Soul of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  The idea of getting the last monies he needed quickened his pulse. The Coyote would get his, and the process could begin. Most importantly, he would be done with the guys at the Chew’n’Chat.

  He retrieved a navy blue t-shirt from the dresser drawer in his room and slipped it over his head. Carefully minding his right arm he slipped it through first, then the left. The bathroom was a bloody mess. He began to run water in the tub. He gathered up the bandages and strips of towel he tore two days before. Grabbing another towel, he began to wipe down the sides and rim of the tub. A bloody path ran over the edge, down the side, and onto the floor. He rinsed the towel and continued cleaning. Satisfied that the tub was clean he moved to the sink and repeated the cleaning process.

  Picking up the waste basket full of bandages, wrappers and shredded towel, he carried it to the kitchen and dropped it next to the large bloody oval on the floor. Using his foot, he pushed the towel around trying to clean the gooey mess. He fished under the sink and found half a bottle of ammonia. He poured ammonia directly on the spot. Under the running water the bulk of blood rinsed from his towel. Painfully lowering himself to the floor, he used his right hand to scrub. Finally the spot and the thick, sticky mess were clean. The stinging smell of ammonia filled the air.

  Glancing around the kitchen for any sign of his injury and finding none, he took the trash can to the backyard and the 55 gallon drum. He dumped the trash inside and set it on fire. As flames danced above the barrel he moved over to the shed belonging to the neighbor and retrieved the Wal-Mart bag and its contents of jewels and watches.

  As he glanced towards the road he saw his car was still parked close to the front door. Another mess to take care of.

  “What’s that?”

  He hadn’t noticed that Mary Wilson was standing on her back porch.

  “Nothing, I was just talking to myself.”

  “You okay? You’re walkin’ funny.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay, I pulled something in my side.” Michael continued walking into the house. Mary continued to talk to him but he ignored her. He put the bag on the table. Under the sink was a small pail he filled with water, added some ammonia, grabbed his towel, and went out to the car.

  The cushion of the seat and the back were covered with blood. Hard as he scrubbed, the gray, cloth fabric of the seat wouldn’t give up the cordovan stain. Maybe I should just hose it out, Michael thought in exasperation, but it would stay wet too long, he decided. He would pick up some upholstery cleaner at the auto supply store on his way home. In the meantime, he would cover it with a blanket. He put the bucket and towel in the house, got the bag, and departed for the Chew’n’Chat.

  When he arrived at the café, the usual group was assembled near the back. This time, however, there was a black man sitting at the table. As Michael approached the booth the boss looked up and said, “In a minute. Get lost.” Michael stood for a long moment staring at the small white purse with gold clasp and strap rings that was sitting on the table.

  “You deaf? I said later.”

  Michael turned and walked back to the far end of the counter near the door. He sat down and the waitress came through the swinging door from the kitchen.

  “What can I get you?”

  Michael glanced around at the placards thumb tacked on the wall announcing various specials and food prices. “I guess I’ll have some of that pie.” He pointed at the glass case behind the counter. “And a glass of milk.”

  “What kind of pie? We have four kinds.”

  “I don’t care, just pie.”

  “No need to get snooty with me, I’m no mind reader.”

  “Sorry. Cherry. Give me cherry pie.”

  “We don’t have cherry.”

  “Then whatever you’ve got. You said you have four kinds. Just bring me a piece of pie.”

  The waitress opened the glass door on the case, slid out a pie tin and slapped a piece of pie onto a small plate and tapped the pie server hard on the plate. She whirled around, set the plate in front of Michael, took a fork from under the counter and dropped it next to the plate. Without speaking, she turned, filled a glass of milk from the jug in the small refrigerator, brought it back, and set it down next to the pie.

  “There.” She turned and went back through the door into the kitchen.

  Michael took his time eating the pie. It didn’t help that it was some sort of unidentifiable, coconut/banana/custard, cream, yellowish stuff that he really didn’t like. He drank the milk to get the taste out of his mouth and waited.

  It was nearly fifteen minutes before the black man walked through the café past him. He looked neither right nor left. He left without a change of expression or making eye contact. Michael wasn’t sure if he should approach the table again or wait until they called him. After a couple of minutes he stood. He glanced back at the table and the boss motioned him with two fingers to come.

  Michael slid into the booth, setting his bag on the table. “This is it. This is the last of it.” His tone was the same one he used when dealing with hostile villagers in Iraq.

  The man sitting next to the boss raised his sunglasses and perched them on top of his head. He looked at Michael with a hostile glare. “You’re not very grateful.”

  “Grateful? You give me pennies on the dollar and I’m supposed to be grateful?” Michael stared into the eyes of the man across the table. For a long moment it was a battle of wills who would blink first.

  The boss broke the spell as he reached across the table and took the bag. “Enough.” He opened the bag and looked inside; reaching in, he stirred the contents about.

  “Twenty thousand.” Michael’s suggestion was uninvited.

  “What are you, a comedian?” The boss snapped the bag shut and set it between himself and the man who stared at Michael.

  “That’s how much I want. I don’t want to negotiate. This stuff is worth ten times that. Give me the money and that will be the end of it, and you’ll never see me again.”

  Michael felt something shove hard against his side, sending a fiery bolt of pain through his wound. It only took a moment to realize the man sitting next to him shoved a gun into his ribs. A familiar metallic sound came from beneath the table. The man next to the boss pulled back the hammer on his gun.

  “I give you nothing. This is my commission for putting up with you. You’re right. I’ll never see you again. If I do, nobody will ever see you again. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Between the shock of the boss’ words and the incredible pain in his side, Michael was unable to breathe. Michael raged inside. He was helpless to react. Unarmed and crippled with pain, there was no choice but to comply.

  “What are you, stupid too? Get lost.” The man sitting next to him jabbed him again even harder in the side. Michael gasped in pain. He saw stars and a wave of nausea swept over him.

  It took forced concentration for Michael to slip out of the booth. He was lightheaded, and needed to grab the backs of the stools along the counter as he made his way to the door. It took all his strength to keep from staggering.

  As he reached the register the waitress yelled, “Hey, you didn’t pay for the pie. Hey, you owe me five bucks.”

  Michael pushed open the door with his right hand. He raised his left hand and middle finger as he went through the door, the waitress still yelling at his back. As he opened the car door, he winced and grabbed his side. It was wet. He looked at his hand and it was covered with blood.

  “I gotta get out of here.” Michael gasped for air as he fumbled for his keys fighting to start the car. The engine turned over and he put the car in reverse. As he backed up he heard the scrape of something metal. He realized he hadn’t closed his door and it was scraping the car next to him. He didn’t stop, he just pulled it shut.

  On the road and heading for home he felt like he was looking in the wrong end of a telescope. He recognized the feeling, and he knew he was passing out. The gravel crunched beneath his tires. He shook his head violently, the ra
tcheting sound of the rumble strips signaled he was driving off the road onto the shoulder.

  He pulled back hard and swerved wildly, crossing into the oncoming lane. A small, silver car honked repeatedly and Michael pulled back into his lane, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision. After driving less than a half mile, he pulled into the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. He rounded the building and parked near the dumpster and out of sight from the road. He rolled to his right, pulling the blanket on the back of the seat with him as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  When Michael opened his eyes it was dark. For a moment, he was unable to understand where he was, or how he got there. He used the steering wheel to pull himself upright. A parking lot light flickered above him. There were two cars in the drive-thru. It was then the whole scene at Chew’n’Chat came back to him. He retched hard and threw up onto the floor of the passenger side of the car.

  The angry face of the man that he killed in the jewelry store came to him up from the darkened floorboards. He had killed a man, and the fruits of that violent act were now gone. Stolen. Unattainable. He would never be able to bring Miriam and his son to America. He cursed himself as he felt for the keys and started the car. At that moment, he didn’t care if he lived or died.

  CHAPTER 16

  When Cole pulled up in front of Ernie’s Deli, he could see Georgia and Ernie through the window chatting behind the counter. Of all the people in Orvin, they meant the most to him. He thought back for a moment of meeting Ernie, and his help clearing the mountain of tumbleweeds on his little inherited farm. He remembered the times Ernie would come over with a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, and say, “Try this, see what you think.” Cole never dreamed at the time that he would be sitting in front of a place like Ernie’s Deli.

  Georgia turned and spotted Cole. She smiled brightly and waved. Cole waved back. He chuckled at the memory of his first meeting with Georgia in Kansas and how nasty she was to him. Now he felt she was more his sister than a cousin.

  Cole got out of the car and went inside. “Hey cuz! How ya doin’ today?”

  Three people turned and looked at Cole when Georgia answered, “I’m great. Good to see you.”

  It was enough of an oddity in Orvin that the attractive black woman in the Deli was married to Ernie the Greek, but the idea that she was the cousin of a white guy left their mouths agape.

  Cole went to the counter and fist bumped Ernie, who said, “What’s with the bump on your head?”

  “I bumped into a sign downtown.”

  “It looks painful.” Ernie grimaced at Cole as he walked back toward the kitchen door. “Don’t have to order, I know what you want.”

  “Maybe not. I was kind of in the mood for a turkey sandwich.”

  “The hell you say. I won’t fix one. You’re gonna have a Reuben, just like always.”

  “Ernie, for heaven’s sake, let the man have what he wants.” Georgia stood, hands on her hips, looking at Ernie like he had lost his mind.

  “That just ain’t right. He’s never changed his order before.”

  “You’re right. Fix me a Reuben.” Cole knew a change of his order could knock the earth off its axis in Ernie’s world.

  Georgia laughed mightily. “You two are like a couple of kids.” Her attention shifted to the three people at the table rising to leave.

  “Thank you, see you next time. Was everything okay?” Georgia gave them a friendly smile.

  “Best in town,” one of the men answered.

  “Thank you, Georgia.” The woman in the rhinestone-pocketed jeans waved. “See you next time.”

  “Another satisfied customer.” Cole was pleased to see the deli growing. He felt a vested interest, having watched it go from Ernie’s dream to a thriving business, with Cole’s cousin as wife and partner.

  “Looks like you’ve got the whole place to yourself.” Ernie stuck his head out the pass through from the kitchen.

  “I always try to time my arrival after the lunch rush.” Cole watched Georgia clear the newly vacated table. “I thought maybe we could have a chat.”

  “Something wrong?” Georgia frowned.

  “Does something have to be wrong for me to come and see my favorite cousin?”

  “I’m your only cousin. Have a seat, I’ll bring you a diet coke and join you.” A few moments later Georgia came with his Coke Zero and an iced tea for herself. “Wowee. Feels good to get off my feet.”

  “Business good?” Cole took a sip of his soda.

  “11:30 to 2:00 it’s crazy. After that we might as well go home.”

  “Order’s up.”

  The sound of the plate on the metal shelf turned Georgia’s head. “Well, bring it out. Your legs ain’t broken.”

  A moment later Ernie came through the kitchen door holding the plate and shaking his head. As he passed the rack on the counter he grabbed a bag of Fritos and headed for the table.

  “I haven’t seen you since the day the preacher fella got shot. How you been doing?”

  “I’m fine. I guess.”

  “That’s a pretty weak alright.” Georgia took a sip of her tea. She set it on the table and looked at Cole. “Kelly says you’ve been in kind of a funk lately. What’s up with that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do. Spit it out.”

  “I was thinking that I was going to settle in, write a book, then another, and it’s just not going to happen.”

  “The hell you say! I thought you were a famous writer.” Ernie looked at Cole like he just said he was going to have a sex change operation.

  “Whatever fame I might have had was as a journalist, a newspaper man, a reporter of facts. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to move from telling the truth to making up a bunch of stories. I’ve started and stopped half a dozen different book projects. I’ve got a folder full of titles, snippets, partial outlines, and it’s all crap.”

  “I kind of see how that’s a totally different style of writing, but you’re a clever guy. Seems like with all the places you’ve been and things you’ve seen, writing books would be a snap.” Georgia’s response was one of thoughtfulness and concern.

  “Well that’s what I thought. The problem is, every time I go to write a story it comes off like reading a newspaper article. I spent my whole life not writing flowery descriptions, embellishing the action, or adding to the facts. That’s a mighty hard habit to break.”

  “You should have Ernie help you. He can’t stick to the facts to save his life! He makes up stories all day long.”

  “Hold on now, I do not.”

  “Yes you do.” Cole and Georgia spoke at the same moment. All three broke into laughter.

  “I tell you what. How ‘bout you come down here and work the counter and I take some time off?” Georgia smiled. “Just imagine you two, Abbott and Costello, working in a sandwich shop. I don’t know if it would draw customers or drive them all off.”

  Cole took a bite of his sandwich.

  “Well, if you can’t write books, what are you gonna do?” Ernie leaned forward. His face showed real concern for his friend. He knew the undoing of Cole’s dream was a serious matter and not to be taken lightly. “If you don’t write these books…”

  “Sometimes wantin’ ain’t gettin’.” Georgia set her glass down. “I dreamed once upon a time I was going to go to the Olympics. I had it all figured out. I could just see myself standing on the podium getting my medal. When it didn’t happen I thought it was the end of the world, but it wasn’t. Who says you have to work at writing books anyway?” Georgia looked at Cole for a long time before he spoke.

  Cole wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t have a plan B. What am I gonna do, sit on the front porch?”

  “I would.” Ernie grinned.

  “Yeah, for about two hours. Then you’d be off doing something else, fishing, mowing the grass, working in the yard, driving your tractor around or inventing a new sandwich. I can’t do any of those things; moreover, I don’t want to
.”

  The bell rang when the door opened. A group of six women came in chattering, yakking, and laughing as they made their way to the counter.

  Georgia quickly went to her side of the counter. “My goodness, where’d ya’all come from?”

  “We had a meeting of the Oklahoma Settlers Association and we’re starving.”

  “You don’t look that old.” Georgia teased. “Well I’m glad you’re here. What can we get you?”

  As Georgia took their orders, Ernie stayed behind at the table, still deep in thought. “I know what’s wrong with you.”

  “What, pray tell, might that be?”

  “You need a dog. Dogs are good for telling your troubles to. I tell mine stuff I’d never tell Georgia. He listens, looks up with his big brown eyes, never interrupts, never gives me advice, and when I’m done I feel a whole lot better.”

  “The hell you say.” Cole teased.

  “Don’t make fun. I’m being serious. You can take it for walks, watch it chase rabbits. Dogs are a lot of fun.”

  “I’ve never had a dog. I wouldn’t know the first thing about having a dog.”

  “That’s the great things about living in the sticks. All you have to do is feed ’em, make sure they’ve got water, and have a place for them on the back porch in the winter time. They’re good for keeping the varmints off your land too.”

  “I can see that you have thought this through. I appreciate the idea, but I don’t think Kelly would go for me having a dog. I think her last pet was a cat. I hate cats. Unfortunately, I unknowingly mentioned that in an all too unpleasant way when we were dating. So, the whole idea of having pets has been off the table ever since.”

  Ernie stood. “Think about it. I’m telling you, you can’t have the blues when you got a dog.”

  “Thanks buddy, I’ll take it into consideration.”

  The women at the counter began to file over where two tables were shoved together and continued their clucking and chuckling without interruption. Georgia handed Ernie the orders at the pass through window, explaining some of her notes. She came back over to the booth where Cole was finishing his sandwich.