by Scott Blade
Right now, Widow’s problem was the fact that he had zero money in his account. The second problem was that it was either too late at night or too early in the morning, to call his bank. Calling the 800 number at this time would’ve sent his call into a maze of automated menus and computer voices. He wasn’t sure if switching to an automated system was better than just hiring a call center in India, which used to be the industry standard until companies started to catch onto the complaints from Americans that they wanted to hear American English speakers. Ironically, they meant human voices. Instead, computer voices were used now almost everywhere, as far as Widow knew.
Jack Widow also had a third problem, one that he was just starting to realize.
The third problem was that he’d been sitting outside the gas station for thirty minutes. He wore day-old clothes from a thrift store: green cargo pants with internal holes in two of the pockets, a dark blue T-shirt with a V-neck and a brown, leather belt that Widow liked because of the buckle. The belt buckle had the Navy SEAL emblem on it, trident and all. It wasn’t big or gaudy like those big cowboy belts. It stuck out at him like it was kismet, so he bought it.
Widow sat outside a silent gas station near Highway 93 and he looked like a hobo. He wasn’t particularly dirty, but he was a large man standing at a gas station at the wee hours of the morning, which told the twenty-something girl who worked there that he might be potentially dangerous or at the very least he was potentially a bum begging for change.
Widow glanced back from the curb of the gas station, into the large windows. He saw her staring at him until he made eye contact, at which point, she glanced away and down like she was reading a book.
Widow looked around and stood up. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his cash. He wished that it was a wad of money. A couple hundred bucks would’ve been good. But it wasn’t that much. He counted out a group of single dollar bills. By the end of it he smiled when he found a twenty, which gave him a total of $35. And then he had some change in his pocket as well. He felt down in there and found a couple of quarters for a grand total of $35.50. Not much, but it was enough for him to buy a bottle of water and to show the clerk that she could relax. He was a paying customer and not a loiterer. He turned and walked into the gas station.
On the way in, his case for making her see him as a normal, non-threatening person was seriously undercut when he slipped the two quarters back into his pocket. This time he slipped them into the opposite pocket and found one of the two holes that he had in his cargo pants. He stopped dead in the doorway and the coins bounced and rattled, sliding down his leg and out of his pant sleeve. They skimmed out over his boot and stopped on the floor.
He smiled at the girl who said nothing. He said, “Good floors. Good job mopping.”
He said it and then he had felt completely stupid. But that’s what happens when your social skills are a little less than adequate.
The look she gave him made him feel a little lame. He was glad that he didn’t give her a thumbs-up, which he almost did, like it was the natural thing to do.
He interrupted the awkward moment and bent down to pick up the fallen coins. He stood tall and slipped them back into one of his holeless pockets. Then he asked, “Where’s your restroom?”
The girl looked at him, raised her hand and pointed to a far corner hallway. Widow nodded and zigzagged through the aisles of candy and motor oil, until he was at the bathroom door. He squeezed past a payphone and a corkboard with a bunch of flyers and business cards pinned to it.
He went into the bathroom, used it, and then stood over the sink. He ran his hands under cold water and splashed some on his face. He washed his hands with soap and dried them off. He walked out of the bathroom and stopped for a moment, looking at the corkboard. He studied it.
There were ads for local businesses, insurance agents, Marine recruiting stations, and yard work. Some of the flyers looked expensive and some looked homemade. Some were even handwritten.
You gotta start somewhere, he thought.
His eyes shuffled through them quickly and one of them caught his eye. It was a small, weathered business card—white card stock, black letters. It was buried behind a flyer for fifty percent off at a shoe store.
Widow flipped it up and pulled the card out. It had caught his eye because he had seen the word Help on it. Then when he pulled it out he read: Help Wanted, which naturally caught his attention because he might need work.
The weathered business card looked old. It looked about a hundred. It was for a rancher, a guy named Liam Sossaman. The name meant nothing to him, but he liked it. Liam Sossaman. It was memorable.
The contact on it was for a guy called King.
Widow had never worked on a cattle ranch before. He had ridden a horse once, on a farm in Ukraine. He had been ordered to stay off the radar of the Navy for a couple of months, after a SEAL mission out of Germany. In Widow’s sixteen years undercover in the Navy, his days off were far and few between. So whenever the opportunity came up to take a vacation, he took it.
A lot of the guys had talked about Kiev. It was a popular destination for men in the armed services. This was long before the unrest with Russia. It was considered a safe place to visit.
The attractive factor for guys serving in Germany and around Europe was that Ukraine was cheap and a beautiful country. The city of Kiev had all of the modern amenities that the Western man could want, and at bargain prices. Plus, he had discovered that the myth of Ukrainian women all being beautiful wasn’t one hundred percent true, but it was damn close.
He had fond memories of a girl he had met there. She had taken him horseback riding in the mountains, to the north.
Widow smiled. What a time! he thought.
He took the card from the corkboard and slipped it into his back pocket. He didn’t feel bad about it either. The thing had been buried behind other flyers anyway. No one was going to miss it.
Just in case, he thought. If his bank didn’t fix his money problem, then he might have to take a local job. He hadn’t thought about it before. Better to accept that he wasn’t going to be able to live forever on a limited bank account.
Widow looked around the store and walked to the east wall, where the coolers were. He stopped halfway down the snack aisle and realized he was a little hungry. He grabbed a stick of beef jerky. He walked to the coolers and saw beer, fruit juices, milk, and tons of sodas. All of the things he never drank, except for beer. Then he walked the length of the wall of coolers until he found the bottled waters. He opened the door and grabbed a large bottle.
He took his items to the front.
That’s when he started to fear the clerk might’ve done something rash because she was trembling. It was only a little, but it was noticeable.
He placed the items on the counter and said, “This is it for me.”
The girl behind the counter was a rail thin thing with tattoos on her arms that seemed more random then meaningful. Her makeup was light. She had short black hair. No face piercings or jewelry. She did have simple stud earrings in each ear.
She wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders like a 1950s greaser.
She stepped forward and stared up at Widow, who was much bigger than she was.
She said, “Okay.”
She reached out and took the bottled water and the beef jerky stick and rang them up over one of those electronic pads with red lasers that scanned barcodes. The cash register beeped and buzzed and the total showed up.
Widow paid for it, waited for his change, and watched her reach for a plastic bag. He reached out and waved off the bag. She almost jumped back a foot because of his fast movement.
He said, “Whoa. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just going to say I don’t need a bag.”
She stood there frozen like she wasn’t hearing him. Her face seemed to be terrified of him. She nodded and left the bag. She handed him the items and he smiled at her. He said, “Thanks.”
He turned and walked out of the gas station.
That’s when he knew that she had done what he had feared. She had called the cops.
An old police car came blaring off one of the side streets. It had come speeding out of the township, blue and red lights flashing. No sirens.
Widow stuffed the beef jerky into his cargo pants and twisted the cap on the water bottle. He wanted to get a drink before it was too late. He chugged the water about two-thirds of the way and then recapped it.
The Eureka police car was black and white with the police interceptor package, but it was an old model. It looked like an early 2000 model of a Ford Crown Vic. It had to be over fifteen years old.
It bounced off the blacktop and swerved into the parking lot and came to a violent stop a couple yards from his feet.
Widow kept the water bottle in his hand and kept both hands in plain sight.
The name of the township was plastered on the side with neon blue paint. They reflected from the high street lamps and the bright lights under the gas station overhang above the pumping stations.
A fraction of a second later a local cop hopped out of the police cruiser. He didn’t draw his gun, which was always a good sign to Widow.
The officer was alone, which was another good sign. It meant that he was only checking out a suspicious situation, assessing it. He wasn’t sent to arrest anyone, unless necessary.
The officer got out of the car and shut the driver’s side door, not all the way closed. But enough. Widow saw that he did have a nightstick. He made an effort to show it to Widow as he pulled it out of the car with him. He slid it into a holding spot on his belt and walked toward Widow.
The officer looked to be in his early fifties, balding head, and clean-shaven. He walked up to the hood of the police cruiser and not a foot closer. He kept his hand resting on the nightstick’s hilt. He looked Widow up and down and then back up again.
Widow didn’t move.
The officer said, “You don’t look familiar to me.”
Widow looked at the officer’s badge on his top left breastplate above the pocket. Widow memorized the badge number, which was always a good thing to do. Then he glanced at the nametag, which was on the opposite side of the officer’s chest. The tag read Hogan, which immediately made Widow think of Hulk Hogan and then Chuck Hogan.
Widow said, “Officer Hogan, I’m not sure if you are making a statement or asking a question.”
Hogan said, “I’m just saying you don’t look familiar to me. And generally people who don’t look familiar to me are complete strangers.”
“That’s most people, I imagine. It’s a big country and most of the people in it are going to be strangers. Right?”
Hogan didn’t respond. He looked Widow up and down again. He seemed to get a little comfortable and he moved away from the front of the Crown Vic.
He stepped right and circled Widow, but stopped up on the curb of the gas station at about the five o’clock position.
Hogan said, “I mean that if you aren’t familiar to me then you must be a stranger in town.”
Widow turned back to face him and nodded.
“May I ask, what is your business here?”
“I’m just passing through.”
“You going into Canada?”
Widow shrugged a big motion with shoulders and arms.
“Is that a no?”
“I have no idea. I doubt it though. I’ve been to Canada before. It’s a beautiful country. But no reason to go back. Then again, no reason not to go back. It all depends.”
“Uh huh, depends on what?”
Widow shrugged again.
Hogan looked back at the clerk inside the station, just a quick glance, nothing that would’ve left him exposed long enough for any tactical danger. Then he looked back at Widow. He said, “Your car broke down somewhere?”
Widow shook his head.
He said, “Where is it?”
“I don’t have one.”
“How did you get here?”
“A car.”
Hogan looked Widow up and down, one more time. He was checking Widow’s hands to see if they were empty, which they were, minus the water bottle. Then he looked at Widow’s pockets.
He said, “What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m asking.”
Widow thought for a moment. He didn’t see any reason to not answer, except that he didn’t liked being interrogated by cops, or anyone else for that matter. On the other hand, he’d done nothing wrong. So he said, “Widow.”
“Widow?”
Widow nodded.
“Like the spider?”
Widow shook his head and said, “More like a dead man’s wife. Or like the old Winchester 1911, which was called the Widow Maker.”
Hogan was a sharp guy. He said, “That’s because the 1911 shotgun often misfired, killing the user.”
Widow nodded. That was partially the truth. The 1911 Winchester Shotgun had a bad habit of causing misfires when mishandled due to the barrel getting damp. Widow’s memory of the exact procedure that caused the misfiring was hazy.
Hogan asked, “Let me ask you something, Mr. Widow.”
Widow nodded.
“Are you out here begging for change?”
“What?”
“Are you a panhandler? A homeless man?”
“Why?”
“Panhandling is illegal here. This gas station falls within the city lines. Here in Eureka, panhandling is a crime. A misdemeanor, for sure, but it’s enough for me to throw you in jail.”
Widow said, “Look. I’m not panhandling. As you can see I just purchased items here. So you can’t charge me with panhandling or loitering, either.”
Hogan said, “That may be true, but I can arrest you all the same. Maybe the charges don’t stick, but that part’s not up to me.”
Widow said, “Are you serious? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Okay, now. Just relax. I’m not saying that I’m going to arrest you. I’m just saying...”
Widow stayed quiet.
Hogan said, “The girl who works here is a young, local girl. She just saw you and got scared. That’s all. You see she’s young, right? And you’re not the most…”
Widow asked, “Most what?”
“Well, you’re a big guy. That’s intimidating to a young female working the early shift at a gas station.”
“Did she call you and say that I was out here conducting illegal activity?”
Hogan said nothing.
“Officer Hogan, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but if I’m not under arrest, then I have to be going.”
Hogan said, “Hold on a second.”
Widow stopped.
“Where ya headed?”
“Why?”
“Listen, I’m being friendly here. I could throw cuffs on you and take you to the station.”
“For what?”
“I’m sure that I could think of something.”
Widow decided that this wasn’t going to go his way if he kept back talking so he said, “I’m going to head into town. Maybe find some breakfast.”
Hogan slipped his hand off the hilt of his nightstick and pointed in the direction that he had come from. He said, “This is a quicker way into town rather than walking the highway. I’m assuming that you’re walking, right? Since you said you had no car.”
Widow nodded.
“Listen, why don’t I give you a ride.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“Hey, it’s no problem.”
Widow stared at the highway and then at the old Crown Vic. He said, “I prefer to walk.”
“What? You got a mistrust of cops?”
Not cops, just you, Widow thought.
Hogan said, “Look, I don’t think you’re here to cause trouble. But that girl in there will feel like I betrayed her trust if I let you walk away and then I drive away. Think about it. She’s here all alone. I
let you go on and she’ll feel like I abandoned her.”
Widow thought about it for a moment. Then Hogan said what Widow was thinking was the real reason.
Hogan said, “Plus, if something happened to her after I let you go, I’ve gotta live with that.”
Widow stayed quiet.
Hogan said, “Look, I’m showing you trust. I didn’t ask for your ID. I believed you about your name. You know here you’re required to carry an ID? If I asked you for one and you couldn’t produce it, then I’d have grounds to arrest you.”
Widow reached his free hand into his back pocket and pulled out a bent-up, beat-up, and faded old passport. He flashed it, cover showing, at Hogan and said, “I got that covered.”
Hogan didn’t respond.
Widow said, “I’ll ride with you.”
Hogan said, “Good. Let’s go. You can bring your water.”
They walked to the car. Widow stopped at the passenger door.
Hogan said, “Back seat.”
Widow said, “Of course.”
“Sorry, that’s policy. No one rides in the front except for officers of the law.”
Widow didn’t argue. He opened the back door and dumped himself down on the rear bench.
Hogan removed the nightstick and tossed it on the seat next to him. He sat down and closed the driver’s side door shut. He checked his watch and looked back at Widow. He said, “You’re in luck.”
“How’s that?”
“In about fifteen minutes, Polly Jolly’s opens.”
Widow stayed quiet.
Hogan said, “It’s the best doughnut shop in the state. Not just the county.”
Widow said, “That sounds good.”
Hogan said, “Hey, brighten up. At least, I’m not running you out of town, which is what they used to do, you know? Back in the Old West.”
He fired the engine up and accelerated toward the main strip of the town of Eureka.
CHAPTER 11
JACK WIDOW SAT IN THE BACK of the Crown Vic and stared at the fading night sky as Hogan drove at a slow speed, five miles under the speed limit. He made full stops at every stop sign and used his turn signal approximately one hundred feet before every turn. He even looked both ways before pressing through a four-way stop by moving his head from side to side in a kind of slow, obvious fashion.
