Carnies and Wildcats: Ulciscor

by Robert Spearman

  Seiffert waited for a few minutes and let Allen Ridley exit the building before he left too. Ridley was just in front of the pawnshop when Seiffert walked out the front door at Beulah’s. Seiffert was steps behind Allen when he made a right turn onto Hill Avenue. He quickened his pace and turned the corner just in time to see the passenger door of Allen’s SUV open. Someone reached out and took the plastic bag from Allen. The hand which grabbed the bag was thin and delicate with long, brown fingers. One thing was sure—it was not the hand of Allen’s mother. Allen’s vehicle drove away.

  This raised a few questions in Seiffert’s mind. Early on, when Seiffert was planning everything, he hired one of Patrick’s friends from Tampa to come up and follow Allen Ridley. The friend was an ex-cop and a private detective with the latest, modern equipment. After a few months of following Ridley, and learning about Allen Ridley’s private life, Seiffert stopped the surveillance. Something had changed with Ridley. The earlier reports showed no sign of drug use or romantic interests.

  Seiffert continued to walk down Lee Street toward his building. He walked into the pub and back to the bar area. The restaurant was buzzing with a large crowd. People did not wait outside like at Beulah’s, but every table was full. People were here waiting to drink, eat and enjoy pro football on one of the big-screen televisions. With no place to sit, Seiffert stood near the end of the bar. Patrick was busy, he had brought in a second bartender to help him—a cute little college student named Monique—but even with the added help he was still busy.

  Seiffert reached for a bar napkin and wrote “Need to follow A.R. again. Start ASAP. Need to know everything.”

  He folded the napkin and handed it to Patrick. Seiffert left the bar and hurried up to the sixth-floor office to prepare for his Sunday afternoon appointment.

  * * *

  Wayne McKenzie was ten minutes early. He came into Seiffert’s outer office, sat in one of the waiting room chairs and pilfered through the obligatory magazines on the coffee table. Seiffert gave him a few minutes to catch his breath but noticed that Wayne was breathing much better than on his previous visit.

  Wayne stood as the doctor entered the room, he gave Seiffert a broad, toothy smile which revealed two rows of nicotine-stained teeth. He threw his hand in Seiffert’s direction and said, “Good afternoon Doc!”

  “Good afternoon to you too Mr. McKenzie,” he said, shaking Wayne’s hand. “Let’s go on in, shall we?” Seiffert opened the door to his inner office and motioned for Wayne to enter first. “Make yourself comfortable on the sofa.”

  Wayne walked to the couch like an obedient dog. He removed his shoes and reclined. Seiffert took Wayne’s folder from his desk and sat in the chair nearest the sofa. “So, Mr. McKenzie, why don’t you tell me how things have been going since we met last Wednesday?”

  “Unbelievable Doc!” exclaimed Wayne. His voice was full of excitement. “I didn’t hold much faith in this whole hypno treatment hogwash, but Doc you have made me a believer!”

  “Have you smoked any Wayne?”

  Wayne laughed. “Well Doc, I tried to. I didn’t want one right after I left your place on Wednesday, but two hours later the urge struck me. I took one drag from that first one and it felt like I had chewed a whole habanero pepper. Lit me up like fireworks on the Fourth. I stomped it out on the ground before I took another drag.”

  “And then?” Seiffert smiled.

  “I tried another one two hours later. It tasted like someone emptied a wastewater sewer plant in my mouth. I puked for a solid hour. I don’t know what kind of mumbo-jumbo you put on me Doc, but it’s working like a charm. I tried two more times the past couple of days and was in such a fix I threw them down after the first drag. Didn’t light one up yesterday and none today either. I have another problem though.”

  “What problem is that?” asked Seiffert.

  “I can’t stop buying cigarettes. Everywhere I go I buy cigarettes, cartons of them! The inside of my pickup looks like I am stocking up for the apocalypse.”

  “That’s strange. Perhaps today we can put a stop to that. What brand of cigarettes do you smoke, or rather did you smoke?” asked Seiffert.

  “Lucky Strikes Doc, unfiltered. You know, ‘rather fight than switch’ and all that malarkey.”

  The doctor smiled again and nodded. “Well Mr. McKenzie, let’s have another little go at this, shall we? I think you are making real progress and this should be our last session.”

  “Really Doc? I was just getting to enjoy this hypnotism thing. It’s kinda relaxing.” Wayne acted disappointed. “Maybe by quitting cigarettes I will gain a ton of weight and I’ll have to come back for that. That would be a hoot, wouldn’t it Doc?”

  “Yes, it would,” Seiffert chuckled. “Let’s just tune things up a bit today. I think today I can help you overcome the urge for that first drag and the buying compulsion. I guarantee you, within a week, cigarettes will be out of your life forever. Let’s get started.”

  Wayne McKenzie closed his eyes, and the doctor started. Halfway through the session the doctor whispered to Wayne, “When I count to three you will open your eyes but you will still be under my control. One, two, three.”

  Wayne opened his eyes and stared forward without blinking. Seiffert opened his folder and pulled out the five photographs of Myrtle Ridley in her sweat suit. He held the photos in front of Waynes’s eyes and continued to give instructions. Seiffert told Wayne to close his eyes again and Seiffert continued for another thirty minutes. He asked Wayne a few questions which he answered to Seiffert’s satisfaction. Doctor Seiffert then told Wayne that he would awaken at the count of three, he counted again and Wayne awoke.

  He opened his eyes and then rubbed them. He smiled at the doctor with his Lucky Strike grin. “All finished Doc?”

  “All finished Wayne.”

  He stood and fished fifty dollars out of his wallet. Wayne handed the money to the doctor and extended his hand. “Thanks a million Doc.”

  “You are welcome Wayne but no need for thanks. It is I who should thank you.”

  He followed him to the door that opened onto the corridor. “Safe travels, Wayne.” The doctor waved goodbye to Wayne as the elevator doors closed behind him.

  Wayne walked out of The Ashley. He took a deep breath of the fresh, autumn air and let it fill his lungs. It was almost four, much later than he thought. Wayne walked across the street to the parking lot where his Ford F150 was sitting.

  He loved that truck, it was one of the few indulgences he afforded himself after his wife died. Wayne spent the life insurance money he received after her death to pay off her hospital bills and make a down payment on the truck.

  The truck was dark blue with a chrome grill and chrome wheels, all of which Wayne kept clean and waxed to perfection. The chrome grill and wheels were shining in the November sun. Wayne walked up and peered at himself in the waxed sheen’s reflection. He clapped his hands, it was great to breathe again, and not be tethered to cigarettes any longer. It was wonderful to be alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Monday was a happy day in Winnersville. The Wildcats and Vikings played each other over the weekend for “bragging rights” for another year, and this the Wildcats were victorious. People in the city were floating with clouds under their feet. “The Game” was the conversation at Sunday lunch, Sunday dinner and carried over to Monday-morning breakfast at the various coffeehouses and diners around town.

  Like most folks working in downtown Valdosta, Steven Pruett had his breakfast at Beulah’s Homespun. Beulah’s breakfast was different than her lunch and dinner offerings, still delicious, but breakfast from a menu, not a buffet. Steven was still thinking of Myrtle Ridley’s will as he poked at his eggs and sausage. Pruett sighed, and moved his grits to the middle of the plate and stirred in the sausage and eggs into a breakfast jumble.

  He put the will out of his mind and concentrated instead on finishing his breakfast. Beulah came around with the coffee pot giving everyone “warm-ups”, b
ut Steven waved her off and put his tip on the table. He nodded and said hello to a few folks as he walked out and went to his office around the corner.

  Clara was waiting in the office when he entered. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weekend and Saturday night’s forty-two to seven trounce of the Wildcats over the Vikings.

  Steven got their attention back to business and asked, “Is Mrs. Ridley’s will ready?”

  “Yes, I finished it this weekend. I still need to print it.”

  “Well bring it in and let me look through it.”

  “You want coffee with that?” Clara sounded more like a diner waitress than a paralegal.

  “Yes, please.”

  Ten minutes later she brought in the will along with Steven’s coffee. It was not in her routine to make or serve coffee, but she was feeling benevolent that morning. Clara handed the coffee and the will to Steven and sat in the chair opposite him as he read it, page by page. He made a few corrections and then paused before he handed it back to her.

  “You believe changing this is wrong, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, Clara.”

  “You want to wait, to reconsider?”

  Pruett shook his head. “Print it out and get her in here to sign. The sooner, the better. Before I change my mind.”

  Clara walked out and called Myrtle Ridley.

  “Hello,” Myrtle answered the phone.

  “Miss Myrtle, it’s Clara from the attorney’s office. We have the will ready. You can come by and sign it whenever you wish.”

  “Oh, I thought Steven said tomorrow.”

  “Well ma’am you can wait and come in tomorrow but it’s ready today. It’s up to you.”

  The line was silent for a few seconds and then Myrtle spoke, “Okay, see you in a bit sweetie.”

  * * *

  Later that morning Myrtle Ridley popped into Steven Pruett’s office to sign the will. By the time Myrtle arrived, Steven had left for court.

  “Steven will be sorry he missed you,” Clara lied. Steven was glad he was not there. Clara handed the will to Myrtle Ridley.

  Myrtle didn’t read it. She turned to the back page. “Where do I sign?” she asked.

  “Hold on a minute,” Clara said.

  Clara called the office next to hers, a real estate company. She asked if they could spare a couple of people to come over and witness a signature. A minute later two young men walked into Clara’s office.

  “Are you the witnesses?” she asked. They both nodded.

  She showed Myrtle and the witnesses where to sign. They each signed two copies. Clara thanked the young men and they left the office. Clara pulled out her notary seal and stamp from her desk drawer. She notarized the will.

  “All finished, do you want a copy?”

  “Thank you, sweetie, but that’s not necessary. Just tell that dear Steven to keep both copies here,” Myrtle said and gave Clara a hug.

  “Please tell him to send me a bill,” she said as she walked out Steven Pruett’s door for the last time.

  * * *

  Lewis Seiffert turned in his chair from looking at the markets. On the surveillance monitor, he caught a glimpse of the lady leaving Steven Pruett’s office.

  Myrtle Ridley?

  Unsure, Seiffert changed the camera view to inside the elevator to confirm it. Seiffert wondered if she had visited the lawyer’s office to sign the will, his plans were on hold until he confirmed this. He changed the view to Clara’s office. Seiffert noticed papers on Clara’s desk.

  Too far away to read.

  Seiffert ran into his apartment’s bedroom closet and made a quick change of clothes. Afraid that someone in the law office might recognize him as the bald Dr. Seiffert, he added a wig to the ensemble. He looked in the mirror at his rush job, the disguise resembled Jimmy Miller’s “Oatmeal Man”—good but not perfect. Seiffert ran into the elevator and punched the button for the third floor.

  A panting, red-faced man walked through the door into Clara’s office. “Is there something I can help you with sir?” she asked.

  Seiffert held up his left hand and clutched his chest with his right.

  “Sorry. I am…here…to see Steven,” he said, gasping to get his words out.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not here now, but I expect him back within the hour. May I get you some water or something?”

  “Yes please,” he replied. “Coffee would be wonderful if you have it.”

  “Why sure,” she said. “Give me a minute.” She left and entered an alcove behind her desk. The door closed behind her.

  Seiffert moved behind her desk. The will was here but had Myrtle signed it? He rifled to the last page and smiled. Seiffert flipped back and scanned the documents, confirming Myrtle’s changes. He ran back to the opposite side of the desk as Clara returned with the coffee.

  Clara thought it strange, the old man was still standing.

  Clara handed him the cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?” she asked.

  “No. Black is fine.”

  “Would you like to take a seat?”

  “No that’s okay. I believe I am here on the wrong day.” He placed the coffee cup on her desk and walked out the door.

  “Weird,” Clara said under her breath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Wayne McKenzie did not have another load to haul until the weekend.

  Much needed rest.

  He started his Wednesday morning by cooking a big breakfast, a whole pack of bacon, four scrambled eggs and two cups of black coffee. Wayne’s schedule for the day was to remove the cigarette cartons from his house and then go visit his girlfriend for dinner.

  After breakfast, he cleaned house by moving the multitude of Lucky Strike cartons from the house to the truck. Wayne took a break, watched television and made a sandwich for lunch. Wayne was proud of himself. He had beat the cigarette addiction in less than a week and had done it cold turkey, with the doctor’s help.

  As Wayne finished his sandwich, he noticed the pistol sitting on the table beside his recliner. Wayne remembered the days following his wife’s death. Days when feelings of guilt were so powerful he chewed the end of the barrel.

  But no guts to pull the trigger, right Wayne?

  Wayne grabbed the gun from the table, carried it to the truck and placed it in the glove compartment.

  The next time I pass a pawnshop I’m gonna get rid of this cursed thing.

  Wayne McKenzie hopped into the Ford F150 and had to push several cartons of cigarettes out his way to make room to sit. Wayne shook his head. There were unopened cigarette packs everywhere. He felt confident he had beat his smoking habit, but he hoped the doctor had cured the buying compulsion too. He drove away from his house wondering if he could find a place to sell the unopened cigarettes.

  His cell phone rang and he answered it.

  “Lucky Strike,” said a man’s voice.

  “Lucky Strike,” the voice said again, the phone went dead.

  A glaze fell over Wayne’s eyes. He controlled his vehicle, but not his mind. Twenty minutes later, Wayne’s pickup truck turned into Azalea Estates subdivision.

  Azalea Estates was one of the oldest but most prestigious housing areas in North Valdosta. On this subdivision, with its broad, oak-lined, single street were the homes of Valdosta’s affluent. At the end of the street was the home of Myrtle Ridley—a stately old house with dogwoods and azaleas lining the driveway.

  Wayne’s truck followed the street to its end and turned around in the cul-de-sac. The truck inched forward and then stopped. Wayne aimed his rear view mirror at Myrtle Ridley’s house. He sat and waited. Two hours later, Myrtle Ridley walked out of her house. Wayne’s glazed eyes followed her as she turned onto the sidewalk and continued walking. Wayne started the truck, drove forward and passed Myrtle Ridley. He made a U-turn at the subdivision’s entrance and pointed his truck down the one-mile street.

  Wayne pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor and the truck responded to Wayne’s foo
t, moving faster and faster, the oak trees passing by in a blur. Wayne’s lifeless eyes spotted Myrtle Ridley. He swerved in her direction and slammed Myrtle into one of the majestic oaks. Her body squirmed for a few minutes, suspended and pinned between the truck and the tree.

  Blood trickled from her mouth and nose, her body went limp. Myrtle Ridley was dead.

  Inside the truck, the air bag had deployed but Wayne had not survived the high-speed impact of his truck slamming into the century old, giant tree. The truck’s engine had slammed into Wayne’s body and in a few seconds Wayne was dead.

  A few neighbors heard the crash and ran out of their houses toward the truck. Everyone had been indoors and had not witnessed the accident. Once they saw the severity, someone called 911 but they knew it was too late. Two ambulances, a police cruiser, and two wreckers showed up in within ten minutes.

  One wrecker separated the truck from the tree.

  An ambulance sped Myrtle’s body to the hospital.

  The EMTs in the other ambulance worked with the “jaws of life” for an hour to remove Wayne’s body from the truck.

  The police surveyed the area for signs of black tire treads, none found. It was clear he never braked before he hit Myrtle Ridley. There were Lucky Strike cartons spilled everywhere around the scene of the accident. Someone in the crowd heard a policeman say, “He must’ve really loved his Lucky Strikes.”

  The police concluded that it was an accident. They reasoned the driver suffered a heart attack or hit one of the speed bumps in the street, forcing him to lose control. They did not find or suspect anything intentional in the driver’s actions. Just a routine “Tuesday afternoon, a truck going out of control and hitting an old lady walking, nothing to see here, please move along folks.”

  Doctor Seiffert was correct, cigarettes were out of Wayne’s life forever and Myrtle Ridley’s insomnia was cured.

  * * *