The Milk Wagon

by Michael Hewes

  “Yeah. You and Emily seem to be getting along fine today, don’t you? Acting like a couple, even.”

  Once again, Nate’s actions had not been pure happenstance. His concession the night before, while appreciated and somewhat genuine, turned out to be a bargaining chip. I still didn’t want to do hide those photos, but he made a pretty strong case, and it did feel like a fair exchange to finally have Emily on my arm.

  “Okay, Nate. I’ll do it. Just don’t leave me hanging too long. I still don’t know what you are talking about, but if me putting these away for a bit can help you get where you need to be, I’m in.”

  He rolled down the window as I climbed out. “Thanks, Matt. If I’m right, the fact that these accounts even exist potentially changes everything.” He pointed behind me. “Just let the Milk Wagon be my rolling safety deposit box for a bit. And don’t get into a wreck or anything.”

  I patted the hood. “This old girl has served me well in the past. Rest assured, she’ll do the same for you.”

  “I know she will,” he said, sliding Ferris into reverse, “she’s the best.” As he backed out and straightened up, I heard him yell something else through the music.

  “What’d you say?”

  He turned down the volume, stopped the truck, and pointed.

  “I told you I wanted one.”

  Chapter 47

  Now that he had made the Marty Deen connection, Fast Eddie needed to test the water to see if Marty knew who he was. If Marty did recognize him, he couldn’t be poking his head in and out of the gallery at Kathryn’s request, nor could he risk Marty showing up unannounced at the office. After Marty rode past Jack’s, he exited the restaurant in as normal a method as he could and was on the road in less than a minute. After a few switchbacks and a couple of turnarounds, he ultimately caught up with Marty near the Green Oaks subdivision.

  Eddie knew the area, and once he figured out the general direction Marty was heading, he circled around to a four-way stop half a mile up just past the tennis courts. When he got to the stop sign, he looked left and sure enough, Marty was coming his way. He was wearing his helmet, and he slowed down when he got near the intersection. Eddie could tell Marty had done it a thousand times, because he didn’t even look up as he came to a stop. When Marty stood up on his pedals, about to move again, Fast Eddie eased the truck into the middle of the road and rolled down his window.

  “Hi there.”

  Marty inspected the truck, bumper to bumper, his body becoming more contorted by the second. When Marty’s eyes landed on Fast Eddie, his face recoiled into a scowl, and he tucked his chin into his chest and started to grunt. The coaster brakes on his bike locked when he tried to backpedal, jerking the handlebars into a Tilt-A-Whirl, throwing Marty to the ground. When he stood up, his hand and elbow were bleeding, and he started slapping the side of his head and shrieking. Eddie started to say something else, but before he could get anything out, Marty broke into a run the other way, helmet on, right down the middle of the road.

  That answered that question.

  Fast Eddie hauled ass before the car coming up behind him knew what was happening. His hypothesis had been proven to be true. But what to do about it? If Marty was going to shut down around him like that, was he even a threat? Could Marty ever provide a literate word – or description – to the authorities? Even if he did, would anyone even believe him? These were all good questions Fast Eddie was going to have to answer at some point, but they would have to wait for now. He had an errand to run.

  He reached into his console and found a picture he had placed inside the sleeve of a CD case. He slid a Sharpie out of the pocket and pulled over into a McDonald’s parking lot. After scribbling a few test sentences on a napkin until he got the wording just perfect, he used his left hand to write on the border of the photograph, just in case someone tried to match it to his handwriting.

  He blew on the photo until the ink was dry, then turned north on the highway and made his way towards Doc Mayes’ house. He knew there were orders in place to keep eyes on Doc Mayes at all times, but he knew those orders could be revised. In fact, he knew the tail that was originally scheduled to watch that day had been rescheduled to a different shift. He also knew the replacement would not be there until after six that evening. He knew all of this before he even left his place that morning.

  It was one of the many perks of the job.

  Chapter 48

  Having secured the package with Matt, Nate felt better about things and was ready to move on. That moment was short lived, however, when he got home and pulled around the driveway to find the front door wide open. The leaves that had blown into the foyer told him it had been that way for a while.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” Nate took one step inside and wondered if he should keep going.

  “Vicky?” It looked even worse now that he was in the hall. Clothes, paper, and books were strewn everywhere. He wondered if the place had been robbed, but it didn’t make sense because the gate was closed when he arrived. No way to get in or out without a code. Plus, the grounds themselves looked normal. Even Creepy Carl was going about his business trimming the knockout roses.

  The other weird thing Nate noticed was the garage. His dad kept the doors closed all the time. He opened it only to get in and out, but when Nate pulled up, the door on his dad’s side was up, and the Porsche was gone. Vicky’s Cadillac was not.

  “Vicky? You in here?” By now Nate made it to the game room, and it looked to be intact, other than a red wine stain on the wall and broken glass all around the baseboard. He walked over to check it out, and when he leaned down to get a better look, he heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

  He spun around cocked his head. Then he heard it again. Sounded almost like a chirp. He picked up one of the pool cues and unscrewed it so he could use the handle end in case he needed it. He eased up toward the kitchen door until he was just outside the opening. He took a breath, raised his arm, and stormed in.

  Vicky screamed so loud he nearly hit her as a reflex.

  “Good grief,” Nate said, lowering the weapon. “Are you okay?”

  Vicky was slumped over the island, sitting one-cheeked on a barstool, using her hanging down leg as a prop. Nate took another look at her face. What he thought was blood turned out to be the remnants of mascara. Vicky had been crying. And Vicky was smashed.

  “Your father,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your father!” She screamed, mushing the words and drawing it out in a drunken slur. Then she made a shaky sweeping motion around the room. “Made all this mess. All of it.” She knocked over her glass, and the contents rolled off the side of the counter onto her lap. She didn’t even move.

  “What are you talking about? What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and this time she bypassed the glass and went straight for the bottle, wiping her mouth with a dishtowel. “Everything was fine when we woke up. Normal morning. Then we had breakfast. I rode the golf cart out front to get the paper like I always do.” She was swaying as she talked, and her eyes had progressed from half-moons to slits.

  “Then next thing I know I’m heatin’ up a English muffin, and Ford starts cursing like I’ve never heard before. Sayin’ all kind of foul things.” She burped and put the dishtowel to her mouth. Nate thought she might be sick, but she held it in.

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, but something set him off. Then he storms into his office and starts tearing it apart. I ran in there and asked him if he was okay and – and –”

  “And what Vicky?”

  She resumed her crying. “And he hit me. Right across my face.” She pulled back her hair and sure enough, she had a bruise on her cheek that followed her jawline. “So I walked out. I don’t put up with that crap, no sir, not anymore. So I went to my room and locked the door, and for the next hour or so he made all
kind of racket. When I came back down, he was even more crazy and pushed me out of the way onto the floor. Then I threw a glass at him, and he’s been gone ever since.” She started to raise the towel again, then set it down. “That was two hours ago.”

  Nate did his best to appear concerned about Vicky, but his mind was elsewhere. Even for his dad, this behavior was uncharacteristic, and Nate wasn’t sure what triggered it. One thing he did know – Vicky wasn’t going to be upright much longer, so he had to get what he could from her before she passed out.

  “I’m sorry he hit you,” Nate said and for a second or two he really almost kind of felt sorry for her. But it passed. “You said something might have set him off. Any idea what it could have been?”

  She looked around the room and closed one eye to try to focus. Then she pointed over at the breakfast table. It still had one plate, a half-eaten English muffin, two coffee mugs, and what looked like the morning edition of the Sun-Herald on it. “Maybe he was in the paper again. Last time, they didn’t say very nice things about him, and he got mad – but not this mad.”

  Nate walked over and picked it up. The first section was turned inside out, and he refolded it so he could read the front page. He looked over at Vicky to see if she had anything else to add, but her head was down. Out cold. He sat down to read the article. The headline blared Gulfport Resident Found Slain in Home. Smiling up from the middle of the article was a picture of Charlotte Gutherz. It was the file photo from her work that he had seen not three hours before. There she was again – pretty, fresh, and alluring – just the type of siren a middle-aged man would be attracted to. The parts of her Nate could see, that is. He searched around the table for the rest of the paper.

  The page had been torn in half.

  Chapter 49

  Nate found what remained of the ripped-off section on the floor and pieced it together with the other half to finish reading the article. He was surprised there was not a single reference to Charlotte’s role in the money-laundering investigation.

  Not one.

  Nate continued down the hall to see what other damage had been done and found the door to the office ajar. He walked in and found it chaotic and disturbed much like the rest of the house, but to a greater degree. Drawers pulled out and dumped on the floor, cushions off the couch, and the painting that had been covering the safe – which was now wide open – had been thrown across the room like a Frisbee. It sat resting beside the couch with the corner of its frame splintered into pieces.

  Nate sat down in the big leather chair and put his feet up on the desk – another act that would have been forbidden in the real world, but he was living in a new normal. He closed his eyes and ran through the litany of events leading up to this meltdown. The phone call a few weeks before. The fistfight after his dad accused him of pilfering the office. The raid on the house. Agent Cooper told him nothing was there, but Nate knew something had been there. Sure, Nate took the photos and the deposit slips, but he left the ledgers, the map and the other things. Then Charlotte was killed, and his dad absolutely lost his mind – and it wasn’t because he was missing her. His dad was passionate, but not in that way, and certainly not prone to fall apart over a woman. Money? Yes. Power? Absolutely. Ego? Maybe. There must have been something else about her death that pulled on one of these factors, but Nate couldn’t quite figure out what. If only he could –

  Something leaning in the corner distracted him, and when Nate got up from the chair and walked over to investigate, he came across a relic he probably hadn’t seen in eight or nine years.

  “Well, I’ll be.” It was the gold hilt of a Civil War Confederate officer sword poking out of its scabbard. He picked it up, and the pulled blade out, making a ching sound when the tip finally freed the cover. The weight of the sword felt good in his hands, although holding it again after all these years made him sad. As cool as it was, it would always remind Nate of the day his dad transitioned from a run-of-the mill poor excuse for a father into an all-out tyrant.

  Chapter 50

  What nine-year-old boy is not fascinated by a real sword -- especially one with silver and gold engravings of horses and soldiers in battle? Nate certainly was, and he saw the sword for the very first time one evening after school. He was in second grade – Ms. Cecilia was his teacher – and he had been eating a grilled cheese sandwich with Doritos for supper on a TV tray by himself. Pretty much like every night, except Happy Days was on, which meant it was a Tuesday. Nate could specifically recall the details of the evening because his dad came home in an unusually blissful mood.

  “Vicky? Hey, come check this out! I got it, I finally got it.”

  Vicky ran downstairs, pulling her hair back in a clip. She was in a sundress, and she, too, was bouncy – happy to find an amiable spouse at home for a change.

  “What? What is it, honey?”

  “This.” He pulled out a long slender box and opened the top up.

  “Oh, my goodness. Is it the one?”

  “It is. The presentation sword of my great-great grandfather, Nathaniel Bradford Mayes. Word is General Lee himself was at the ceremony when he got it.”

  Of course, that got Nate’s attention, so he hopped off the couch and walked to the cased opening that led from the kitchen to the hallway. He knew not to cut in. Adults were talking.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful, Ford. Even better than I imagined. How’d you get it?”

  “I had an antiques dealer in New Orleans run it down for me. They’ve been hunting it for three years now.”

  “Can I hold it?”

  “No, you can’t hold it,” he snapped. Then Nate watched his dad lift it up and wave it around like Luke did in Obi-Wan’s cave. “This thing is priceless. I’m going to hang it up in the –” He let his arm drop down when he saw Nate standing at the door. “Hey, what are you looking at?”

  Nate didn’t answer. He didn’t think they would see him with all the excitement, but he was clearly busted. “N-nothing.”

  “Oh really? You’d better tell the truth, son, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I-I heard you come in and talk about a sword. I wanted to see it.”

  “Here it is. Now you’ve seen it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is not a toy, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if I ever catch you anywhere near this, you will be in big trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Y-Yes, sir.”

  Nate went back to the Fonz and for a little while, forgot about the sword and the scolding. He stayed up for Laverne and Shirley, but when Three’s Company came on, it was time to go to bed. They never let him watch Three’s Company, which stunk, because he could usually hear Vicky watching it and laughing out loud. It made him mad that he couldn’t laugh, too.

  He made his way down the hall to the stairwell, trying to remember if he had brushed his teeth the night before. He made it upstairs, and for some reason glanced into his dad’s and Vicky’s bedroom – and there it was, just sitting on the bed.

  He stood at the door wringing his hands, knowing he shouldn’t go in, but also knowing he had to. He leaned over the balcony and could hear Vicky and his dad talking through the television noise. He tiptoed in, picked the sword off the bed, and lifted it up.

  Suddenly he was Luke Skywalker, and the blade was no longer folded steel, but a pulsating blue beam. He pretended to be in the Millennium Falcon, training under old Ben while Han and Chewie sat off to the side, watching. He waved it a few times, making humming sounds with his mouth as he deflected the laser shots from the floating trainer ball. Then he grabbed one of his dad’s baseball caps and put it on backwards so it covered his eyes, just like the blast shield Luke used. The ball fired up again, and as it spun through the air the first laser hit Nate on the leg, awakening his senses. Soon the Force took over, and Nate blindly deflected and dodged the next three sh
ots. He jumped on the settee at the end of the bed, and two more lasers glanced off the blade, popping and hissing. Satisfied he had proven the Force was real, he ripped the hat off so he could gloat to Han and get the approval from Obi-Wan that he had unknowingly been seeking all of his life. Unfortunately for Nate, the Jedi Master was not standing there.

  But his dad was.

  The impact of being caught in the act jolted Nate so much that he lost the grip on the sword’s handle. Time slowed down as he watched the blade tumble out of his hand, completely invert itself, and hit – point down – on the marble floor, making a dull clank, then a large crash as the hilt bounced on the travertine.

  He had no idea his dad could move so fast, and before Nate could retreat even a step, the back of a hand hit him broadside across the face, knocking him into the bedpost and on the ground. He saw blood pool on the floor from his nose and tried to get up. His dad looked stunned – still angry, but stunned – and hit him one more time before storming out of the room, screaming at Vicky, scooping up the sword on the way out and cradling it as he turned the corner.

  * * *

  That had been the last time Nate had seen it. His dad put it away after Nate “ruined it,” as he was reminded on numerous occasions. It was not the last time, however, his dad hit him. It was the first of many, many beatings to come.

  As Nate inspected the sword a little closer, he marveled at how something so beautiful could signify something so horrible. He took a close look at the tip and scraped it lightly with the pad of his thumb then eyeballed the blade and the hilt.

  “That bastard,” he murmured, “I didn’t ruin it. This thing is as pristine as the day it was made.”

  Nate held it out, and for good measure, swung it back and forth a few times, making the signature strobing noise – which he could now do much better as a teenager.

  He was so into it, when the phone on his dad’s desk rang, he almost dropped it. Again.