Authors: Robert T. Jeschonek
As Jean-Claude looked up from the table he'd been setting on the other side of the room, he had his first inkling that something was wrong.
Darcy pulled back a chair and Donzatto settled his bulk into it. The two men talked, but Jean-Claude could not make out what they were saying.
Then, they both looked in his direction.
Since the cherries jubilee incident, Jean-Claude had felt nothing but delight at the way he'd worked over Zeno. While going about his duties, he'd replayed the evening's events in his mind, savoring his victories, exaggerating them to stoke his ego.
But all of a sudden, he began to wonder if he had gotten a little carried away.
"Jean-Claude," said Darcy, waving him over. "Would you come here a minute, please?"
Jean-Claude finished folding a napkin and rose from his chair. His feet felt heavy as he crossed the room.
"Mr. Donzatto and I have business to discuss," said Darcy. "Mr. Zeno will be serving us coffee. Please take him to the kitchen and be sure he finds everything he needs."
Suddenly, Jean-Claude's newfound uncertainty vaporized. Once again, he seethed with silent fury at having to play second fiddle to an unworthy intruder.
Zeno stepped forward, his reddened nose and cheeks and forehead filmed over with some kind of white cream. His bushy white brows were peppered with blackened hairs singed by the flames from the cherries.
"Lead on, partner," said Zeno, his tone surprisingly jaunty after what he'd been through that evening. "Let's find that java."
Without a word, Jean-Claude led the old man into the kitchen.
"What a crazy night, huh?" said Zeno as Jean-Claude headed for the coffee pot on the counter. "One fuckin' thing after another."
Silently, Jean-Claude carried the pot to the sink. He filled the pot with water and walked back to the coffee station.
"Is it like this every night?" said the old man. "A fuckin' disaster area?"
"No," Jean-Claude said simply, placing the pot on the counter.
"And are you always such a total fuckin' asshole?" said Zeno.
Jean-Claude turned, fire in his eyes...and felt something hard and heavy collide with his head.
Pain rushed through his skull as he toppled back and down. He struck an elbow against the stainless steel counter and then hit his head, too, before crashing to the floor.
"My guess is yeah," said Zeno. "You always bein' an asshole, that is."
Jean-Claude groaned and blinked, fighting the fresh waves of pain triggered by the fall against the counter. Squinting through flashes of light and color, he looked up to see Zeno standing above him, brandishing an iron skillet in his bony claws.
"I've got news for you, shit-for-brains," said the old man. "I'm a total fuckin' asshole, too."
Just as Jean-Claude was trying to pull himself together, Zeno hauled off and swung the skillet against his head again. Jean-Claude went over sideways, his skull smacking the floor.
"Do you know who I am, dick-cheese?" said Zeno. "Well, I ain't no fuckwad waiter."
Jean-Claude opened his eyes, but his vision was blurry. He couldn't quite raise his head from the floor to look at his attacker.
"
I
'
m
the boss, dumbfuck!" shouted Zeno. "The fatass I was waitin' on is the errand boy! Get it?"
When Jean-Claude managed to pry his head from the floor, he glimpsed the blurred form of the old man. He could tell Zeno was holding something, but he couldn't make out what it was.
"That fat fuck's a decoy!" said Zeno. "Bet you never guessed you were fucking with a bona fide don in
la famiglia
, huh?"
Jean-Claude snapped his eyes shut and shook his head to try to clear it. When he opened his eyes again, he could see what Zeno was holding.
"So anyway," said Zeno. "Remember that story I told you about the guy who lost his balls?"
A fillet knife. He was holding a fillet knife.
"I forgot to mention," said Zeno, bending over Jean-Claude with the knife in his hand. "It ain't happened yet."
Â
*****
Â
Home Invasion
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Listlessly
,
Bertram Delinsky turned a page of the newspaper and continued reading the sports section. The gray sheets crackled as he dragged them across his lap and straightened them
,
as he lifted them higher to catch the light from the lamp a little better. He shifted on the Naugahyde upholstery of his recliner
,
and that crackled
,
too.
Since Bert wasn
'
t much of a sports fan
,
the articles and box scores didn
'
t hold much attraction for him. In fact
,
he didn
'
t retain much of the information slipping past his eyes; he was reading the sports in the same way that he had read all the other sec
tions of the paper--just
halfheartedly skimming through the print without paying much attention to it. The words flickered past like cars on a freeway
,
holding no more meaning than if they had been shapeless blotches of ink.
The newspaper had blurred and faded because Bert
'
s mind was on other things. He was preoccupied
,
distressed about the current shape of his life. On the eve of his thirty-fifth birthday
,
he had made a terrible mistake: Bert had uncorked the bottle which held his fears and insecurities. At first
,
he had opened that bottle just a bit
,
just so he could take a quick peek. As we all know
,
however
,
the Anxiety Bottle can never be opened just a bit; once it
'
s breached
,
the cork flies out like a ballistic missile
,
and the contents spew all over the damn place.
By now
,
Bert was quite upset
,
and his brain was flooded with the gremlin goo which he should have left sealed tightly in its container. His worries were sprayed everywhere
,
like graffiti on the inside of his cranium
,
and he couldn
'
t seem to think about anything pleasant.
Tomorrow
,
he would be thirty-five years old. Thirty-five years of life
,
and what did he have to show for it? Not a whole lot. He still had the same job he
'
d had ten years ago--
selling furniture for a local outlet store. Sure
,
his title had changed
,
from
"
Salesperson
"
to
"
Manager
,
"
but he was still doing the same work
,
trying to pawn off sofa-beds and ottomans on unsuspecting newlyweds at ridiculously inflated prices. He wasn
'
t even making enough money to render his job worthwhile; twenty-three thousand dollars a year
,
plus the occasional bonus
,
didn
'
t exactly put him in clover. Bertram had a small house on the edge of the suburbs
,
and he drove a car which was only two years old; he was still paying the mortgage on the house
,
though
,
and the car was always giving him trouble. He had a television and a microwave
,
and something of a coin collection
,
but none of the coins was really very valuable
,
and he was considering selling them.
As he thought about it
,
Bert realized that he
'
d accomplished very little in his life so far. He
'
d never been hungry for success
,
and Lady Luck had never blessed him with the French kiss of Unexpected Prosperity. He
'
d never been married
,
and he had no children; though he
'
d dated a handful of women
,
he
'
d always managed to louse up the relationships one way or another. Though he met many casual acquaintances through the furniture store
,
he didn
'
t have any close friends
,
either.
All washed up; that was how Bert saw himself at this particular moment. He was thirty-four years old
,
almost thirty-five
,
practically forty
,
and he hadn
'
t so much as dotted an
"
I
"
or crossed a
"
T
"
in the great story of humanity. In a blink of God
'
s eye
,
he would be an old man
,
and then he would die; he feared that he would die without friends or love or wealth
,
without an undue ripple or even a stir in the curtains of the universe.
Lonely
,
disappointed
,
crestfallen
,
apprehensive
,
he read the sports section of the newspaper in the living room of his claustrophobic house. He probably shouldn
'
t have been so unsettled
,
because he was actually much better off than the majority of people on the planet; fear and dissatisfaction are the roots of human nature
,
however
,
and Bertram Delinsky was most certainly well-endowed with both qualities. The incipient birthday only served to amplify these annoying traits
,
strengthen them and thrust them through the mental screens which usually filtered them out.
Bert
,
who was now thirty-four years
,
three-hundred and sixty-four days
,
twenty-one hours
,
and seventeen minutes old
,
tossed his paper onto the blue shag carpeting and got out of his recliner.
The doorbell was ringing.
Puzzled
,
but glad for the distraction
,
Bert traveled the four yards from his chair to the front door. Since he rarely had visitors
,
and wasn
'
t expecting any that night
,
he figured that the person on his doorstep was probably a twelve-year-old practical joker. He
'
d been through the drill before: a kid would ring the doorbell
,
then giggle off into the darkness before Bert could catch a glimpse of him.
When Bert squinted into the peephole of his door
,
however
,
he noticed that his visitor hadn
'
t dashed away into the night. He wasn
'
t twelve years old
,
either. The visitor was definitely an adult
,
and appeared to be not much younger than Bertram Delinsky himself.
The guy had short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a red and white plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up
,
and he looked fairly muscular. Quickly deciding that he wasn
'
t a door-to-door salesman or a Mormon making the rounds
,
Bert concluded that the guy probably wanted to use his phone; his car had probably broken down somewhere nearby
,
and he wanted to call for a tow truck. Bert had been through this drill before
,
as well.
"
Hello?
"
called Bert through the door
,
watching the visitor through the fish-eyed lens of the peephole.
"
Can I help you?
"
"
I sure hope so
,
"
grinned the guy
,
looking friendly enough.
"
You Bert Delisky?
"
"
Yes
,
"
answered Bert.
"
Who are you?
"
"
Buddy
,
"
replied Buddy with a nod.
"
Geez
,
I
'
ve been lookin
'
all over for you. I got a little turned around in Wilmar
,
and ended up lost. Couldn
'
t find this goddamn street
,
Bert.
"
"
That
'
s too bad
,
"
responded Bertram
,
taken aback by the visitor
'
s tone of familiarity. Though Bert had no idea whom the stranger could be
,
the guy apparently knew Bert
,
or at least pretended that he did.
"
What did you say your name was again
?
"
he asked through the door
,
searching his memory for a clue to the guy
'
s identity.
"
Buddy!
"
crowed the man
,
as if he were Bert
'
s closest friend and Bert was silly not to recognize him.
"
I
'
m Buddy! You know!
"
"
Uh
,
not really
,
"
Bert frowned.
"
I hate to say this
,
but I really don
'
t remember you. Where do you know me from?
"
He started to wonder if the guy was perhaps a former customer of his; it was possible
,
since Bert dealt with so many people at the store
,
and couldn
'
t hope to remember the face and name of every single one.
"
Didn
'
t
my wife ever tell you about me?
"
smiled Buddy.
"
Uh...I
'
m not sure. Who
'
s your wife?
"
"
Aw
,
c
'
mon
,
Bert
!
"
goaded Buddy
,
wagging his head.
"
Debby! I
'
m talkin
'
about Debby!
"
Bert rifled through his memory as if it was a drawer full of socks
,
but he couldn
'
t think of a single woman that he knew who was named Debby.
"
What did you say your last name was
?
"
he asked
,
though Buddy hadn
'
t revealed his surname to begin with.
"
Weems
!
"
declared the guy with playful annoyance.
"
Bert
,
don
'
t tell me you don
'
t know Debby Weems! You just saw her yesterday
,
for Pete
'
s sake!
"
Brows furrowed in puzzlement
,
Bert took a step away from the peephole and reached for the doorknob. He was tired of shouting through the inch-and-a-quarter of wood
,
and he wanted to get a better look at this Buddy person; maybe a clearer view of the guy would trigger Bert
'
s memory
,
and he could deduce the purpose of this visit.
"
Weems
?
"
he hefted quizzically after opening the door
,
gazing out through a gap of four inches.
"
I
'
m sorry
,
but I really can
'
t remember any Debby Weems.
"
"
Oh
,
I get it
,
"
chuckled Buddy good-naturedly.
"
It
'
s like a joke
,
right? She called and told you I was comin
'
over
,
didn
'
t she?
"
"
Uh-uh
,
"
Bert negated
,
still mystified. Opening the door and taking a closer look at the guy hadn
'
t helped; Bert now noticed that Buddy wore bluejeans and cowboy boots
,
but he still didn
'
t recognize his face.
"
Where does your wife know me from
,
anyway?
"
"
All right
,
all right
,
"
laughed the bearded enigma.
"
So you don
'
t know her. I
'
ll play along
,
Bert. Just let me drop off what I brought over to give you
,
okay?
"
"
Huh
?
"
flickered Bertram
,
more confused than ever.
"
It
'
s this
,
"
Buddy explained
,
extending a long white envelope which he had tugged from his back pocket.
"
She didn
'
t really want me to drive the whole way over here just to give you this
,
but I said I wanted to. Anything for my little wife
,
y
'
know?
"
"
I
,
uh...look
,
"
Bert stammered.
"
I
'
m really sorry here
,
but I can
'
t for the life of me remember a Debby Weems. Seriously
,
I don
'
t know her.
"