Don't Bet On It

by J. L. Salter

  Don’t Bet On It

  By J.L. Salter

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  DON’T BET ON IT

  Copyright © 2014 J.L. SALTER

  ISBN 978-1-62135-277-8

  Cover Art Designed by CORA GRAPHICS

  Since my main character is an elementary school teacher, it’s fitting to dedicate this short novella to my wonderful third grade teacher, Mrs. Ray Katherine Netterville [Dunaway]… whom I knew as Miss Nett. It took me almost 53 years to track down her married name and thank her, but I found her again in May 2012.

  Chapter One

  Saturday, very early morning

  It wasn’t like I could dump the contents of a flash drive onto a pad of paper and start revising with a red pencil. I desperately needed a new laptop, since my ancient one died and my almost-finished manuscript required considerably more polish before I could submit it anywhere.

  Yeah, I’m a writer — in those few spare minutes each day after lesson plans and grading papers.

  Sale day would be the best opportunity — perhaps my only chance, on a teacher’s salary — to acquire a new device with the upgraded software, memory, storage, and Internet access I needed, plus a few bells and whistles if possible. The largest electronics store in Verdeville was having a one-day Super Sale.

  I should have known there would be a waiting line, but I never imagined it would already extend some ninety feet when I arrived just after five a.m. Probably shouldn’t have picked up that sixteen-ounce coffee on the drive over. My best friend Joan had wimped out on me at the last minute, so I had to face my challenge alone, among all those strangers on the dark sidewalk… with a full bladder.

  GreeneCo Electronics wouldn’t open until nine, so I had nearly four hours to wait outside in the chilly morning air. Yeah, I badly needed a restroom… big news. None on that stretch, but around the corner was a gas station and mini-mart which stayed open all night. Theirs would most certainly be nasty, but sometimes a girl has little choice.

  Problem was I’d lose my place in line. Unwritten law in Greene County was one person, one place — you couldn’t mark an imaginary X on the pavement and pretend you were saving a spot for some other person. So I needed a proxy. But whom?

  I couldn’t confide in the buxom, animated woman behind me or the skinny, morose one in front, because they might also be looking for a surrogate. If a stand-in came near, I wanted to nab her or him first. All I saw, however, was somebody jogging, and I could only hope that runner was curious enough to run near the long line of idiots standing in the chilly dark.

  He was.

  With the hoodie, he could easily have been a stereotypical mugger, but somehow the tight elastic running shorts and fluorescent patches on his expensive shoes convinced me he was just a fanatic getting exercise.

  When I frantically waved him down, he paused — running in place — and checked his watch, then looked distinctly perturbed.

  “Sir… mister, could you help me out?”

  Eyeballing the long queue, he had to have known we weren’t waiting for a bus. “What do you need?” he panted.

  “Can you hold my place in line while I go check on something?”

  His grin started to form in mid-pant. “Where or what is it? Maybe I can check it out and report back to you.”

  “Har har. You know what I mean… a restroom.” I said the final word with a hoarse whisper as though nobody else in line had imagined the possibility. “Can you hold my spot for just a minute or two? I’ll make it worth your while.” Though not intentionally, it somehow sounded tawdry.

  “Closest restroom is around the block,” he dabbed a wristband against his forehead. “There and back would be a minimum of fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, fifteen, whatever.” My voice reflected the urgency. “Please hold my spot. Ten bucks for your time.” When I thrust my left hand forward, the bill fluttered slightly in the cool breeze.

  When he finally stopped jogging in place and pushed back his hood, I could see sweat glistening on his rather handsome, unshaven face. “I don’t need your money, lady, but I’ll save your spot if you’ll agree to a wager.”

  “What kind? And make it quick.”

  “If you’re back within that fifteen minutes, you can keep your bribe and I’ll continue running.”

  It’s not a bribe, just a retainer. “But if I’m not?”

  “Then you’ve got to join me for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Okay, no problem.” His eyes scanned the darkness. “Maybe you’ll find somebody else in an hour or two.” He started to replace his hood.

  “No, wait.” I gulped. “Okay — deal.”

  “Under common law in Tennessee, this is a legally binding transaction. Should we get a witness to attest?”

  “I’m a woman of my word — no blood signature necessary either — but right now I have something urgent to tend to.”

  Though not necessary as a witness, the busty lady immediately behind me seemed incredibly involved in our conversation and transaction. She was standing closer to the jogger than I was.

  “Okay, take off, but be back in fifteen minutes.” He pressed a button on his watch.

  “Yeah, yeah…” My eyeballs were sloshing. “I’ll probably be back in ten.” I took off toward the gas station and quickly discovered when a person’s bladder is at capacity, it’s not possible to trot as fast as predicted. I got there, however, and completed my mission. Yes, the place was nasty.

  Returning, I noted the line currently extended several hundred feet behind my reserved position — good thing I’d secured my place.

  Standing there and smiling, the perspiring man clicked something on his watch. “Glad you’re back. I was afraid you’d skedaddled.”

  Nobody uses that word anymore. “Who are you, anyway?” I gave him the same skeptical squint I use in class when students fabricate excuses for not doing homework.

  “Just a Good Samaritan for hire, helping ladies in distress.”

  More like a cruel mercenary, taking advantage of my weak bladder. “Well, anyway, thanks for helping out. Here’s your fee.” I handed him the bill I’d been clutching.

  He pulled back his hands like my currency was poison. “Sorry, but you lost the bet. You’re late.”

  I had checked my own watch a moment ago, so I knew he was technically correct, but it was really close so I didn’t figure he’d be a stickler to the minute. “Well, I was back at the line within the allotted fifteen minutes… just didn’t make up this far.”

  “Still a technical foul. You had to be back here in fifteen.” He bent his thick, hairy wrist as he thrust out his watch. “It’s been sixteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I win.”

  I wondered if the bling-laden, bosomy lady — barely inches away — would testify against me if I discreetly slugged this mercenary. “You’re not actually going to hold me to that, um, wager… just because of a minute and a half?”

  “Ninety-eight seconds… and yes, I am.” His chin jutted self-righteously.

  Nice teeth, interesting dimples among the sweaty stubble — but I was in the market for laptops, not an attractive con man. “Okay, you’ve had your laugh.” I figured I co
uld reason with him calmly, like when I refereed playground scuffles. “I was technically late, even though it wasn’t my fault. Take the money and finish your run.” I extended the bill again. “Joke’s over.”

  “No joke. I won the bet, so I collect. We have a date tomorrow evening.”

  Showing a lot of cleavage, the woman behind him arched her eyebrows and leaned in even closer; she didn’t want to miss a word.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I sputtered and looked around for support, but everyone turned away except for Ms. Cleavage, who obviously couldn’t resist my public drama. “You’d actually compel me to be in your presence, even though it’s totally clear that I don’t want to be?”

  “It wasn’t long ago that you needed my presence to save your valuable spot.” His grin suggested he was not offended that I found him so loathsome. “Besides, I won the bet… and you gave your word.”

  I groaned. “What kind of stupid date?”

  “Supper, like I said before you rushed off.”

  I hadn’t listened — my bladder had rerouted all the brain activity from my ears. Besides, I was so certain I’d be back in time. “Just supper. One meal and it’s over. No funny business.”

  “A contract’s a contract.” Another cheerful smile. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “No way, Jack. I’ll meet you there. There was nothing in your contract about transportation.”

  He stroked his chin stubble as he nodded. “You’re right. Guess you were paying attention.”

  I curtly motioned him aside so I could resume my rightful place in line. “So where is this place? Better not be in Timbuktu.”

  “Right here in town — pizza place down by the Verdeville Mall.”

  Anything he said would’ve made my mouth water since all I’d eaten — at four-thirty a.m. — was two toaster pastries. “Okay… seven tomorrow.” Then I turned to glare at the tattooed shoulders of the bone-skinny woman in front of me.

  He cleared his throat, like in the movies, so I slowly turned my head again, making certain my annoyance was clearly conveyed.

  “You forgot to give me your name.”

  I hadn’t forgotten — I’d just hoped he would. “Chloe… Chloe Watson.” Then I curled my lip into a sneer. “I don’t expect you’ll require photo ID.”

  “Nope, I trust you, Chloe… and you gave your word.” Then he pointed. “Besides, I have this lovely lady behind you as a witness.”

  “And I’m Christine Powers.” The woman actually cooed as her ring-covered hand fluttered near her ample bosom. She then watched his tush as the runner abruptly checked his watch and, without another word, jogged away into the darkness.

  I was still smoldering, which is not a terrific mood while stuck in a mile-long line outside the darkened electronics store.

  “So who was that dreamy guy with all the muscles, tight shorts, and those tanned hairy legs?” asked the very interested Ms. Powers.

  “Never laid eyes on him, Christine. Just some dilettante taking advantage of a helpless woman’s bladder.”

  “I only came here to find a 72-inch plasma TV for a song, but I’d be tickled pink to go home with your toned-up runner man.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not mine and I’d be happy to let you have him.” I groaned. “There must be laws against that sort of extortion.”

  “I didn’t catch his name, did you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Don’t care, either. He’s Mr. Pizza as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to have indigestion with him any day.”

  I had to tune out Christine’s hormonal exuberance, so I just faced the bony shoulders in front of me and started counting the rather unpleasant number of colorless moles visible among her scattered tattoos. She was probably buying a wall-sized TV too.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday, late morning

  Good thing I didn’t have to teach that day — would’ve bitten off the heads of half a dozen second graders.

  I was bummed.

  About laptops, for one. Yeah, all the moderately priced machines had disappeared by the time I’d finally entered the doors around eleven a.m. Even though most prices were slashed to less than forty percent of normal retail, the remaining big ticket items were still exponentially out of my grasp. If they’d pay teachers more than starvation wages, we could afford rent, car loan, utilities, insurance, clothing, groceries, gasoline, and electronics.

  Also quite apprehensive about my appointment — couldn’t call it a date — with the unnamed stranger. My momma had always cautioned never to date unidentified sweaty joggers. Well, maybe not that specific warning, but her admonishments certainly included players like this running guy. He probably picked up women about every other day with that handsome face and “Sure, I’ll hold your spot in line, ma’am.”

  I was also extremely disappointed in myself for allowing a mundane emergency to cloud my judgment. And I was totally furious at my teeny bladder!

  All that lost sleep, all those wasted hours… and still no new laptop. Maybe I could borrow Joan’s old one, an obsolete model that she’d inherited from a brother who’d bought it used when I was in junior high. Oh yeah, that would surely meet my writing needs.

  Bummed and gloomy — plus hungry but nothing to eat at home except a PB&J sandwich with stiff bread — I began some serious plotting.

  Could I duck Mr. Pizza? Well, possibly. I mean, he had my name, but there could be lots of folks in Verdeville named Chloe Watson. Didn’t have my phone number… but could he find it? Maybe he worked for the CIA and had one of those super databases that knew the last time I gassed up. Ha! I bet he had a whiz-bang laptop!

  Could I cancel? Yeah, maybe I could come down with something contagious in the next eight hours. I coughed a few times. Nope, didn’t sound convincing. Plus, I’d given my word. How had he tricked me into that? Additionally, I had no way to notify him.

  But I had to talk to somebody, so I decided to walk to Joan’s apartment later that afternoon — in part, to check on her old laptop. She lived only two blocks from my house.

  ****

  About 6 p.m.

  “Are you out of your mind?” demanded Joan Kyler for the third time, with long pauses in between to stare at me incredulously. “He’s probably a serial killer and you’re Victim Eleven.”

  “The lady behind me named Christine seemed to think he was safe enough.”

  “I don’t care if each of the four hundred people in that stupid line all vouched for him, you’re nuts to go on a date with this maniac.”

  “He’s probably not a maniac. And it’s not a date, it’s supper.”

  She gave me the look.

  “Okay, supper is a booking of sorts, but that doesn’t necessarily constitute an official date.”

  Joan just shook her head. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll take precautions.”

  I knew she’d explain so I didn’t even ask.

  “Take your pepper spray and that key chain noise thing I got you for Christmas last year. And, let’s see… what’s the most concealable gun you have?”

  “Joan, I can’t waltz into the pizza place with a loaded firearm. Besides, all I have is a shotgun my dad loaned me.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “They’d think I was holding up the place… I’d be arrested.”

  “At least in jail you’d be safe from that serial killer.”

  I just slumped onto her recliner with the broken handle which wouldn’t let it recline. “I’ve got to go through with this. I gave him my word.”

  “That doesn’t count with murderers. You’re allowed to lie to their face if it helps you get away from their clutches.”

  I groaned and shut my eyes. “I’m going, Joan.”

  She reached over and placed a consoling hand on my knee. “Did you at least get that laptop you’ve been lathering about?”

  “Nope. The only ones left by the time I got inside were the mega-priced industrial grade models like NA
SA uses to launch space shuttles.”

  “Figures. No laptop, plus you’ll be dead in about an hour.”

  “Look, Joan, if you had come with me like you’d promised, you could’ve done all your mother hen stuff on the front end when I first saw this guy. It’s a bit late now to insist you’re saving me from some dire fate.”

  She just sputtered.

  I was extremely glad I’d decided to consult my good friend because now I felt so-o-o much better.

  At least I had her ancient, forty pound laptop in my arms. Did it even have a word processing program loaded?

  ****

  Later that evening

  Mr. Pizza must have deliberately planned my punishment — I refused to consider it a date — so quickly, knowing it gave me too little time to worm my way out of the deal.