Holliday's Gold

by Steeven R. Orr

  “Colin,” Beatrice said. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong, honey.”

  Colin’s crying slowed as he rose from behind the counter.

  “A woman came in earlier,” Colin began. “The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her hair was like gold. She pretended to like me. Then she stole my car.”

  “Not your Camaro?” Burt said. “See, Beatrice, I told you that was Colin’s car.”

  “Shush, Burt,” said Beatrice. “Go on Colin.”

  “Well,” continued Colin. “ She stole my car and then this guy came in looking for her. He had a sword, and a gun. He pointed the gun at me. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me,” tears formed again in Colin’s eyes.

  “It’s okay, Colin,” Beatrice said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone now.”

  “He asked me where Goldilocks, that’s the girl, he asked me where she went, but I was too scared to talk. So he threw candy bars and potato chips at me. But I still wouldn’t talk. So then he put his gun away and started being nice to me. So I told him that she took my car and went east, toward your place."

  Colin paused and looked at the mess on the floor.

  “He said he would clean all this up. But he never did. He just left,” Colin began to cry again.

  “It’s okay, Colin,” Beatrice said soothingly, patting Colin’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “My car has been stolen, I had a gun in my face, and the store is a mess!” Colin began to shout. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t deserve any of this! I’m not even supposed to be here today!” And with that, Colin’s eyes rolled up and he dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT THE EXACT MOMENT that Colin Pig had dropped to the floor of the Brick House Gas and Groceries, Jack Horner, the Griswold’s head of security, served Goldilocks a cup of coffee in the Griswold House kitchen.

  At least, she supposed it was a kitchen. Of course, she knew that it obviously was a kitchen, what with all of the ovens and refrigerators and freezers and automated dishwashers. Plus all the counter space filled with mixers and knives and spoons and spices and fruits and vegetables and all the various tools needed to whip up a meal. Then you add to the mix the scores of men and women, both human and animal, all dressed in white uniforms, aprons, and hats. Well, she had to come to the logical conclusion that this was, in fact, a kitchen. She had just never seen a kitchen this size, at least outside of a five-star restaurant.

  She sat on a tall stool, practically in the center of the bustling kitchen. Everyone worked with a precision that made her think of the ballet. Every single person in this room, apart from herself and Jack, had a role, and they performed that role with a skill and sense of pride the likes of which hasn’t been seen outside of a Peter Jackson trilogy blockbuster movie set.

  “I believe that I should contact the authorities,” Jack said.

  She had to reach deep inside herself for the strength to keep her eyes from rolling in contempt. She’d used the story that she’d been attacked to get inside the house, and now that she was in, she wasn’t about to let Johnny Law spoil her chance to get a free meal and possibly a pillow to lay her head.

  “Oh please,” she said, reaching out and placing a hand on Jack’s arm. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I just want to forget this whole thing. I just want to rest and wait for my friend.”

  Then a smell hit her. An aroma that prodded at her senses, took her gently by the hand, pulled her into a loving embrace, caressed her hair with thoughtful affection, and mewled sweet nothings softly into her ear before slapping her across the face with a large open palm. The scent wrapped so completely around her that it nearly pulled her from the stool.

  She stood, shaking slightly. She struggled a bit to place her coffee on the stool without spilling or dropping it. Then she stuck her nose high up into the air, and without any thought to how a lady might act in polite society, took one, great, loud and long, sniff.

  “Oh my,” She said, turning to Jack. “What is that enchanting aroma?”

  “That is the chef’s famous lobster bisque” said Jack, smiling with pride and pointing to something behind her.

  She turned and saw a large man, whom she determined was the head chef based entirely on the sheer immensity of his great floppy white hat. He carefully ladled the lobster bisque into three separate bowls. A great big bowl. A medium sized bowl. And a small child’s bowl.

  She looked from the three bowls to a small red box on the wall. The box had a glass front, behind which was a red button. Above the red box were the words:

  BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF FIRE

  She looked from the box back to the three bowls. Then she smiled as the beginnings of a plan began to form in her head.

  Her plan was simple, She would just need to distract the army of people in the kitchen long enough to press the fire alarm. The ensuing panic and chaos of the subsequent evacuation would be enough, she hoped, to allow her to slip away, circle back to the kitchen, and feast.

  There were, of course, many flaws to her plan. First and foremost, she noticed the sprinklers in the ceiling. Goldilocks wasn’t sure how fire sprinklers worked. She was fairly certain they wouldn’t just start spitting water when the alarm was pulled, but if they did, it would be like eating in the shower. And from what she understood, the water that comes out of those sprinkler systems is old, filthy, and smelly. No thanks.

  Secondly, she wasn’t sure what she could do to cause the kind of distraction necessary to draw attention away from her long enough to pull the alarm without anyone realizing that she was the one who had pulled it. She supposed she could start a fire, but a fire would surely get the sprinklers started, and then she would be back to eating in the smelly, filthy shower.

  The fact of the matter was, despite the sheer size of the house, which was larger than your average Wal-Mart supercenter, she didn’t take into account the amount of people she would have to deal with just to get some food and a place to sleep. Usually, when she broke into a place, the owners were away on vacation and she had the place to herself for a few days. She started to wonder just why she picked this particular house. She’d never tried the whole “home invasion” thing, and while conning a clerk in a convenience store to get you a free burrito was a piece of cake, this job had quickly turned out to be more like a slice of mud pie.

  She gave thought to just leaving. Just packing it all in and heading down the road to find an empty place to loot … but then the smell of lobster bisque took a fantastic voyage throughout her nasal passages, and before she could stop herself, she pointed to the door on the wall opposite of the fire alarm and screamed in mock, yet rather quite convincing, terror.

  All heads turned first toward her, then toward the door. This was her chance. She was off like a shot. She crossed the room in little under two seconds, snatched a dish towel from a nearby rack, threw it up over the fire alarm box, and slammed her fist into it, smashing the glass and pushing the fire alarm button at the same time.

  The fire alarm sounded throughout the house and a general state of panic and chaos set in as everyone made their way to the nearest exit. The sprinklers did not start spitting forth dirty, stink-water, and for that, she was grateful.

  Goldilocks followed the crowd as they exited the kitchen and began to look for a place to duck out when someone grabbed her by the arm.

  “You’re coming with me.” It was Jack Horner. He pulled her from the crowd, down a hallway, and into a room at the end.

  The room was small. All that occupied the room were a square wooden table, and two metal folding chairs at either end. Jack pushed her into one chair while he sat in the other, opposite her, glaring at
her in anger.

  “Just what are you up to?” Jack asked, slamming his hand down on the table.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, panic and fear in her voice. “The fire alarm-”

  “There is no fire!” Jack interrupted as the alarm continued to sound. “I saw what you did. I saw you push the alarm. What the heck is going on here! What do you want!?”

  She sighed, leaned back in her chair, and relaxed.

  “Okay,” she said. “You want to know what’s going on? You want to know who I am and what I’m doing here?”

  “You bet your bleached hair I do!”

  “Right,” she said, leaning forward. “But you probably shouldn’t have said that about my hair.”

  “Wha-”, Jack began, but before he could finish, She was on her feet, and she brought her side of the table with her.

  As she rose, she tipped the table up on its end and sent it crashing down on Jack. Then she leaped into the air and brought both feet down on the upturned table with Jack beneath it. She began to scream as she jumped up and down on the table, each word coinciding with her landings.

  “NEVER! TALK! ABOUT! MY! HAIR!”

  She stopped, took a deep breath, and pulled herself together before opening the door and making her way back to the kitchen, leaving Jack, unconscious and alone in the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GOLDILOCKS STROLLED INTO THE kitchen like she owned the place, the fire alarm ringing all around her, and went straight to the three bowls of lobster bisque. She went to the largest of the three bowls first, took a spoon, and tried a bit. The bisque burned her tongue and she threw the spoon to the ground in anger as she shouted a curse the likes of which should never be repeated – by anyone – to anyone – for any reason.

  It certainly won’t be repeated here.

  She cursed again when she realized that she just threw her spoon to the ground and in her rage she swept the large bowl of bisque from the counter and smiled in silent satisfaction as it shattered on the floor, spilling lobstery goodness everywhere. She then went looking for another spoon.

  Finding a new spoon she skipped the medium sized bowl, fearing it would be just as hot as the large bowl. She figured that the small bowl, having less in it, would have cooled down sooner than the others and went next to that one. Sadly, she was disappointed by how cold the bisque was and so, like its large companion, the small bowl soon found itself in pieces on the floor, its contents mixing with that of its chum.

  So she tried the medium sized bowl. She carefully filled her spoon. She brought the spoon to her lips. She took a small, tentative sip. Without warning, her knees went all wobbly and she fell to the floor, landing on her bottom. She smiled as she let the bisque, which was at the perfect temperature, slosh about in her mouth. She moaned. It tasted like nothing she’d ever experienced. It felt like each of her pleasure centers had turned to eleven at the same time.

  She began to feel angry and cheated when she realized that she’d just thrown two bowls of this ... perfection, to the ground. What a waste. She wanted to punch something. Instead she swallowed the bisque and was immediately swept away by the sheer ecstasy of the flavors that met in her tummy.

  She pulled herself to her feet, spoon in hand, and bent over the bowl once more. She took her time with the bisque. Savoring every drop. Even licking the bowl clean when she could no longer manage to scoop any more on to her spoon.

  Once her belly was full, she decided to go exploring. As she moved through the house, she felt the exhaustion of the day settle around her. She wanted a place to just sit for a while. Of course, the continuing high volume claxon of the fire alarm did little to provide an atmosphere of peace and tranquility, but still, Goldilocks had a talent for putting herself in a completely restful state on command.

  After just a few minutes of searching she found a room with three chairs that sat before a fire place on an exquisite Persian carpet. There was a large plump recliner, a medium sized wooden rocking chair, and a small bean bag chair. All three sat in a slight arc facing the fireplace so that the occupants could sit, read, and enjoy the fire.

  Silence roared into the room as the fire alarm finally stopped and Goldilocks smiled.

  She was about to try out the recliner when she heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn behind her. She turned and found the most attractive man she had ever seen standing just inside the room. It was the Beast. He was holding one of those samurai swords in both hands and he was smiling.

  “Hello, Goldilocks,” he said.

  “Tim,” she replied icily.

  Then she threw a chair at him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GOLDILOCKS HAS ALWAYS CONSIDERED herself someone who could think quickly on her feet. She’s never had a problem assessing a situation and then quickly coming up with a viable solution. She believed it to be one of her greatest assets. She figured it’s what has kept her alive during this life of hers, this life of lies and deceit. So while this was the first occasion in which Goldilocks found herself trapped in a strange house with a handsome man who threatened her with a sword, it didn’t take her too long to come up with a plan.

  The plan, which she decided was actually quite genius, involved the three chairs in front of her. The large recliner, the medium sized wooden rocker, and the small bean bag chair.

  She had zero qualms about throwing chairs at people if it meant she lived to steal another day. Besides, the Beast, or Tim (as she knew him), had a sword, and she had jack. So yeah, she felt pretty righteous when it came to throwing chairs at guys with swords.

  Unfortunately, she currently found herself standing behind the large, cushy recliner.

  “You’re looking good,” the Beast said, walking slowly toward her. Stalking her. His sword held out before him.

  “I’d say the same, but then, you always look good,” she replied, backing up and crouching slightly, the back of the recliner behind her. “And of course, you know it.”

  The Beast just smiled, and with the sudden grace of a jungle cat, he lunged. The Beast was fast. Goldilocks was faster. She leaped into the air, hands over her head, arched backwards, planted both hands on the back of the recliner, and flipped over the top of the chair to land on her hands and feet just as the Beast’s sword sliced down into the chair back.

  Her first thought upon landing was to throw the recliner at the Beast, but she could see that it was too big, too heavy. There was no way she was getting it off the ground, much less toss it. She raised her hands and cart-wheeled to the left as the Beast pulled his sword free form the chair back, and then brushed the recliner aside as if it was made from papier-mâché.

  She was closest to the beanbag chair now, and so she lifted it and threw it at him, knowing that it would do no damage, but then damage wasn’t the point, she needed him distracted. The Beast took his attention from her long enough to swat the bean bag away with his free hand. It was only a moment, but a moment was all she needed. She dropped into a low crouch, and using her right hand for balance, swept her left leg out at him. She connected with the backs of his knees and his legs were swept out from under him. The Beast toppled.

  Not wasting a second, she was back on her feet. She grabbed the wooden rocking chair and lifted it high above her head. This chair was just right. It was heavy enough to do some serious damage, but not too heavy to lift. She brought it crashing down on his head as he tried to rise. The rocker broke into pieces and he fell back to the floor, unconscious.

  “You ain’t looking too good now,” she said to the still form of the Beast before retreating from the room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE BEAST DREAMED.

  His mind floated back into h
is past and danced along memories of days spent with a young woman he knew as Lucy, though most called her something else. Something to do with her hair. His memories were fuzzy. They faded in and out like an old UHF television station on a cloudy day, so he couldn’t quite recall.

  Goldilocks! That was it. Everyone called her Goldilocks because of her blonde hair. And it did shine like gold, he had to admit that. Of course, it was fake. Her hair was blacker than her heart turned out to be, but she would never admit it.

  Goldilocks called him Tim. Which was his name, in a previous life. He no longer used it. He was only the Beast now. He hadn’t gone by Tim since before Belle.

  Belle. The name tramped across his mind, singing with every step.

  Before Lucy there was Belle.

  Tim was Tim. Then he was the Beast. Then came Belle. The Beast was gone. He was Tim again. Then Belle left. After, he tried to remain as Tim. Then came Goldilocks. Goldilocks helped. Tim was Tim. But then Goldilocks left. The Beast returned. Now the Beast is all he is.

  He rifled through his memories, walking through the storage complex that was his mind and found the room that contained the day that he and Goldilocks had met.

  After Belle, Tim went through an elaborate and expensive midlife crisis. He’d bought a hundred thousand dollar red sports car. He’d moved into a trendy loft in the art district of the big city. He’d furnished the loft with top-of-the line furniture and appliances. He’d spent thousands of dollars on the most fashionable clothes. And he danced his nights away in the trendiest clubs, running up monumental bills on drinks alone. Drinks that were not for him. The Beast didn’t drink. The drinks were for the ladies.