by Hob Broun
“What good is that going to do?”
“Whozzat?” Karl, who had put on a hat adorned with lures, moved uncertainly out of the shadows. “You leavin’ without me?”
“Don’t worry,” Christo said. “Nobody’s leaving.”
Karl shuffled forward and peered out. “Is it bad?”
Pete had spotted them, waved his hanky. “Hello, young people. A lovely spot you have here.”
Tildy froze with her hand on the knob. “Ten more minutes,” she said hopelessly. “Ten more minutes and we could have been gone.”
Karl’s lips began to tremble. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” In one horrible mental leap, he’d understood what this was going to cost.
Then Pete nodded to Dolly, who began to read expressionlessly from her stenographer’s notebook.
“Florida statute number seven one six point zero one: ‘It is hereby declared to be the policy of the State, while protecting the owners thereof, to possess all unclaimed and abandoned money or property for the benefit of all the people of the State. This law shall be liberally construed to accomplish such a purpose.’”
Sparn looked skyward and opened his arms like a crooner. “I come here today as a representative of the people, one citizen standing for all. In this capacity, it is my intention to recover the abandoned property of one Lester Clines, deceased, on behalf of the general public. The liquid capital subsequently transferred to me will then be sent through the pipelines of my various commercial holdings to trickle down and irrigate the economic community at large. I love Florida. I believe there is no better living anywhere on this planet. I’ve had many good years here. Profitable years, years of growth and family closeness. Now, in my own small way, I would like to offer recompense.”
Christo whistled softly. “Somebody throw a net over this guy.”
“Go home, Pete,” Tildy said from the doorway. “There’s nothing for you here.”
“I have different information. According to a call I received this morning from a trusted employee—one, I might add, who believes in the team concept—the Clines bequest may be found in a footlocker under your marriage bed.”
All Tildy could think of was: Why in God’s name didn’t we take a vault at the bank?
Finally, because something was required, she said, “If it was only a question of money, I’d say come on in. But see? I’m locking the door.”
“If you like. I’m a generous man and I haven’t forgotten the good times we had. Ah, how I favored you. A waste. But I will allow you a last thirty minutes to enjoy your ill-gotten wealth before you hand it over to me. Starting now.” Sparn gave a limp salute and turned to his boy. “Vinnie, you may set the table.”
“Righto, Dad.”
Vinnie seethed with resentment. Set the table, Vinnie. Change the tire, Vinnie. Orders me around like one of his greaser caddies at the club. Like I don’t have feelings.
He began removing things from the trunk, remembering the trip down and Pete making him call the radio station that was having the Mother’s Day Mom-A-Thon. For a pledge of fifteen dollars or more to Children’s Leukemia Research, they read your message on the air. To Mrs. Helen S. with love and admiration. Right there in front of Dolly; Pete had even handed him the dime. What could he do? Righto, Dad.
Vinnie set up the folding chairs, the card table. He fluffed the linen cloth, laid out plates and silverware, cheese and fruit and cold cuts. He lit the tall white candles.
“A toast,” Pete said as he filled three glasses. “To better things for all of Florida’s sons and daughters. And for Les Clines and his boys, our hope that the heat’s not too terrible down where they are.”
“This wine should have been chilled,” Dolly said.
The siege was on.
“So?” Tildy’s cigarette was the only light in the room. “Sorry you came, I’ll bet.”
Christo reached across her and took a puff of his own. “To be a part of this little pageant I would have come twice as far.”
“I believe you.”
“So where do we stand with our half hour?”
“They’re still dining out there. Maybe his watch stopped.”
The refrigerator door was audible as it opened and closed, its rubber gasket unpeeling, slapping; then came the clatter of an ice tray being emptied.
“Karl, are you mixing drinks?”
“Probably not a bad idea,” Christo said.
They saw moving past them a vague shape which, as it neared the front window, turned out to be Karl cradling a bowl of ice.
“Cocksuckin’ Sparn. Eat ice.”
Before they could stop him, Karl began flinging cubes at the enemy. Hard white knots bounced in the grass, burst against the limo fenders. One, traveling straight as a clothesline, knocked the fork from Dolly’s hand, and Karl gave out a long falsetto war cry.
Vinnie pulled open his suede jacket. In the hand that dipped under his heart was an oily black lump.
“Get back,” Christo roared. “He’s got a piece.”
Karl said, “I ain’t afraid of no popgun cowboy. Whyn’t you come a little bit closer?”
Vinnie aimed and squeezed off a round: exploding glass and a shriek from Karl as the slug buzzed over him and buried itself in the wall. The recoil threw Vinnie’s arm upward and his second shot hit nothing but sky.
“When are you going to learn to use both hands?” his father said.
Refusing until now to let go of old putty, a final wedge of glass fell and the sound made Karl duck and cover. Christo dragged him up and threw him angrily against the wall.
“Want to get us all killed? This is no playground fight, you jar-head. It’s dead serious and we’re all in the line of fire. Now, can you grasp that or not?”
“Okay, so I’m a jerk. But I don’t need you to tell me what’s serious. Who you think dug up that treasure chest they all want so much? Karl D. Gables, that’s right. And ain’t nobody got cause to take it from me. I figured where to look and how, and with my own wife disbelievin’ me, I made it pay off. So you’re damn right it’s serious. Just as serious as my life.”
“Not mine.” Tildy was curled on the floor, as far away from everything as she could get. “I don’t want to die for a box of jewelry. Let’s give in to him. I want to see the end of this, that’s all.”
“Let’s not go overboard,” Christo said. “Maybe he’ll take half.”
“Ain’t yours to offer, neither one of you.” Karl tried to find his wife’s face in the dark. “Don’t do this to me, baby. You know it ain’t right.”
“Karl, didn’t anyone ever give you the story on being a grownup?”
Out of the murk, her hand slapped his face. He felt weak all over and an awareness of disgrace filled his brain, made him forget where he was.
“You’ve got to learn to compromise,” Tildy said. She went swiftly to the window and called Pete over. “Let’s deal.”
He moved languidly, examining his hands front and back for traces of food. “Marvelous. We’ll settle it now, and then everyone can have a slice of Dolly’s blackberry pie.”
“We’ll give you half, Pete. Free and clear.”
“Give?” Sparn’s voice jumped an octave. “You’ll give me half?”
“Seems more than fair to me. In a just world, a claim jumper like you would be hanging by his neck from the nearest tree.”
Shooting his heavily starched cuffs, Sparn clucked sadly. “I am here to retrieve the contents of Lester’s trunk. All of it. There is simply nothing more to talk about. No bargains, no trades. You’ll have it ready as soon as I finish my dessert, clear?”
A nerveless fixity. A thick black line drawn flat across the air. Three sets of lungs worked in rhythm and three pairs of eyes kept closed. Man and wife and suitor sat in a row on the sofa like end-stage crackpots in the lobby of a welfare hotel, loitering without sentiment at the scene of their own ruin.
An auto horn fanfare, then Pete bellowing through cupped hands. “This is your last chance to coopera
te. If you don’t come out voluntarily, we’ll have to force you out.”
Tildy whispered, “He means it.”
“Fuck him.” Christo breathed deep. “We handled his Vinnie Winnie before, we can do it again.”
“Absolutely the last call.” Pete waited. “It’s your choice then. I’ve done my best.”
The green bottle in Vinnie’s hand was filled with kerosene. He thumbed the wheel of his lighter, the rag wick flared and he started to run. Christo saw the orange streak first, screamed, and the others were already scrambling away as Vinnie hurled the firebomb. Flames spread across the floor and up the wall. As Christo retreated, one leg of his jeans caught. He dropped and rolled, smothering the burning denim with his hands.
“Got to contain it in this room.” Christo sprang up, coughing. “Turn shower on. Soak down. Blankets, towels too. Go. Run.”
With augmented strength from spurting adrenaline, he pulled furniture away from the front of the room where the blaze was worst. Heat was something alive on his skin and wanted to squeeze the breath out of him. Then Tildy was beside him with a wet towel in either hand, beating at a diagonal line of flame trying to skid behind their defenses. Ashes swirled in the air, all that was left of the curtains. Karl emerged from the haze with soaked shirts and a wastebasket of water.
“More, more. Fill pots, whatever you can find.”
“I can’t breathe,” Tildy cried.
“Keep on. Push it back.”
“Too fast. Coming too fast.”
Christo flailed like a mad dervish at the oncoming wedge of flames. He was half blind and pain spread over his hands. They were losing ground. He knew very soon it would be time to run. Cold water exploding on his back and, through a chink in the smoke, Karl waving his arms.
“Found a piece of hose. Hook it to the sink, it might reach.”
“Let’s do it. Our only shot.”
Karl jammed one end of the hose up inside the running faucet and made a seal of encircling fingers. Christo took the other end as far as it would go, had to press his thumb over the threaded socket and arc the spray to make it reach. But it did reach. Already the smoke was thinning. Tildy screamed his name.
“Over here. I’m over here.”
She zigzagged in trying to follow his voice, finally tumbled at his feet, her black face twisted with retching. No time to soothe. Christo got her upright, gave her the hose, told her to keep it moving from side to side. Then he filled soup pots from the toilet and ran them to trouble zones; back and forth, his hands throbbing, back and forth, tripping and spilling, throat constricted, until he collapsed. Tildy aimed the hose at him and he wanted to swim up the stream, curl inside the tubing and sleep for days.
They’d done it. The fire was dead and gone, leaving only soot and blisters and nausea. But it had sucked their reservoirs dry, exhausted their resistance. Hearts ping-ponging, they lay on the wet floor awaiting the inevitable. This engorged playlet, delirious with its own simplicities of greed and power, would have its third act climax all over them.
On the other side of the charred wall, Pete Sparn swallowed a little brown hypertension pill and wondered aloud.
“It never crossed your mind to cut their power line so the water pump wouldn’t function? It never crossed your mind to simply crash in through the back and get what we came for? I’m discouraged, Vincent. I consider all the time and care, everything I’ve invested, to produce the blundering simp standing before me and I’m deeply discouraged.”
Snapping the spring clip into his weapon, Vinnie said, “I’m going to take care of it, Dad. I’m going to take care of it right now.”
“Not that way. We’ve had enough fireworks for one night.”
“Please. Let me show you what I can do.”
“Unfortunately, you already have. And on the dubious assumption that you could carry the operation off, three dead bodies add up to a complication I don’t need.”
“Think about it, Dad. Who’s going to give a rusty fuck for these zeros?”
“A corpse is a corpse and each one has to be accounted for,” Sparn said wearily. “As usual you fail to use basic management principles in attacking the problem. No, I’m going to have to solve this one myself.”
“I’m not letting you go in there solo.”
“Just wait in the car, Son. Dolly needs the company.”
Sparn would have knocked on the door, but it was giving off faint wisps of smoke and he was afraid he might burn himself.
“Aloha, young people. Your tenacity does you credit. All the same, this has turned into too long a night for my taste. Let’s put a final period on it.”
“Go on,” Tildy rasped, knowing in her innards that they couldn’t beat him. “Let the bastard in.”
Christo limped to the door. “Come ahead, bossman. I’ve been wanting to get a whiff of you up close.”
“Who are you?”
“Just a friend of the family.”
“And where do you stand in all this?”
“Probably in your way. Come on, the kitchen’s still basically intact.”
Sparn picked his way through rubble, resigning himself to the defacement of his white loafers, and breathed with the PS handkerchief over his mouth. The sight of Karl and Tildy propped against one another startled him. Their unearthly zombie eyes. A nervous edge came on him.
“Glad you could make it, Pete,” she said. “You’ll have to excuse the mess.”
“Yeah, too bad about that.” With his back flush against the drainboard, he edged along to where he could keep an eye on all three of them. “But we can still resolve this without serious injury. How does that sound?”
“Preferable,” Tildy said.
“You see how it is. We’re all very tired and we can’t stand the sight of each other. Be smart. Give me the fucking goods and we’ll say goodbye forever.”
“Just curious,” Christo said. “You ever done time?”
“I’m a businessman. We don’t do time. We smash it like the atom.”
“Everything comes easy for you,” Christo said. “It’s not healthy.”
Karl was trying hard not to listen. He filled his mind with pinups of fish: Grouper, scup, bonito, yellowtail; all arrested in midthrash, fins stretched and gills open. He felt his wife’s flesh against him like the resistance of water and wished only to go deeper.
Sparn shifted from foot to foot, confident of his machinery, but wary. These people were crazy, unconditioned by basic management principles.
“Through that door, hmmm? Must be. I don’t suppose I can lift it all by myself.”
“Not quite.”
Christo reached to take hold of him, but Sparn pulled away with considerable agility for such a round man. He clutched at the air like someone searching for a light switch in a dark room.”
“Have a go, homeboy. I wouldn’t mind.”
Tildy let her eyes go gradually closed, popped them open again. “You men just won’t stop chewing. You leave your teeth marks everywhere. I’ve had enough. My house is still standing, my husband is still lucid, my heart is still available and that’s enough.” She tugged on Christo with her eyes. “I know what I’m doing. Give him a hand.”
Christo winced and blew air. “If you’re sure.”
He and Sparn went at the job without a word or look. They took narrow, sideways steps and had cleared the doorway when Sparn, with a slight alteration of balance, indicated they should set the cargo down. His mouth fell open and he made anticipatory tweeting noises as he fumbled with the lid.
“That crazy Lester.”
Hands on knees, he leaned down for a closer look.
Into Tildy’s blank mind, like napalm into a deserted village, there came an inspiration. It took hold of her and she took hold of it. She whipped off her belt and with the lightning first step that had stolen a thousand bases, reached Sparn before he had even registered the flash of movement. She twisted the belt around his neck and jerked back. He toppled, clawing at her, but Tildy mai
ntained purchase, climbing onto his wide chest and twisting the belt again. Sparn began to go red; his eyes rolled. Stretching, Tildy crossed her shin over his throat and dropped all her weight. His larynx broke with a gelatinous crack. His legs twitched and the front of his pants slowly darkened.
“Stop. He’s done.” Christo had to lift her away.
“He would have killed us all,” she said. “Eventually.”
Karl stepped over the body as if it were a ditch and plunged both hands into his precious stones. “You had to be strong. I just knew it.”
She tipped against him, pressed her cheek under his shoulder blade and just breathed.
Watching, Christo thought: She was protecting him, that’s what it was really all about.
“Savor the win,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”
Fireman’s carry, that was the answer. Christo’s legs shook as he stood under the weight. He steadied himself, took a few experimental steps. Dead feet bounced behind his thigh.
“What are you doing?” Tildy said.
“Going to dump him. I want them to see.”
“Vinnie. He’ll shoot.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, he can’t hit the side of a barn.”
Watching, Tildy thought: He’s trying to impress me. How can I love a man who’s as transparent as all the rest?
Swaying into the white flare of headlights, Christo dropped his burden and stepped back. Not bullets, but Dolly who came exploding out of the car, dove across her unreachable love, kissed his swollen mouth.
“I’m with you. I’m with you.” She wept.
Vinnie advanced in shock motion, pausing between each step. Then, before he came too close, he stood as quiet and still as a snowman. Christo took the gun from his hand and threw it into the woods.
“I’ll see you buried,” Dolly hissed. Her face was all bone. “You killed the man, but not his power. That’s mine now.”
There was a quivering balloon of saliva on Vinnie’s lip. He did not respond when Dolly asked him to help carry his father to the car. She had to do that on her own, dragging him by the heels in fits and starts, boosting and butting him onto the rear seat. Beehive lopsided and wobbling, she came back to take Vinnie by the elbow.