“Subtle, yeah, that’s me from now on man,
subtle!” Dickie half shouted.
“Calmly, Dickie, calmly,” Merlot
cautioned.
“Oh yeah, sorry, dude. Look gotta go, let you
get back to work here. See you tomorrow night, man.” He drained his
beer, then set the empty down on the photo album.
“Tomorrow night, Dickie, remember, stay
calm,” Merlot sighed, shaking his head.
* * *
“What are you talking about, Tracey? Calm
down, I can hardly understand you, you’re talking so damn fast.”
Lucerne was seated on the bathroom floor in the motel room, half
whispering so Mendel and Elvis wouldn’t hear him on the phone.
“What do you mean you’re on strike, Tracey?
Didn’t ya tell me you were a vice president in a company? I thought
vice presidents couldn’t go on strike?”
Oh brother, Daphne said to herself, still,
there was something weirdly solid about this Lucerne guy. She could
tell from his voice, the way he phoned her at least three times a
day for the past two weeks. She’d come to like his simple manner,
the forceful tone in his voice, perhaps suggesting a more sterling
quality then the usual phone sex clientele she dealt with.
“Look, Lucerne, things are so crazy around
here I just don’t know how much more I can take. They had us
dancing downstairs yesterday. That was a complete disaster. Then we
organized our picket line late yesterday afternoon and some folks
from the news came around filming. Maybe you caught it on TV?” she
paused, ready to explain why she looked a hundred and forty pounds
heavier than the woman on the late night television ad. Or if they
really got into it, why her name was Daphne and not Tracey.
Lucerne wondered why in the hell he would
watch the news?
She waited a moment or two longer.
“Some of the girls are picketing right now.
We’re all taking turns. I’ll be down there this evening after my
shift,” she confided.
None of what she said was making any sense so
he asked,
“Well, why would they want you to dance? That
part there, it ain’t makin a lick of sense.”
He envisioned a ballroom, with a mirrored
sphere spinning in the center of the ceiling. Tracey wore white
gloves up to her elbows and a long sparkly gown down to her high
heels. She ran down a curving staircase from her vice president’s
job to dance with some old boss. Probably a fat, white-haired guy
with a white mustache, wearing a black tuxedo, a monocle, maybe a
top hat and carrying a gold handled cane. Once her dance was
finished she would run back up the staircase to do whatever it was
vice presidents do.
She cringed at the memory of climbing on the
stage wearing lingerie made for someone half her size.
“So, anyway Lucerne, like I was saying, I
don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to talk to
you.”
He gulped audibly, “Tracey, I thought we had
something here. I was thinking wouldn’t it be nice to finally meet?
We been talking everyday for weeks. Seems to me it’s sorta just
like courtin’, don’t ya think?”
She shook her head in disbelief and reached
for another caramel.
“Boy, that would be fun Lucerne, but I just
don’t know how that’s going to happen. Osborne’s likely to fire the
whole bunch of us the way things are going and to tell you the
truth, I’m not sure I even care. Maybe I’ll just sit back and
collect unemployment for a while and look at all my options.”
“Don’t you think we better meet, then, pretty
quick, before that happens? Who’s this Osborne anyway? He the old
boss man?” he asked, conjuring up the image of the white-haired,
tuxedoed guy.
“Maybe I could help straighten things out.
Maybe talk to the guy, nice like,” he added.
“Lucerne, damn it! Lucerne?” Mendel yelled,
banging on the bathroom door. “What the hell you doing in there,
boy, Christ. We can hear ya moaning and groaning all the ways out
here, you moron. Get your worthless ass out here. I gotta piss like
a race horse.” Mendel pounded on the bathroom door a half dozen
more times.
“What’s all that?” she asked, tossing another
caramel into her mouth.
“Oh, just my brother, Mendel, gotta piss is
all.”
“Hunh?”
“Look, Tracey, I better let you go and get
back to your vice persidentin’, there. I’m kinda busy here, ya
know.”
“Sure, Lucerne, whatever, talk to you later,
I hope.”
“God damn it, Mendel, can’t a man even talk
for a few minutes to his woman without having to be interrupted by
the likes of you needing to take a damn piss?”
“Your woman?” Mendel asked, unzipping his
jeans, ignoring his aim.
“Your woman? Hell you never even seen her,
you big dummy. You ain’t got the slightest idea what in the hell
she even looks like.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mendel, you are
so damned wrong. Thinking you know every damn little thing. Shit, I
happen to know Tracey is shy, has brown hair, a white phone, wears
a black bra, drinks wine outa a fancy glass, is a vice president,
and dances.”
Mendel strode out of the bathroom zipping his
fly, not thinking to flush or wash his hands.
“All’s I know is your damn delusional. Now
help us get these damn weapons ready.”
“You’ll see,” said Lucerne, thinking he had
better begin planning to rescue Tracey from that Osborne fella
while there was still time.
* * *
Otto settled into his recliner, carefully
placed his feet into the large pan of Epsom salts. He exhaled
deeply and felt himself begin to relax. He took a long swallow of
beer, rested the can on the duct taped arm of the recliner.
He looked around his living room at the
growing piles of laundry. He had a plan for that. One more day and
he’d ask the bank teller out. Give her a ticket into the fair,
maybe some sort of a half-price-off deal at his stands.
He had to be careful, just get her over here
with the idea that she could take her time doing the laundry and
the cleaning. Maybe after she got him a beer he could sit around in
his recliner and nicely point things out. Maybe, he thought, if he
sorted the laundry, whites and darks.
“Have you even the foggiest idea what you are
doing?” Osborne asked Milton, wrenching the blood pressure sleeve
from Milton’s left hand.
Milton’s swollen and discolored right arm
hung limp and useless, unable to do anything but throb painfully at
his side. It had taken on a greenish tint, leaking puss as well as
beginning to carry a bit of an odor. He had earlier attempted to
sterilize the wound by pouring a liberal amount of gin over his
hand. Osborne had accused him of reeking like a distillery, and
that had been the end of that.
“For God’s sake, Milton, what do you think
you’re doing?” Osborne wrenched the blood pressure cuff off his
elbow.
Milton hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was
doing. The infection that yesterday made him light headed, was now
making him dizzy.
“Keep that wretched thing away from me, I’m
liable to catch something. And let’s do something about that smell.
Your rotting is beginning to affect my concentration.” Osborne
lifted the blinds from his office window and glanced down on the
thong clad protestors.
“I can’t believe those ungrateful wenches
have continued this ridiculous strike. It’s been three days and the
only thing that’s improved in this situation is their suntan.
Suntan. Milton? Say I offered a rather attractive purse of maybe
$500. We’ll advertise it on the marquee, hold a suntan contest
tomorrow. Yes, not only a suntan contest but an amateur night as
well. Excellent way to replace them all,” he dropped the blinds and
walked back behind his desk.
“Yes a $500 first prize. Oh yes, Milton, I’ll
win, I’ll show them. Try and strike me will they? We’ll just see
about that!”
Milton attempted to focus on Osborne. The
room began to spin, objects took on a bit of a blurry edge. The
floor developed a slight rolling wave action, and he steadied
himself against the edge of Osborne’s desk. As long as he didn’t
have to drive anywhere, he might be able to make it through the
day.
* * *
Merlot was racking his brain trying to think
of a way he could pull off this robbery, not get caught and still
keep Cindy on his good side. Thus far he had come up with
absolutely nothing.
If he could lure her away from the bank, or
at least from her teller window, maybe, just maybe he had an
outside chance. Then, all he had to do was make his getaway, hand
the cash over to Osborne as fast as possible and be done with the
whole sordid affair.
He decided that the best thing would be to
carry the gun unloaded into the bank to ensure no one, least of all
him, got hurt.
He spun the cylinder, dropped the shells,
listened as they bounced off the wooden desk. A couple of the
shells rolled around in a semicircle and came to rest against the
beer-stained photo album. He held the empty pistol in his hand,
looked absently at the scattered rounds and wondered what in the
hell he was going to do?
* * *
It was becoming very clear to Lucerne that he
was going to have to do something, take some action where poor
Tracey was concerned. The poor little thing, so shy she didn’t even
know how to ask him for help, and after all they’d been through:
the late night calls, the early morning calls, the mid-day calls.
As a matter of fact, the call he was placing right now.
“This is Tracey,” Daphne said, quickly
swallowing the last bit of chocolate chip cookie. “I’ve been
waiting for your call, hoping it was you. You there, baby?”
“Course I’m here, Sugar. Just calling to
check up, make sure you’re doin okay is all.” Lucerne said into the
phone, grateful Tracey recognized his voice.
“Lucerne, that you?” Daphne guessed,
narrowing his voice down to three possible choices and getting
lucky.
“The one and only.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, Lucerne,”
Daphne continued, reaching for another cookie.
“I’ll just bet you have. How’s things goin’?”
he asked.
“About the same, we don’t know from one
minute to the next if we got a job. At least the dancing is over
for the time being,” She choked down the cookie, then reached for
another.
“Well that’s good. I didn’t like the idea of
you having to dance with that fat old Osborne fella then havin to
run back upstairs and do your vice president stuff.”
Daphne shook her head, wondered what in the
hell he was talking about.
“So what are you up to, Lucerne?”
“Well, I was gonna ask you the exact same
thing. Funny how we’re thinkin alike, ain’t it?”
“Listen, you won’t believe this. Old Osborne
is going to have a suntan contest, tomorrow. Open to everyone.
Guess it’s his way of trying to break the strike.”
“Well, if you’re on strike, are you just
taking a break from the picket line or are you still doing your
vice president stuff?”
“Well, there isn’t really all that much to my
vice presidential duties. And I just lend support to the girls
who’re picketing. I’m not really on strike, I can’t afford it.”
Lucerne figured she most likely had elderly
parents, a terminally ill child or both. “So, you’re okay, is what
you’re sayin. What the hell’s with the suntan contest?”
“Osborne’s trying to break the strike, get a
bunch of new girls in here with a $500 prize. Then he’ll offer them
a dance contract and they figure it’s just too good to pass up. The
girls out on the sidewalk will be out of a job and in a year or two
the exact same thing will happen all over again.”
“And all this to hire some gal just cause
she’s got a good tan? Is he crazy, stupid or both?”
Daphne shook her head in disbelief. Lucerne
might be good, kind, maybe even decent but he was sure dumb as a
post. She grabbed two more cookies.
“He doesn’t hire them because they have a
good tan, he has a contest to see who has the best tan, offers
prize money. He’ll get all kinds of girls in here and they all get
the idea that dancing pays real well, but it just never quite works
out that way.”
Lucerne was back to his image of a fat guy in
a tux and all sorts of innocent women, tanned women apparently,
waiting to dance with the rich old bastard.
With his share of the bank money he could buy
a double wide, with one of those screened in porches off to the
side. Have a picnic table where he and his brothers could drink
beer and Tracey could serve them fried chicken.
“Does he still make you dance?” he asked.
“Just that one time the other day, but, like
I said, it didn’t work out too well,” she stuffed another cookie in
her mouth.
“Hey, Tracey, did you tell me what you’re
wearing?” Lucerne asked.
“Finally, I was beginning to worry.” Daphne
said, then snuggled back in her chair, brushed crumbs off the front
of her T-shirt, and reached for another cookie, this might be a
good long session.
* * *
With the unrelenting heat and his unattended
piles of laundry Otto was forced to attire himself in an old North
Stars hockey jersey. It was the green traveling jersey, and he was
grateful for the protection the longer sleeves gave his arms. As
usual he had his face covered with zinc oxide and the handkerchief
pinned onto the back of his baseball cap.
He was waiting in Cindy’s line, working the
old Otto magic after looking around to ensure the area was safe for
her. He touched the forty five beneath his hockey jersey.
“Morning ma’am,” Otto said giving Cindy his
two-fingered salute. A few of the other customers glanced in his
direction.
Cindy nodded, afraid to look up, worried
about another nose smudge down the length of her teller window. Her
fingers grew greasy as she counted his currency, the area suddenly
smelled like fried bacon.
“Ahem,” Otto cleared his throat, stood up as
straight as possible waiting for her complete attention.