Two Crazy_Fickle Finger of Fate

by Margaret Lashley

  Just before my face hit the floor, Tom caught me by the ribs and hauled me up in a vertical Heimlich maneuver. I gasped, and one of my chicken fill-its flew the coop. I watched in slow-motion horror as it bounced like a ball of peach Jell-O across the wooden floor. The sole of a shiny black loafer squashed down on it, and a man fell hard, face-first at my feet.

  He scrambled up in a huff and picked up the rubber boob.

  “Who’s is this?” he demanded.

  The man was Lieutenant Hans Jergen. Oh, shit!

  The crowd came to a standstill. They gathered in a circle around us like schoolkids waiting for a fight to break out. I tried to look innocent, but as peoples’ eyes scanned the group, they invariably settled on me. It was impossible not to notice my dress’s crumpled right bodice. Compared to the left side, it looked like a deflated air bag. Jergen’s eyes found my chest, then my face.

  “You again!”

  “I…I…uh….”

  I looked over at Tom. He was livid, but holding it in. Jergen turned his wrath on Tom.

  “Lieutenant Foreman. Perfect. It figures. You two are of the same caliber.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Jergen whipped his head around to face me.

  “You’re a criminal – and so is he.”

  “What?”

  I followed Jergen’s eyes over to Tom. He stood there motionless, arms folded, and didn’t say a word. What a coward!

  “Ms. Fremden, correct?” Jergen said, his voice full of disdain.

  I stared at the floor. “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a suspicious body in the morgue with your name on it. And today I took a statement from a man charging you with cutting off his finger. If I hadn’t been so busy with the benefit today, I’d have already paid you a visit and read you your rights.”

  My gut went limp. Jergen turned to Tom.

  “And you. She probably doesn’t even know about your unspeakable crime.”

  Jergen looked back at me, his face twisted with anger and disgust.

  “Or did he happen to mention that he got my sister pregnant and left her in the lurch?”

  “What?!”

  I grabbed the falsie from Officer Jergen’s hand and spat at both men with my eyes.

  “How could you, Tom? I’m leaving! Don’t follow me!”

  Tom took a step toward me.

  “Val, wait!”

  I turned and glared at the crowd like a psychotic cow.

  “What are you people looking at?” I screeched. “Show’s over!”

  The bystanders parted like the Red Sea to let me pass. I stuffed the chicken fill-it back in my dress and stomped toward the exit. Despite my demand for him not to, Tom followed behind. When I got outside, he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.

  “Where are you going, Val?”

  “Home!”

  “You’re not even going to let me explain?”

  “What’s to explain, Tom? I get it. I know everything about you that I care to know. It’s over. I’m taking a cab home. Don’t bother calling me again. Ever!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I couldn’t see. The left side of my face was crushed into the pillow. I blinked again, but my right eye’s vision remained fuzzy and black. Had I finally drunk myself blind?

  I reached up to touch my face. My fingertips landed on the stiff hide of a dead animal.

  “Aaahhh!”

  I shot up in bed. The horrid beast came with me. I tried to yank it off my head, but it held on tight like a superglued weasel. I freaked and scrambled out of bed, screaming like a raving lunatic. I ran to the bathroom. One look in the mirror made my gut go limp and my hands fall to my sides. The beastly creature on top of my head was the rigid, repellant remains of last-night’s spray-lacquered hairdo.

  I scrounged around for a barrette and pinned back the stiff bangs hovering over my right eye like a coconut husk. My once nicely made-up face looked like a Picasso reject. And I was still wearing that trashy, thrift-store dress. Laverne had hooked and zipped me into it yesterday. Last night, I’d wrestled around with it until I’d nearly dislocated my shoulder, but I couldn’t get it off. I’d slept in the sequined straightjacket with nothing for company but a broken heart and a bottle of gin.

  I stumbled back to the bedroom and tripped over a wayward blob of rubber on the floor. When I leaned over to pick up the falsie, the backside of the dress ripped clear to my waist. Nice. I padded to the kitchen for a pair of scissors and cut the halter-neck off me like a used-up flea collar, then twisted the dress around on my hips until I could reach the hooks. I undid them, zipped the dress down to my thigh and let it fall to the floor. I stepped out of it and stared at the red-sequin puddle at my feet. It glistened on the tile like the bloody remains of my dead relationship with Tom.

  Even with your life at stake, you made impressing a man your number-one priority. Great job, Val. It was so worth it.

  ***

  Steamy water, a loofah and a bottle of shampoo went to work on my face and hair until no traces of last night’s fiasco remained. I stepped out of the shower, toweled off, pulled on my bathrobe and padded to the kitchen to fix myself a cappuccino. I sipped it and googled the news. As far as I could tell, there were no reports about a dead man in a dumpster, me getting charged with cutting off Mickie’s finger, or the police benefit turning into a roadhouse brawl.

  Well, at least I could take consolation in the fact that nobody else knew about my life going to hell in a handbasket.

  I lay back in bed, let the caffeine kick in and tried to remember the last time I’d gone to Sunset Beach. It must have been more than a month ago. I was way overdue for some fresh salt air and sunshine. Maybe it would clear my head. It wouldn’t hurt to see the guys, either. I could really use some friends right now.

  It was nearly 9 a.m. when I threw my straw tote onto Maggie’s passenger seat. The sky was clear and the sun was already beating down strong enough to make the fake-leather seats toasty-warm to the touch. I slapped a floppy hat on my head and turned the ignition. The engine’s roar reminded me that I needed to talk to Winky about Laverne’s car. I couldn’t remember whether I’d already talked to him about fixing it or not. With all the crazy stuff that had been going on, my mind had become way too squirrely to trust.

  Maggie rumbled out of the driveway and I steered her toward Gulf Boulevard. I hung a left and headed south to Sunset Beach, the home of Glad’s beloved beach bar, Caddy’s. It was Sunday, so I was pretty sure Winky, Jorge and Goober would be there. Under Florida law, no one could sell booze before 11 a.m. The guys usually idled away the once-a-week dry spell at one of Caddy’s picnic tables in the sand. If I got there early enough, they’d still be sober.

  The radio was playing All I Need is a Miracle by Mike & The Mechanics. How apropos. I smiled wryly, then turned up the volume and sang along.

  “I knew you were never right…I’ll admit I was never wrong…”

  A DJ’s voice broke over the radio, cutting off the song.

  “Jack Hammer here! It’s nine o’clock, friends and fiends! You know what that means – it’s time to get down and dirty with the latest edition of Blurs & Slurs. You don’t want to miss this one, folks. It’s a classic! Let’s get to it!”

  A very, very, very drunk woman’s voice cracked over the radio.

  “Jack…I had…I had just like…a big (BLEEP) blowout with my boyfriend. Oops. I mean…ex boyfriend.”

  “Really now, darling. What started it?”

  “The chicken thingy…it fell out of my boob.”

  The world around me came to a quiet standstill. My mind erased itself. I could see the train wreck ahead, but I couldn’t stop it. I was the drunk engineer at the wheel. My mouth sagged open. The rest of me was mortified to paralysis.

  “Yes,” the D.J. egged on. “I hate when that happens.”

  “Right? You understand…don’t you Jack?”

  “Yes, I sure do. Then what happened?”

 
“He had…he had a lady with a baby.”

  “That must have been…painful.”

  “Yeshh! And that’s…not half of it.”

  “No? Please, tell me the other half!”

  “He gave me a (BLEEP) couch for my birthday…and then the dwarf came to get me.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a dwarf?”

  “No. He’s a cheater. A cheating (BLEEP)!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t…tell you? He ate…he ate…my girlfriend’s…sushi.”

  “Naughty boy.”

  “Yeshh! It’s his fault…‘cause of the finger.”

  “The finger? Sounds like you got the finger from your boyfriend.”

  “No! I got the finger…from the couch. And now…now the cops are after me.”

  “You certainly have an interesting life. What’s your name?”

  “Val Shremshend.”

  “Well, thanks for calling in Val. Anything more to add?”

  “I think I just farted….”

  “Ha ha ha! People! Didn’t I tell you? A classic! We’ll be playing this one for weeks. You just can’t make this (BLEEP) up!”

  A horn honked behind me. I was idling at a green light. I hit the gas and turned right. Where was I going? What was I doing? I drove by a strange man. He was laughing. Was he laughing at me?

  My phone rang. It was Tom. I cringed and looked away. The sign for Caddy’s caught my eye. I pulled into the parking lot and turned off Maggie’s ignition. I sunk my head on the steering wheel and decided then and there to swear off booze and men forever.

  ***

  “Hey, is that the infamous Val Shremshend?” Goober called to me from a picnic table on the beach behind Caddy’s.

  Oh shit! I ducked my head in shame. I wanted to hide under a rock. I wanted to drown in the ocean. I wanted to make a clean getaway and start a new life in another country. Oh yeah. I tried that already. It didn’t work. I turned the ignition on Maggie, but Jorge and Winky walked up behind her and blocked my escape.

  “Welcome to the Blurs & Slurs Club, Val,” Winky teased. “’Bout time, I’d say. What’s this I hear about a chicken in your boob?”

  “Arrrgh!”

  Winky patted my shoulder with a freckled hand.

  “Ha ha, don’t take it so bad, Val. We all been there.”

  I looked up from the steering wheel.

  “On Blurs & Slurs?”

  “Yep.”

  “Even you, Jorge?”

  Jorge shrugged guiltily.

  “Jes. A long time ago.”

  I sank back in my seat and put a hand over my eyes.

  “How long does it take for the pain and humiliation to go away?”

  “What pain and humiliation?” Winky asked. “You’re a freakin’ movie star now! Soon as it hits ‘leven, I’m buying you a beer!”

  I peeked at Winky from between my fingers and did a double take. He actually seemed to be genuinely proud of me! My hand dropped and my back straightened.

  “Thanks, Winky. But I think I just decided to give up drinking.”

  “What? Now that’s some crazy talk.”

  I snickered despite myself. “Winky, you don’t have the money to buy me a beer.”

  “I shore do. Look!”

  Winky pulled a worn, plastic wallet from his cargo shorts and pulled out three crisp twenty-dollar bills.

  “Woah! Where’d you get that kind of money?”

  “You should know. I been working last couple a days fixin’ a guy’s air conditioner, just like I did at your place.”

  “Why should I know that?”

  “Well, you got me back in the fixin’ mood. I hadn’t touched a motor in years. After fixin’ that AC for you, I started tellin’ folks about it, and pickin’ up a bit a work here and there.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yep. One feller was kinda persnickety. He wanted a reference. I give him your name and number. He called back an hour later and hired me on the spot.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Feels good to have my hands under the hood again. Thanks for telling him I did a bang-up job.”

  “Winky, I never told anyone that. He never called me.”

  “Huh. Well, maybe I give him the wrong number. Anyway, he knowed by my honest face that I was a hard-working man.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Winky’s proud smile faded a notch.

  “Didn’t yore momma teach you to play nice?”

  “Sorry, Winky. You’re right. How’s this for nice? Would you like to help Laverne fix her engine?”

  “Now come on, Val. You know I already got my hands full with Winnie.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’d hung my head in shame and braced for a heap of humiliation from the guys about my Blurs & Slurs debut. But they’d surprised me. My dialing disaster had had the exact opposite effect – it had actually earned me street credit. I’d passed an unspoken rite of derelict passage; I’d committed and survived an act of complete and utter public humiliation.

  At the picnic table, Winky had bought me that beer to celebrate. I’d drunk it gratefully, and listened to Goober as he’d lain out the story of his own grizzly turn at bat, right after his divorce five years ago. Before I left, we’d toasted Glad, and a feeling akin to camaraderie had crept into my heart as our voices rang out together, chanting my mom’s signature salutation: “Screw you, kiddo!”

  Maggie’s seats had been almost at lava level when I’d skootched into the driver’s seat at 2 p.m. I’d checked my phone to find Tom had called four times. The fifth time he’d left a text. It read, “Please. Let me explain. It’s complicated.”

  With men, it seemed, it always was.

  ***

  I went home and googled the news again. Still nothing. Not even about Blurs & Slurs. I sighed with relief. It lasted about a minute. Then my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Valiant Fremden?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  “Offi…Lieutenant Jergen here.”

  I braced for another kind of impact. Was he calling to tell me I’m under arrest? I took Winky’s advice. I played nice.

  “Yes. Congratulations, lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

  My graciousness must have caught him off guard. His voice softened a smidge.

  “Oh. Well, thank you. I’m calling to let you know we’ve identified the body of the man found in the dumpster. His name is Warren Harris. Are you acquainted with this man?’

  “No. I’ve never heard of him. Why do you think this is the guy?”

  “He’s missing the correct finger, and his initials match the ring in question.”

  “Really? W-H…couldn’t that also be H-M? If you turned the ring around?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “The man who accused me of cutting his finger off. His name is Harden Michaels.”

  “Yes. That’s correct. How do you know that?”

  “I…I’m not sure I should be speaking with you about this.”

  “Ms. Fremden, I’m not the bad guy here. Your philandering boyfriend is.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. The man is a menace to women in general.”

  “I guess you think I’m a menace to men in general.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Have a nice day, lieutenant.”

  “I will. But I can’t guarantee the same for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His answer to the question was to hang up the phone. My gut wadded into a knot.

  Crap! What am I supposed to do now? Call the cops? I blew out a big breath. The cops weren’t an option. It was time to eat crow.

  I hit redial for attorney Marvin Hemingway, the lawyer Mr. Fellows had referred to me – the same one I’d blown off so casually just two days ago. I was surprised and unprepared when he answered the phone himself on the first ring.

  �
�Hello, Hemingway here.”

  “Oh! Mr. Hemingway. It’s…um…Val Fremden.”

  “Who?”

  “Val Fremden? Mr. Fellows –”

  “Oh. Yes. The woman with the missing finger.”

  “Um…yes. Are you still interested in taking the case? There have been some…developments.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “A lawsuit, for starters. Have you heard of Ferrol Finkerman?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “His client is claiming to be the man missing that finger. He’s threatening to sue me for personal injury and loss of career earnings.”

  “Threatening? Did he offer you some kind of deal?”

  “Kind of. Half my money now, or all of it in court.”

  “Not the worst deal I’ve heard. Why aren’t you taking it?”

  “Seriously? Because I didn’t do it.”

  “You had the finger, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you know, possession is nine –”

  “Look, Mr. Hemingway. I need help. I didn’t do this. My boyfriend – ex boyfriend – brought an old couch into my house. I found a finger in it. I gave it to the cops. Some dwarf in an Alfred E. Neuman mask broke in looking for it. I kicked him –”

  “Wait a minute. Alfred E. Neuman?”

  “The kid from Mad Magazine.”

  “Okay. Continue.”

  “Really? You ask about the mask, but not the dwarf?”

  “Believe it or not, Ms. Fremden, yours is not the strangest story I’ve heard. I deal with a lot of carnies from Gibsonton.”

  Unbelievable. “Okay. So, this dwarf breaks in, I tell him I gave the finger to the cops and he cusses up a storm. Then he says, ‘mother of macaroons,’ and runs out the door.”

  I waited for his response. There was only silence.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Fremden. I can’t represent you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Let’s just call it a conflict of interest.”

  “Wait!”

  “Good day.”

  Mr. Hemingway clicked off the phone. The doorbell rang.

  Freaking dirtbags! Now what?

  I opened the door. Laverne stood there looking like a starving orange mule in a pink velour jumpsuit. She took one look at me and her smile evaporated into a scowl.