The baseball game came across on a
static-filled radio. The good news was the Twins were actually
ahead in the bottom of the eighth, the bad news was the game had
another inning.
* * *
Otto’s ears perked up when he learned the
Twins were ahead three to one. He had timed things perfectly, ready
to make his deposit. Sitting in his truck, he slathered on another
glistening layer of sun block.
* * *
“Oh, oh, looks like it’s bacon buddy time,”
Carol snickered alerting Cindy and the other girls in the teller
area.
Cindy was in the middle of a count, she
looked up and saw Otto, absently waiting at the back of her line.
It was the longest line in the lobby, and she groaned inwardly.
He smiled, looked positively demented. Then
nodded at her, an acknowledgment of their private, intimate
moment.
Oh please she silently prayed.
I knew it, he thought, perfect timing.
Everyone in the teller area paused to listen
through the static of the portable radio as the announcer called
the pitch and the ball began arching skyward. There were two on for
the Angels, two outs, bottom of the ninth, and this couldn’t be
happening, could it?
“And he’s going back, back, Benny racing, on
the track, at the wall, jumping and it’s a home run. The Angels win
four to three out here today. Another disappointing afternoon of
Twins baseball.”
A collective groan rose from the teller area.
As if on cue Otto stepped up to Cindy’s window, rested his
sunburned forearm, the one sporting Donald Duck, on the counter
directly in front of her.
“Well, I suppose you’re wondering where I’ve
been today?” he looked like an escapee for a psychiatric ward.
There was a strange sheen to his forearm and she nervously thanked
God for the four layers of high tempered glass separating the two
of them.
“I’m sorry would you mind stepping to the
next window, please. I think I’m about to get very sick.”
With that she left her window, determined not
to return until Otto had departed.
He eventually stepped to the next window, a
look more vague than usual on his face. Carol quickly counted his
cash and slid the deposit slip through the well.
“Anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“Well I hope that other girl is all right,
that Cindy.” He said nodding to the empty area where Cindy had been
standing minutes before, then turned and walked out the door
shaking his head. Damn women get so nervous around a real man they
don’t know what to do.
Two kids on bikes rolled past.
“Twins suck!”
* * *
Merlot’s prayers had been answered. He was up
in the attic at his mother’s in the middle of the afternoon. He
could not believe he hadn’t thought of this sooner. There was a gun
in the attic, a pistol, packed away for years. With any luck he
could find it.
“Anthony, what in the world do you need up
there that’s so important?” his mother called from the base of the
ladder.
“Ma, I told you, I’m looking for
something.”
“I know that’s what you told me, but what is
it? You’re going to be messing up everything, come down now. I’ll
find whatever it is you need.”
Yeah, he thought, you haven’t been up here
since the 1990s, hoping he could just stall her for a few more
minutes. The heat was beyond oppressive. He had sweated through his
shirt. Dark stains formed across his chest and down his back. He
was opening boxes of towels, Christmas decorations, photos, old
army uniforms, report cards, his sister’s wedding dress.
“Anthony, get down here, now, I do not want a
mess up there.”
He knew from her tone she was getting pissed.
The sweat continued to run down his face, dripping off his chin,
large drops splashing onto the contents of every box.
“Anthony, not a minute more, you get down
here now, mister!”
There it was, in a shoe box from the Golden
Rule, a store that had closed years before he was born. The gun, a
revolver, wrapped in an oily T-shirt. He unfolded the cloth, even
in this heat the revolver felt cold to the touch.
“I’m coming up there, young man,” and he
heard the ladder creak with his mother’s weight.
“I’m coming down, Mom, relax,” he said
stuffing the revolver in his belt, untucking his shirt to hide it,
then grabbing a photo album on his way down the ladder.
“What in the world were you thinking? Look at
you, you’re all sweaty, an absolute mess,” she said and brushed
grime from his shirt, narrowly missed the revolver jammed in his
belt.
“And what are you going to do with those
photos? Don’t you mess those up, I need those.” A half step behind
him as he carried the ladder back to the basement.
“I just want to make a copy of one or two
pictures for my office,” he said, holding the album tightly against
the revolver.
“Well, why did it have to be this minute? Did
you leave a mess up there? I suppose I won’t be able to find a
thing.”
“Mom, it’s not a mess. Look I gotta run, I’m
gonna make a copy or two from this and then I’ll bring it back,
okay?”
“Well see that you do, I don’t like the idea
of you traipsing around town and forgetting it somewhere or one of
those so called friends of yours setting a bottle of beer on it.
The next thing I know the whole thing is ruined.”
He felt like pointing out the obvious, that
the album had been in the attic for the last four decades suffering
hundred-and-fifty-degree temperature swings and no one was stupid
enough to use it as a coaster for a beer anyway, but figured why
bother?
“I love you, Mom,” he said giving her a kiss
on the cheek and quickly retreating to his car.
* * *
“He’s gone so it’s safe to come out,” Carol
called watching Otto drive away in his pickup. Cindy was sweltering
in the bank vault as the digital counting machine, generating
additional heat, slapped stacks of twenty dollar bills into bundles
of $5000.
“Thank God, he just gives me the absolute
creeps.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you. I just feel like
I’ve been soaking my hands in lard. Phew!” Carol exclaimed,
sniffing her hands.
* * *
Merlot was in his office examining the
revolver. The oil-soaked T-shirt it had been wrapped in for the
past thirty or forty years lay on the corner of his desk. He sat
there with the cylinder open, spinning it, listening to the
clicking. He worked the hammer back and forth, then carefully
pulled the trigger. Everything seemed to be in working order.
His phone rang, by the tone it was an inside
call,
“Yeah,” he answered, sighting the revolver at
a floor lamp.
“Merlot, Tommy. Hey, someone here to see you,
ahh, I’m sorry sir, what did you say your name was?” a momentary
pause.
“Yeah, Merlot, a Mr. Hans Ulmbacher to see
you.”
Merlot sat up straight, fucking Dickie.
“Give him a beer, and send him back,” he
said, quickly wrapping the revolver in the oily T-shirt, and
stuffing it in a desk drawer.
“Hey man,” Dickie said walking in, sipping a
mug of beer as if Sunday afternoon had never happened.
He had completely shaved his head, and he was
growing a mustache and goatee that made him look like an overweight
version of Lucifer. He wore a dark suit, blue shirt, and a loose
tie, all splattered with food stains.
“So, shine on harvest moon,” Merlot said,
sitting back in his chair.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Dickie asked
taking another sip from his beer before setting the dripping beer
mug on the photo album.
“Don’t set that there, you dumb shit,” Merlot
said.
“Oops,” Dickie reached up to catch the mug in
mid spill, sloshing beer across the cover of the album.
“It’s my mom’s album, man.”
“Sorry.”
“Where in the hell have you been, Dickie?”
Merlot asked shaking the puddle of beer off the faded album cover
and onto the floor. “Christ we’ve all been worried about you. And
what’s with the suit? I haven’t seen you in one since high school
graduation?”
“Tell me about it,” he said rubbing his newly
shaved head. “Can you believe what a federal case they’re making
out of Sunday? I’ve had to do this disguise deal so no one would
recognize me. Hey, do you dig the beard?”
“Yeah, great, man. You look like a demented
devil. Where have you been, Dickie? Still got your job?”
“Barely, that’s the reason for the threads.
I’m on like, double secret probation and a whole bunch of other
shit.” He tilted his head back and stretched his three chins into
one long fat chin.
“I can’t even eat with the other employees in
the cafeteria. I’ve been laying low in case someone recognizes me.
Fortunately, we’re so damn busy they can’t afford to fire my ass
right now. We’re in the midst of switching over some systems, and
they really can’t do it without me, well, unless they want to start
over from scratch. Course, the bastards banned me from ever
attending another Vikings game as a condition of continued
employment.”
“My mom told me she was going to have to
leave town.”
“God, I only wish my mom would leave town. I
catch hell at work all day, then I get home and while I’m listening
to messages from her bitching she calls up to bitch at me some
more. She’s still really major league pissed off!”
“Dickie, can you blame her? Jesus! You, we,
were on national news, man, all fifty states. My mom was bitching
about
Good Morning America
for Christ sake. Shit, Little
Stevie called me from somewhere in South Dakota, Victor’s brother
called him from Atlanta. Victor and Andrew are banned from ever
getting their firm’s tickets again.”
“No shit, they’re such great seats,” not
quite grasping the point. “Well look, I’m sorry, man, I really am.
I mean I’m sure its been a little tough on you guys…”
“A little tough! I gotta tell you, Dickie, I
don’t need this kind of publicity. I got a business to run here, I
gotta deal with the public every day.”
“Hey look, I know, man. Look, I’m going
around apologizing to everyone, I’ll go to your mom’s if you
want.”
“No, not that, please don’t.”
“Well anyway, I’ve seen Victor and Andrew,
course Wiener, you know how he is. Guess what? This is kinda cool,
he’s got some hot affair going on with some kinky chick who got
turned on by the whole deal.”
Merlot pondered that last statement and
decided not to learn any more.
“Look I know it’s been tough, the news,
national news, talk radio, the local papers, USA Today. I hadn’t
heard about
Good Morning America
. It’s sort of off the
Internet, for the moment. Maybe
Time
or
Newsweek
. They’ll be on the shelves
tomorrow and we’ll see, but it hasn’t been a picnic for me,
either,” he said looking up at Merlot, sincere in his apology.
“It started Sunday night, by the time I got
home I had about a half dozen messages from my mom. Not a happy
bunny. By then the local news organizations had already called,
channel four, five, nine and eleven, bunch of radio stations. Did I
leave anyone out?”
Merlot groaned.
“I mean how in the hell? That was Sunday
night, when I went out the door Monday morning at six there were
three live cameras waiting for me. So much for trying to keep a low
profile.”
“How’d they find out it was you?”
“Well, I figure so many folks know me, man
just about anyone could have talked. Course one of the rock
stations had a contest to identify me. Guess their switchboards got
flooded in the first few minutes.”
“Hey, some guy left a message, wants to write a book
about me. That was kinda cool, he seemed a little screwy, though.
Another dude called and wanted to include me in a bunch of Ripley’s
Believe It Or Not
deals he was submitting
but you gotta pay him so I said no. And another guy wanted to put
my name into the Guinness Book of World Records. That could be kind
of cool, but I took a pass on that one, too. What with them going
ballistic at the office and all, I figured the timing might not be
the greatest.”
“Did Victor tell you we were trying to call
you? We were worried about you.”
“Yeah, I know, thanks. I just let the message
box get full at work and haven’t answered them. Probably a good
number of them are from my mom anyway, you know, bitching. I’m
using the guy’s extension next to me. He’s on vacation so if you
guys need to reach me for the next week and a half just call
1-1-4.”
“God.”
“I talked to my attorney. He said I don’t
have to appear in court, just pay the fine and don’t do anything
like this again. Like that’s gonna be a problem, no worry
there.”
Merlot nodded.
“Hell, even Jerry Cardy got my phone number
from somewhere. Probably his old man. He called from the hospital,
right after the Vikings cut him loose. Left a message saying it was
all my fault. Yeah, right, like I did something wrong. Well, I mean
yeah, okay. But, I wasn’t the one who ran the wrong way in the
game. Wild Card, my fat ass.”
“Dickie, anything I can do for you?”
“Naw, but thanks, man, I appreciate it. Sorry
about your mom. Look, I know you’re getting into the busy time of
day here, just wanted to stop in, make sure we were still pals, you
know.”
“Hey, Dickie, we’ll always be pals. You’re
going to be at Wiener’s tomorrow night, right?”
“Well, yeah, if it’s still on? Hey, that’s
something positive, man! Did I mention Wiener says this chick named
Lindsey or Ashley or something has been on him the last two nights,
just wearing him out? She really got off once she found out he was
famous and all.”
“So there you go, it wasn’t a complete waste
of your talent. At least he got some benefit. Let’s just aim for
something a little more subtle next time, okay?”