New Title 1

by Lee, Edward

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And here’s some money—”

  “Aw, don’t bother with that, Unc. I’se got some’a my own on account last week I help Nuce Wynchel’n his boy Tube finish diggin’ post holes fer his new fence ’round that land’a his he’s fixin’ ta raise sheep on. This bein’ a family emergency, I’se reckon it’s only proper ta contri-bit my own earnin’s,” and then Micky-Mack withdrew several $20 bills from his jeans.

  Helton beamed with pride. “Boy, what you got is what they call character, and that’s a rare thing in these dark days. I’se proud’a ya fer yer fine gesture, but see here. Ya put yer money away and use my Maw’s. It’s the way she’d want it.”

  “Well, okay, Unc, whatever ya say.” Micky-Mack took the mint-condition $100 bill from his uncle and started out the truck door, but after a second’s thought, he stopped and turned back to his elder. “But where is you goin’, Uncle Helton?”

  “To that great big fancy store ‘cross the street.”

  Micky-Mack looked. “You’se mean the one with the giant yeller’n black sign?”

  “And all them blinkin’ Christmas lights in the winders, yeah.”

  “B-E-S-T…B-U-Y,” he slowly read. “What’cha fixin’ ta buy there?”

  Helton stroked his beard. “See, what I’se fixin’ ta buy there…is a camera…”

  (II)

  “So what time are we going for pizza?” Veronica asked when Mike came out of the office.

  “Huh? Oh, Veronica—”

  “Yeah, Veronica—you know. Your girlfriend?” She giggled it off, knowing this was just another of his macho games. But—

  Did he discretely wince when she’d uttered the word girlfriend?

  No, no. Don’t be so paranoid, she scolded herself.

  He turned his back to her, dropped change into the employee soda machine, and out clunked a can of Mr. Pibb. He popped it open and took a sip. “Oh, damn. I’d buy you one but I’m out of change.”

  Veronica bristled. I don’t want a MR. PIBB! I want YOU!

  Mike walked back to the showroom, talking as he walked. “Oh, pizza, wow. You know—jeez—I forgot, I’ve got all this year-end paperwork to do, and I’ll have to take it home. We’ll have to do pizza another time.”

  Veronica’s breasts bobbed smartly as she hurried to keep up. “Oh. Well, okay. Tomorrow then, right?” but even just looking at the back of his head, she thought, God, I love him SO MUCH…

  “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. We’ll have pizza and talk.”

  Veronica’s freshly tweaked nipples deflated when he’d said that. And TALK? What did that mean? It sounded…ominous. “Mike, is everything all right? With us, I mean?”

  “Huh?” He hurried around the front check-out. “Oh, sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “But-but—”

  The bell dinged, then the Greeter—a perky and utterly empty headed teeny bop pert-breasted pixie—said, “Welcome to Best Buy, sir!” She had one of those sticking-out-at-the-top ponytails.

  Mike sipped more Mr. Pibb. “Chop-chop, Veronica. Looks like you got a customer…”

  The bad vibe was already needling her. Distracted, she noticed the large man loping around the camera counters.

  Who is…THAT?

  Veronica hustled right over.

  It was a very big man, with a jacket she could only think of as “shaggy,” big clunky boots, and a hat like in that old Clint Eastwood movie she’d watched with Mike not too long ago. Something about a sister named Sara. And…

  He didn’t smell good.

  “Hi, welcome to Best Buy, sir. My name’s Veronica.”

  The looming man turned and looked down. Veronica flinched.

  He had shaggy grayish hair and a big bushy beard.

  “Why, hey there, Veronnerka. My name’s Helton,” and he thrust out his hand which, when fully opened might be able to cover her entire face and half her head. It was with some reluctance that she shook it—it looked kind of dirty—and she flinched again by the texture of his palm: like sandpaper.

  “What can I help you with today, sir?”

  “Helton, missy. No need ta call me sir. And, see”—he scratched his beard, releasing some trace dandruff. “What it is I need is a camera.”

  “Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place—we’ve got the best selection in town.” She manned her station at once, going into saleswoman mode. “We’ve got the new line of Nikon Cool Pix just in.” She picked one up and showed him. “Versatile, easy to use, and modestly priced. They’re practically flying off the shelves.”

  The shaggy man looked unimpressed. “Anything that puny ain’t gonna do the job. See, what I need is a movin’-picture camera, Veronnerka.”

  The man’s accent was a riot. She giggled. “Why, I haven’t heard that term in years, Helton. What they’re called today are digital video cameras—”

  “And I’m gonna need me a dang good one.”

  Hmm. “Have you…owned a camera before?”

  “Naw, I don’t know from such things. But I reckon I should ‘splain my sitcher-aye-shun, huh? See, I got me this…fella…who I gotta send some…movin’-pictures to.”

  “Oh, you want to send videos to a friend.”

  The looming man seemed to have some difficulty. “It’s very important…uh, family stuff.”

  “Of course, Helton. Christmas movies of the family—”

  Shaggy brows shot up. “Why, yeah, somethin’ like that. Sort’a. So’s…say I wanna leave a movie at this friend’s house, or maybe mail it to him, how do I do that, hon?”

  Veronica picked up a typical mini-memory card. “Right here, Helton. You can put a beautiful high-rezz video on this card”—she moved over to the video cameras and picked up a Canon ZR900, demonstrating how the memory card fit into the slot—“then give it to your friend or mail it to him. Of course, it’s easier just to email him the vid file but…I’ve got a hunch you don’t own a computer.”

  “Naw, naw, missy, I got no fancy fer such things, but…” Helton looked suspiciously at the tiny memory card. “You’re tellin’ me that a movin’-picture’ll fit on that little thing there that ain’t the size’a my thumbnail?”

  “Modern technology, Helton. This little card will store a 30-minute movie.”

  Helton looked astonished. “Dang. Well, I guess that’s the ticket. Don’t know how many we’ll need—”

  “For the Christmas movies.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. The Christmas movies. Might have to make…a lot of ’em.”

  Veronica tried to sound accommodating, all the while hoping she could sell him the Canon as well. It would up her weekly sales. “It’s what the season’s for—sharing your holiday joy with family and friends.”

  Helton paused. “Yeah. And I guess I better be on the safe side. I’ll take twenny’a them little doohickeys.”

  “Twenty?”

  “You heard me, darlin’. Twenny.” But then he gave a coarse chuckle. “But a’course, now I needs ya to sell me a camera to go along with them li’l things!”

  “This Canon right here”—she passed it to him—“is a perfect choice for your needs, and it’s less than $300.”

  Helton’s giant hand dwarfed the digital camera. “Veronnerka, what’cha need ta know ’bout me is I’se the kind’a fella who don’t trust nothin’ he cain’t get both hands on. This camera? I don’t like it. It’s too puny. These movies I gotta make—they’re important.”

  “Of course, Helton.”

  “So let’s not beat ’round the danged bush. I want the best camera ya got.”

  This is…weird, she thought. But what did she have to lose? If he was mentally ill or something, she’d have been able to discern that by now. Her hand landed on the Samsung High Def Hybrid. “This, Helton, might suit your needs quite well. But…it’s $850, and since I’m not sure what your budget is—”

  Helton shook his head. “Naw. That ‘un’s too puny too.” His lips pursed. “Veronnerka. You tellin’ me that in all’a t
his big fancy store here, that’s the best camera you got? Hail, girl, ya got tv’s the size’a garage doors! Ya must have a camera bigger’n that.”

  Yeah, she thought, this is REAL weird. “All right, Helton. You asked for the best, I’ll show you the best.” She bent over, knowing that her cleavage was in full view. She unlocked the display cabinet and removed the Sony. It clunked when she set it down atop the counter.

  “Dang!” Helton raved.

  “This, Helton, is the Sony HVR-S27. It’s top of the line. It’s essentially identical to the cameras they use on television news shows, reality TV, soap operas—”

  “That the dandiest camera I’se could ever imagine!”

  “Lithium-ion battery, home-charger, car-charger, built in light and microphone.” Veronica splayed her hands over the device. “It’s everything you need.”

  “Why, I’ll’se take it.”

  “Actually, Helton, I haven’t told you the bad news yet.”

  “Bad news? There ain’t no bad news. This here’s the ticket. Ring me up.”

  She leaned over and whispered. “It’s $7500…”

  Helton shrugged, reaching back into a ruck sack pocket. “Like

  I said, missy. Ring me up.”

  Veronica stared. This is too good to be true. Maybe…Mike is playing a joke. Maybe he had this guy come in here to ACT like he’s buying the most expensive camera in the store, but when she looked up front, she saw Mike and Archie, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. They’re as surprised as I am…

  “Check or charge, Helton?”

  “What’s that, Veronnerka… Dang, that’s a purdy name.”

  “Thank you, Helton.” She smiled. “But…how are you paying?”

  Helton roared laughter. “How’s I payin’? With cash money, a’course! What’cha think?”

  Veronica almost fell backward when she saw Helton’s thick fingers peeling brand-new $100 bills off a stack. Oh, well. She rang up the total.

  Mike’s shoes snapped as he approached. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Faster than immediately, Helton frowned. “Naw, fella. Veronnerka’s helpin’ me just fine, so’s you can shuffle on back to standin’ over there doin’ not much’a nothin’.”

  Mike smiled tightly. “I’m the store manager, sir, and—wow—that’s a lot of cash. On cash purchases this large, the manager’s got to ring up the sale.”

  “Well, shee-it, all right.” Another frown. Then, “Hey there, son! What’choo doin’ writin’ on them there bills?”

  Mike wielded the fat pen. “Big bills like this, sir? I’ve got to check each one—it’s the new government counterfeiting law.”

  Helton sourly responded, “Government, huh? Shee-it. Cain’t even pay with cash money without havin’ some government goat-rope ta go along with it.”

  Mike examined a bill with an amazed scrutiny. “Uh, wow, sir. These are old bills but in mint condition… 1966…” He chuckled. “Keep them in your mattress?”

  Helton glared. “It’s my Maw’s money, boy”—then he stuck his big finger right in Mike’s face—“and where she keep it ain’t none’a yer business.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was just joking.”

  “Jokin’? Well, shee-it, fella. A joke’s s’posed ta be funny, ain’t that right, Veronnerka?” and then the mammoth man belted a laugh and slapped Mike hard on the back. Mike nearly went over the counter.

  “It sure is, Helton,” Veronica said.

  Mike coughed. “Well, sir, everything seems to be in order. Is there anything else you need today?”

  “‘Sides you moseyin’ your slickster-lookin’ self out’a here…why, I don’t know.” The shaggy face tuned to Veronica. “Veronnerka, anythin’ else you reckon I need to go along with my fancy movin’-picture camera?”

  Veronica felt flushed from the monumental sale. “Um, well, a tripod would be very useful—”

  “We have a great assortment, sir,” Mike barged in. “Would you like me to show you—”

  The finger again. “What I’d like, son, is fer you ta disser-pear so’s I can finish my business with my friend Veronnerka.” His gaze swivelled to her. “Ring me up for a tripod, missy—a good ‘un. That all?”

  “You might find a carry-case convenient—”

  “Ring me up. The best ya got.”

  Mike slipped away, ecstatic over the sale. However, Veronica was light-headed now. This is the biggest single sale since I’ve been here! Mike’ll be so happy! Dazed, she got the tripod and the case, rang the additional sale, just as Helton peeled off more of the curiously dated bills, ( which, for those interested, were 1966 Series A notes, signed by then-secretary of the treasury Henry H. Fowler. These were the first $100 bills to bear a watermark).

  “Let me help you out with some of this,” she offered.

  “Naw, thanks, hon,” and then Helton easily lifted all of his purchases up under his arms. “Wouldn’t think’a lettin’ a purdy, refined gal such as yerself haul such heavy things.” He paused to look down at her. “Dang, in this bass-ackward world’a ours, meetin’ you’s like a breath’a fresh air.”

  “Why…thank you, Helton.”

  “You’s shorely the nicest city gal I’se ever meet, and I’se hope you have yerself a dandy Christmas.”

  “You do the same, Helton,” she said, now fairly flabbergasted. “You’re a very nice person too.”

  Helton turned and huffed for the door. “Ask me? What this world needs is ta be full up with Veronnerkas…”

  “Need some help, sir?” Archie asked.

  “Out my way, son.”

  Mike piped up. “Thank you for shopping at Best Buy, sir, and have a happy holiday!”

  Helton frowned and loped out of the store.

  The instant the automatic doors closed, Mike raged, “Holy SHIT!”

  Archie rushed over. “Veronica! The net profits from that sale’ll cover the store’s overhead for the next month and then some!”

  Mike was jumping up and down as if on a springboard. “Un-fuckin’-believable! You just rang ten grand to Grizzly Adams!” He practically slid over on his shoes, then picked Veronica up and swirled her around. “What a saleswomen!”

  Veronica’s joy at seeing Mike so exuberant brought tears to her eyes. When he gave her a big wet sloppy kiss right on the mouth, her heart pattered and her sex throbbed just short of instantaneous orgasm.

  She hugged him desperately, whispering, “Oh, Mike, you don’t know what it means for me to see you so happy…,” and she knew, then, she knew to the very core of her spirit that Mike loved her with his whole heart…

  (III)

  The Winnebago rumbled toward the edge of town, its business in Pulaski done for the month. It was the beefy lieutenant Argi who drove the luxuriant vehicle, Paulie in the spacious passenger seat, and Cristo and Dr. Prouty sitting behind. In the vehicle’s rear-most compartment, of course, sat the atrocious and fiendishly rank Melda, who was now taking care of another box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.

  When Argi made a wide lefthand turn, he squeezed his crotch for no apparent reason…

  “All in a day’s work,” Paulie said, seemingly pleased.

  “Yeah, boss,” Cristo accentuated. “Made our monthly drop-off to the gang, got our ashes hauled by that killer-bod whore, and pulled off some dynamite vendetta.”

  Argi nodded. “Case Piece wasn’t kiddin’ about his squeeze havin’ a body. Shit, the bod on that hosebag’d make St. Augustine knife-fight ya for it.”

  “Gotta hand it to that superfly little punk. That chick is smokin’ hot, even with the wrinkled face. Swear to God, guys, she’s got a body even better than Marshie’s.”

  “Aw, damn, speakin’ of your wife”—Argi remembered something—“don’t you want me to drop ya off at her house now that we’re done here?”

  Paulie shook his head, and took a bite of a cannoli they’d picked up at a local bakery. “Naw. Forgot to tell ya’s. I sent Marshie to Vegas—”

  “Vegas?” Argi remarked. “Man, I love
Vegas. The old days, we’d whack guys right and left. Leave their fuckin’ heads in the desert and shit.”

  “Yeah. But Marshie, she was so down in the dumps about her father’s birthday, I thought I’d send her on a snappy little vacation. She’s waitin’ for me at the Bellagio—I’ll just grab a flight once we get back to Newark.” Paulie rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, when I tell her we did a special job on the family that whacked her father, she’ll fuck me in a big way.”