Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  On Wednesday, my first order of business was to stop at the bank and cash Randal’s check. I told the teller, a woman about Randal’s age, that I wanted to deposit seventeen hundred in my account and take thirteen hundred as cash.

  She wouldn’t complete the transaction herself. It was too much cash and I looked too young. She called the manager. He examined my ID carefully and then retreated to the back office. I could see him turning the pages on big ledgers.

  This was Wemsley’s only bank. It had been squatting here on Main Street since the dawn of America and was in no hurry to embrace modern automation.

  Undoubtedly the manager was making sure that Randal had enough money in his account to cover the check. As well, he was probably also looking at my paltry balance to see if I could cover the check if it turned out to be bogus. I couldn’t but that was his problem, not mine. The check was good and I wasn’t leaving without a substantial wad of cash in my pocket.

  Finally, he returned and asked how I wanted it.

  I said in twenties. Big bills were hard to cash. Even twenties could be a problem in nineteen seventy-one.

  He personally counted out sixty-five twenty-dollar bills in front of me. His movements were reluctant and he looked longingly at every bill as he laid it down.

  He didn’t stop watching me until I’d left his bank.

  My next order of business was to visit Wanda and buy two more kilos of weed. I would take one to Gus and he would pay for the last one. I hoped that he would buy both kilos this time and I would be rid of them right away.

  The worst part of being a drug dealer was having to hold large amounts of drugs. Especially when Mom didn’t respect my privacy.

  The weather had cleared overnight. I’d expected that I’d have to take Randal’s little pickup truck over to Syracuse but the dry roads and sunny forecast meant that I could take my bike. It was the first time that I had ridden outside Wemsley by myself. It felt different than trailing behind Randal or having Katie on the back. Those times were great, but this felt like freedom. I was beholden to no one. I could go anywhere and do anything that I wanted.

  It was all the sweeter because it was a special time that wasn’t going to last for much longer. Randal had loaned the bike to me and I was going to have to give it back soon, certainly by the end of the summer.

  Someday I was going to buy a bike of my own but that wouldn’t be until after I graduated. The little money that I earned during the next four years, working at Elsa’s or at other menial jobs, would have to be used to pay for my college expenses. After graduation, I’d have to find a real job and get settled in my own place. That would take another year, at least. I wouldn’t have any spare cash for five or six years, but I wouldn’t give up my dream. On the road to Syracuse, I vowed that some day I would have a bike.

  If I survived my investigation into Billy Paul’s murder. If I survived meeting with Warts today.

  This buy from Wanda didn’t go quite as smoothly as the first one but I got it done. She asked where the other guy was and I said that he was busy. I’d be handling things alone this week. She looked doubtful but didn’t ask any more questions. I laid sixty twenties on the bar. She looked at me like I was a rube before scooping it up. I realized that such a big stack of bills wasn’t subtle. Randal had been right to bring hundreds. I’d to it that way next time.

  When she brought the bag back, I said, “Before you go, I was wondering if you remembered the names of any more of Billy’s distributors. I could move more, faster if I had more help.”

  She looked around. There was nobody close enough to hear us but she still didn’t look happy to be discussing this business during business hours.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know nothing about nothing.”

  “If anyone happens to mention anything about it, I’d appreciate it if you’d put us in touch. Just let them know that I’ll be here a week from today.”

  She left without saying another word.

  I had no idea how I would get her talking about Billy’s murder if she wouldn’t even talk about the business he did with her.

  The phrase, pillow talk, slipped into my head, quickly followed by a mental picture of warts on intimate parts. My parts. It was not a pretty picture.

  If that was what it took to get Randal out of jail, he was going to be there a long time.

  Just thinking about it made me feel nauseous.

  The bag was unwieldy. It weighed almost five pounds and my bike didn’t have a sissy bar, nor did I think to bring bungee cords to secure it. I set it on the gas tank between my legs and used my belt to lash it down. It was an ugly, jury-rigged solution, but I figured it would hold at least as far as Utica.

  If not, there’d be enough weed pounded into the highway that hippies would be coming upstate and trying to smoke asphalt.