The Last Kind Word

by David Housewright

  Josie cupped the young man’s cheek, then patted his arm before leaving the table and making her way down the bar to where I sat. I looked away so she wouldn’t think I was watching her. I turned my attention to the baseball game. By then the starting pitcher was just finishing his warm-up tosses. Josie pulled up a stool. The bartender made her a vodka Collins without being asked, and she thanked him. He asked her how she was doing, and Josie said she was fine. Then he said, “Dave okay?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Dave, her brother,” the bartender said.

  “I know who he is.”

  “Dave’s okay,” Josie said.

  “Tell him, anything he needs…”

  “I’ll tell him.” To me she said, “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “A couple of menus, please.”

  The bartender said, “Sure Josie,” gave me a what’s-your-story look, and moved down the stick.

  “The bartender knows that your brother is hiding up here?” I asked.

  “In a small town, people don’t need a newspaper,” Josie said. “You only need a newspaper when stuff happens that people can’t see or hear about for themselves. In a small town, it doesn’t take long before everyone knows everything.”

  “I do not find that comforting.”

  The bartender reappeared, gave us menus, and disappeared again. The menu recommended Buckman’s “World Famous Cheeseburger.” I had never heard of it, but then I didn’t get out much.

  After the bartender served us, Josie leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “I’m guessing that the first person to arrive at the terminal in the morning, probably the attendant, has the key. He unlocks the padlock, unwinds the chain, opens the gate to the enclosure, and then hangs the padlock on the chain without locking it because, why would he? That just makes extra work for himself later. The last person to leave, and maybe it’s the attendant again, he closes the gate, wraps the chain around it, and locks the padlock. We’re hoping he doesn’t notice we switched locks. Later tonight, we’ll sneak over there, unlock the padlock with our key, get inside, place the GPS loggers on the trucks, then switch our lock with Mesabi’s again. Tomorrow they won’t even know we’ve been there.”

  “What if they have security cameras?”

  “If they do, they’re hidden pretty damn well, because I couldn’t find them.”

  “What if we get caught?”

  “Nonresidential burglary for a woman like you without a record, they’d slap your wrist and make you promise not to do it again.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What will they do to you?”

  “What can I say, sweetie? I’ve been living on borrowed time for years now.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “Sweetie, I know.”

  “I wish I knew more about you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “Let’s see. I like jazz. I like baseball. I like the ballet, believe it or not. I prefer whiskey if I’m going to drink to excess and beer if I’m not. When I read—and I read a lot—I’d rather have a real book in my hands instead of one of those electronic gizmos. I like to cook. I don’t believe in saving money, and I’ll never marry because I refuse to impose my lifestyle on anyone I care about. What about you?”

  “Me? You’ll think I’m making fun of you.”

  “Give it a try.”

  “I don’t like jazz or baseball or whiskey or beer, and I’ve never been to the ballet. I’m a lousy cook. I don’t read much that’s not business related. I think everybody should save their money, and I desperately want to fall in love and get married.”

  “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Josie.” To prove it I clinked her glass with my beer bottle.

  We sat at the bar and watched the Twins. I nursed the Sam Adams, much to the bartender’s chagrin—hey, I had work to do—while Josie had multiple vodka Collinses. Possibly the drinks loosened her up, because she turned out to be a pleasant companion despite her refusal to accept the sacrifice bunt as a sound baseball strategy. “Why would you deliberately make an out?” At the bottom of the fourth inning I quietly announced I needed fresh air. I returned a few minutes later and informed her that that the third truck had yet to return.

  “How long should we wait?” she asked.

  “Until all of the trucks are inside and the place is locked up tight, probably sometime during the dark side of midnight.”

  “That sounds fanciful.”

  “My dad, when I was a kid, he would warn that nothing good ever happened after midnight. The dark side, he called it—stay away from the dark side. I was a Star Wars fan. It made perfect sense to me.”

  “Speaking of the dark side.”

  I followed Josie’s gaze to a woman who was loitering at the front entrance. She stood alone, a woman built to be of service to men, drawing long gazes from male and female patrons alike, soaking in the awareness like a solar panel—it seemed to energize her. She swung her body as she walked the length of the bar. She expected the audience to follow her, expected to be gawked at.

  “Hey, Josie,” she said when she reached us. Her short skirt slid up to there when she hoisted herself onto a stool and crossed her legs. Her legs were made for crossing. Being a gentleman, McKenzie would have averted his eyes. Dyson was no gentleman. “Seen Brian?”

  “It’s not my turn to watch him,” Josie answered. There was a chill in her voice that I had not heard before.

  “I thought he’d be around,” the woman said. She motioned for the bartender, ordered a beer, and asked that he pour it in a glass. At the same time, she slid a pack of Marlboro Lights out of her bag.

  “No smoking,” the bartender said.

  “Shit,” the woman replied.

  “Not working tonight?” Josie asked.

  “I was, but the place is pretty dead, so I only did one show.”

  Up close I could see that the woman had large brown eyes that looked a little sad, the way that all large brown eyes do, and that her strawberry hair was tinged with gray at the roots. Her smile was warm, although her teeth were dingy from tobacco.

  “You’re Dyson, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Hmm, Dyson?” I replied.

  She reached past Josie and patted my hand. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

  I glared at Josie.

  “Dyson, this is Claire de Lune,” she said. “Claire is Jimmy’s fiancée.”

  “He told me everything about you,” Claire said. “From what he said, I thought you’d be taller.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. I shook Claire’s hand. It was stronger than you might expect. “I hope you can keep a secret better than Jimmy.”

  She turned her attention toward the other customers in the bar even as she spoke. “Jimmy and me don’t keep secrets.”

  “I do.”

  “Don’t worry. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  A glance into Josie’s eyes told me that it was an opinion not widely shared. “I hope…”

  Claire gestured contemptuously as if the topic were undeserving of any further consideration and continued gazing around the bar. “I thought for sure that Brian would be here,” she said.

  “Claire de Lune is a very pretty name,” I said. “It means ‘moonlight’ in French, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s also the name of a piano solo by Claude Debussy.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Claire took a cell phone from her purse and headed for the restroom.

  “Lovely woman,” I told Josie. “Very gregarious.”

  “She’s an exotic dancer.”

  “You mean a stripper?”

  “Jimmy says exotic dancer.”

  “No kidding? She’s a little old for that line of work, isn’t she?”

  “Ho
w should I know? I only know she’s a decade older than Jimmy. Her real name is Sandra Dawson, but I guess that didn’t have any marquee value.”

  “How did she and Jimmy—”

  “How did they meet? They met in a strip club, of course. Jimmy saw her and…” She paused and shook her head as if the words necessary to finish the sentence were too dismal to speak. “That’s not even the half of it. Claire got pregnant and told Jimmy he was the father. Jimmy agreed to marry her. The family demanded that she take a paternity test. Turned out the child wasn’t Jimmy’s. He insists on marrying her anyway. Actually put money down on a townhouse. I begged him not to. He did it anyway. He’s already underwater and they haven’t even closed yet.”

  “Who’s Brian?”

  “Brian T. Fenelon. Her manager, boyfriend, pimp, I don’t know what, except that he’s a creep. Why?”

  “I think he’s headed this way.”

  Josie turned in her stool to see a short man with thin hair wearing a rumpled sports jacket over a colored T-shirt as if he were channeling Miami Vice reruns. He moved toward us with the swagger of an athlete who had let himself go, who believed he could still play the game despite the fat that settled around his middle. Claire was a head taller than he was, yet she draped herself on his arm in a way that made me regard her planned marriage to Jimmy as wishful thinking on his part.

  “You Dyson?” he asked. His voice reminded me of the high-pitched yap of a fox terrier. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  “How the hell does everyone know I’m here?”

  “Shhhh,” Josie said.

  I glared at her. “Why? Someone’s maiden aunt in International Falls hasn’t heard yet?”

  “Whoa, big fella,” Fenelon said.

  He rested his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know if it was meant to be friendly or intimidating. I jerked my shoulder free and gave him my best “don’t touch” scowl just the same. He swiveled his head and decided that too many people were watching.

  “Let’s grab a booth.”

  We sat, Claire and he on one side of the wooden booth, Josie and I on the other. I finished my Sam Adams and set the empty bottle on the table in front of me. Fenelon spit on his hands and rubbed them together before leaning forward across the table.

  “I don’t want to waste your time,” he said.

  “I appreciate that,” I told him.

  “I know what you’re planning. I want in.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be like that. I can help you.”

  “Help me what?”

  Fenelon leaned in closer and whispered. “Help you rob an armored truck.”

  I glared at Josie again. “We need another meeting,” I told her.

  “I know everybody in the county,” Fenelon added. “Everybody. I can be a big help to you.” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening before whispering some more. “You and me, we could run this town.”

  “Isn’t that what the Emperor told Darth Vader before they started building the Death Star?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I’ve had Star Wars on the brain lately. Listen. Brian, your name’s Brian? I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

  “Jimmy told us everything, and I’m telling you, whatever you need, I can get it for you.”

  “Whatever Jimmy told you, it’s just talk. It doesn’t amount to anything.”

  “Then why are you still in town where anyone who knows your name could drop a dime on you?”

  “That sounds like a threat.” I turned to Josie. “Does that sound like a threat to you?” I turned back to Fenelon. “Did you really mean to threaten me, Brian?”

  “No, no, no, of course not. I’m just saying, I can help you—or I can hurt you.”

  “Ahh, you can hurt me. As long as we have that settled.”

  “Brian,” Josie said. She didn’t have the chance to finish her thought before Fenelon cut her off.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he said. “No one is talking to you.”

  I picked up the beer bottle by the neck and smacked Fenelon on his balding head. I hit him hard. Not hard enough to kill him, just hard enough to demonstrate my displeasure—the bottle didn’t even shatter. There was a satisfying thud against his skull that sounded like a rock landing in soft dirt, and Fenelon jerked back against the wall of the booth before slipping out onto the floor. His falling out of the booth was what caused people to stare. I carefully set the bottle back on the table. Josie’s eyes widened as if she had just discovered that one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World was parked in her front yard.

  “He was harshing my mellow,” I said in my defense.

  Surprisingly—at least it was a surprise to me—Josie showed more concern for Fenelon than his girlfriend did. Claire watched him fall out of the booth without saying a word, took a deep drag of the cigarette she wasn’t supposed to be smoking, and swung her impressive legs over the edge of the wooden bench like she was about to stand, but didn’t. Instead, she looked down on her boyfriend’s sprawling body and shook her head slowly as if it were a sight she had seen so often that she had grown bored with it.

  I slipped out of the booth and knelt next to Fenelon. His hand was massaging his injury. His eyes glazed over.

  “What?” he said. “What?”

  I leaned in and whispered. “You’re right. I need you. I need someone who knows his way around. No one can know we’re working together, though, especially Josie and her people. Call me names. Tell everyone you hate my guts and you’re going to get me. I’ll contact you through Claire and tell you what I need in a couple of days. Don’t let me down.”

  “You bastard,” he said. I helped him up and he pushed me away, one hand still massaging the spot on his head where I hit him. There was a big red knot, but the skin was unbroken. “You sonuvabitch, I’m going to get you. I’m going to fuck you up.”

  The bartender came to the booth in a hurry. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Fucker suckered me,” Fenelon said. “Hit me with a bottle.”

  “I didn’t like the way he talked to Josie,” I said.

  “What did he say?” the bartender asked. I told him. Apparently the bartender didn’t like it, either. He turned Fenelon around and shoved him toward the door. “I told you I didn’t want any more trouble from you. Now get out.” Claire followed dutifully. I trailed behind, listening to Fenelon’s loud albeit wholly unimaginative litany of epitaphs and threats. Outside the bar he turned on me.

  “I’m not finished with you,” he shouted. It was an impressive performance. You couldn’t even tell he was acting, but then Fenelon was just playing himself, wasn’t he? I gave him the thumbs-up sign in a way that only he could see it and stood watching while he retreated to his car. Across the county road I noticed that the third armored truck had been returned to the terminal, the other vehicles had disappeared, and the enclosure was now locked tight. After watching Fenelon spin his wheels on the loose gravel and drive off, I went back inside.

  Josie had returned to our original stools at the bar. I joined her there. She looked at me as if she didn’t know whether she should be impressed or angry. After a few silent moments, she asked, “Did you do that for me, hit Brian for insulting me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “There’s no reason why you should.”

  “What if he calls the police?”

  “He won’t,” I said.

  “What will he do?”

  “Whatever I tell him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Greed. The only thing that makes a man act more stupidly than a beautiful woman is greed.”

  Josie studied me for a long moment and then motioned to the bartender and ordered another vodka Collins.

  * * *

  I waited until the ball game was over, about twenty after twelve, before settling the tab and leading Josie outside. She was unsteady on her feet.
I poured her into the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus, went to the driver’s side, and proceeded to activate the GPS loggers.

  “I can’t figure you out, Dyson,” Josie told me. “You’re such a nice guy and then you’re such a shit. I can’t figure that out. You can’t be both. How can you be both?”

  “Practice,” I said. “Stay here.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Stay in the car.”

  “Dyson?”

  “What?”

  Josie took my face in both of her hands, kissed me hard on the mouth, drew back, giggled, and brought her hand to her lips.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean to do that. You should go. You should go right now.”

  “Stay here,” I told her again.

  I crossed the country blacktop after making sure there were no vehicles coming that might catch me in their headlights. I opened my padlock and took it off the chain, being sure to lock it again so there would be no confusion later. Once inside the enclosure, I tagged the bottom of the back bumper of each of the three armored trucks with the magnetic boxes containing the GPS loggers. I returned to the gate and rechained and locked it using Mesabi’s padlock. Less than five minutes passed before I was once again settled behind the wheel of the Taurus. Josie was slumped against the passenger door, snoring softly.

  * * *

  Josie stirred, sighed, and mumbled something incoherent as I lifted her from the passenger seat. Her head lolled against my chest, and I carried her to her home. She was not heavy. Still, her body was slack, and that made it difficult, especially when I had to unlock the front door and haul her across the threshold. I carried her upstairs and laid her gently on the bed. As I looked down on her body, a lot of things came to mind that I could do, all in the guise of making her more comfortable. I did none of them except remove her shoes and drape a quilt over her. I went downstairs to her living room and settled on the sofa—I knew how to get to her home from Buckman’s but not to the lake cabin, so I was there for the duration.