Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  When Vic’s beatings started, the breaking of her heart was more painful than the breaking of her skin. Over time, her heart healed then calloused, allowing her to walk away as he blubbered on the living room couch with a pistol in his mouth. Coward never pulled the trigger.

  Charis shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing them.

  “You cold?” Mr. B asked. “Cause I can turn up the thermostat, unless that nimrod locked me out of it again.”

  “No, I’m fine. Just had a little chill.”

  “Goose walked over your grave. That’s what Marjorie says when she gets goose bumps.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’d she run off to this time?”

  Charis swallowed hard, an uneasiness settling in her chest. “Who are you talking about, Mr. B?” She knew the answer.

  “Marjorie.”

  She jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Hardly anyone came to the living room door, only magazine solicitors and Girl Scouts, everyone else knew to enter through Mr. B’s kitchen.

  “Damn salesmen,” Mr. B mumbled, frowning.

  Charis rose and walked to the door, put her eye to the peephole. Lita stood outside tapping her foot, ringing the bell again. “It’s Lita,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  “My mother. You met her once before, a long time ago.” She unlocked the door and opened it.

  Lita threw her arms around Charis. “I’m so sorry to bother you at work, but I couldn’t wait to tell you…” she turned her gaze to Mr. B, as if feeling the weight of his stare. “Oh, hello there.” She released Charis and stepped to the sofa, extending her hand. “Long time, no see, Mr. Barnaby. Charis talks about you all the time.”

  Mr. B pumped her hand once then let his hand fall back into his lap. “She never mentions you at all.”

  Charis bugged her eyes at Mr. B, her mouth falling open.

  He grinned.

  “So, you came to tell me something?” Charis asked, changing the subject, joining Lita on the couch beside Mr. B.

  “Yes, I got a job. Tomorrow I start my new position at Trenda’s Trendy Thrift. Isn’t that the cutest name?”

  Mr. B grimaced and arranged his favorite ratty blanket around his shoulders.

  “Trenda hired me on the spot, and then took me to lunch at a restaurant down the street. Bam-something.”

  “Bamboozles,” Charis offered.

  “Yeah. That’s it. It’s been years since I’ve gone out to lunch…with a woman. We talked and laughed. I had such a good time. She said she eventually wants to move me into a management position. She needs someone trustworthy to open and close the store, so she can have some days off. Right now she’s the only one with a key to the place. Imagine, me, management material.”

  A smile spread Charis’s face as she listened to Lita talk. She could never remember seeing her so animated, so full of life, so happy.

  “Also, I get a ten percent discount off their already dirt-cheap merchandise.”

  “It’s dirt cheap because that’s all it’s worth.” Mr. Barnaby scowled.

  “Oh, Mr. Barnaby, they’ve got some really nice things in there. They have a couple of old derby-style hats I bet you’d really like. I’ll bring you one.” Lita curled her nose at his frayed blanket. “I’ll bring you a better blanket while I’m at it.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Mr. B shouted, straining to stand. His shaking knees kept him anchored to the sofa.

  “Touch-y,” Lita said, moving from the sofa to the recliner.

  “I’m proud of you, Lita,” Charis said, gently rubbing Mr. B’s arm, calming him down.

  “Actually, I’m proud of myself. I can’t remember ever saying that before. It feels very liberating. Who knows? In a couple of months maybe I’ll discover what it means to be independent, instead of codependent. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “One day at a time. You’ll get there.”

  Lita stood. “Guess I’d better get home—I mean to your home. I want to email some of my friends the good news. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”

  “I don’t mind at all. The passwords are in my desk drawer, written in the blue notebook.”

  “Thanks. I may need to borrow it quite a bit during the next few weeks. Trenda mentioned she’d be showing me how to clean up the computer files and update the inventory. I can do some of it from home. Good to see you again, Mr. Barnaby. Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Hmph.”

  Charis locked the door behind Lita. “Mr. B, what was all that about?” she asked, turning to meet his gaze.

  “I don’t like her.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “She’s a little rough around the edges, but she grows on you after a while.” Charis sat beside him.

  “Like mildew?”

  She chuckled. “What is it about her that rubbed you the wrong way?”

  “She might look all right on the outside, but her insides are bad. Worse than bad. Rotten. I could smell it.”

  “Well, she can’t be all bad. She gave birth to me and I turned out all right, don’t you think?”

  “Everyone’s entitled one miracle in this life. I reckon you were hers.” He turned to face her, his eyes grave. “I’ve always been a damn good judge of character. Don’t trust that woman. I don’t care if she is your mama. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

  Charis shifted beside him, the certainty in his eyes made her uncomfortable.

  “Now go fetch Marjorie, I want her to sit with me a while.”

  Chapter Three

  “Thanks again, Jagger. I appreciate you picking me up this morning.” Deason opened the screen door and held out an aluminum travel mug.

  Jagger took the coffee. “No problem, man. Whoa. What happened to your dog? She get caught in the lawn mower?”

  Deason leaned down to pet Kinko’s patchy head before pulling the door closed. “I got a little carried away with the clippers.”

  Jagger slid behind the wheel of his red, nineteen eighty-eight Trans Am then leaned over and opened the passenger side for Deason. “It sticks sometimes.” He turned down Van Halen’s Jump as Deason climbed in.

  “I’ll call the parts store as soon as they open and see if they can get a starter for my truck by tomorrow,” Deason said. “I could tell it was going out—thing screeched every time I turned it over—but I hoped it would last until payday. Sure hope they can get it fast. Tomorrow’s Friday and I don’t want it sitting in the lot all weekend. Especially with all my tools onboard.”

  “Think Sam’ll let you keep it there another night?”

  Deason rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Guess he’ll have to if the starter doesn’t come in. I can’t afford to have it towed. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than he does. The truck might be a piece of crap, but it’s my piece of crap. And I need it to get on with my life, twelve hundred miles from here.”

  “Might as well jump, brother.” Jagger turned the radio back up, singing along with David Lee Roth as he curved along the dark road.

  The Shaydn Public Works department came into view as the sun blinked through the clouds. Jagger steered the Trans Am through the open gate of the fenced parking lot.

  Deason leaned forward, gathering his thermos and lunch box from the floorboard, ready to get another day over with.

  “Shit, man, someone got to your truck.”

  Deason jerked his head up, wondering what the hell Jagger was talking about. His truck was parked right where he’d left it— “Son of a bitch!” He swung from the Trans Am in full stride toward the pickup, crunching through strewn glass.

  Every window was bashed in, along with the taillights. Dents the size of moon craters marred the hood and doors. The whole thing looked like a scrap heap. His insides knotted as he stared at the twisted metal.

  He knelt beside the truck and glanced under, the worn out starter now the least of his worries. Fluid dripped from the undercarriage to the pavement below. He rose and poked h
is head into the broken driver side window. Yanked wires snarled from the dash. His old stereo was still there—knobs missing and face smashed. Slashed into his seat, a single word glared. Trash.

  He bounced his fist off the cracked side view mirror, busting what remained of the glass. Glancing in the bed, he eyed the mounted toolboxes, lids bent and sprung, every tool gone. Through flared nostrils, his breath came and went in short hot blasts. His ears rang, and his heartbeat pulsed inside his eyeballs. Whoever did this was a dead man.

  “Hell of a mess. Found it this way when I unlocked the gate.” Sam walked up and stood dangerously close, his gray hair stirring in the gust of Deason’s breath. “The works department isn’t responsible for property left on the lot after hours. Don’t park here overnight. I’ve told you boys that plenty of times.”

  Deason’s fists clenched at his sides.

  “Wrecker’s on its way. Fifty bucks ought to cover the tow. I’ll deduct it from your check.” Sam swiped the back of his hand across his brow, as if roasting in Deason’s rising temperature. “Damn shame.”

  Deason turned from Sam and strode to Jagger’s Trans Am, snatched out his thermos and lunch box.

  “Hey, what are you doin’?” Jagger asked, jogging up from behind, following him to the row of garbage trucks.

  “We’ve got work to do,” Deason said, climbing into Big Al.

  “You plan on workin’ today? Don’t you think you should take the day off—”

  “Why? So I can stand here and stare at my broken truck that I can’t afford to fix?” Bawling over my dreams that shattered on the pavement right along with it? He kept this thought to himself—his dreams were no one else’s business.

  “I get your point.” Jagger grabbed the rail and pulled himself into the passenger seat. “Crank ’er up, I’m ready to rock and roll, brother.”

  Deason turned the key, pumping the gas pedal as the truck cranked to life.

  Except for the steady chugs and backfires from Big Al, they drove toward their collection zone in silence. Jagger reached for the radio only once, snatching his hand back when Deason glared at him.

  “So, do you think Vic did it?” Jagger finally asked as quietly as his tobacco-scathed voice box would allow.

  Deason worked his jaw, Jagger’s question adding fuel to the fire in his mind. “God as my witness, Victor Locke had better skip his usual piss in the alley behind Suds this afternoon, or else he’ll end up in Big Al’s tire tread.”

  ****

  “Man, it’s gettin’ hot out.” Jagger mopped his forehead with the mustard stained napkin from his lunchbox.

  Deason steered the truck into the next alley. “Better freshen up. There’s your girlfriend.”

  Daphne’s diagonally parked Blazer blocked their path. She pulled a large sack from the hatch and hoisted it onto her shoulder then wedged another in the crook of her arm. Jagger waved. She lifted her chin in response.

  “I’m goin’ to help her,” Jag said, opening the door.

  “Doesn’t look like she needs any help.”

  Through the windshield, Deason watched Daphne pace easily toward the open backdoor of her shop. Jagger intercepted, taking the bag from her arm. Smiling, she dropped her shoulder, plunking the second bag on top of the first. Jagger’s legs shook, as if about to buckle. With a bowlegged stride, he followed her into the doorway.

  Deason hid a smile as Jagger climbed back into the truck cab.

  “Remind me never to piss that one off. Woman’s strong as an ox. Those were fifty pound sacks of birdseed she was hauling.”

  “Watch out, Jagger. Next thing you know, she’ll be slinging you over her shoulder like that. Taking you home with her.”

  Jagger grinned. “Why would I mind that? Hell, I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

  Daphne jogged into the alley and shut the Blazer’s hatch. She waved before climbing behind the wheel and driving away.

  Deason lurched Big Al forward, bumping up to the trash dumpster. He activated the loader to align the truck’s forks, lifted the dumpster, flipped it over the truck’s hopper. Reversing the loader, he set the dumpster back on the ground and retracted the forks. Then he was on to the next one, and the next. This part of the job wasn’t too bad—as long as everyone kept their trash in the dumpster where it belonged. Otherwise, he had to park the truck, climb out and toss the bags and other junk into the dumpster himself.

  Deason gazed through the windshield, his pulse picking up speed. Suds Bar was the second stop on the next block. Vic better keep his ass inside on a barstool, or he might end up on the bad side of a packer blade.

  He crossed Fifth Street and chugged into the alley, making short work of the trash bins behind the hair salon and the thrift shop.

  “I see our good buddies at Suds left us the usual gifts.” Jagger snarled at the black trash bags splitting with beer bottles beside the dumpster. He jumped to the ground as the truck rolled to a stop.

  “Joe must’ve lost his key again.” Deason stepped around the truck, stooping to pick up strewn bottles as he walked. Joe Liles, the bar’s owner, was one of a handful of business owners that the public works department allowed to lock his trash dumpster. Joe claimed he couldn’t keep the street drunks out of it—always diving in, trying to siphon the last swallow of beer from the bottles. For an extra ten bucks added to his waste disposal bill each month, he could keep it padlocked.

  Sam, the public works department manager, was too cheap to spring for modern gravity locks that pop open when the dumpster rises, and then snap shut when it’s lowered. Instead, he’d issued steel, pain-in-the-ass Master locks that hooked through the lid’s retaining rod and had to be opened with a key.

  “What do you suppose that god-awful stench is?” Jagger pinched his nose.

  Deason dropped the bottles. He fished the key ring from his coverall pocket, sorted through the color-coded keys. He looked around at the usual puddles of spilled beer, vomit and piss. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Smells like a dead animal,” he said, unlocking the padlock.

  He yanked open the dumpster’s lid. It fell back on the hinges, scattering a cloud of blowflies. He hoisted up two leaking garbage bags and, stifling a gag, hurled them in and grabbed two more. The odor was unbelievable. His eyes watered as he tossed in stray bottles, trying not to inhale.

  Something inside the bin caught his eye and he stepped closer.

  “What’re you waitin’ on? Hurry up so we can dump this bad boy before I lose my lunch.” Jagger yanked Deason’s arm.

  “Wait.” Deason shrugged him off then turned his head and took a deep breath, held it in. He bent toward the dumpster and peered inside, his eyes widening.

  “What the hell are you starin’ at?”

  Deason pulled the collar of his coveralls over his mouth, exhaling into the fabric. “My boot,” he said, voice muffled.

  “Boot?” Curiosity all over his face, Jagger crept closer, craning his neck.

  Deason pointed. “Stain on the toe looks like Mickey Mouse.”

  Jagger’s gaze homed in. “Sure as shit. How do ya’ like that? SOB steals your boots then chucks ’em in the trash. You ain’t thinkin’ about divin’ in after ’em. I’d help you out bro, but that smell—” He backed away.

  Deason dropped his hand from his collar and gripped the front of the bin, squinting as he leaned against the metal. The boot peeked from beneath a pile of wadded brown paper towels. He traced his gaze over a sea of peanut shells, up to an empty whiskey bottle, thinking he could almost make out an outline under the surface—

  “Oh, god, no—” His heart turned to ice, freezing the blood in his veins. He gulped the rancid air, oblivious to the stench. Legs threatening to buckle, he clutched the edge of the chest-high dumpster for balance.

  “What now? You spy the dead animal causin’ the stink?” Jagger stepped forward, swinging his gaze to the red condom wrapper Deason seemed to be focusing on. “I know it’s been a while, but don’t tell me you don’t recognize a rubber when you see
one.”

  Deason lifted a shaking finger and pointed. “Not there. There.”

  Jagger’s gaze trailed his finger, the chuckle dying in his throat. The grin spreading across his face pulled into an expression of revulsion. He’d seen it too.

  Deason swallowed hard, now certain he wasn’t imagining things. He returned his gaze to the inside of the dumpster, finding the condom package and the whiskey bottle. Between the two, Victor Locke’s clouded eye stared up at him.

  ****

  “Marjorie wants to come with me to the store this evening. She has some fool idea about rearranging the candy aisle by color instead of price.” Mr. B swept his gaze to the ceiling. “You’ll be all right here alone for a while, won’t you?”

  “Sure I will.” Charis smiled. “But why don’t you lie down for a bit first? I bet you’ll have more patience for Mrs. B’s idea after a little nap. You’ll be doing her a real favor if you rest up.”

  He put a trembling hand to his brow, as if thinking about her suggestion. “Maybe you’re right. Wake me up when Marjorie finishes her beauty treatment.”

  “Yes sir.” Charis stood and helped Mr. B from his chair. She locked elbows with him, leading him through the kitchen and into the living room. After helping him onto the sofa, she fluffed his pillow, covered him with his favorite blanket and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  “We’d better not let Marjorie catch us doing that,” he warned, an ornery sparkle lighting his eyes.

  Rising from the couch, Charis chuckled. “I’ll wake you in a little while.” She dimmed the lights on her way out of the room.

  She stepped to the kitchen, still laughing quietly over Mr. B’s joke when a knock startled her. She jerked her gaze to the window. A shiny black car she didn’t recognize set in the driveway. Hesitantly, she opened the already cracked door, revealing a tall man in a navy-blue polo and khaki pants.

  “May I help you?”

  “My name is Detective John Benton. I need to ask you a few questions about your ex-husband.”