by Mike Faricy
According to the digital, it wasn’t quite eight-thirty and Dickie could only hope he was in the midst of some strange nightmare, not really hearing his ex-wife’s voice.
“Come on now, Baby, open those eyes, come on.” She bent down, letting her blonde perfumed hair brush lightly across his neck chasing away the final vestige of sleep.
Dickie had always been convinced his ex-wife, Rae Nell, held on to his last name just to piss him off. She was the youngest of four sisters, Rae Jean, Rae Dawn, Rae Lynn, and Rae Nell. They had been called the Sun Rae’s by their mother and by the time of his divorce, Dickie thought of them as the Death Rae’s.
Rae Nell divorced Dickie six years ago in search of her freedom. Following the divorce, Dickie got the house payment, Rae Nell got the house and the freedom to pursue any get rich scheme that piqued her interest, which seemed to be most of them.
She sniffed walking back to the kitchen counter picking up an oily hint of spicy something from somewhere.
“New aftershave you’re wearing?”
“I don’t suppose it would have done any good to lock the door,” he groaned.
“Not really, Hon, you gave me a key. Remember? Besides,” she said snooping in the bathroom, “it’s not like you have anything worth taking.”
“Well, you’d know all about that Rae Nell, since you already have everything. What do you want?”
Dickie sat up in bed, blinked in an effort to accept the brightness and rubbed whatever two scant hours of sleep might have deposited in his eyes.
“Oh don’t be such a sore looser. Here, just the way you like it, black, not too hot,” she said prying off the plastic lid.
“Mmm-mmm” Dickie groaned then stumbled the five feet to the counter.
“Wow, there’s a lot more of you to love, honey,” she said sounding genuinely surprised giving him the once over from head to toe before handing him the cup of coffee.
“Rae Nell, darling,” Dickie said it with an inflection not quite suggesting warmth. “What in the hell are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”
“Well, aren’t we just Mr. Crabby. A girl can’t even bring you a nice cup of coffee without being yelled at.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“Could have fooled me. For your information, Crabby Appleton, I was just in the neighborhood and since I hadn’t seen you for at least half a year I was wondering how you were getting along, that’s all. You’re going to be a poop, I’ll just leave.”
“Okay,” he said and sipped.
“Honestly, Dickie, I just wondered how you were doing. Gee, I can’t be concerned without you getting upset, what’s that all about?” she asked putting on a slight pout.
“I’m touched you’re so concerned, Rae Nell. I really am. But, you have to admit it’s only right I’m a little gun shy. Let’s see, there was that wrestler you were dating, you remember, you told him I was stalking you. That was great, he showed up at the Emporium of Dance with two other clowns the size of semi trucks intent on wrecking the place.”
“The Emporium of Dance, oh please, Dickie. It’s a weekend meat market. You serve up one night stands as the house specialty with a side order of too much to drink.”
“Hey, Rae Nell, you don’t have to describe what you did last night, I’m just a little leery about your so called concern, that’s all. We could discuss the stockbroker, you remember him? Had you selling stocks to me without a license, the inside tip on the clapper for computers. Clap it on, clap it off.” Dickie clapped his hands.
“Remember? Securities and Exchange parked out in front of your house attempting to serve you a subpoena. So you hid out here for a week and a half while I’m vacationing out west. I come home relaxed and all jazzed from seeing Mount Rushmore and you make me get a hotel room because you couldn’t possibly be inconvenienced.”
“Well, excuse me. I thought I was doing you a favor by giving you three more nights away from this scow! Besides, you were dating that under aged child, if I recall.”
“She was twenty-four.”
“Exactly.”
“Then there was that guy who was mad at you and your imported pearl business so he took a baseball bat to my car!”
“Your DeLorean? That thing? Oh really, Dickie, it belongs in the scrap heap, if you could even find someone to dispose of it, my God, talk about toxic waste. I can’t believe the state even allows that death trap on the road.”
“It’s a classic, Rae Nell, a classic.”
“Classic junk is more like it, Dickie, it leaks, just for starters. Did you ever get rid of the bean bag you had for a passenger seat?”
“The passenger seat has been reinstalled,” he said, declining to mention the fourteen-inch gash slicing across the leather.
“Whatever.”
“Well, we might discuss the ship container of honey you imported from Thailand and had dropped off at the rear of the Emporium of Dance last summer? That was beautiful, I don’t know anything about it and they punch a hole in the container with a forklift before leaving it by my back door. I had to shut down for three days the wasps and bees were so bad. Neighbors started a petition against me and I’m still battling with the Department of Health.”
“Yeah, that one was kind of goofy, okay I admit that,” she said shrugging. “Look, enough crying over spilt milk.”
“Spilt milk…”
She held up her hand.
“I didn’t come here with fresh coffee so I could get yelled at or listen to your attempts to start another fight. Look, I just wondered if you would like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? You know, see the old place. I mean after all you’re paying for it, maybe just catch up, touch base, that sort of thing.”
“Why, what do you need?” Dickie asked cautiously.
“Why do I have to need anything? Why can’t I just do something nice without you complaining all the time?”
“Maybe, Rae Nell, because it’s just that when you try and do something nice for me, I always end up getting royally screwed.”
“Look, do you want to come over for dinner or not? You can leave as soon as we’re done eating and get back to that Brothel of Dance place if that’s what you’re whining about. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss out on all the haggling for price and services that’s bound to go on.”
“It’s the Emporium of Dance, as you know. Promise I can leave after dinner and you’re not going to ask me for any money? You’re not going to ask me for any favors? You’re not going to complain about…”
“Dickie, when did you get so cynical? I promise I won’t ask you for any money. I promise I won’t ask you for any favors. My God, I’m just looking to catch up, that’s all. You’re free to leave whenever you want. Jesus, I have to say, after extending the olive branch, I honestly thought I would get a little better reception than this.”
“You sure?”
“Girl Scouts honor. Say seven-ish?”
He let out a long sigh, closed his eyes, reminded himself this was really stupid then nodded helplessly.
“Okay, seven, but I’m warning you, Rae Nell, the first time you ask me for a favor, any favor, I’m out the door. Okay?”
“Okay, Crabby,” she said giving him a peck on the check then quickly exiting out the door before he had a chance to change his mind.
“Hello, Vernon, you’re up bright and early,” she said.
“Just enjoying the early morning views around this place,” Vernon said.
Chapter Four
Dickie cautiously backed the DeLorean into a parking space a half-hour late for the appointment with his accountant and friend, Fenton Larkin. His car had seen better days, the duct-taped windows leaked and the leather interior was just a tad moldy from the recent rain. Earlier in the year, an irate stripper wielding a nail file had slashed
a fourteen-inch gash across his refurbished passenger seat. The gull wing doors had a tendency to slam down on the unsuspecting and the infamous stainless steel body had been reshaped a few years back by a boyfriend of Rae Nell’s wielding a Louisville slugger.
He’d been seated in the lobby for a few minutes and was aggressively attacking either chili or spaghetti sauce, he wasn’t sure which, on the sleeve of his navy blue sport coat. Finally, Clairese, Fenton’s secretary and receptionist had enough. She charged out from behind her desk armed with a towel and a bottle of club soda.
“You know, Dickie, you could just get this thing cleaned, or better yet, throw it away,” she said, then grabbed his sleeve and poured club soda over the stain.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing there.”
“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize this coat never had anything poured on it. Give me this,” she commanded, yanking his arm back in front of her.
“You could stand to get those trousers pressed too, looks like you slept in them more than once. And maybe a shirt and tie instead of the golf shirt.”
“You think maybe there could be something between the two of us, Clairese?”
“Nothing but distance.”
“Want to think about it?”
“I don’t see enough lowlife’s in here every day? I need to take up with someone like you? I don’t think so.”
“Besides,” she continued, snapping the wet towel at the golf shirt stretched tight as a drum over Dickie’s gut, “someone like you rolls over on little old me in the middle of the night they’d have to scrape me off the bed with a spatula.”
“You could take tops.”
“Please, I’m barely two hours past breakfast. Unless you want to see strawberry yogurt and All-Brain on that coat of yours you’ll think of something else entirely.”
“Dickie,” Fenton called from his office. “Nice of you to finally drop in, get in here.”
“Some other time, Clairese, thanks for the wet spot on my coat.”
She shook her head.
***
“Jesus, Dickie,” Fenton sounded more frustrated than usual. “You had better start getting back into shape, Pal, or I’m going to have to ask for cash up front. At this rate you won’t be around to get my invoice.”
“Just more of me to love,” Dickie slapped his midsection.
Fenton peered back over the top of his reading glasses.
“You’re an early heart attack just waiting to happen, pal. Start eating right, start getting some exercise or you become a liability. I’m not kidding here.”
“Okay, okay. Man you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Relax, I’m starting a new regime tomorrow.”
“It’s always tomorrow isn’t it? Here,” Fenton said, tossing a file in Dickie’s general direction before turning back to his computer screen.
“Things are looking pretty good, that is if your goal was to reach ground zero. You don’t have any money to move around or protect, no working capitol, no assets except for the Emporium, well and that raft you live on. Basically, Pal, you’re broke. I can’t believe you’re even keeping books, you taking cash out every night? Based on what you gave me here you’re not cutting it. Oh hey, by the way, where’d you get that program?”
“Program?”
“Yeah, and you just answered my question, you have no idea, correct? Whoever you got doing your books has a nifty little program they’re using. Just as a test, we ran it off some of our systems here, thing just whistled through each and every one of them, spread sheets, charts, ratios, whatever we wanted. Look, find out where they got it. I’d like to get copies in all our offices. It even worked on the overseas stuff.”
“Yeah, my book keeper, DJ, I’ll mention it to her. But back up, I’m broke?”
Chapter Five
“I have to admit, this is highly unusual quality, Mr. Taggert.” Andre was carefully running his hand against the grain of two cinnamon fur coats.
“Unusual, highly unusual. As you requested, sir, we lined and monogrammed both coats. If I might offer a suggestion, the detachable tag affair, here, sir, behind the sleeve, black leather with the chrome buckle and the little studs. It looks an awful lot like a dog collar, sir, and well, I wonder if your average lady might not be a bit put off.”
“Thanks for the advice, partner. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. Course, these here is just what you call your prototypes. We’re cranking up one of them marketing campaigns. Get the word out there for the Christmas season.
“Really, sir, interesting.” Andre secretly cringed, as if the fur industry didn’t have enough problems.
“I’m thinking of some sexy sort of gal with one of these here coats wrapped round her ass. Sort of appeal to the slut in everyone type of ad. Big old sign across the bottom of the ad, Chow Furs,” Terry gestured in the air with his hand as if reading the copy on a giant billboard.
“Amazingly unique. I’m quite sure no one has ever conceived of an ad campaign quite like that, sir.”
“Yeah, we’d most likely be the first.”
“Certainly the first, sir,” Andre said, thinking ‘unbelievable’.
“Yeah well look, partner, appreciate all your work here. Can’t thank you enough for your time,” Terry said, not wanting to give away any more of his marketing campaign.
“Sir,” Andre smiled weakly.
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