by James Ross
“And then we’ll be able to take it out of the ARM account . . . you know the African relief money?”
“Yeah! Hopefully we’ll have it in there by the end of the week. I have to take care of the ref. Let’s do it again this weekend!”
“Won’t that be pushing our luck a little?” Father Blair asked. He was happy with the sure thing.
“We’re on the right side of the game! He’s got three or four more games left in the season.” The banker’s lust for money caused him to froth at the mouth. “Let’s keep banging the cash down and build up the account.”
“I can’t go out to Vegas this week,” the priest said.
“You don’t need to. I’ve got all of the forms completed so that we can electronically transfer the money. We’ll start placing the bets with the push of a button.”
Alpha Bear was hesitant. “I don’t know. I’m happy with what we’ve made.”
Harold could hardly contain himself. “This is like stealing! Don’t worry about anything. The ref is happy. We’re happy. The church still has their money. We’re just taking the gravy.”
“That money needs to eventually get to Namibia,” Father Blair said.
Harold made a move for the door. “We’ll get the money over to the poor people from Africa. But in the meantime you and I are going to take a lot of the profits that can be made on that account.” He opened his office door. “I’ve got a packed day of appointments. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it under control.”
Alpha Bear reluctantly sighed as they shook hands. “I guess that’s what I’m a little concerned about.”
“You just get the diocese to okay the new school.” After a pause he added, “And stay away from those apples.” They parted ways. Father Blair headed for the front door and Harold walked down the hallway to the bank’s conference room. He was on a roll solving problems, moving money, and utilizing contacts.
Ricki was shutting the door to the conference room as Harold approached. “They’re all here and have everything they need.”
Harold rubbed his hands together and looked up ten inches to her eyes. With heels she made him look like a dwarf. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“That trip to Cancun is going to cost you a little more this winter. You owe me.” She smiled and kept moving down the hall. Harold looked at her as she sashayed away. Ricki didn’t hear the door open and felt his eyes watching her backside. Without missing a step she reached behind herself and slapped her right butt cheek.
Harold entered the conference room to meet with his trusted contacts. The eclectic bunch of characters that had assembled looked like an embroidered Mexican wall covering. Sitting at the table was Monty, representing the rat species. Mayor Leavitt, with the dark circles around his eyes, could have passed for a raccoon. City attorney Ficke had the scared, apprehensive look of a squirrel as he munched on his sunflower seeds. Harold, with his mane of hair, was the fox that took a seat at the head of the table. It was his place and he intended to skillfully call the shots.
“We all know what is front and center on today’s agenda,” Harold started. “I want to get the site under contract that is two doors down from the church property.”
“How can we do that when his use-permit proposal is on the table?” Mayor Leavitt asked as he made reference to Tuey’s contract.
“He can’t offer a damn thing to the city,” Monty said as he added his two cents.
“That’s right,” Harold agreed. “A parking lot for construction vehicles won’t bring in the tax dollars that a shopping center will.”
Monty looked in the direction of the city attorney. “Just tell him that is doesn’t fit within the comprehensive plan for the city.”
Ficke had the jitters. The city attorney glanced at the mayor. “But right now it does.”
“Then draft some language that says that due to the new road the comprehensive plan is being changed,” Monty suggested.
“Yeah,” Harold urged, “and that piece of ground has a better use to the city as part of a shopping center than a parking lot for bulldozers.”
Mayor Leavitt was in the banker’s corner. “It’s all about revenue for the city. We need the tax dollars.” He spoke directly to the city attorney.
“I want to move this thing forward,” Harold stressed. “I’ve already worked a deal for the church site. I need this property to tie up all the land for the mall.” Harold glared at the city attorney. “I’ve got my anchors tied up that want the space on each end and now we’re getting commitments from a lot of retailers to fill up the remaining space. Force his hand.”
Ficke instinctively felt all of the eyes in the room as he nervously popped sunflower seed after sunflower seed into his mouth. The city attorney often wondered whether or not the banker would be able to put a sentence together if he couldn’t use the word I. He eyeballed the antacid tablets sitting in the middle of the conference table. They had become a familiar staple at these meetings. Clearly he had to figure out a way to get around the current comprehensive plan and inform the purchaser-under-contract that his special use permit was not welcomed by the city. “It’s not that easy.” He fidgeted some more with the sunflower seeds. “He’s black.”
“I don’t give a rat’s rear end what color he is or if he’s an invader from outer space,” Harold roared. “He can’t offer crap to the city and he’s standing in the way of this development.” His face was flushed with color. “He’s nothing but a screw-up. The guy can’t even get a sewer line in on time. We’re having nothing but delays with the subdivision.” He got up and pushed the chair into the conference table like a child having a temper tantrum. “The guy is worthless!”
“He might play the race card,” Ficke meekly hinted.
“Let him!” Harold snarled. “It’s all about money, not race.” He pounded his fists on the table like a third grader that just got the finger paints taken away by the teacher. “I want my project!”
“Harold, calm down,” Mayor Leavitt said. “The city is behind your proposal more than his. We’ll get something drafted.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A light drizzle was falling as Tuey pulled his pickup truck to the side of the road in front of his house. As was his habit, he took his lime green skull cap off and placed it on the passenger seat. Dejectedly he made the short journey into his home and plopped down on the sofa.
LeVournique was still dressed in the black trousers and white shirt that the casino required her to wear in the cashier’s cage. Instinctively she knew that something was wrong. The quiet coming from the front room was a clear indicator. She walked into the front room from the kitchen and saw her husband nearly in tears. “What’s wrong wit’ you, Tuey O’Tweety?” she asked as she gently rubbed her hand over his closely cropped hair.
Tuey held a certified letter in his hand from the city. “Dem’s peoples down dere at da city hall denied my special use permit.” His eyes glistened as he looked up to his wife.
“Can’t you axt dem why?”
Tuey got up, went to the window, and looked out to the street. “I’s bets dat dat Big Bertha will be ova here agin tonight ta gives me anudda ticket.”
LeVournique studied her husband. “Can’t you gives da letta to da new lawya an’ let him deal wit’ it?”
Tuey was resolved to not being able to get the problem worked out. “An’ spend mo’ money dat I’s don’t have?” Tuey had the look of a beaten and battered man. “Da city don’t wants me ta fix da problem. I’s axt dem ova an’ ova an’ ova agin.” LeVournique walked over and placed her arms around his waist. She laid her head on the back of his shoulder. One of her gold bangles fell to the floor.
“Darn,” she said as she bent over to pick up the earring.
“Don’t lose dem,” Tuey said.
His wife looked at him strangely. “Why duz ya say dat? Dese is nuttin’ but cheap costume jewelry.”
“Dat’s ’bout aw we’s got left.”
“What’s
you’s mean by dat?”
“I’s jus’ ’bout out uh money,” Tuey said. He peered out to the street, intently looking for Big Bertha. “I’s can’t pays da fines.” He imagined that he saw a figure coming down the street and put his hand up to shield himself from the glare that the inside light reflected in the window. “Now’s I’s gonna lose da contract ta buy dat land.” Tuey took his elbow and wiped it across the window.
LeVournique did the best to console her husband. “It’ll git betta.”
“I’s don’t know. My equipment is broke. Da job be goin’ slow. Dere’s nowhere ta park dis stuff.” The forlorn look on his face caused LeVournique to continue to rub her hands over his scalp compassionately. “Da banka be holdin’ back da money ’til mo’ work gits done.”
“Whatcha gonna do?” LeVournique had a concerned look on her face. She could see her husband spiraling down.
“I’s don’t know,” Tuey answered. He was getting more and more frustrated. “If I’s had da answers den I’s be doin’ sumptin’ ’bout it. Da city don’t wants me ta do bizness here.” Tuey bowed his head. “An’ now da lawya sez dat it looks like dey wants me ta pay dem uh lot uh money ta git da zonin’.” He shook his head disgustedly. “An’ den afta dat dey won’t gives it ta me anyway.” He looked at LeVournique. “Dey wants me ta leave.”
“Den let’s leave,” LeVournique suggested.
“I’s don’t haves nowheres ta go.”
“Sho’ you do. We can live on da udda side uh dat duplex dat my sista Sawilla has,” LeVournique blurted. After a perplexing moment she offered a thought. “Why’s don’ts ya come on down ta Texas wit’ me?”
The white of Tuey’s eyes seemed to illuminate the room as his mouth flew open. “What’s dat ya be axtin’ me?”
“I’s tinkin’ ’bout goin’ down ta Texas an’ stayin’ wit’ my sista,” LeVournique announced, “at least ’til aw uh dis up here blows ova.”
“Why’s ya tinkin’ dat you’s gonna do aw uh dat fo’?” Tuey asked as he gave LeVournique a puzzled look. “You’s tinkin’ ’bout leavin’ yo’ job at da Aqua Mermaid?”
LeVournique placed her arms around her husband’s waist and laid her head on his chest. “Tuey, I’s tired uh aw uh dis fightin’ wit’ da city hall. My sista got’s me uh job at da cashier cage at da Cotton Ball Downs dog track.”
Tuey looked at her in disbelief. “Is ya gonna up an’ leaves me?”
“I’s might,” his wife said. “I’s sho’ tinkin’ long an’ hard ’bout it.”
“Why, Sweet Chile?” Tuey paused while the single question produced a gigantic tear that gathered speed as it rolled down his cheek. “Why!”
She squeezed her arms tighter around Tuey’s waist. “Cuz I’s jus’ gittin’ real tired uh aw uh da fightin’.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The college football season was winding to a close and the Thanksgiving holiday had come and gone. For the banking community and political hot shots the Christmas partying season had begun. On the flip side for the blue-collar workers the daily struggles continued. It wouldn’t be long before 2007 blended into 2008.
Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen set up shop on the second floor of an older office building that Harold Syms owned. Sunday services had been taking place in a classroom environment that was less than ideal, but it was a suitable meeting place until the new church structure was built. Reverend Puld agreed to relocate the church to a different site thanks to a financing deal that Deacon D. Wayne Smith worked out with the banker.
A small Christmas tree decorated with blinking lights sat next to a makeshift lectern. Several potted poinsettias were scattered on the floor. Blinking lights adorned icicles that hung on the wall behind the preacher’s lectern. Tuey, dressed in his Sunday best, met with D. Wayne a few moments before the Sunday morning service began. “How’s you bin?”
“Busy,” D. Wayne replied. “With the shop and the church burnin’ down and the new song out with MiSSus KuLe BReeZe SiSTa JaNeLLe and . . .”
“ . . . We’s uh be watchin’ you’s on da TV,” Tuey said as he recalled the times that he was in the pro shop with the guys.
“And that’s not to mention the football.” D. Wayne smiled. In some circles he was considered a celebrity. “With all the satellites and cable I suppose ’bout every game is on the screen somewhere.”
“Sum uh da guys don’t agrees wit’ da calls you’s bin makin’.”
“With instant replay you can always get second guessed.” D. Wayne said and quickly changed the subject. He wasn’t about to get into that before church services on Sunday morning. “Say you need to get by the store. We’ve got your sinkers and hooks on sale for the holidays.”
“I’s seen dat on da sign when I’s went by dere da udda day,” Tuey responded. “You’s got’s some two’s fo’ one deals uh goin’ on.”
D. Wayne nodded his head affirmatively. Come on over after church and take advantage of them,” D. Wayne said. “I’ll fix you up real good.”
After an hour’s worth of “Amen’s” and a mouthful of “have mercy on you’s” Tuey walked past the ice storage bin and stack of propane tanks before he entered the front door of Suds, Slugs, & Sinkers. He was dressed in a violet corduroy suit with black shirt and white tie. His patent leather shoes were maroon with a white top. Adorning his head was a black derby with white band. The store offered a stark contrast to the makeshift church setting that Tuey and D. Wayne had enjoyed earlier in the day.
The Illinois “blue laws” had been repealed so anyone with a liquor license could offer alcohol for sale. Tuey perused the aisle that offered rum in such exotic flavors as banana, coconut, pineapple, mango, peach, and raspberry among others. D. Wayne arrived and parked a brand new black Cadillac Sedan de Ville with gold trim next to Tuey’s pickup. The reflection caught Tuey’s eye as he parked the car.
After D. Wayne entered the store Tuey yelled at his friend. “Git uh load uh dat mustard an’ mayonnaise. You dint tells me ’bout dat.” He referred to the new car equipped with elaborate four-inch whitewall tires, mud flaps, and curb feelers.
“You know how things go.”
“I’s glad ta see dat somebody be knockin’ down da lettuce. Ooooooo weeeeee,” Tuey said as he stared out the window. “Man, dem aw some wheels. When did you’s git dat?”
“That was a little present to myself,” D. Wayne said. He wasn’t about to let Tuey know that his tips from Harold had been lucrative.
Tuey stepped back and marveled at his friend. “I’s means, look at you’s wit’ aw uh dem skittles,” Tuey said as he referred to D. Wayne and all of his jewelry and flashy Rolex. “I’s mean it’s like whoa. You’s livin’ large, man.”
“Just lucky. You know . . . having a good year.” D. Wayne went over and straightened up several bags of potato chips on a rack as well as the beef jerky display. He continued down an aisle where paper plates were stored next to popcorn and dried cereal. Jell-o, sugar, and salt sat on a shelf adjacent to chocolate syrup, dried spaghetti, aluminum foil, Sweet ‘N Low, and a box of plastic forks. Not too far away were cans of motor oil, transmission fluid, dog food, and plastic trash bags.
Tuey grabbed three bags of sunflower seeds. “I’s tinks dat I’s oughta give dese ta dat Mr. Ficke fo’ Christmas.” He referred to the city attorney who was always munching on that particular snack.
“What do they say on the computer?” D. Wayne asked.
“Dunno. I’s don’t has one uh dose.”
“Add it to your cart,” D. Wayne replied as he handed a small plastic shopping basket to Tuey.
“Show me’s what’s you’s got’s on sale,” Tuey said.
D. Wayne continued to the shelf that had the various sinkers, fish hooks, and corks. “We’re trying to clear these things out by the end of the year.” He flipped several items into Tuey’s handheld container. “I’ll work you a deal.”
Tuey looked at the items. “Tanks. I’s needs some hooks an’ line ta catch dem carp. I’s sho’
wish dat you’s had some uh dat cottonseed cake to give away. Dat fish loves dat.”
D. Wayne continued to the cooler. He rearranged the flavors of Boone’s Farm wine so that the strawberry hill wasn’t mixed with the apple blossom and that the blue Hawaiian, fuzzy navel, and mango grove were set apart from each other. He straightened the bottom shelf so that the cranberry, blackberry, mixed berry, winter berry, and peach flavors of Arbor Mist were separated. “You need some suds?”
Tuey eyed the different drinks in the cooler. The different flavors of MD-20 as well as FUZE, amp, and Full Throttle appealed to him. He settled on some bottles of Fat Tire. “You’s doin’ aw uh dis fo’ me, D. Wayne?”
D. Wayne nodded his head. “Tis the season. I’ve had a good year.”
“How ’bout some firecrackers?” Tuey asked.
D. Wayne laughed as they walked to the checkout counter. “What you want them fo’?”
“New Year’s Eve,” Tuey replied. “Everybody in da hood shoots dem at midnight.”
D. Wayne noticed the boxes of Winchester bullets in the glass case underneath the counter. “Why don’t you just fire some heat?”
“I’s ain’t got’s none uh dat,” Tuey said.
“You mean to tell me that you don’t pack none of that where you live?” D. Wayne asked.
Tuey shook his head back and forth. “Nope.” He glanced up and saw the posters on the wall advertising phone cards for calls to Africa, Mexico, and Australia.
D. Wayne unlocked the glass case behind the counter and pulled out a .357 Magnum. “Ain’t this pretty?” He handed the revolver to Tuey. “I’ll work you a deal on this if you need something to fire on New Year’s Eve.”
Tuey was captivated by the powerful weapon. The stainless steel barrel was four inches in length. It had a rubber grip with an orange-colored, rosewood insert and three finger notches. “Oooooooo, weeeeee. Dat’s nice.”
“You oughta feel its power,” D. Wayne said. “That will make plenty of noise at midnight.”
“How much fo’ it?”