Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "So why'd you let him go?"

  "Didn't make his monthly quota."

  “For how long?"

  “Twenty-two months."

  Ron was playing with every switch and button. He pushed hard on a preset on the radio and got talkback. It sounded distant and tinny. He turned it off again.

  "So why after twenty-two months?" I said. “Why not twenty-one or twenty-three?”

  The fat man shrugged. It was a signature move. "Got too sad."

  "Sad? How do you mean?"

  "Look. Sandy wasn't the most upbeat guy, you know. He was kind of a downer. But I get it right. This ain't a Starbucks. It’s no dream job. But he sold cars before, so I figured he could do it again. But..."

  “But?”

  The fat man looked at Ron. “You wanna make an offer?”

  "It is a fine vehicle,” said Ron. He turned the radio dial and it came off in his hand.

  “But?” I said.

  "But nothing. He got sad. He was tolerable as a downer, but sad? He was driving customers away."

  I could imagine. "What made him sad?"

  “Hell if I know. He just kind of spiraled. Over time, you know. It seemed like every fall when the heat came off, Sandy would just be a little sadder than when the summer started. The rest of us would be happy as pigs in you-know-what for the relief, but not Sandy."

  "So what happened when you told him?"

  “Nothing. He just nodded and said he understood. Took his last check and left."

  "Did he ever give you any indication of where he might go?"

  The fat man shook his head. "Not to me."

  "Any interests?"

  "Nope."

  “What did he do all day? You're not exactly beating the crowds off with a stick."

  "Guess he read the papers and such. Clipped articles."

  "What kind of articles?"

  "No idea. Never paid much notice."

  I found that hard to believe. I got out of the Cadillac. “You got a water cooler in there?" I said, nodding at the shed.

  "This look like a Motel 6?”

  "What about a john?"

  He shrugged again. I took that to mean yes. I left Ron in the Caddy and walked over to the shed. It was small and dark. Two desks covered in newspapers and invoices and paper coffee cups. A half-naked woman striding a motorcycle on a calendar. The air con was humming despite the mild weather. Perhaps the windows didn't open. The desk at the front had a half-eaten donut on it. I assumed, despite the pigsty, a half-eaten donut would not have been left by a former employee gone several weeks. The rear desk was covered with just as much junk. Not much if it had been made to clean up after Ferguson left. There was a desk lamp and a dirty coffee mug. A loose pile of newspapers and magazines. I flipped through them. Local papers. Some articles had been cut out. Looked like the social pages. On second thought, perhaps pictures had been cut out. A couple of Sports Illustrateds. Some pages had been ripped out. Could have been articles, could've been ads for French cologne. At the base were travel magazines, the kind cities or regions send you to help plan a vacation. One for South Georgia. Another for the Gulf coast states sponsored by an oil company. More for Miami Dade and the Everglades. Tampa and St Petersburg; Charleston, North Carolina; Saint Joseph County, Indiana; Wake County, Indiana; La Porte County, Indiana; Stark County, Ohio. Each had pages torn out.

  Behind the magazines was a cardholder full of cheap business cards in the name of Sandy Ferguson. It seemed that Sandy was planning a trip somewhere. Perhaps a surprise for his wife. A real big surprise, given he'd gone and left her behind. I scooped up some of the papers and magazines and stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag I found on the floor. I'd take them to the office and get Lizzy to match the clipped sections and torn out pages to confirm what I knew. Sandy Ferguson had been planning his escape. To where, I couldn't be sure. Perhaps his credit card activity would tell us something in the future. Perhaps he had taken cash out to get away and drop off the map. Perhaps being fired had dashed his hopes, and he’d chosen to end it all.

  I didn't know, but I hoped the answer would at least set Mrs. Ferguson free. If she was capable of that. Perhaps their sadness was shared. Perhaps for her to break free, he had to first. That was all above my paygrade. My job was just to break the news. I walked back out into the sunlight. Ron was chatting with the fat man. They had popped the hood and were bent over examining an engine built before computers existed. I dropped the bag of magazines and papers and walked over to Ron.

  "So?" I said.

  Ron popped up. He was beaming. "It's a miracle of modern technology," he said.

  "You wanna make an offer?" said the fat man, again.

  "Absolutely," said Ron.

  I was stunned.

  Ron continued. "Let me check with the little woman and I'll get back to you."

  "I can't guarantee it will still be available. This one is going to move."

  "I know it," said Ron. He put out his hand and the fat man took it.

  "I didn't get your name," said Ron.

  “Barry. Barry Kennett.” They shook and Ron smiled and Kennett squinted.

  We got back into the Mustang and I pulled out of the lot. “You gonna get yourself a new set of wheels?" I said.

  "Goodness, no. It was a miracle of modern manufacturing though, wasn't it?"

  "You think?"

  "Absolutely. There was moss growing on the engine block, but the thing still started first turn of the key. What did you find?"

  "I think our man was planning a road trip, possibly never to return."

  "Why would you leave Florida on a day like this?" Ron smiled. “You hear what I hear?"

  “The call of an ice cold beer?"

  Ron settled back in his seat. “That is why you are the master detective."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING was mild and wispy shards of cloud threaded across the sky as I ran along the beach and back up to the house. I was throwing together a smoothie with egg white that I'd read about in a magazine and was pretty certain I'd regret, when my phone rang. It was Lizzy. She relayed a message from Jenny Bellingham, asking if I could attend the house urgently. I tossed the smoothie in the garbage disposal and called Danielle. She was on duty but not available. I left her a message and ran through the shower. I hoped the Heisman bandit, as I had decided to call Rivers, had returned. But even as I drove out to Tropicana Palms, I knew I was kidding myself.

  I parked behind Jenny Bellingham’s Civic. There was no sign of the Ram truck. I knocked on the door. She opened instantly, as if she'd been watching through the curtains. Her face looked like a topographical map. Mountains and valleys, light and dark. Solid skin and flowing blood. The left eye she had bruised in her last fall was refreshed, a lumpy mess of red and black. A perfect right cross. Maybe two. Her right eye was puffy and weeping. The left mandible was swollen like she had eaten golf balls and was hiding them in her cheek. There was dried blood on her chin, where a geyser had opened in her nose and cascaded down onto her shirt. A cartoon turtle on her pajama shirt was covered in dried blood.

  She let me in and shrunk back into the dark home. The shelves around the television were empty. Everything that had been there, the photos, the mementos, had been thrown to another part of the room. A chair lay on its side. She looked at me with a face carved in shame.

  "I'm sorry," she said. She was shaking like a petrified canary.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for."

  I stepped towards her and she recoiled. A reflex action. I gestured for her to sit on the sofa. When she sat I noticed an open wound on the side of her head, above her ear. It had bled over her ear and coagulated. It was a significant split and would require stitches. I went to a cabinet in the kitchen and found a bottle of cheap bourbon. I poured a generous shot and took her the glass.

  "Take this."

  She sipped it and screwed her face. I stepped through the debris to the bathroom and got a towel and some bandages. I fou
nd some gauze and antiseptic cream. I came back. She was still sipping the bourbon. She didn't like it, but she was a nurse and knew how to take her medicine. I sat on the sofa and told her it would sting a bit. She was a nurse so she didn't believe that one bit. She put the drink on the floor next to a cracked picture of her and Newt in a happier place. It stung a lot. She made no sound. I dressed the wound with antiseptic and gauze and then wrapped her head in a bandage. She picked up the bourbon.

  "It'll need sutures," I said.

  She nodded. I let her take a couple more sips.

  "Tell me."

  She stared at the black screen of the television. "He went out last night. Drinking. When he came home he said he'd heard then he could've gotten ten thousand dollars for Daddy’s Heisman. He said it was his right and I took it from him. He was so angry." She sipped the bourbon.

  "And?" I said.

  "And?"

  “The wound on your head is fresh. That didn't happen last night."

  She stared at the television. Blinked hard. “No. He woke up this morning. Still upset. Before, he was always sorry when he lost his temper. You know, later. Not this morning. He was ranting and raving. I was trying to clean up, put things back on the shelves. He'd wait for me to put something up, then he'd knock it down. Said I was driving him crazy."

  She finished the bourbon. In her position I would've had several more. But she needed stitches and might need painkillers, so I didn't offer.

  She put the glass down and clasped her hands. "I told him if we could get the Heisman back, he could sell it. If that's what he wanted. He said it was gone for good and it was my fault. He picked up a table lamp and hit me with it, then he stormed out."

  I looked on the floor. A shattered lamp with a heavy brass base lay beside the sofa.

  "I was going to call Deputy Castle, but I'm scared, Mr. Jones. You hear stories. The police say there's only so much they can do and it happens all over again."

  “Actually, there's a lot Deputy Castle can do."

  "You said you dealt with this sort of thing before. You think I should just call the police?"

  “We’ll get Deputy Castle involved soon enough. But tell me, if you had to leave in the next thirty minutes would you have somewhere to go?"

  She nodded. “My friend, Mona. From work. She's been telling me to get out."

  "Then that's what you'll do."

  "I can't live with Mona, Mr. Jones. This is my home."

  "Not anymore, Jenny. Twenty-nine minutes from now you will leave and never come back. We'll go to your friend's place first. Deputy Castle can help with shelters and such if we need it. Support, too. It's out there."

  "Okay, I guess."

  "We’re going to pack you a bag. Take what you need and what's important to you. Then we're going to the bank. You have an account with your husband?"

  "In his name."

  "Debit card?"

  "Yes."

  "How much in the account?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe eight or nine hundred dollars.”

  "Any investments?"

  “Just this house."

  "Okay. We'll go to the bank and you are going to withdrawal exactly half of what's in there. Not a penny more."

  "Okay."

  "Then as soon as you're a little better, you'll go to another bank and open your own account. Deputy Castle is going to arrange for support to help you."

  "Half of eight hundred dollars won't last forever. And we have a mortgage on this place."

  “You’ll be selling this place to pay that off."

  "Newt won’t like that."

  "Newt will learn to deal with it."

  She looked around the ruins of her home. "I'm scared, Mr. Jones. Of Newt, of money. Of surviving."

  "I'm going to find your dad's Heisman."

  "Thank you, I guess."

  “Then we'll take it from there."

  She nodded.

  "Jenny, let's find your bag, collect your things and get out of here."

  She shuffled to the bedroom and pulled out a small suitcase. She collected some clothes, her nursing uniforms, some toiletries. She picked a picture up off the floor. It was a young version of her with an older man.

  "My daddy," she said.

  I nodded. She didn't take a picture with Newt in it. I took that as a good sign. She put her worldly possessions in the back of the Mustang and bid goodbye to Tropicana Palms.

  "What about my car?"

  "I'll come back for it."

  "And what if he comes looking for me?"

  “I’ll have a word. Suggest that's not a great idea."

  I drove her north to Abacoa and left her in the care of Mona, an eagle-nosed woman who didn't completely believe that I hadn't inflicted Jenny’s injuries. Mona said they would go directly to an urgent care center she had friends at, so Jenny could get her wounds looked at.

  I called Danielle again and told her where Jenny Bellingham was, and asked her to come over to take a report and photograph the injuries. Just in case Newt decided to get clever or greedy. I knew he wasn't capable of the former, and we would have a chat about the latter. I headed back to the office to call Sally and get his wise counsel on the upcoming negotiations.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  SALLY’S WISE COUNSEL consisted of telling me not to pick him up at his store. The last thing we wanted, he said, was a posse of federal agents following us. I agreed. The night was still and I could feel the moisture content in the air rising. Somewhere off Grand Bahama a storm was brewing.

  I collected Sally from the Cracker Barrel off I-95 in Spencer Lakes. He was crazy for the biscuits. And the store. He loved that the store had thousands of so called country items, and all except one were completely useless and unnecessary to anyone's life. But they sold by the pallet load. Sally sat outside in Cracker Barrel’s one useful product when I pulled up. He was rocking in the wooden chair, in a row of a dozen such chairs. He clutched a paper bag that I bet myself was filled with fresh baked biscuits. He got up and ambled over to the car. We drove out to Tropicana Palms in silence. The plan was simple. It was my show to run. If I wanted Sally’s input, I would ask for it.

  We parked behind the Dodge Ram, which was parked behind the Civic. Sally grabbed his tool bag and we wandered up the side and banged on the door. The mobile home wobbled on its base as Newt stomped to answer.

  "About time a-hole, I'm starving."

  Apparently Newt's personal chef had taken the night off and he was stuck with delivery. He opened the door. We were in the dark, he the light. So the first thing he saw was my fist. If he saw anything. He may have just felt it. It was a left shot to the throat. I had thought of giving him my fastball thunderbolt, but I didn't want to put my shoulder out and I didn't want him dead. The left just knocked the wind and the voice out of him. No screaming for help when someone punches you in the voice box.

  Newt rocked back but didn't go down so I gave him a punter’s special into the balls. I'd been the recipient of a solidly kicked football in the balls during a high school practice and I knew that most blows in the groin fostered shock, and if one wore a cup, some bruising on the inner thigh. But actual dead-on contact with a testicle was like shooting an electric current through the soles of someone's feet. Newt gave the standard reaction. He lost all motor function below the waist and fell to the floor. He was clutching his throat as he fell. His hands instinctively moved lower. I stepped inside and dragged Newt into the living room, and propped him against the sofa. Sally closed the door behind us.

  Newt was clutching his groin and attempting to yell abuse at me. It came out a breathy whistle. I had to hand it to him. He really was one dumb son of a gun.

  I crouched beside him and placed my palm on his chest. "Slow down, breathe. In, out. In, out."

  The spasms in his chest and throat steadied and his breathing settled. Sally shuffled to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Newt gurgled it down. He tried to talk. It was a whisper halfway between Eartha Kitt and
an emphysema sufferer.

  "You are so dead," he said. The guy took stupid to a whole new level. "I made a complaint, to the cops." He grinned. "Now you're gone. I'll sue you to Kingdom come. I'll be rich."

  “You sadly overestimate my net worth and my liability insurance, pal. Besides, this isn't Detective Ronzoni's jurisdiction."

  I could see a modicum of concern wash across his face at the mention of Ronzoni.

  "Now, let me tell you how this is going to go down. You are going to feel considerable pain. How much pain is up to you. Then we are going to discuss your life moving forward and how that life no longer includes your wife. Then we will discuss strategies for the disposal of this dump, and for your divorce. Okay?”

  He wheezed. “You are out of your dumbass mind.”

  I turned to Sally. "Thoughts at this point?"

  Sally reached into his tool bag and handed me a rolled up Yellow Pages, held together by duct tape. It was like a miniature baseball bat. I held it up in front of Newt and he looked at it like he was looking at a firefly for the first time. Then I swung it hard into his guts. He doubled over and made sounds like he was going to vomit into his lap. I like the guts. They don’t bruise. If any real damage is inflicted, it’s internal. My next preferences are the groin and the anus. Kicks to either area are debilitating to a guy, and any ensuing damage is in the kind of spot one has to be extremely desperate to show off.

  Newt brought his head up, gasping for air. I handed the rolled up phonebook back to Sally. I wondered why they bothered to still print them, and now I knew. Sally passed me a silver shifter wrench. I wasn't at all sure what he expected me to do with it. He saw the look on my face and took it back from me, then leaned over Newt and banged the wrench into Newt's ankle. He let out a howl that I stopped with a chop to the throat.

  Sally stepped back. “Never too hard," he said. "You don't wanna break the ankle. Unless you do."

  We waited for Newt to recover some.

  "Shall we continue?"

  He shook his head. "Whatever you want, I'll do it."