The Last Call

by George Wier

“How 'bout onion rings? Ever had that?”

  “Nope. Never did.”

  “Chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes?”

  “I like mash potatoes.”

  “Mashed potatoes it is then!”

  Most of their conversation was like that and they managed to run through the entire menu, the old fellow asking about this dish and that dish and the little girl nodding her head appropriately and looking up at Julie for approval and asking for clarification about the things she’d never heard of before.

  Hank and I just looked at each other, smiled and nodded.

  After ten minutes or so we all ordered. I knew I’d be picking up the check and a sinking feeling came over me; the knowledge that my credit cards would be getting a hell of a work out in the very near future.

  I noticed that Dock and Hank were carrying on some kind of covert conversation.

  “What’s going on, you two schemers?”

  Dock looked up suddenly, as if he’d been caught red-handed.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Private conversation. Something I’ve been trying to talk to Hank about for the last couple of years and I’m beginning to think he’s not really interested.”

  “Now that’s not exactly true, dammit,” Hank said.

  Julie reached over and slapped Hank’s hand.

  “Ow! What?”

  She had an angry look on her face and she nodded in Keesha’s direction.

  “Language!” she said.

  “Oh!” Hank said. “All I said was ’dammit’.”

  Julie slapped his hand again.

  “OW!” Hank jerked his hand back. “For Pete’s sake!”

  Keesha giggled and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Naw. He’s not interested,” Dock said and put a hand up on the table and started adjusting his silverware.

  “Tell me, Dock,” I said. “I might be interested.”

  “Here we go,” Hank said.

  Dock gave him a withering look.

  “What?” Hank shrugged.

  “Okay,” Dock began. “So I’ve got this rental property in Harker Heights-that’s a little town that’s grown up into Killeen, sort of like a thorn in its side, you know-”

  Hank cursed under his breath.

  “Ow!” Hank sat upright. “Somebody kicked me! Bill, you’d better control your woman!”

  “Shut up, Hank,” I said. “Go ahead, Dock.”

  “Anyway, I’ve got this duplex over there-nothing but trouble. I don’t know what to do. About the time I get one set of renters in one half, the other half goes vacant and I have to make repairs. I’m all upside down on the mortgage too-bought it when interest rates were too high and I can’t refinance it because of my age, now. I haven’t seen enough on it to cover payments, repairs, and taxes too. And I wouldn't have bought it except for a slick-talking real estate agent-a friend of a friend, you know-called me up and told me about this foreclosure. So, I picked it up and have had nothing but misery with it ever since. I retired in 1972 and should have stayed retired, know what I mean? I got no business trying to invest in real estate. I’m a retired deputy sheriff from down in Hays County. I guess I never really hardened up, except in San Diego during boot camp. That was back in 1944. I guess I was born expecting the best out of people and have never been not-disappointed since. Maybe I ought to change my ways of looking at things, you know?”

  “Don't change a thing, Dock,” Hank said. “It's the world that needs to catch up with you.”

  “Reckon you're right. But it’s not just other people I expect more out of. It’s me, I reckon. I was down dropping off my taxes the other day, and I overheard this young whipper-snapper refer to me to this other accountant-fellow as a ‘slumlord’. Didn’t like the sound of that. I guess they were just following the stereotype, thinking that because I’m old I couldn’t hear worth a damn. I can still hear the Baptist preacher inside his church across the valley screaming at his congregation on Wednesday night. My hearing hasn’t changed since I was about two.”

  “You just have the one duplex, right Dock?” Hank asked.

  “That’s right,” he said, scratched his head and looked down at Keesha again. I noticed whenever he looked at her the corners of his mouth turned up into a little smile.

  “Well,” Hank said. “I never heard an official definition, but I think you’d have to own a row of them, come by a couple of times a month not to repair anything but just to browbeat everybody for their rent to technically qualify as a slumlord.”

  “Hank’s right,” I said. “That’s about the closest I’ve ever heard to a real definition of the word.”

  “Well. That makes me feel some better. Still, after all this, I’ve got to get rid of the damned thing. Not sure how to do that, though. I was hoping Hank here would take them off my hands.” Dock looked over at Hank. Hank shook his head in the negative.

  “I’ve got a friend who can help you with that, Dock,” I told him. I fished out my wallet, pulled forth a business card and handed it to him. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back in my office, Dock, but why don’t you call me and I’ll give you the numbers for a couple of honest realtors and investors I know who could take it off your hands. You might be able to get some or all of your money back out of it. If the market has corrected itself since last I looked, you might even be able to make some spare change.”

  “Well, thank you kindly, Sonny.”

  “You have to watch Bill, Dock,” Hank said. “He’s always at work, even when he’s not.”

  “Just exactly what is it that you do, Bill? You never did say?” Dock asked.

  The food arrived before I could start in. It was just fine by me. I never did like explaining myself. That’s sort of like going around asking people for a license to survive. Not only that, but once I start down that road, I’ve found that nine times out of ten I have to get into the ins and outs of how I do what I do, whether or not I make money at what I do, and if so, then I have to handle people’s ignorance on the subject of what is legal and what’s not. As if they knew.

  I watched as Keesha’s eyes went as round as saucers at the large plate put down in front of her. She shook her head in disbelief.

  “Can you bring her some more water?” Julie asked our waitress. Keesha had drained her tall glass within the first minute of sitting down.

  “So what're we gonna do with this little precious one here?” Dock asked.

  Keesha smiled up at Dock as he turned to her and she squished some mashed potatoes out through her teeth. Dock’s mouth opened in a big “O” of surprise.

  Keesha turned to look up at Julie and the two started making faces at each other, sticking their tongues out and rolling their eyes around. I wished I had a camera.

  We all dug into our dinner.

  If we were hungry when we got there, we were in agony when it was time to leave. I was so full that I felt like it had been Thanksgiving.

  As the waitress cleared away the plates, I decided since I was paying for it all that it was my turn to talk.

  “Well,” I began. “Since Jake and Freddie are gone, maybe we should turn our attention to the little one here. Decide what we’re gonna do.”

  I looked over at Julie. She was studying me carefully. I was thinking that suggesting anything short of adopting the kid would get vetoed flat out even before it got to committee. I looked at Keesha. She had grown on me a bit in the short space of time since she had surprised us.

  “We need to go back to Killeen, get my car, get you home, Dock. In the meantime we’ll decide what we should do about Keesha. My friend Lawrence White might help us.”

  There was a bit of a silence for a moment. I wasn’t sure if Dock had gotten what I was trying to say, so I plunged ahead again, trying a different tack.

  “You’ve got grandchildren, don’t you Dock?” I asked.

  “Sure I do. Two of ’em. They live in Gunnison, Colorado.”

  “What I think Bill is trying to ask is, if there’s any reason you should back
out of all this, now might be the time,” Hank said.

  “Oh,” Dock said. He looked down at his hands. They were old man’s hands. Mine would look like that one day, if I lived long enough. “Well…” he began, “there’s nobody waiting for me at home, that‘s for sure, unless you count Geena’s ghost. My wife. I lost my wife back in ‘95 to cancer.”

  “Oh,” Julie said. She reached over and put her hand on his and squeezed.

  “It’s okay. I think she was tired of the world. In the end it was a blessing. I see my daughter about once a year. Sometimes she’s brings Harper and Kelly, but not always.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m just trying to give you an out, Dock. Regardless, what we need to do now is go and pick up Julie’s car. Meanwhile Hank and I will think of our next move. But I think the obvious thing is-“

  ”Shopping!” Julie said.

  “Shopping!” Keesha echoed.

  “Uh, like I was about to say-shopping. Then over to-“

  ”My apartment,” Julie interrupted again.

  “Her apartment,” Hank said.

  “Yeah,” Keesha said.

  “Check, please,” I called out to our waitress across the room. The place was starting to get crowded. I looked down at my watch. Where had the time gone?

  “And a couple of boxes for all this food,” Hank called out. “I’ve got a hungry dog out there.”

  I’ve heard Austin described as the largest small town in the world. I think that description is the closest I’ve ever heard to the truth. The evening rush hour traffic was gone, having disappeared into residential driveways and restaurant parking lots, and the sun had dipped down low behind the trees to the west. Travel through the city had opened up and street lamps were coming on one by one.

  Hank and Dingo and I were in Julie’s roadster, and Dock, Julie and Keesha followed us half a block back in Dock’s Suburban. We headed north in the direction of Town Lake up South First Street.

  Austin is a series of hills coming down stair-step fashion right to the water. Out on the water we saw lovers in canoes and kayaks, wet paddles flashing in the last dying rays of the sun.

  We passed the South First Street bridge and left Town Lake behind us. South First curved to the right and became Lavaca Street. Again, north of the river the hills resumed, stepping back up again into the high-rise jungle of downtown. The traffic became one-way, splitting into channels between the synthetic canyons of concrete, steel and glass. Pedestrian traffic became practically nil. If it had been a Friday or a Saturday evening, instead of a Tuesday-or at least, I was fairly sure it was Tuesday-we would have had to mind our speed. Austin’s Sixth Street is famous throughout the Southwest and is a heavy draw during the weekend: college kids from the University of Texas and Austin Community College flock downtown in droves and middle-aged professionals in search of their misspent youth (and a maybe a little company) can normally be spotted, trying desperately to look as though they belong.

  The few people we saw were lost in their own worlds.

  We passed downtown. The governor’s mansion loomed on our right, lit in a wash of sodium arc lamplight. Peeking between the Methodist Church and the Capitol Hotel we could see the State Capitol itself. Later, after full dark, its pinkish rose granite frame would become white in the glare of capitol complex lights. As Texans, we’re proud of that building.

  We jagged left a block at Martin Luther King Boulevard, leaving Lavaca behind and trading it for Guadalupe, what natives call “The Drag.” I guess I’d been living in Austin long enough to call myself a native. At least I felt like one.

  We continued north. The University of Texas was there on our right, rolling past. Tall, stately oak trees obscured academic buildings named after long-forgotten deans and contributors.

  In north Austin we pulled into the parking lot of a Target store. Hank and I sat waiting while Julie, Dock and Keesha piled out and walked over to us. Julie came up to my window. I fished a credit card out of my wallet and handed it to her without a word. I could see gratitude in her eyes. She bent over and kissed me, the tops of her breasts showing with just a hint of cleavage. Hank and I waited while the trio disappeared inside the store.

  Hank whistled.

  “That’s some girl you’ve got there,” he said.

  “Yeah. You don’t know the half of it,” I told him.

  “Just what is it you do for a living, anyhow?” he asked. I suppose I was a little shocked he’d asked me, seeing as how I’d saved his bacon once.

  “I’d be happy to tell you,” I said.

  “Yeah? When?”

  “Right after you tell me what happened to McMurray.”

  He didn’t, so of course, I didn’t.

  I always did know how to kill a conversation.

  Hank and I waited nearly an hour. We didn’t do a whole lot of talking but instead allowed our food to digest while we watched shoppers go back and forth across the parking lot.

  Julie and Keesha finally emerged from the sliding doors. They were holding hands and each of them had a shopping bag. Dock followed. They were a little too fast for him.

  The two girls were smiling ear to ear as they walked over to us, but they both looked a little tired.

  “Bill,” Keesha began, all excited. “There’s a lady in there that’s really a man!”

  “I’m not surprised, darlin’,” I told her. “This is Austin.”

  “Austin,” she said. “Ohhhh.” I almost laughed. Maybe she never knew what town she was living in before, but on the other hand, maybe she knew completely.

  “What’d ya’ll get?” Hank asked.

  Keesha looked up at Julie.

  “Well,” Julie said. “We’ve got a few dresses and some jeans and shirts and stuff.”

  “That’s mighty fine,” Hank said. I looked over at him. The old bastard was enjoying himself.

  “Well,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  The day might have been coming to a close, but I had that sinking feeling; an awareness that things were more than likely about to heat up.

  CHAPTER NINE

  What is it in our nature that makes us think just because we can't see danger immediately in front of us that we're going to be pretty much alright? I just don't know.

  Julie lived in northwest Austin west of Loop 1 and south of Highway 183 in a duplex that resembled a medieval castle. The duplex stood near the crest of a high hill and looked like none of its neighbors.

  We drove by slowly. Hank and I were still in the roadster and the rest of the crew was in the Suburban. More and more the situation was coming to remind me of a high school band trip.

  Hank and I checked out all the parked cars along the road. No light blue Ford F-150 pickups. No North Texas Bubbas lying in wait.

  Hank and I drove past the duplex and took a good look.

  Nothing.

  Two blocks down we turned around in a cul-de-sac, came back and parked across the street from Julie’s place. We waited.

  It was full dark. To the east there was the purplish twilight above the glow of the city against the sky. From where we sat, between the trees I could see the UT Bell Tower bathed in bright orange light, about the same magnitude of brightness as the three-quarters moon just above it. The orange glow there meant that UT had won their baseball game.

  Along came Dock’s Suburban and the twin spears of bright light from his headlights. He pulled up onto the long, narrow driveway. His lights went off. The interior lights came on as Julie opened the passenger door and closed it behind her. She sprinted across the street to us.

  “Okay,” she panted a little, “This is it.”

  “Lemme see your keys, Julie,” Hank told her.

  She fished in her jeans pocket and I heard the rattle of keys.

  “I haven’t been here in awhile, Hank,” she said. “I don’t know what the place is going to look like. Those idiots could be inside there laying for you, for all I know. It’s the door on the left side. That’s mine. I don’t think the other side�
��s been leased yet.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll check it out first.” Hank reached into the burlap sack beneath his feet and pulled out his silvery.45. He opened the door and climbed out.

  “You get in with Bill for a few minutes,” he told Julie. “I’ll be right back.”

  Julie slid in beside me.

  The night was quiet but for the rrrrr-rrrr-rrrrr melody of crickets.

  Julie and I watched as Hank climbed up the front walkway. She interlaced her fingers with mine and squeezed.

  Hank peered in through the front windows. He moved around to the west side of the place and disappeared for a few minutes. We waited.

  He reappeared, traversed the front and disappeared around the east side of the duplex. I noticed a small “For Lease” sign perched halfway up the yard beneath the drooping branches of a Wisteria. Hank reappeared again and was about halfway to Julie’s front door when we both noticed Dock climbing out of his Suburban.

  I heard Julie’s whisper: “Don’t do that, Dock.”

  By the time Hank got to the front door and was inserting the key, Dock had made it within twenty feet of the front of the house.

  Explosions have a life of their own. They are like universes unto themselves with their own internal laws of time and space, cause and effect. To a person caught inside one I imagine it must be like knowing what is going on-time being stretched, and instances lasting eternities-and being able to do nothing to control it. As a spectator, just on the periphery, it’s instantaneous.

  My first thought, lasting about a hundredth of a second, was the lights had come on inside the duplex, but then the glow swelled in brightness becoming too bright for my eyes. The windows, the whole front of the stone duplex became convex and the roof lifted up several feet in the air. For an instant it was daylight.

  Beside me Julie’s ponytailed head, neck and shoulders looked black, silhouetted against a brilliant orange-white halo, then wisps of her hair blew back toward me horizontal as the blast wave rolled over us and pushed her hard against me. My left hip and shoulder slammed against my door.

  The roar was of lightning striking close by, but with a horrible rending sound that continued after it. And then came the rain: pebbles, stones, boards, splinters of terra cotta and whole individual u-shaped tiles that burst into fragments on the sidewalk and street.