding, too.”

  “Oh God, with the fair of course we’re jammed. Then I get this gross little man who brings these things on a stick that look like dog poop soaked in grease. Oh, it was just disgusting. Then he smears his nose on the glass and tells me he saw me leaving your place Sunday morning. Gee, I guess that was just yesterday, but it seems weeks ago.”

  “I’d give anything to be weeks away from Sunday,” he replied.

  Cindy gave a nervous laugh, but didn’t go any further with that particular line of discussion, afraid he was referring to her unforgettable performance.

  “Look, I sort of feel like I still owe you a dinner,” he said.

  “Oh, no, no, you shouldn’t feel that way. I owe you a dinner and, and more.”

  He filed the “and more” comment.

  “Well, what I was going to suggest was that we meet somewhere, another restaurant, you know where I’m not jumping up and down putting out fires. Not my office. And, we just have dinner. That way if you don’t like the conversation or the company you can just leave.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, I promise. I think I owe you for being so nice and the more I get to know you the more I enjoy your company,” she said.

  The Marines were in a night defensive position and all hell was about to break loose, but her last comment, which he selectively heard as “I owe you more, I promise,” jerked him back to the present.

  “You know Vesco Vino, down on Selby. They’ve got an outside patio area, nice food. I could make a reservation tomorrow night for 8:00, if that’s okay.”

  “That would be wonderful, and I promise not to throw up in their bathroom. If you promise not to moon anyone,” she laughed.

  He cringed, once again thought that fucking Dickie.

  “Yeah, I promise. Good night.”

  “Tomorrow night at 8:00, see you there,” she said.

  Interesting, he thought, then panicked when it struck him. He was supposed to rob the bank, not date a teller.

  Tuesday

  Otto woke at his usual 5:00 a.m. The weather station forecast cloudless and hot, with humidity right around the beastly range.

  He scratched his face in the mirror before stepping into the shower, noticed he’d forgotten to remove the zinc white from his nose when he’d come home just five hours earlier.

  He looked around the tub as he showered and thought of that bank teller. This place could use a bit of a woman’s touch; clean the shower, the tiles, get the floors looking nice, dust, scrub, and vacuum. No telling how much a hard-working woman could transform this place after cleaning for a few days.

  Just before 6 a.m. he found himself waiting at the same light across the street from DiMento’s. There was no sign of her this morning. He continued to think of her while he loaded his truck. How nice it would be to have help.

  By ten he had gotten the first load of ice delivered to his stands, and he was walking to his truck with his deposits stuffed securely in his briefcase. He was wearing a Twins baseball cap and tucked under the back of the hat hung a white handkerchief shielding the back of his blistered neck from the unrelenting sun. His face was a different matter. He had slathered his skin with level fifty sunscreen, added a white layer of zinc oxide on his nose, lips and cheeks for additional protection.

  He glistened as he walked in camouflage cut offs and a bright orange T-shirt touting the benefits of Gatorade.

  He waited in her line at the bank, nodding at the not-so-subtle looks he was getting from people around him.

  “What’s that smell?” a little boy asked his friend. They were standing with their mother in the line directly next to Otto.

  “You farted,” exclaimed the friend.

  “No I didn’t, you farted!”

  “Be quiet, both of you.” The mother yanked her son’s arm before glancing nervously in Otto’s direction.

  “But he farted,” her son protested.

  “Another word and we’re leaving, do you two hear me?”

  “But he farted, Jeremy farted, and I can still smell it,” he giggled.

  “You smell,” Jeremy giggled back.

  “All right come on, both of you. If we can’t behave we won’t stay, come on. I’m so sorry, you know kids,” she said to Otto then quickly herded the boys out the door.

  Otto hadn’t really noticed that no one was lining up directly behind him. He had been busily working out how this first conversation of the day would go with her.

  She attempted to take her time with the two customers ahead of him. But there was only so much she could do to move slowly and none of it seemed to be working. Eventually he stood before her. She seemed afraid to look him in the eye.

  He placed his briefcase on the counter and snapped it open.

  God, thought Cindy, if he hauls out more of that dog poop on a stick I’m going to scream.

  He pushed two large, grease-stained paper bags stuffed with currency through the cash well. Then slid a hand underneath the glass into the teller area. Kept it there, atop the cash, wiggling his fingers, so she knew it was all right to touch him.

  She looked at the grease stained paper bags, pink glistening fingers wiggled on top of them. She moved the Lysol a little closer.

  He kept his hands under the glass as the moment grew painfully long. Finally pulling them back, reluctantly. God, she was really shy.

  Cindy snatched the bags in a motion so quick it was virtually unseen and began counting furiously, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one, twenty, forty… concentrating for all she was worth. Working to just get this pink little man with the clown face and the sweat encrusted T-shirt away from her window as quickly as possible.

  “How’d you like that Cajun Bar-B-Que style? It’s my newest,” he asked.

  “Mmm-mmm” nodded Cindy, twenty, forty, sixty… She could feel the germs jumping off the bills and running up her arms. She would Lysol her body when this ordeal was all over, maybe spend an hour or two in a scalding shower, and then burn her clothes.

  He dropped his hand to his waist, raised his right eyebrow, ready to catch her glance, give the little lady a slight nod. Let her know she was safe while Sheriff Otto was in town, packing his trusty forty-five. He leaned his left a
rm on the counter, kept the eyebrow raised, waited for her to look up so he could give her the nod. The Otto okay. Eventually his right eyebrow began to ache, his left cheek began to twitch. He cleared his throat and faced her full front.

  “Thank you,” she said, slipping his deposit slip in the cash well and quickly withdrawing her hand in the direction of the Lysol can. She forced herself to look at him, swallowed hard and mumbled. “Is, is there anything else?” praying he would just go away taking the stench of rancid bacon and sweat with him.

  “Which one was your favorite?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your favorite? Which one you like the most? You know, yesterday, all them I dropped off for you. Did you take ‘em home? Almost like taking a part of me home with you, don’t you think?”

  Cindy had taken them immediately to the trash.

  “I liked them all about the same,” she replied meekly, meaning she wouldn’t touch any of them if her life depended on it.

  Otto nodded knowingly, tossed her his two-fingered salute, snapped his briefcase shut and strutted away.

  “Hey, what’s that smell out here? It’s like rotten eggs or something worse,” the man waiting in line behind Otto asked.

  * * *

  “Shit! Will you look at that.” Lucerne spat as another woman entered the liquor store.

  “God damn it, I’m telling ya, we go round this block much more I’m gonna get dizzy,” Mendel growled.

  “Maybe just go in there and get it over with,” Lucerne suggested.

  “Now there’s just one hell of an idea, me and Elvis armed with a damn note! You got the note, Elvis?” Mendel looked over his shoulder at Elvis stretched out on the backseat, licking a pencil tip, focusing his good eye as he wrote on the back of an envelope.

  “Getting her done right now.”

  “What’s it say?” asked Lucerne.

  “Sez no funny stuff, just the money, and nobody gets hurt, please. I figure short and sweet’s all we’re gonna need here.”

  “All right, I’m tired of dickin around, lets just get it done,” hissed Mendel.

  He was out of the car before it stopped. Elvis had to scramble to catch up.

  Once inside they nodded at the kid behind the cash register then walked down a couple of aisles trying to get the lay of the place. They grabbed a bottle of root beer flavored schnapps, a bottle of Wild Turkey, then raced to the checkout counter when the only other customer exited the store.

  “This all for you guys?” the kid asked, not sounding surprised at the combination.

  “Just one more thing,” Mendel said, then turned to nod at Elvis.

  For his part Elvis began slapping the pockets of his jeans, desperately searching for his recently composed note.

  “Think I dropped it outside,” he said to Mendel.

  A nervous moment passed while Mendel looked at Elvis. “You are one dumb son-of-a-bitch,” he said. Then reeled back and hit the kid squarely between the eyes. The kid dropped to the floor. Mendel reached over the counter and began pushing buttons on the register until the cash drawer popped open.

  “Shit on a stick! Will ya look at this here? Damn, hardly even worth our time,” he groaned, then quickly stuffed the meager holdings in his hand.

  “Grab them damn bottles and come on,” he said to Elvis.

  “How’d she go boys?” Lucerne asked, pulling carefully away from the curb then turning right at the first corner.

  “Just one little mix-up, shit-for-brains here forgot the Goddamned note!” Mendel glared into the backseat.

  “What?” Lucerne half laughed.

  “Here it is, found her right here on the car floor,” Elvis said holding up the envelope.

  “Lot a good that does us now,” Mendel said, turning round to quickly count the cash.

  “Thirty-seven bucks! How they expect us to get anywheres on this kinda dough?”

  * * *

  At least the teasing had died down and Merlot enjoyed a comparatively normal day. Of course Patti had given him a framed copy of yesterday’s front-page photo. He was looking at it just now, and shaking his head. He slid the frame into a desk drawer, pushed away from his desk to go home and shower before his dinner date with Cindy. Still no word from Dickie and that was just fine. As if on cue the phone rang.

  “Merlot,” Weiner said.

  “Wiener, how’ve you been? I meant to call. Yesterday was so shitty. I don’t know if you spoke with Victor or Andrew but they were in deep shit, too. Goddamn Dickie!”

  “Yeah, I know, isn’t it great?

  “Great?”

  “Jesus, Merlot, I was signing autographs down at the job site yesterday. Couple of guys delivering pipe had me autograph the front page of the paper, right under our picture. They think it’s gonna be worth some dough. Hey, Thursday, we’re still on for cards, right? We could sign a bunch of ‘em, papers, I mean. I picked up fifty copies and, well, anyway we could autograph these things and make some bucks.”

  “Are you nuts? I’m trying to get this thing as far behind me as possible. My mom told me she was gonna have to leave town she was so embarrassed. That Chrissie at the coffee shop…”

  “The hot blond?”

  “Right. She says she saw us and then announces it to the whole place. From there the rest of the day just sort of went into the toilet,” he said, remembering his assault on Milton with the baseball bat.

  “Man, sorry to hear that. It’s been great with me. I got a couple of dates out of the deal, guy bought me lunch yesterday, got a couple of beers from some guys last night. I kinda like the fame deal.”

  “Fame? You were sitting next to a fat guy who went out of control and mooned all fifty states. How in the hell does that make you famous? Or get you dates?”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, you know.”

  “Are you telling me broads want to date you just because some idiot you know has this gigantic fat ass? Gee, I can’t wait to meet these women!”

  “Well, there might have been a little bit of embellishment on my part. You know broads, I just suggested there might be the possibility of some sort of screen-test deal, national contract, that sort of thing.”

  “Screen-test! What the hell for?”

  “You kidding, you don’t watch any of that reality shit? Idiots like us are always getting these acting and singing contracts. They’re making a mint, man. You think I’m not gonna ride this lucky break for all it’s worth?”

  “Lucky break?”

  “Whatever. Listen, you hear anything from the big man? I tried leaving a message at his office, on his cell, and at home, couldn’t get through anywhere. I think I might have a date lined up for him.”

  “No I haven’t heard from him. A date? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Maybe he’s just booked up with all sorts of offers. You know screen tests and things. Man some guys have all the luck, Goddamned Dickie.”

  “Yeah, I’ve said something like that a couple of thousand times in the last twenty-four hours.”

  * * *

  Merlot arrived at Vesco Vino early. Cindy arrived a few minutes later, walking out onto the patio area surprised to see him already there.

  “Hey, Tony, gee I thought I was early, wow!” she exclaimed, bending across the table and giving him a kiss. She lingered a second or two longer than casual.

  He lifted a bottle of chilled white wine toward a glass.

  “Oh, okay, but only one tonight. So,” she said once he had finished pouring, “here’s to hoping your day went better than yesterday.”

  “It did, a lot better. I just can’t wait to get another day away from Sunday, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, kinda know that feeling.” She put her glass down and looked at him seriously.

  “Tony, I just really want to tell you how very sorry I ‘am for my behavior Saturday night. It was inexcusable. You don’t need to spend your Saturday night babysitting some loser who had too much to drink and…”

 
He cut her off by shaking his head and taking her hand. It was actually the first time he had really touched her besides a hello or good-bye kiss, well and pulling her up out of the chair in his office.

  “Look, Cindy, I’d prefer not talking about it, okay? It happened, just forget it, and let’s start over. But, I will tell you that I have a hellish day tomorrow, and this is the first and only bottle of wine we are going to have tonight,” he lied.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Then he moved toward her, pulled her hands closer to him, and kissed her, on the lips.

  “Wow,” she said only half to herself when she pulled away.

  They talked on about their day. She regaled him with tales of a weirdo customer making different appearances throughout the day with zinc oxide smeared across his face. She described his hat, a handkerchief hanging from the back, the crusty orange T-shirt, and of course the smell offending everyone within range.

  He told her about Wiener’s phone call. He neglected to mention the Saab La Tondra and Celeste picked up, his get away car. Or, the gun he was getting tomorrow to rob her bank.

  “Do you take breaks during your day?” he asked, hoping she might have a schedule so he could plan accordingly and miss her.

  “Supposedly a morning and afternoon break, but we get so busy, I sometimes forget to take them. When I look up, you know, there’s just forty-five minutes left, so I figure, why bother?”

  The waitress came and took their order, returned with a basket of bread, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar, and set them on the table.

  “You look really familiar, are you someone famous?” she asked Merlot.

  “No I don’t think so,” not picking up on the potential danger.

  “Gee, I’m sorry, it’s just that I think I’ve seen you before. Are you with one of the local TV stations?”

  “No,” he insisted.

  “I bet you get that all the time,” Cindy said teasingly.

  “Only since Sunday.”

  “You’re kidding, you think that’s where she saw you?”

  * * *

  T.J. was attempting to finish The Survivalist’s Field Manual. He was sloughing his way through the section on proper field sanitation having just finished the first aid section dealing with sucking chest wounds.