by Mike Faricy
“We get down here, the road Ts, they gotta guess. Did we go north or south? Odds are we head north, link up with half a dozen roads in just four miles. That’s why I take us south, to I-94, cross the river, and get off on the Riverside exit.” He neglected to mention this was in the general direction of where Tracey worked.
He smiled, imagining the look on their faces as a gorgeous brown-haired Tracey hopped into the car, gave him a big kiss, then swung her gorgeous body around and introduced herself to his two speechless brothers.
“We hit this between say 1:30 and 3:15 when traffic is at a low point. It’s after any noontime headache and before the night rush hour so that gives us plenty of time. We run into any problems, and we’re off this dog at the first exit up here,” he said, glancing over his right shoulder, flooring the Fleetwood into the far right lane, exiting off on Riverside. We can jump from here right back into St. Paul, downtown Minneapolis, freeways south. There’s a million places we can end up, they’ll never find us.”
* * *
“Maybe she’s not going to come, Otto. Maybe she got hung up at the entrance gate or something.” said Josh.
“Yeah,” Otto said dejectedly looking at his watch. It was after 11:00, she was hours late, and he was beginning to get the feeling some emergency must have come up. God, he’d never be able to trust her with simple things like laundry and cleaning.
Friday
Cindy woke up on her couch to an infomercial on how to make a million dollars in real estate with no money down. It was after 2:00, she felt stiff and cramped. Knowing she was getting up in less then four hours didn’t help matters. Her feet were still throbbing after standing on them all day. She looked at the half finished glass of wine she had poured herself hours ago and decided to just dump it down the sink and go to bed.
Tomorrow was Friday. What could possibly go wrong that hadn’t already?
She decided she would do the honorable thing tomorrow and tell Porky Pig she was married with a house full of kids, and that would be the end of the whole awful situation. Take control and do what she should have done right from the start, lie.
* * *
Merlot dreamed he was fleeing down a hallway that was getting smaller and smaller with every step. There was a door at the far end, but he wasn’t at all sure he could make it.
* * *
Otto squirmed deeper into his recliner and continued dreaming of Cindy wearing an apron with lace trim, standing amidst baskets of clean laundry ironing his T-shirts. She smiled sweetly and asked if there was anything else she could do?”
* * *
Daphne stood in the soft glow of her open refrigerator, licking the spoonful of butter brickle ice cream she had just scooped from the container. Just one or two more she told herself. She had the suntan contest tomorrow, and she thought that if she could time things so that she got out of the sun right before she began to burn it might just work. If that didn’t do the trick, she had two spray bottles of Evening Tan she could mist on in just a few minutes.
She absently scooped another spoonful of ice cream, turning the spoon upside down so the creamy butter brickle coated her tongue, melting down her throat. She thought of a hundred different ways she would spend the prize money, beginning with telling Osborne to screw himself.
* * *
Osborne whimpered again in his restless sleep. Left to his own devices he had generously overmedicated himself and in his current haze he thrashed around in a nightmare involving the IRS and questions regarding his medical deductions. Bolting awake, he groggily wondered how things could have possibly deteriorated to their current state.
After being bitten, Milton had grown beyond useless. Serpentina, that ingrate, had abandoned her nursing duties and crossed over to the dark side. She had been slinking back and forth across the front of the Beaver Hut protesting all the kindness he had extended to her.
About the only bright sign on the horizon was the expected failure of DiMento to comply with the terms of his quarter-of-a-million-dollar loan. He snuggled down among the pillows and groaned like a sick puppy
* * *
Billy Truesdale climbed back into bed after making his 4:00 run to the bathroom.
“Everything okay?” his wife asked.
“Yeah, once I made it past the lion, it was all down hill.”
“That’s nice,” she mumbled and drifted back asleep.
He lay awake, staring up at the dark ceiling. Today was Friday and there was a three-day weekend ahead. If he had one, he’d bet a hundred-dollar bill that worthless, limp-wristed, halfwit Trevor would phone in sick. He and Gary would have to haul deposits by themselves.
* * *
Lucerne stood in front of the motel bathroom mirror and practiced his lines. “Hop in Sugar!” or maybe, “Boys, like you to meet my main squeeze!” He had been awake for hours, since just after midnight, and he was practicing for when he picked up Tracey.
He thought once things settled down maybe they’d all go out somewhere that night for steaks. Show Tracey a good time right from the start. No doubt she would be wearing something sexy. Tight jeans, maybe a skimpy white top with a black bra. Either way, they’d have a good time. Damn Mendel and Elvis didn’t like it, they could just come back here and play with themselves for all he cared.
* * *
Cindy rolled out of bed at 5:40. She tried to lie in bed for an extra ten minutes, but self-imposed guilt got to her. It was Friday and that meant she almost had another Hell week under her belt. Good riddance to the whole affair.
She let the hot water run over her shoulders and down her back. She thought again about her brief conversation with Tony hoping he’d be true to his word and they would get together after the weekend. She continued to think of him as she drove into work, thought of him while she counted the night deposits with Carol, until she came to that one deposit in particular.
She actually smelled it before she saw it. Reeking of rancid bacon, the grease-stained nylon bag was crammed so full she didn’t think it would be possible to get any more inside.
“Ugh, gross,” she groaned, laying the greasy deposit slip on the counter.
“Oh, phew, that’s the one from your bacon buddy.” Carol sniffed the air. She had her own headache in front of her counting out sticky currency from a cotton candy vendor.
“God, look, it just sticks to you, I can’t even count it,” she said attempting to shake a bill loose from her fingers.
“Oh, this smells so bad, it just stinks. Did you see the day he ran his nose down my window? There was a smear down the glass,” Cindy groaned.
“Yeah, I saw it. What’s with the outfits he wears? He must have a thing for you because he always gets in your line. Then he has that little salute thingy. You better watch it. He’s going to be following you home some night,” Carol joked.
“Not even funny,” Cindy said, shivering at the thought of Otto, clown makeup all over his face, the handkerchief pinned to the back of a sweat stained baseball cap, standing at her front door.
* * *
Otto pulled the recliner lever forward and launched himself out of the chair. He tossed his bathrobe back onto the chair. Then watched the weather channel to see what it would be like today, not that he needed to really check. More cloudless skies, heat and draining humidity. He showered, shaved, applied his zinc oxide, and grabbed the cleanest dirty jersey he could find on the floor.
There were stains left under the armpits from the last time he wore it, but there just wasn’t a lot he could do about that this morning. He was in a foul mood, remembering how Cindy screwed up last night. He would have a talk with her, let her know he didn’t appreciate being taken for granted. After the free pass and the half-off coupon, he expected a little more in the way of gratitude.
He shook his head, looked around at all the dirty clothes. At least the Vikings jersey smelled more of rancid bacon grease and less of Otto. That was a plus.
* * *
Merlot was still sucking some
of the beer taste off his teeth as he walked into the coffee shop. Chrissie was stretching behind the counter.
“Merlot, what could you possibly be spending your time thinking about? You go through the same routine of looking vacantly at everything. You always get the same thing every day, anyway. Here,” she said placing a French doughnut into a bag, “or do you want two? And of course I know, your latte,” she said.
“What can I get you?” She asked the next customer, a guy in a suit and tie. Then half jumped as some of the hot frothy milk splashed on her hand.
“Here, Merlot,” she said, not waiting for the other man’s response before smashing her chest up against the glass door on the pastry counter, reaching across and handing Merlot his doughnut and latte.
He handed her a five and walked off, calling back to keep the change.
Chrissie put the five in the cash drawer, took a dime out and slipped it into her pocket.
“Big tipper, now what would you like?” she said, giving a little wink
* * *
“Where the hell is Patti?” Merlot asked with a mouth crammed full of French doughnut, noticing she wasn’t behind the bar.
“Just called, running a few minutes late but she’s on her way,” Tommy replied.
He locked the office door behind him, put his phone on do not disturb, and pulled his disguise, the revolver, and the trash bags out from beneath the cushions on the hide-a-bed.
His mind was in that region where he knew if he thought about any of this at all it would register as a very, very bad idea, so he went mindlessly through the motions of laying everything out, checking and rechecking his watch every fifteen seconds. He ran down a quick mental inventory before dumping everything into an empty liquor box and carrying it out to the Saab in the far corner of the parking lot.
His plan, such as it was, counted on substantial cash deposits being made through the noon hour. If he could time it so he would hit the bank when it was overwhelmed with the deposits and traffic from the noon rush had subsided, he just might have a chance. Failing that, his backup plan was to dump the Saab, wear a second set of clothes underneath his disguise so he could run away undetected, get back to his office, and then drown himself in the toilet before Osborne arrived with his goon to collect the debt.
* * *
Daphne stuffed her two mist bottles of tan spray into a large straw beach bag with fuzzy, bright red flowers stitched on both sides. She pulled a wide-brimmed hat tightly onto her head so her face would be protected out on the picket line.
Standing at the kitchen counter she pushed aside the empty pizza box and gleefully rubbed her hands together before peeling the lid off a cinnamon coffee cake. She washed down a generous wedge of the coffee cake with a tall glass of Slim Fast, cut two more wedges to eat on the bus and trundled out the door. She had the feeling today would be a new beginning, starting with the suntan contest.
* * *
Lucerne was at the end of his patience. Mendel and Elvis took their time getting out of bed, taking turns rolling over and going back to sleep. Elvis finally crawled out of bed, pulled on jeans and one boot then crawled back in. The two of them eventually stirred to life after Lucerne threatened them with a Colt 45 bottle filled with cold water.
They had trouble making up their minds at Denny’s. Elvis moved his lips as he read through the menu offerings. They ultimately settled on the same thing they’d had every day for the past two weeks, the number three special with scrambled eggs and bacon.
“God damn it, I could have phoned in that order. Shit, you two burned twenty minutes of my life ordering the same damn thing”
“Boy, what crawled up your ass this morning? Maybe what you need is a giant helping of that Tracey gal,” Mendel said in a not too subtle tone.
It was at this point that two hefty women in the booth next to them got up, gave them a disgusted look and stormed out.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to please keep your voice down,” the assistant manger said to Lucerne a moment later. His yellow plastic nametag read ‘Phil’ in black letters, right under his title, Assistant Morning Manager followed by a happy face smile.
“Not a problem, Phil, I’ll just cool my ass outside in the car.” Lucerne walked out and waited in the car while Mendel and Elvis ate their number three specials, then turned their attention to Lucerne’s pancakes and sausage.
Back at the motel, they slowly loaded things into the car. Lucerne cut a length of carpet out of the motel-room floor and wrapped it around the AKs so they could sneak them into the bank.
Mendel yelled at Elvis who yelled back, louder. The situation continued to escalate. Lucerne finally herded them into the car where they continued to argue while he finished loading.
It was close to noon by the time the last pile of dirty clothes was dumped into the trunk and they sped off owing two week’s rent. The temperature was already in the upper 90s and climbing, the humidity heavy enough that Lucerne ran the wipers a couple of times to clear the windshield.
“Close that window, Elvis, I got the damn AC on.” Lucerne adjusted the rearview mirror so he could give Elvis the evil eye as he turned onto the freeway ramp. They sped down the freeway, the wind blew long wisps of Elvis’s hair before howling out the fist-sized hole in the rear window. Elvis ignored Lucerne’s second request and continued to stare sullenly out the window.
“Hey, Dickhead, close the damn window. Christ almighty, I can’t hear myself think up here!” Mendel yelled, reaching over the seat and swinging a backhand at Elvis.
Elvis swatted Mendel’s paw away, then leapt forward to grab a large tuft of hair, audibly tearing it out of Mendel’s scalp. His attack jammed Lucerne forward and he fought to maintain control of the Fleetwood, swerving back and forth across the lanes as cars around him honked and brakes screeched.
“Ahh, you little bastard!” Mendel screamed, swinging blindly, connecting a right cross to Elvis’s nose. The blow sent Elvis sailing back into his seat with his eyes crossed. Mendel wound up ready to deliver another blow, but as he cocked a massive right arm he caught Lucerne in the back of the head just as he regained control.
“God…” was the only word Lucerne was able to utter before side-swiping a dark blue Toyota, bouncing it off a concrete barrier. It swerved back into traffic and set off a chain reaction of accidents. Lucerne caught brief glimpses of the debris in the rearview mirror while frantically fighting to keep the Fleetwood stable as it rocked from side to side.
He pulled the thirty-eight from his waistband and fired a round through the roof of the car. A small shaft of sunlight shone through the quarter-sized hole in the vinyl top.
“God damn it! The next one of you bastards that so much as moves, I’m going to shoot your worthless ass off. Elvis, put up that Goddamn window, now!”
Elvis had the window halfway up before Lucerne had finished his request.
“And Mendel, sit down and buckle the fuck up! Do it, damn it!” he shouted, cocking the hammer back on the thirty-eight.
“This is just one fine how-do-you-do. We’re on our way to rob a God damned bank.” Lucerne glared at Elvis in the backseat, saw the blood running out his nose, splattering onto his shirt. He’d already wiped beneath his nose once or twice, which only served to smear blood across the side of his face.
“Oh Jesus, Elvis, lie down on the seat. See if you can stop that damn bleeding” he said, shooting another wicked glance at the brooding Mendel before moving into the far right lane and exiting. He looked for a convenience store where they could get Elvis cleaned up. He noticed there was no traffic behind them, not a car, and he guessed, correctly, that the chain reaction they had set off had shut down the entire freeway.
* * *
Otto cursed his luck, unable to talk to Cindy all morning. It never seemed to fail she got called away to do some chore. He stood there sweating, hoping he could let her know he was none too pleased with her behavior the night before.
He had checked at the other stands,
no one recalled her looking for him last night. To his way of thinking that could mean only one thing: she had spent the whole evening running from stand to stand. When she didn’t find him she probably started all over again.
* * *
Daphne thought she might be feeling the beginning prickle of sunburn as she waited at the ice cream truck.
“Yeah, sorry,” Morris grunted, not sounding sorry at all, “but I’m all out of the Giant Gobblers. I’ve got the regular size.”
She knew he’d just parked here again so he could leer at her and the other girls while they walked the picket line.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to get a regular size then, won’t I.”
“Fine, I don’t care. You mind if I ask, you work here?” he rummaged in the cooler for a regular sized Gobbler. Nodded in the direction of the picket line where Misty and two other girls were climbing on top of a large air conditioning unit next to the building.
“Yes, I do,” she said, trying to make herself heard over the crowd’s catcalls.
“Frightening,” mumbled Morris.
“Sorry, what was that?”
He twitched his head, eyes fixed beyond her to the air-conditioning unit where Misty gyrated in response to clapping hands.
“Hey, you’re that fat broad in the paper,” said a T-shirt clad guy in need of a shave, a shower and some serious dental work.
“Huh?” Daphne managed to squeak out over a mouth full of ice cream.
“Yeah, you know, Tons of Fun. In this morning’s paper? You didn’t see it?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“It’s in the paper, the local section, your picture, right here, check it out.” He called after her waving a newspaper.
It was shortly after that she noticed people pointing at her, some of them giggling. She’d gone back to the ice-cream wagon twice more, ravenous. Then, when a group of twenty-something guys asked to have their photo taken with her, she was convinced something was up.