Time Games

by Rex Bolt

  Pike asked the girl a couple tables away if he could borrow her phone for a second, and she didn’t hesitate for a moment and told him to please help himself. Man, they were friendly out here and the girls were awful wholesome and unpretentious, though Pike had to wonder if some of that was maybe on account of them being Mormon.

  Robinson’s didn’t have a web site, but there was a Yelp page that was pretty lively and up-to-date, and what do you know, there was a Halloween gig of some sort tonight, all mixed drinks half price if you were in costume plus free lasagna and chicken wings and creme puffs.

  Pike handed the phone back to the girl and thanked her, and he asked did she know of a bus or something that went up to Blackfoot. She said she thought there might be but she didn’t want to give him the wrong information, but she’d be glad to call someone who might know.

  Again, so nice. Pike told her he appreciated it but that wasn’t necessary. He was tempted to ask her to come with him tonight and drive him--what’s the worst that could happen if you posed the question--but he came to his senses and remembered he unfortunately had Chuck to deal with, if he was lucky, and that would be more than enough on his plate.

  Before he left her alone he asked her one more thing, where a Kinko’s might be, and that she did know and she pointed out the window and explained how to get there, which turned out to be a couple miles.

  A lot of walking lately, but what could you do?

  The coffee had kicked in enough by now and as he walked over there he decided Dave’s idea was worth a shot, or at least a modified version of it, and it was a spacious, comfortable Kinko’s where you could rent computer time, and lay out fancy documents and then print them up.

  Pike printed a few extra copies that would require duplicate signatures, the more official-looking presentation the better, and racked his brain if there was anything else he could add on, and decided there wasn’t and got out of there.

  Now you had the afternoon to kill. It was awful strange to think that Dani was around right now and not far from here, at her school, all the little kindergarteners no doubt dressed up and Dani telling them ‘what a good job’ on their costumes.

  And this would be . . . what . . . heck, only three, three-and-a-half weeks after she took care of Marcus? Which Pike couldn’t place an exact date on but remembered it occurring the around the beginning of the month, so close enough.

  One way of course, which he kept coming back to, would be to stick around here until Thursday. Three more days, which could be a little rough but not insurmountable, and that would mean four days total away from Palm Springs when you include arriving here yesterday.

  So really only four hours where you’ve gone missing in Palm Springs, five tops if you had to stay until Friday, so what would it be, mid-afternoon there when you got back?

  Not a big deal at all, except of course for Hannamaker having that many more hours with Dani, which, even though it shouldn’t, bugged Pike.

  But it was tempting . . . all you needed to do, you’d surprise Dani by showing up when she got home from school Thursday . . . she might question why you were back so soon since you were just here on your Utah State recruiting trip stop . . . but you could explain your way out of that one.

  Then how you’d handle it, which seemed so simple, you occupy her for the evening so she breaks her Karaoke date with her girlfriend and thereby never does meet the bozo.

  It seemed clean but Pike knew it wouldn’t be, something would go haywire according to one of those laws of the universe, and you would have wasted all that time and ended up with a worse result.

  The concern obviously was connecting with Dani back here, and it didn’t seem right, not to mention you were probably in violation of something or other, and in fact it kind of gave him the creeps.

  So dang it, stop with that once and for all and focus on Chuck.

  It wasn’t a slam dunk of course that the guy would be there tonight, in fact it might be a bit of longshot, except for Dani mentioning they seemed to know him there. If he wasn’t, you go to plan B and try to screw him up somehow between now and Thursday so he doesn’t show up to meet Dani.

  Pike had no idea what Plan B would entail, but he didn’t want to think about it yet, and he had a good gut feeling that the old boy would be there tonight, the drinks flowing and the festivities rocking and probably, from Chuck’s view, plenty of loose women bopping around.

  So he went back to the Super 8, and in a touch of irony, laid around the pool. The difference of course was it was nippy, even though it was still technically fall here, so you didn’t exactly lounge around sun-bathing. But Pike found a Target nearby and got some swim trunks and the pool was nicely heated, and the hot tub was beautifully heated, and after a few rotations back and forth and a nice long nap in the room he was ready for his evening in Blackfoot.

  There was a bus it turned out, and it ran pretty often, but Pike sprung for a taxi, and the guy talked the whole time, mostly about Idaho State sports and specifically what the football team needed to do to get better, and the guy knew his stuff actually, plus he was just another one of those nice people you tended to meet out here, so Pike let him ramble and didn’t butt in. The guy dropped him off and he hoped he’d left the guy enough of a tip.

  One pleasant surprise right off the bat was that Robinson’s, even though it sure felt like a good-ol-boy bar all-around, was apparently one of those hybrid places that served enough food to qualify as a family operation, so bottom line . . . Pike wouldn’t have deal with maneuvering his fake ID.

  It was after nine when he got there, which might be early on some nights but with Halloween and all he figured the doofuses didn’t want to wait around forever in their outfits, and that things would start earlier.

  They weren’t kidding on Yelp when they promoted the thing, that it would be a big turnout, and Pike had never seen so many adults staggering around in costumes in his life.

  And a good two-thirds of them you couldn’t see their heads, and when you could, you couldn’t make out their faces due to all the make up.

  Pike decided he would never participate in something like this, but that was beside the point right now.

  He hoped there might be some Karaoke incorporated into the mix, so he’d have a shot at finding Chuck if he was here, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. It was essentially a free-for-all, and guys were hitting on gals pretty consistently, the costumes breaking down an extra barrier of inhibitions, on top of the liquor.

  Luckily Pike had double-checked the guy’s full name, back in Kinko’s, which he’d incorporated into his document.

  He’d re-dug up that article he’d read, which was about a month ago back in Beacon, and he remembered where he was because he had the house to himself on a weekday morning because he was finishing off serving his suspension for ripping the letter H off the football field scaffold.

  The headline was: Vacationer Dies in Thunderbird Motel Spa.

  But the important part was the son of a bitch’s full name was Charles Kolskie, so if he needed it he had it.

  People were pouring in and the chaos was only going to get worse. Pike tried to get one of the bartenders’ attention but that wasn’t going to work, and even if it did the guy wouldn’t be able to hear him unless he stood next to him and yelled into his ear, which people were actually doing to get their drinks.

  There was an Hispanic kid, a busboy, working his butt off but it wasn’t going to matter, as stuff was piling up twice as fast as you could clear anything away.

  Pike watched him for a while, and then followed him into the kitchen where you could hear yourself think, at least to an extent.

  The kid hustled a rubber bin full of dishes into the dish room and loaded them onto this conveyor-belt contraption, and when he came out Pike pulled out 5 bucks and gave it to the kid and told him he needed a minute.

  Pike could tell the guy was nervous about standing around, not because of the 5 bucks probably, but because he had a job to
do, and Pike admired his work ethic and told him he’d make it real fast.

  “Can you point out a man named Chuck for me please, out in the crowd?” Pike said.

  The busboy said he was sorry, but he only knew a handful of people’s names, and that wasn’t one of them.

  So Pike brought up the Karaoke, tried to direct the kid to who might be here now who also showed up on Thursday nights, and he described Chuck as best he could.

  “If I had to guess,” Pike said, “he’d be one of those performers who thinks they’re pretty good, and lets you know.”

  The kid did try to think, but he came up empty and was polite but needed to get back to work. So Pike dug a little deeper and pulled out a 20, and the kid said give him a minute.

  Pike watched him go back out into the throng, and instead of trying to go person to person and see if anything rings a bell, he found a waitress who happened to be carrying a big tray, and she stopped for a minute and Pike guessed they might be speaking Spanish, and she nodded her head a couple times and said some final thing and pointed her head toward the bar and started moving again.

  The busboy came back and said someone thinks it’s the guy dressed up like a hockey player, and he thanked Pike for the 20 and wished him good luck.

  Pike made his way out there which wasn’t easy and definitely was no fun. He didn’t like being pinned by crowds, and especially drunken ones, and naturally when you tap someone on the shoulder trying to get by and you say excuse me, they look at you like they want to fight. One guy already seemed to take offense, though it was hard to tell how seriously because the doe-doe bird had a rubber mask on.

  But Pike had the hockey player in view. Fairly big, raw-boned broad-shouldered looking guy, laughing a lot and too loud, one foot on that brass railing down below and the upper body leaning on the bar in a cocky position. Maybe not, the cocky part, how would you tell . . . but Pike was comfortable interpreting him that way, if it was indeed the guy, so what the heck.

  Pike muscled in close, observed the guy for a moment, which was as long as he could take it, and leaned over and said into the ear-hole of his hockey mask--which was even dumber than he’d thought, it wasn’t just a helmet with the face shield, it was a goalie’s mask-- “Are you Charles Kolskie.”

  The guy jerked his head up like who wants to know, and Pike could tell by his reaction that he was.

  Pike said, “It’s about the music. May I speak to you outside for a second?”

  “What music is that?” Chuck said, playing the tough guy, or maybe just being his normal ornery self.

  Pike didn’t answer but started making his way back through the crowd and outside, and he was pretty dang sure he’d roped in the mope enough to at least follow him out of curiosity.

  It was a relief to be out of there and back in the fresh air, and Pike went down to the corner to put some distance on all the activity at the entrance to the place, and he waited.

  It actually took a little longer than he thought, maybe 5 minutes, Chuck probably in there thinking I’ll wait out this twerp and show him who’s in charge, but sure enough there he was, lumbering down to the corner, the goalie mask off now, and under his arm.

  Pike shouldn’t have been focused on it, but he couldn’t help noticing the dude’s uniform was the Pittsburgh Penguins. Why would you root for them when you lived in Idaho?

  “Good to meet you,” Pike said, extending his hand. “I’m Mike Millette, PK Wizard Productions.”

  Chuck reflexively shook hands, but everything more in slow motion now, and Pike let whatever the guy wanted to read into it, sink in.

  “I pegged you off your Karaoke performances,” Pike said, realizing suddenly that it’s possible the guy hasn’t performed at one yet, that the waitress just recognized a guy named Chuck . . . so how would you handle that?

  But luckily Chuck said, “Gee . . . thanks.” Definitely in a dream-like state at this point, likely seeing his name popping somewhere in lights.

  Pike pulled out the contract he had printed up at Kinko’s. “I think I’ve got everything in order here,” he said. “Uh, let’s see. What’s your date of birth?”

  Chuck gave it to him like a robot, and Pike figured if he asked him to give him three backwards laps around the block, Chuck would have given him those no problem too.

  Pike said, “What we’re dealing with, is the next level. In Boise.”

  “Oh . . . you mean like . . . an audition?” Chuck said.

  “More like a controlled one,” Pike said. “You’ve made it to the second round. It’s possible that’ll be the end of the line, but based on the reports I’ve got on you . . . not to mention you’re a good-looking dude . . . you should be moving on.”

  “Unreal . . .” Chuck said. “ . . . and moving on to what . . . if I could ask?”

  “I’m glad you did ask. We’re in negotiations with Bravo, the network. The concept is a street-type throw down . . . very different than The Voice or American Idol . . . and people get eliminated for different reasons . . . but in the end it works the same for the winner, the big bucks and the record deal.”

  “Holy crap,” Chuck said, obviously trying to picture it.

  Pike said, “So all’s I need from you is your agreement, on the dotted line, and we’re almost good to go . . . What this is, you’re agreeing that PK Wizard Productions has you locked up for six months, or the duration of the show, whichever is longer.”

  “So you’re saying,” Chuck said, getting a little of the old cockyness back, or at least trying to pretend it, “if another fellow like you were liable to come along, I have to tell him I’m tied up.”

  “Essentially, yes. At least anyone representing another network.”

  Pike let it hang, and Chuck looked like a pile of pudding standing there in a hockey suit, not exactly the tough guy that liked to push women around.

  He wasn’t entirely stupid, and he did pick up one thing. “You said, we’re almost good to go . . .” he said.

  “That’s right,” Pike said. “What I’ll need from you now, is an accapella version of something.”

  “A who?” Chuck said.

  “One verse is fine, plus chorus and bridge. Anything you want.”

  “You want me to sing something? Right here on the street?”

  “It’s routine, but it’s policy, I’m afraid . . . We need to confirm your abilities before we commit on our end.”

  “Oh,” Chuck said, “you mean like you got scouts and stuff, reporting back to you? That’s what you’re going on?”

  “Exactly,” Pike said. He hadn’t thought of that, but that was a clever explanation.

  Meanwhile Chuck was clearing his throat and licking his lips, getting ready to perform, since he could see there was no way out of it if he wanted to be in Boise.

  After about two notes, probably anything out of his mouth would have been bad, Pike realized, but on top of that, he picked the worst song. It was ‘Love Yourself’ by Justin Beiber.

  Pike couldn’t stand that one. It was one of those they played on the radio about every 10 minutes, and they even made a faster version out of it, so you were subjected to it double the amount.

  The ridiculous lyrics stuck in your head, sometimes for several hours, trapping you.

  And if you think . . . that I’m . . . still holding on, then . . . you should go and love yourself.

  Chuck belted them out, and a few people walking by looked around and kept going.

  Pike had figured he better have the guy qualify, not just hand him the audition, so it would look more official. He also wanted to make Chuck stand there and embarrass himself, but that wasn’t as important.

  But either way, this ‘song’, if you could call it that, was very hard to deal with, and Pike decided there should have been some other way to make the guy qualify.

  At any rate, Chuck finally finished, making sure to hold the final note, and Pike said that’s what they were looking for, and to sign right here.

  He gave Chuck a
copy of the contract and told him he’d see him Thursday night at 8 in Boise, and the address was on the paperwork.

  Pike had made it the address of a big commercial office building, not including any suite number, just telling Chuck they were leasing office space for the night and that he’d meet him in the lobby at 8.

  They shook hands once again, and boy was Chuck for sure going to be there, when Pike thought of something and a flash of panic set in.

  “How long’s it take you to get to Boise . . . I mean normally?” Pike said as casually as possible.

  “Right around 3 and half,” Chuck said. “I tend to drive fast. Others, their mileage can vary.” And he laughed at his own joke.

  Pike was working it over. The guy would hang around say at least a half hour before giving up, and then if he needed a nightcap back home at Robinson’s . . . which he easily might, after getting run up like that . . . that would put him back there at . . . right around midnight, earliest scenario.

  If all that did miraculously happen to go that way . . . would he have made it back in time to still buy Dani that drink?

  Ho-ly Toledo.

  Pike tried to mentally take a step away from it, to look at it clearly, and he concluded that was awful unlikely, it being a school night and all, that Dani and her girlfriend would be hanging around that late.

  In all likelihood. But . . .

  “Did I say 8?” Pike said. “I meant 9 . . . You’re in Division 2. So I’ll see you in the lobby at 9, this Thursday . . . the 3rd, November . . . 3 days from right now . . . We on the same page?”

  Chuck said they were, and he was already crossing off where he’d written 8 on his contract, and writing in 9, and Pike felt better.

  “Okay then,” Pike said, and they shook hands for a third time, which was rough, and Chuck went back toward the bar and Pike headed the other way, not knowing where he was going but to hopefully put the whole nine yards behind him.

  It was awkward at this hour to have to stop someone and ask them to help you call an Uber or cab, though friendly as most of them were it probably would have been fine, but after a block-and-a-half there was a little plexi-glass enclosed station on a corner, and Pike read the sign and it was the bus that went to Pocatello, and a few minutes later there it was. The only thing, which Pike didn’t realize, it was 75 cents and you needed exact, the driver didn’t make change it said, and Pike didn’t have any change on him but the driver waved him through and said don’t worry about it.