Least I know with Günter Stroh the name’s clean as the breeze come up through the trees in the morning, cool and sweet, put a tingle on the skin and make a man feel they’s nothing in the world so bad he can’t knock it to its knees when he choose.
If I took Gunter’s name, I might learn his peace as an old man like I learned his likker as a young ’un.
Twist back ’round. Nurse eyeballs me.
Her lips is movin’.
“I don't feel too good,” says I. “Where the hell am I?"
“Fourth floor, ICU. Where are you supposed to be?”
“New York.”
Joshin’ don’t feel so bad as lyin’.
She raise her brow — just the one on the right.
“Yeah, I got the contract for all the shine in Brooklyn.”
“Huh?”
“Speakeasy.” Wink. “Pretty girl like you know ’bout the speakeasy.”
She elbow the other gal out her computer screen. Her lips move like to make words but she swallows instead of spittin’ ’em out.
“Joshin’ is all. I come up one floor on the elevator. Gotta find where they sell tobacca. Ain’t had a chaw in hours.”
“Sir, do you need help returning to your room?”
“I’ll git. No tobacca up here.”
Push the IV stand and skedaddle. Wonder how I’ll find new duds in a hospital ’less they come from someone like the feller wants to go to heaven. Can’t go in his room and dig in the cabinet while the wife sobs — though with her eyes clouded the feat is doable. But stealin’ is stealin’ and since it’s rotten on the face, it’s best to steal from assholes and not good folk that’s dyin’. Or if I can’t steal from an asshole, I want it someone I don’t know one way or t’ other, so they’s a chance. Let the Almighty guide my hand and turn my evil into good.
To the elevator.
Right ’bout now I reckon Abe Church is feedin’ Joe a burger.
Remind me of the responsibility I shoulder, though when I left North Carolina it waren’t with the goal to see how many bags I could schlep, as Günter’d say.
A man choose his burdens each day. He maybe don’t know, but if he don’t pick ’em up they don’t get picked. He carries ’em all day each and every, and when his shoulders hurt and his back stabs and his legs is weak he’ll dream ’bout what he’d be without his lot, if he had someone else’s. But truth is he’s nothin’ but his burdens. Makin’ bags is all he’s ever done. He stews on his past, walks to the door and sees he's had no life at all save the one he wants rid of.
And so I got the responsibility of Corazon and Tat weighin’ on me, and just like the past is bags I got to shoulder, the future’s where I ’spect the cool hemlock breeze to make things right, so I can do it better on the second go ’round, if I get one.
I got to bust out Tat and Corazon.
Chapter Eighteen
Whooeee! I’m broke out the hospital. Couldn’t go back for the towel but I expropriate from a man-nurse’s locker some blue jeans with what they call fifteen twenty year back the acid wash. I got on new jeans look old and a shirt smells of deodorant, likely rain fresh ’nough it’ll work for me too.
Played hell gettin’ the polo over my arm cast and my head still feel like a bag of boiled taters, maybe mixed with somethin’ cruel. Rat poison?
Down the elevator and cross the first floor, looks like a five-star hotel with a grand piano and fine art. Nobody at the reception station. Out the double doors, turn right and gander at the parking lots, climb the hill and they’s a truck parked out back where none the security lamps shine. Ole Church don’t enjoy the spotlight.
That’s the man’s character.
Guess that’s maybe why I sense the kinship. He’s always about and ready to help. You can’t beat a feller like that. And I suspect he’s frustrated with the untruth around him, same as me… yet somehow ole Church figure out how to roll with the world despite knowin’ what it is.
Ain’t ashamed to say I maybe could learn from the man. It’s the social aspect I lack. Boggles the brain how a feller can talk to liars and not want to skedaddle back where he come.
Truck door open and the dome light show Church climb out. He’s steady on his feet now he got somethin’ weighs a ton to hang onto. He’s a big somebody. Come around the front.
No Stinky Joe.
Raise the open hand.
“Dog?”
Church smile. “He’s in the back.”
Must be in the bed under the cap. Now I hear scratchin’ claws like Joe’s ’bout to dig out a Rhino bed liner.
“You said at the hospital you’re going to Chicago?”
“That’s right.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Soon’s I grab my dog and car.”
“The Eldorado?”
“That’s right.”
“Haven’t registered it in your name yet, Alden?”
“Wh — ”
Stop talkin’.
Think.
“That’s a nickname,” says I.
“Interesting.”
“Good. I didn’t mention it afore, but I long ago decided I’d murder anyone who said it three times.”
Church raise his hands. “Easy.” Smile. “Just fooling. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, Günter. And if you ask me, Alden isn’t much of a name at all. Sounds a little pussified.”
“Exactly.”
“So why’s it on your driver’s license?”
“That’s a fake ID you saw it on, is why.”
He watch my face for lies and I watch his eyes. Fuckin’ uncanny.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Church say.
“Tell me, friend, how you come to study my license?”
“I thought you’d want your billfold.”
“They must be six or twenty steps you’re leavin’ out.”
He pulls a billfold and toss it. I got no balance and one arm.
“Shit,” says Church.
“Stop.” I lower to a knee ’fore Church get three feet. Grab my billfold. I look him straight eyeballs and get nothin’ but a dark night and air that feels more December than April.
Shove the wallet in my stolen drawers. “I won’t do you the dishonor of lookin’ inside.”
He give me a wisp of the shrug-frown. “Who names a boy after a pond, anyway?”
“Come agin?”
“Alden. Get it?”
“That’s two. An’ I ain’t shittin’.”
“Heh, yeah. You said your lady friend teaches physics?”
Stinky Joe scrapin’. His voice cry out. I march for the truck.
Church lurch. Cut me off. Put his hand on my shoulder and I get a lone spark. He pull away.
“Just a second,” Church say. “Let me get that.”
I stop. He’s so big I’d need two of me to get around him. He rests his hand on the truck’s cap door. Stinky Joe behind, whinin’.
“You planning on coming back to Glenwood Springs?”
“I’m planning on getting my dog in one single damn second. What the hell’s going on with you?”
“Just help me out with one thing. Are you coming back?”
“Why is my whereabouts and whatnots so important?”
Church look a little coy but I got no more juice nor red to go with it. He shake his head, lean on the truck. Sigh.
“Well, you tangled with Frank Lloyd. I’ve had a hardon for that guy for years.”
“I know what a hardon is. You must mean a kind I ain’t heard of.”
“I want the son of a bitch behind bars.”
“Oh. That’s good. Real good.”
“I need to know if you’re coming back. You’re squirrely about your name and where you come from — and that’s your right. But if I need you as a witness…”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then what business you got with a hardon for Frank Lloyd?”
“I’m
the undertaker.”
“What? Like a joke?”
“No, I’m an undertaker. The thing you have to understand in any town, it’s never the man himself who does things. It’s the people the man knows.”
“Sound like a riddle and I ain’t got time. I want my fuckin’ dog.”
“Then let me solve it for you. I’m the swinging dick around here and I want to know I can count on you to show up in a court of law.”
“Ah.”
Stinky Joe scrapin’.
“Maybe let’s see how Stinky Joe is, that good?”
Church twist the handle and the door elevate on its own. Stinky Joe jump agin the tailgate while Church pull the latch and drop it. Joe stumble half sideways and leap out. Land like his legs is springs and bound half across the lot with his ass low and happy. Pent up energy is all.
“Did he shit yet?”
“Four times. I was almost late.”
“Any in the room?”
“None I smelled.”
Joe lift his hind leg to a shrub.
Church say, “Why don’t you give me your cell phone number?”
“Don’t got one. Why in hell I wanna give up my right — ”
“No cell phone?”
“Zip.”
Church look at the stars.
“No offense, Abraham.”
“It’s just I don’t know how I’m going to reach out when I need to.”
“It ain’t my way to have other folks know my plans, you understand.”
“I understand, but … ”
“But I’m coming back here come hell or high water and maybe with a battalion ready for war. Mark my words on that.”
He look like he shit a porcupine, tail first.
“Who are you going to war with?”
“I said ’nough already. Now you been good to me and I appreciate it, but beyond what’s been said I’ll say no more.”
“Yeah. Right. If that’s what you want. Sure.”
“You understand.”
“Hundred percent. You’ll look me up?”
“Count on it, my friend. I won’t forget. Good. Alright.” Offer my hand and he shake it. “I appreciate you, Abraham Church. I really do.”
“No problem.”
We get shook and he swab his brow with his forearm.
“C’mere, Stinky Joe.”
Just raisin’ the voice swamps the head in misery.
Squat careful since I don’t got use of the right arm and Stinky Joe sniff the cast. I scruff his ears.
Who is this prick?
“Easy, Joe, easy. Let’s get on.”
Blood pressure build while I stand and time I’m back full height my head’s ’bout to pop.
“You’ll need this.”
Church swing his hand back and first thought is he’s goin’ for the gun — but he got no reason and it’s just my three AM nerves and headache and whatever drugs they shot in me. He gimme the motel key from his pocket.
“You want a lift to your room?”
“Nah. Appreciate ya. Druther walk an’ clear the cobwebs. You know what drugs they give me in there?”
“Oxycontin.”
“That a good one?”
“Lotta folks speak of its merits.”
“Meanin’, when it wears off I’ll be hurtin’ more.”
“A lot.”
“And the dog says I can’t drink Wild Turkey.” Wave at Church. “I’ll look you up when I get back.”
“Be safe. Chicago’s full of crazy people.”
“It ain’t just Chicago, Abraham.”
Stinky Joe walk aside me and we cross the parkin’ lot behind the hospital. On and on.
“Puppydog… That a little weird?”
Stinky Joe looks back.
He’s still there. Not going anywhere.
Chill in the air and now we’ve gone a hundred feet I’m a mite self critical on account I didn’t swipe a wool sweater along with the polo shirt.
Why do you think he’s still there?
“He watchin’ us?”
Yep.
“Dunno. He’s a good feller but every man’s motivated by stupidity more ’n wisdom.”
That include you?
“Accourse. Maybe I shouldn’t speak for others.”
The chicken leg woman. That’s your stupidity.
“You wasn’t there.”
You talk in your sleep.
So now I’m dreamin’ on Chicago Mags.
“Well, dreams is bullshit so don’t go readin’ too much in that. I want her views on a couple things weighin’ me down, is all.”
Joe stops at a McDonald’s bag next the curb and tear at the rolled up end.
Cold out. I try and hug myself warm but realize my right arm’s busted in a cast. Guess that pain killer’s finally got to work.
“Go ahead, Joe, if you’re hungry. Didn’t Church bring you any cheeseburgers?”
No. But I smelled them.
“I told him to sweet talk you with some cheeseburgers. I think that’s what I said. Did he tell you I sent him for you?”
Your friend doesn’t talk to dogs.
“That is concerning. How’d he convince you to get in the truck?”
It was as simple as pointing his gun and dragging me with a rope.
Stop. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Turn around. “I’ll kick his ever lovin — ”
Hold up. Think on it. Is that what you want right now?
Piece of cold hit me on the nose and it melt. Snow. One flake, like a miracle.
“I don’t know at that. What you think?”
I’d let it rest. Like meat.
“Hmm.”
Shiver. Cold out — and no one ask me afore the change.
“Either way I need some clothes. Let’s get back the room.”
Turn right at the corner and after a hundred some yards left at the 82 heads to Carbondale. Pass the motel Church thought I was at and after a bank and couple other joints, the Lodge. Couple men sit on coolers smokin’ cigarettes. Joe growl. I nod. Wonder what I’d do if accosted without a firearm. Cuss ’em real good, I guess, and offer Joe encouragement.
Spot the Eldorado and good thing, otherwise I wouldn’t know which room’s mine. I got the memory back for everything I’d normally recall, but some — which room’s mine — I wouldn’t bother with anyhow.
Open the door and I got juice on my left arm and the right bein’ under a cast, nothin’.
Step quick to the dresser and grab Glock, right where I left it. But holdin’ with my left hand the gun feel light, though I ain’t calibrated my left hand on the Glock, only Smith.
Need a Smith ‘n Wesson.
Glock pointed, light on, I open the bathroom door and push back the curtain. Empty. Back in the main room Stinky Joe study me.
There’s nobody here.
“I got the juice.”
You’re cold and taking dope.
“You think that’s it? What’s your nose say?”
There’s no one inside.
Lower Glock and heft it side to side. Got my suspicion up. Close the door behind Stinky Joe and lock the deadbolt. At the table I break down Glock, seekin’ what’s missin’. Love to fire one into the bed so I know it works. Have to do it once I get on the highway. Reassemble and place the gun on the table.
That juice-on-my-arm tingle’s gone but my suspicion ain’t. I give the key to Church but that don’t mean he was the only one here. Motel staff got keys and —
Shit.
Eldorado keys on the dresser by the television. I got a hollow in my stomach and a couple dry swallows don’t fill it.
Better go check.
“You was here.”
Locked in the back of his truck while he went through the room.
Swipe the keys. Unlock the dead bolt. Open the door.
Here’s my dumb ass ’bout to go outside without Glock.
I tuck the firearm in my left front pocket on account I never practice pullin’ a gun from my ass
southpaw.
Go outside. “Come on, you black booted son of a bitch. I’ll tell you how the cow ate the fuckin’ cabbage.”
Nobody near but the two gloomy fellers with the cigarettes. Wave Glock and they wave back, then the one on the left jab the one on the right. They nod and wave and nod and back step into they room. Good. Nobody need see this.
I rest Glock on the trunk lid and fetch the keys, insert and twist. Latch pops and I grab Glock and push the trunk up easy, a poker player checkin’ his cards. But I can’t see nothin’ ’til the lid’s high ’nough anyone on the floor above can see too.
Gold is undisturbed.
Slam the trunk, lift with the fingers on my good hand. Locked. Good. Now back to the task at hand. Inside the room I sit on the bed and look about. If I was seen they’d say I was puzzled. Seen by who? That’s the question.
By and by the electric’s gone and my left arm start to tingle sympathetic to my right. Whole thing maybe just the mind playin’ tricks.
“Joe, when Church come for you, he do anything in here?”
He was in the bathroom.
“Oh? What’d he do in there?”
Number two.
“Shit.” Shake my head.
Good one. Impossible to predict.
“He didn’t say my name and he didn’t bring cheeseburgers.”
I said he didn’t give me any cheeseburgers.
“Wait a damn minute. You sayin’ he tease you with the cheeseburgers and don’t give you none?”
That’s what I’m saying.
“Don’t sound like Church at all.”
Can’t get my mind around Abraham Church. I got to assume any man with the curse is gonna be a strange cat and after a life seein’ untruth like a technicolor Picasso makin’ the world fucked up ugly, he’ll be worn slap out. Get to where wakin’ up ain’t a joy so much as a mild insult. Feller like that take an interest in a brother like me, and find himself maybe asked for more help’n he want to give, maybe get his nose outta joint and get a little testy. Good people sometimes’ll treat other people fairly rotten and it ain’t a surprise some of the people so treated is dogs. I don’t like it, but without seein’ the cheeseburger denial incident myself…
Chicago Mags.
Can’t help wonder what the legs is like, and I remain baffled how the woman’s wormed into my head without once even openin’ her coat.
‘Nuther thing. If them legs and tits ain’t in order, I dunno. Woman’s brain might be too much.
The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6) Page 12
