Never Use a Chicken and Other Stories

by Jim Newell

  “Please wait just a moment, sir,” said the clerk as she handed back his lottery ticket. “I will ask Mr. Richardson to speak with you.” She disappeared into an office nearby from which John Hamilton Rogers could hear a murmur of voices through the closed door. The murmur seemed to become a trifle louder and then the door opened, the clerk motioning him to enter the private office.

  “Well, sir,” began the dapper young man who was standing behind the desk in the office. “It would appear that you have had some good fortune. Please sit down. May I have your name?”

  “John Rogers,” said John Hamilton Rogers as he sat on the chair on the other side of the desk from Mr. Richardson. “John Hamilton Rogers IV. That means there were three others who have had that name: my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.” He smiled at the young man across the desk.

  “Uh, yes,” Mr. Richardson replied, also smiling, but rather thinly. He found himself looking at a graying, more than middle-aged man, slightly under six feet in height, wearing a totally disreputable jacket, a dreadful pair of old work pants made from some heavy material, a once-white shirt and Heaven only knew what kind of shoes. Mr. Richardson became aware of some quite real feelings of foreboding rising from his middle depths. The smile doggedly hung to his lips in spite of the foreboding.

  “What is your address, Mr. Rogers?”

  “I don’t really have an address. I sort of stay wherever I can for as long as I can stay there. Right now I am at the Civic Men’s Shelter.”

  When John Hamilton Rogers IV mentioned the shelter, Mr. Richardson’s feelings of foreboding became infinitely stronger.

  “Yes. Well. You probably realize, Mr. Rogers, that we do not exactly hand you three million dollars in cash. The, um, terms of the lottery are such that we deposit into your bank account the sum of three hundred thousand dollars each year for a period of ten years. Will you, uh, give me the name of your bank and the number of your account there so that we may begin the paperwork? And, oh yes, if you will let me have that winning ticket, I will give you an official receipt for it.”

  “Well, now. That does present a problem.” John Hamilton Rogers handed over the ticket and watched Mr. Richardson begin to write the receipt. “I do not, ah, presently seem to have a bank account.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked at the lottery official. Mr. Richardson sat quietly for a moment, the picture of a man who was fighting a very strong battle against forebodings. Neither man spoke for several seconds. Then a slow smile began at the top of Mr. Richardson’s eyes and moved downward until it filled his entire face.

  “I believe, Mr. Rogers, that we can solve the problem for you. Perhaps you would be in agreement with a plan whereby I call a bank manager I happen to know and arrange for him to open an account for you and then we can deposit the money into that account.”

  And so the transaction was done. After what seemed to be an interminable time of waiting for papers to be drawn up, and signing his name in many places, John Hamilton Rogers IV, multimillionaire, left the offices of the lottery corporation and walked to the branch of the bank where his money was to be deposited. Once inside the bank, he approached the nearest clerk and stated his errand. Again there was a request to wait, and again he found himself sitting opposite a rather nervous young man in a quiet office. Again he went through the routine of giving his name and lack of permanent address.

  “Do you have some suitable identification, Mr. Rogers?” asked the manager. This time the forebodings came from the nether regions of John Hamilton Rogers IV. “What kind of identification are you looking for?”

  “Oh, a driver’s license, Social Insurance card, something like that will be fine.”

  The forebodings became acutely strong. “No sir, I have nothing like that at all.”

  “Well, surely you have something to prove who you are. We must have some kind of document to show that you are who you say you are before we can release the money to you.”

  “You mean you won’t give me any money until I can prove who I am with some kind of paper that has my name on it? Some official paper?

  “That’s correct, Mr. Rogers. I’m sorry but that is the only way we can do business.”

  John Hamilton Rogers IV sat very still for several long moments. Then he did a totally uncharacteristic thing. He jumped from his chair, reached across the desk and with the palm of his hand, smacked the startled bank manager across the side of his face. The manager yelled, people came running, including a bank guard, and later a policeman. John Hamilton Rogers IV stood still and let it happen.

  * * *

  “Name?” asked the judge

  “John Hamilton Rogers IV.”

  “How do you plead to this charge?”

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  “Thirty days.” Bang went the gavel. “Next case.”

  * * *

  Thirty days later, John Hamilton Rogers IV walked into the bank again. He looked different enough in his clean clothes and fresh shave that the clerk did not recognize him until he told her his name. This time the manager came to him and carefully kept the counter between them. He waited for John Hamilton Rogers to speak first.

  “I have brought you the identification that you need.” He offered an official-looking paper which stated that John Hamilton Rogers IV had served thirty days in the city jail upon conviction of the crime of common assault and was discharged with the record having been noted. The manager looked at the form for some time. Then he reached across the counter and shook hands with his client.

  “That’s what I call doing things the hard way, Mr. Rogers. Now, what is your next step, and how may I help you without sending you back to jail?”

  “Just let me have a thousand dollars. I’ve done a good deal of thinking during the last month. I need to get some clothes, a place to live and somebody to show me what to do with my money. Perhaps you would help. A man as careful as you about who you give money to ought to be able to help me look after it.”

  The banker joined in the laughter of the man who had just served a jail term for assaulting him. After all, John Hamilton Rogers IV was somebody of some importance.

  Don’t Forget Cigars

  Who says smoking kills you? If I hadn’t remembered her cigars, I wouldn’t be alive to be telling you this story.

  “Don’t forget cigars,” she had said.

  I almost did forget. I remembered when I was halfway down the mall, just past the travel agency and before the third jewelry store, the place opposite the ladies wear store. There’s a kiosk in the middle of the mall there where they sell lottery tickets and cigarettes and tobacco. The area was quiet at that hour of the morning, not many people around, which may be why the sight of the kiosk triggered my memory.

  “Don’t forget cigars.”

  I was almost past the place when I remembered. I made a right turn to go over to buy cigars and saved my life. First thing I noticed was the expression on the face of the man looking at me. When I saw the barrel of that .38 raising up to point at my ribs, I jumped. Jumped right over the side of the kiosk, into the cigarette display, into the man behind the counter busy selling something to a customer. His yelling was louder than the crash of both of us falling to the floor under the cigarettes and other stuff that came down on top. The screams of some old ladies who saw the crash were even louder. The few people around made up in noise what they lacked in numbers. Not that I had time to listen too carefully.

  The guy with the gun didn’t wait to help us up. He left. At the time, I didn’t know who he was or where he went, and I didn’t hang around to find out, either. As soon as I got my brain working again, which took five or ten seconds before I realized I wasn’t going to die after all because the jump and the crash spoiled his aim and he couldn’t shoot, I realized he would be gone. So I pushed my hand into the face of the cigar-stand guy and that stopped his yelling. I could see other faces peering down at us over the counter, but I didn’t wait to see if they were faces I should r
ecognize. I just kept shoving the kiosk operator’s face, which made him squirm away from me giving me a chance to get untangled from him and get free from the mess of stuff that had fallen with us. It took him until I was almost on my feet before he began yelling again.

  “Hey! What’s going on? What the Hell do you think you’re doing? You trying to get us killed or something? What’re you doing jumping on me? Look at the mess in here! Hey! You! Where’re you going? Get back here! Hey! Somebody grab that guy! Hey! Hey!”

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. In fact I’m not even sure those were his exact words. By the time he got that far I was down the mall heading for the exit nearest the place I had left my car in the parking lot. I wasn’t running. That would attract too much attention and most people were looking toward the man who was yelling and waving his arms. But I was walking fast. I didn’t look around to see what was happening at the cigarette and lottery kiosk. I figured I had won the lottery by jumping over the guy’s counter back there and I wasn’t planning to push my luck.

  Just as I was about to go through the outside door to the parking lot my brain kicked back in gear again and I made a fast U-turn back into the mall. That move almost knocked over a couple of senior citizens loaded down with packages, most of which they dropped. I didn’t know nice old people used gutter language like that. Especially women. Maybe they weren’t your typical nice old couple. Such people don’t use the kind of words they used. To give them credit, they weren’t expecting the sudden change of direction I made, but really, when I was a little boy, my mother would have washed my mouth out with soap if I had used words like that.

  The reason for my abrupt change in direction was the sudden realization that heading for the parking lot was not a very bright move. In fact it was a very dumb move. Whoever the man was who had pointed that .38 at me a few minutes before, he obviously knew I was in the mall. He must have followed me there from somewhere, so he also knew where my car was. He would have to be pretty stupid not to go back there and wait for me. I would have to be pretty dim to go back there and give him a target. I know that I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer sometimes—there are those who would say most of the time—but not this time. I figured that my safest spot was in the mall surrounded by people. People who could be witnesses in the event of gun shots. Now that I think about it some more, that had not been terribly safe so far. Right then I still wasn’t thinking too clearly.

  In the donut shop beside the supermarket I sat in a booth where I could watch the door and let a cup of coffee warm my shaking hands. I thought about the past fifteen minutes. “Who wants me dead?” I asked myself. Then, a second question. “Why does someone want me dead?” I asked myself the second question because I couldn’t answer the first question. I began looking for a third question because an answer for the second didn’t make an impression on my brain, either. There wasn’t any immediate third question rushing for an answer, so I reviewed the first and second questions with the same lack of success.

  All that thinking about questions and non-answers managed to create some analysis so the exercise wasn’t totally lost. And the coffee did make my hands stop shaking. I got a second cup to give the hands something to do while the brain was trying to get organized. The first part worked. My hands had something to do. I had been straight—well, relatively straight—for the entire three months since I had left the prison. The couple of little jobs I had pulled were solo jobs and only brought in peanuts, insurance money you might say, so I couldn’t have been in the way of any mob activity. No. It wasn’t the local organization who wanted me dead so badly that they would have me killed in broad daylight in a shopping mall. I was pondering that proposition when the word “they” jumped out at me. Thinking can do that to me, interest me in the words that make up my thoughts. I guess that’s a good habit sometimes. This time, anyway.

  They, I thought. Maybe it isn’t “they.” Maybe it’s “he.” After a few minutes on that track, another light went on. Maybe, I thought, maybe it isn’t either “they” or he.” Maybe it’s “she.” Cherchez la femme, as they say.”

  But what femme? Louise wouldn’t want to kill me. I spent the next few minutes thinking very kindly about Louise. If it hadn’t been for her wanting me to buy cigars, I wouldn’t be alive, would I?

  Thinking about Louise and her cigars made me smile. Very few women smoke cigars. Louise smoked one a day. At dinner. I think she began doing it for effect, which was crazy because Louise didn’t need any special effects. Not too many women have all Louise’s effects! At least not organized the way she does. But she had smoked her one cigar a day for as many years as I had known her. That was about six. We had been living together for almost six years, minus the eighteen months I had been a guest of the county for that stupid job Harry loused up on me.

  Anyway, not Louise. She was even more loving and great to be with after I got out than before I went in, if that was possible. I’m a lucky man to have a woman like Louise, I thought. The last three months had been great. That was why I had had to pull a couple of small jobs. Louise was worried about me and what would happen to her if I had got killed in prison. I tried to tell her that worrying like that was silly. Prison was no big deal. Do your time. Keep your nose clean. Stay out of the way of anybody who had set himself up to be a big shot. No problem. But you know women. They get their minds made up to something, they don’t change. So I took out the life insurance policies.

  It was one of those television ads that did it. You’ve probably seen them, the ones that say no matter how old you are or what the state of your health is, you can buy life insurance with no medical exam, no questions asked. They give you a toll-free number to call. Well it was Louise who called my attention to the fact that three different companies were running those ads. We saw them one night while I was watching a ball game on the tube. Two baseball games and a basketball game, to be exact. This time of year there’s at least two sports going on and I switch channels watching parts of different games. So one night while I was switching channels we saw three of those life insurance commercials, one during each game. Louise wrote down the toll-free numbers.

  It took her a while to wear me down. I’m in the age bracket where I could buy the maximum amount of coverage, a hundred grand. So that meant I could buy three hundred thousand in life insurance. Louise figured if I had that much coverage and she was the beneficiary, she wouldn’t worry so much if I went to prison again.

  “Baby, I’m not going to prison again,” I told her.

  “That’s what you said before,” she reminded me.

  She had a point. I had said that. Of course I hadn’t figured on Harry’s stupidity, either. Louise didn’t think Harry was so stupid, and she said so. I didn’t argue. She wasn’t there when his stupidity brought the cops. How could she know? And like I already said, once women get their minds made up, that’s it. She had her mind made up that Harry wasn’t so stupid, and she had her mind made up that I might go back to prison and that I might get killed.

  She also had her mind made up that I was going to get all that life insurance. So she called the toll-free numbers and I went out on a couple of jobs to pay the first premiums. Now if I kick off, she can be comfortable, she says.

  So it wasn’t Louise. But what other woman? I don’t really know any other woman. I don’t know any man who would want me dead, either. Not even Harry. He didn’t get caught and I didn’t rat, even if it was his stupidity that got me caught. So I gave up on the “he” or “she” answer to the “who” question and went back to the “they.” No luck there either. My coffee cup was empty again, so I decided I ought to concentrate on another problem. I had to get out of that mall and get home without getting killed. I also had to do it without the car. Louise could pick it up later when she went to work. She’s hostess at a lounge, a real ritzy place, about five minutes from the mall.

  I decided the safest thing to do would be to take the bus. The bus stop was just outside the north entrance to the m
all, the opposite direction from the area where I had left the car. And a number eight bus stopped outside our apartment. If I waited for a number eight, I could ride home surrounded by people. That’s what I did. I had to wait about three-quarters of an hour for a number eight bus, but that was no big deal, either. I had plenty of time. I watched people while I leaned against the wall. I waited three-quarters of an hour. I was looking for anyone who showed any special interest in me. Apart from a couple of giggling teenage girls who seemed to have an interest in any male under forty who happened to cross their line of vision, I couldn’t see that anybody had any curiosity about my being alive at all.

  The bus ride was the same way. Nobody paid any attention to me at all. I made the distance from the bus stop to the front door of the apartment building in something under thirty seconds. Louise was on the phone when I walked in. “Well, tell him to try again,” I heard her say. “I’m not paying for failure.” I heard her slam down the receiver just as I walked from the hallway into the bedroom where the phone was.

  “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She was smiles and hugs and oh, my goodness, what a welcome. I still get excited thinking about it. I managed to forget to ask who was on the phone. She didn’t even frown when I confessed to having forgotten cigars.

  Louise was working three to eleven that evening so I was home alone. There was only one ball game on the television schedule for that evening. Wouldn’t you know, the game was rained out. No domed stadium in that city. I flipped channels but there wasn’t anything interesting. Finally, about nine-thirty, I decided it would be safe enough to go out. I decided to go down to the place where Louise worked and have a couple of drinks at the bar and drive her home. She would have the car. She had agreed to pick it up from the mall parking lot on her way to work.