"I'll see what I can do 'bout the expenses," Jimmy had said.
"Thanks, Jimmy. Maybe now that we're past the start-up period, expenses will be more reasonable," Connie concluded. Jimmie didn’t say anything to contradict her hopes, but she still felt like something was wrong.
After Jimmy left her office, she had the impulse to phone the plumbing company that had billed them so heavily for undefined services. She got an answering machine, and she was almost sure the voice asking her to leave a message was Jimmy’s. When she called the landscaping company and got what sounded like an identical recording, she became even more suspicious that something was awry. Connie knew Jimmy had been here in the same capacity when the business had been the "Marsh View Convalescent Center." Rick had said that the owners of the previous business had given Jimmy a strong recommendation, but Connie wondered about their taste in employees. They had, after all, gone bankrupt, she reminded herself. She resolved to talk the whole thing over with Rick as soon as she could.
Rick was in the passenger seat of his Porsche, roaring through the back roads of Liberty County with Mary Lou at the wheel. She had called him this morning after her truncated visit and invited him to take her to lunch and return the clothing she had left in his office, which he had already gathered up and put into an envelope. Frank was out of town on business for a few days, and she claimed to know of a good country barbecue joint down near Midway. Rick had agreed, and had picked her up at her place at a little after eleven. He was feeling anxious about her tireless pursuit, but he still thought having Mary Lou as a satisfied patient would be good advertising. No old woman who was trying to hang on to an old guy with a roving eye could pass up even the slightest chance to look like Mary Lou.
Mary Lou must have been watching the street in front of her house when Rick had gone to pick her up, because he had no sooner turned into the driveway than she simultaneously emerged from her front door and the top of her white spandex tube dress. She quickly got herself back into the dress, but only after making sure that Rick had noticed, and sauntered over to the car. She leaned into the driver’s side window, giving him a hug and another shot at her bosom, in case he might be nearsighted. She snatched the keys from the ignition.
"I’m driving," she announced, "Because I know where we’re going."
Rick had a good idea where they were going, too, at this point, but he didn’t want to think about it too much. Since he didn’t know how they were going to get there, he agreed to let Mary Lou lead the way. While she expertly drove the Porsche out of town on Highway 17 South, roaring past the slower traffic at every opportunity, Rick marveled at how the dress kept riding up her thighs. She had a real gift for wearing clothes. By the time he noticed she wasn’t wearing anything under the lower part of the dress either, she had turned off the highway onto one of the deserted back roads beyond the old Midway Congregational Church. She pulled off on the shoulder of the road and asked Rick to put the top down so she could work on her tan. When he got back into the car, the dress had been transformed into a wide white belt.
"Not worried about tan lines?" he asked flippantly, as the car screamed out onto the road. By way of answering, Mary Lou reached behind her back with one hand, driving with the other. She gave a little tug, and passed Rick a scant handful of white spandex.
As Rick realized that she had literally torn her dress off, she said, "I hope you brought my costume. I’ll need it to get home, unless we stay out until after dark."
She braked sharply, turning down a dirt driveway into the yard of an abandoned farmhouse, completely screened by kudzu vines from any prying eyes. As Rick wondered how she had brought them to this place with such unerring accuracy, she stopped the car. He got out of the passenger side with an air of resignation, while she opened her door, reclined her seat, and carefully positioned the gearshift knob against her right hip, thinking they would have to work harder this time, or the bruises wouldn’t be the same color.
Day 4, Afternoon/Evening
Donald had spent the afternoon finishing his costume. He had found a pair of beige spandex bullfighter pants at Goodwill for three dollars, and a pair of black rubber boots. The sales lady had looked at him strangely as he checked out with his second article of lady’s clothing in as many days. It was just his luck to get the same lady. He hoped she didn’t know his mother. His mother would get upset at Donald dressing in women’s clothes. She’d have the wrong idea about the Black Caesar thing, for sure.
He had finally come to a solution for the headscarf problem after the false start with the electric fire. Something caused him to remember Amos the Goat Man and his Sterno stove. He wasn’t sure what triggered his flash of brilliance, but maybe it had been the coffee at Lizzie’s this morning. He had taken a hardhat he had found by the side of the road where it had fallen out of somebody’s truck and whacked off the visor with his sword. He had glued sponges to the outside of the hardhat, and left them soaking in Sterno while he had gone to Goodwill for a few last minute additions to his costume. He had found a colorful old polyester scarf that would wrap nicely around the outside of the sponges, hiding them from sight until he lit them. It would probably flame up, too, once things got going. The only problem with the hard hat was that the headband inside it was broken, but Donald made a chinstrap out of an old necktie. That would keep the hat on all right. He planned to light it with a disposable lighter just before he came down the stairs. He put on all his regalia and admired himself in the bathroom mirror, from all different angles.
He wished he could light his flaming headscarf to see how it looked, but he only had enough Sterno for one shot. He was sure it would work, though. He splashed some watered-down ketchup on his beige pants to simulate blood, and turned to admire the dashing figure he cut. Tight pants, loose shirt with flowing sleeves, earring, sword, and well, the hat did look a little funny, with its makeshift chinstrap and all.
He looked like a cross between a fortuneteller at the county fair and a cross-dressing stock car driver. He reasoned that his headpiece would look better once it was flaming. His audience would focus on the flames, rather than the hat itself. He wrapped the hat in an old dry cleaning bag to keep the Sterno soaked sponges from drying out, and then he put it into a shopping bag. He would don it at the last minute. Best not to call too much attention to himself before it was time to do the whole thing. He put his raincoat on over the rest of his costume and headed off to his rendezvous with the unsuspecting Delia Johnson.
Fat Tony Cicero sat on the rickety, swaybacked couch in Ski Cat’s living room. Every time he shifted his weight, the couch emitted groans, and worse, funky odors. Tony wondered if there was a dead skunk in the couch somewhere. The things he had to do to make a living. Sitting here drinking lukewarm malt liquor and pretending to enjoy Ski Cat’s company while they counted out the gross from the coke sales Ski Cat’s crew had made last night was not high on Tony’s list of fun things to do.
He liked the old days better, before Sam Alfano had taken over with his fancy business-school notions. Sam had made his lieutenants listen to the "One Minute Manager" on audio tape. He had at first given each of them a copy of the book, but they pretended they couldn't read well enough to understand it. Frustrated, Sam had then given each of them a copy of the book on tape, and he quizzed them about it later to make sure they had listened to it.
So here Tony sat, making nice with this crazy bastard who probably dismembered live chickens on the couch, either for entertainment, or for some bizarre religious reason. Tony didn’t know which, but it sure did make the couch smell bad. Christ, this place was a real pit. He wondered why Ski Cat couldn’t do better for himself, with all the money he was making.
He tuned back in as Ski Cat was bitching about this pervert that lived next door with his mother and wore women’s clothes. Ski Cat had caught a glimpse of Donald as he set forth on his night’s mission, dressed in a raincoat and rubber boots, when it was 90 degrees with clear skies.
"I got dipshit
s like that for neighbors, and the whole damn place smell like somethin’ died. Only good thing is the cops don’t never come around."
That reminded Tony of why this was their branch office for northeast Savannah. He finished counting the money while Ski Cat watched. Ski Cat nodded his agreement with Tony’s count, and they shoveled the rumpled bills into a garbage bag. Tony got up and left, garbage bag in hand. When Tony’s runner saw Tony drive away with a flash of his high beams, the runner took the night’s stock of dope up to Ski Cat’s in a greasy pizza box that reeked of garlic and anchovies. He figured if you snorted that stuff, it would get you high and keep the vampires away, too.
Rick had come rolling up to the clinic in his Porsche with the top down at about 3 o’clock. Connie had wondered what he was doing with the top down on such a steaming day. Rick was a wimp when it came to the heat, plus, he had a doctor’s fear of skin cancer. She wondered why he had even bought a convertible, but she put aside her curiosity. She had other things on her mind. She had given him fifteen minutes to get his bearings, and then walked into his office.
"Rick," she said, "I think we have a problem."
Rick wasn’t sure about the "we" part, but he knew he had a problem. His nether regions, normally well protected, had been exposed to the noonday sun for longer than he wanted to remember. Every time he sat down, he thought about Mary Lou. Aside from the discomfort, he’d have to keep his pants on with both Sarah and Connie, or answer some embarrassing questions. The things they didn’t teach you in medical school.
"What’s that," he asked, as Connie settled into a chair across the desk from him.
"The reason we weren't profitable in the last quarter is the charges for maintenance of the building and grounds were excessive. At first, I thought it was just start-up problems, but when I talked to Jimmy about it, he wasn't very helpful or encouraging. So, I made some follow-up phone calls to the vendors and got answering machines with Jimmy's voice on them, everywhere I called. I think Jimmy is ripping us off, Rick," she wrapped up, thinking Rick looked appropriately pained by her revelations.
"I checked him out with the people who ran the nursing home," Rick told her, "and they had nothing but praise for him." Lying while sitting on his sunburn made Rick doubly uncomfortable with Connie, but he had explicit instructions from Sam regarding what he could disclose to her. He had tried to convince Sam that Connie should be treated as an insider, but Sam would have none of it. Rick knew Connie was too smart to fool, but Sam had been adamant.
"Keep her there, pay her whatever is right. I understand she’s your partner in the clinic, but nobody but you and Jimmy know our deal, okay? Nobody but the three of us needs to know about the money. Handle it," had been Sam’s final words on the topic.
Rick came back into the present as Connie finished making her case. "Bring me the expense analysis and let me look it over. Jimmy does have an annoying manner about him. Thanks for all your work, Connie," he said, hoping to get rid of her so he could be alone with his sunburn.
"No problem. Drinks and dinner tonight?" Connie proposed on her way out of the office.
"Yeah, I guess," Rick agreed somewhat reluctantly, still thinking about the sunburn. He cursed his luck. Sarah had gone to California for a few days to celebrate her mother’s birthday, and Connie knew it. He couldn’t think of a way to decline her invitation. If Connie discovered his sunburn, his ass would really get fried. "I need a couple of hours for phone calls. Six o’clock, okay?"
As they drove to the River Bend Bar for drinks and appetizers, Connie noticed a rag underfoot. She pulled it toward her with her heel, and pushed it up under the seat with her right hand. She thought maybe Rick had just filled the car with gas, and missed the glove compartment when he stashed the rag that he kept there to wipe his hand. She scratched her nose, noticing a vaguely familiar smell of perfume as she did so. She didn’t wear perfume. She was surprised she didn’t smell gasoline from the rag. She mentally pictured all the women she had encountered today, and couldn’t match the perfume up with any of them.
Then she realized that while she had been lost in thought, Rick had pulled into a gas station and was putting the top up while the pump ran. This struck her as odd, given the rag. Obviously, it wasn't the one he kept in the glove box. She reached under the seat and brought out the remains of Mary Lou’s spandex dress. Connie suddenly knew where she had smelled the perfume.
Rick’s day had just taken a serious turn for the worse, although he wouldn’t know it until much later. His sunburned ass was no longer his biggest problem.
Donald was excited as he waited in the park on Bay Street at the top of the staircase. He could hardly wait for the ghost tour to pass his vantage point. His raincoat was unbuttoned, but loosely belted to conceal his pirate costume. When passers-by saw his raincoat and the boots underneath, they gave him a wide berth, especially families with children. Some people pointed at him from cars. Donald couldn’t figure out why that was, but at least nobody bothered him. At first, he thought they must be admiring his costume, but then he remembered he still had the coat on over his pirate getup.
Finally, his patience was rewarded as Delia led her tour down the cobblestone ramp from Bay Street to River Street. Donald had paced off her route earlier in the day, and he knew the group would be at the bottom of the staircase in a little over a minute. As he undid the belt on his raincoat, he noticed a family of five on the tour, all wearing identical grubby T-shirts bearing a heart, with the legend, "I love New York." He dropped his raincoat, planning to pick it up after he had collected his tips.
As he tied his makeshift chinstrap and touched the disposable lighter to the Sterno soaked sponges on his hard hat, he heard Delia start in on the Black Caesar story. Congratulating himself on his perfect timing, he pulled his sword out of its scabbard and started loping down the stairs, careful to let the scabbard whack against the supports of the stair railing, just like in the story.
He wished he could see himself in the mirror. Especially, he wondered about the flaming headscarf. He could hear a whooshing sound that increased as his progress fanned the flames, and his head was feeling hot. He was glad he had moderately short hair, as it occurred to him what could happen if he still had a bushy Afro like the one he used to have when he first got out of the Army. He was just stepping off the stairs now, and he realized he had the absolute attention of Delia and her tour, plus a significant number of casual observers.
"Deliver up your goods or your lives, you white devils," he roared, in his best pirate voice. He waved his gleaming Knights of Columbus sword around his head.
"Ma, his head’s on fire," shrieked one of the kids in a New York T-shirt, to Donald's immense satisfaction.
Ma was rummaging furiously in her purse, looking for her wallet to get his tip, Donald noticed. He was pleased at that thought, so he decided to give them a real show. He wheeled around, this way and that, waving the sword, and started backing toward the river, yelling, "Your money or your life!" His head was beginning to roast. He could see little strands of flaming, melting plastic from the hard hat starting to drip down, as he felt the hat itself collapsing from the heat and draping its gooey mass over his head. Time to go, he thought.
"I works for tips," he was trying to shout over the noise of the crowd, when Ma pulled an aerosol can out of her purse, stuck it in his face, and gave him a blast of pepper spray. As his head roasted and his eyes streamed tears, he fell backward into the river, thinking those hostile people really must be from New York.
The river water put out the burning remains of the hard hat, causing the molten plastic to congeal in Donald’s hair. The water also washed away most of the pepper spray, so when Donald spluttered to the surface, he was in pretty good shape, except he had lost his sword and swallowed half the river. Someone tossed him a life ring, which he grabbed gratefully, and he made his way to a rusty ladder to climb up onto the riverbank.
As Donald stepped over the concrete wall and into River Street, he collapse
d at the feet of two beat cops who had walked over to see what the disturbance was. One of them, mistaking the frozen remains of the molten plastic hardhat for evidence of a severe head trauma, was calling an ambulance on his radio.
"We got a guy, just pulled out of the river. Looks like he been scalped. Hurry!" he barked.
Ma and her tribe, like good New Yorkers, had vanished as soon as the police showed up. Delia and three little old blue-haired ladies from Duluth did their best to explain to the cops what had happened. Delia by now had recognized Donald as the guy who had followed her tours for the last two evenings, but beyond that, she didn’t have much to offer in the way of explanation. Once Donald had gotten down the stairs, it had all gone too fast for everyone. Delia recalled that he had said something about working for tips before the mother of the missing family had sprayed him with pepper spray.
The ambulance attendants, meanwhile, had determined that Donald had not been scalped, although they couldn’t quite understand what had happened to his head. In his agitated state, he couldn’t articulate any explanations. They saw the second-degree burns around his face, head, and neck. The symptoms of shock were manifest as well, so they loaded Donald on a stretcher and took him to Memorial Hospital with full lights and siren, much to Donald’s delight. He had never been in an ambulance or a police car before, so this was a real treat for him. Delia collected her wits and the blue-haired ladies and went on with her tour as best she could.
The family from New York was back at the El Cheapo Bandito Motel, Historic District. Ma was fixing peanut butter and bologna sandwiches and the two older boys were outside, trying to steal the fiberglass pistol that was molded into the fiberglass hand of the fiberglass Mexican bandit caricature that was the gatepost of the motel.
Deception in Savannah: A Humorous Novel of Murder, Mystery, Sex, and Drugs Page 8