Stinking Rich

by Rob Brunet

  She looked him up and down. “You’re a fireman?” Terry nodded. She asked, “Where’s your truck?”

  “I’m the advance crew. Survey the scene. Identify the plan, er, choose an approach...y’know...complicated stuff this fire business.”

  “We have to do something.” Judy struggled to keep her voice steady. “I think there’s someone inside. Ernie. My neighbor.”

  “Well, now, ma’am why on earth would someone go inside a burning building. Unless he’s a fireman, I mean.”

  “He didn’t go inside. I just think he’s in there. In the FIRE.”

  Terry’s eyes squinted, lids protecting eyeballs from the intense heat and blowing smoke. He pulled a package of Export A cigarettes from under his shirt sleeve. “Wanna smoke?” Judy looked at him, frowned, and said nothing.

  “Calms my nerves,” Terry said after lighting his cigarette. He kicked a stone toward the cabin and said, “Think I’ll go around the other side and see if it’s burning hot over there, too. Just keep that hose on the house there, lady. And, uh, maybe soak the ground a bit now and then. The truck will be here real soon. Just let me go check if maybe I can see your friend on the other side.”

  Judy watched him walk away, glanced over to where her dog lay panting in the shadow of his car and said, “Wort, I never want to see you smoke. Understand?”

  She turned her full attention back to the blazing living room window. A strong offshore breeze carried the thick black smoke up the slope and across the road to where her own cabin stood. She moved a few steps in the direction of the lake to breathe easier. She clung to her prayer that Ernie wasn’t inside his cabin, after all.

  When two fire trucks pulled up, lights flashing, sirens off, she was surprised Wort didn’t bark. “Wort, baby, where are you? WORT.”

  The firemen leapt from their perches and began unraveling their much bigger hoses. Two men dragged them toward the cabin while three more began unraveling a feeder hose down toward the lake. One of the firemen, the only one with a white helmet, strode over and asked, “Are you the lady who called this in?”

  Ignoring him, Judy screamed for her dog, “WORT. WHERE ARE YOU? WORT.” Fearful he might have somehow ended up in the cabin, she started flailing her dribbling hose back and forth wildly. She stepped toward the cabin. It felt like the flames would crackle her skin.

  “Ma’am, step back from the fire. Drop the hose and come over here. Lady, can you hear me?”

  Tears streaming, she gagged on the black smoke. The wind shifted direction again and she was engulfed. She gasped as heat filled her lungs. Choking, she fell to her knees and pointed the hose to her face. The cold splash gave her an immediate relief from the heat but then her mouth filled with water; she coughed, soot, mucus, and bile gushing from her nose and mouth. An enormous rush of adrenaline coursed through her body and her thighs wobbled jelly-like. She collapsed in a heap on the ground. The last thing she felt was a pair of strong hands grabbing her, rolling her onto her back; then she felt herself rise up, up, up into a sky full of smoke and into the glorious fresh air beyond.

  When Judy came to, she was lying in the shade well-back from the fire. The fireman fanned her face with his white helmet.

  “Lady, wake up. That’s it. Open your eyes. No, DON’T MOVE. Just lay there. You blacked out.”

  What with the thump-thump-thump of the blood in her head, the roar of the fire, and the all the shouting of instructions back and forth among the firemen, Judy couldn’t make out what the fire chief was saying to her. Her mind raced back to Wort and she struggled onto her elbows.

  “WORT.”

  He came running from the other side of the cabin, yapping wildly, his long hair in flames. He ran straight to where Judy lay on the ground and the fireman immediately grabbed him and rolled him over twice, putting out the flames.

  Yot Boy stumbled out from behind the cabin seconds later and drew up short when he saw Judy, Wort, and the chief.

  “Uh, your pup’s safe. Good thing. Whew, I was sure worried there for a minute,” he panted. Looking at the truck, he said, “Alright. The gang’s all here. Hey, boss, let’s get that pumper going. We got a real barn-burner.”

  Mongoose slammed his ham-sized palm onto the painted plywood countertop that served as a bar in the Libidos’ Liquid Lounge. Perko, Hawk, and several other bikers ranged around the room.

  “Guys, alls I know is Perko’s dopey farmer’s startin’ day parole. We gotta be tailing him if we want him to lead us to his money.”

  “Our money,” said Hawk.

  “Right you are. Our money.”

  Perko winced. My money. He knew he’d be lucky to get an extra bill or two out of the haul if the gang ever did get their paws on it. He’d been busted to shit duty for the last four years. If it hadn’t been for Hawk, he would have been hung out to dry—literally—the day his grow op burned to the ground.

  “Why the hell do we have to waste our time following the little shit?” asked Hawk. “I vote we just beat the crap out of him. He’ll talk.”

  “Tried that, Hawk,” said Mongoose. “You knows our guys beat him regular his first six months in the can. Promised him all kinds of goodness when he got out. Even offered him his pick of fresh ass ’case he wanted a girlfriend on the inside, but nothin’. Either he don’t know where our cash is or he’s one stone-faced motherfucker who ain’t gonna give up a goddam thing.”

  Mongoose had turned his back on Perko in disrespect, shutting him out of the conversation. Perko stared at the back of his head, wondering how in hell the man managed to cut it almost square like that. Did he have to hang himself upside down with the shears?

  Hawk said, “He’s tougher than anyone figured. Holding out like that? I say he’s gonna go for the cash first good chance he gets.”

  “’Xactly,” said Mongoose. “We gotta be watching the little pecker.”

  Hawk nodded. He looked at Perko over Mongoose’s shoulder and said, “Perko, you tail him from the drop. And don’t wear your colors neither. Comb your hair and put on your Monday-go-to-court suit.”

  Perko scowled, held Hawk’s stare as long as he dared, then headed to the kitchen to empty the garbage.

  Fifteen

  It was five days after Ernie McCann’s charbroiled finale that Danny Grant awoke extra early for day parole. At Frontenac, he’d been bunked with a guy named Carson who took more of a shine to him than he cared for. Carson was so flabby he had full-on tits. He kept them shaved and let guys suck them for the price of extra dessert. As Danny swung his legs off the top bunk, Carson grabbed hold of his ankle and held on tight.

  “Don’t gooooo,” he whined. “It’ll be lonely here without you.”

  Danny snorted. “Actually, I was planning to use day parole to do something stupid. See if I could get sent back to Collins Bay for few extra years. Just to get away from you.”

  “Have it your way.” Carson rolled over to face the wall.

  The guard unlocked the cell door and disappeared as Danny walked down the hall to the showers. Security was a lot looser in minimum security. Inmates could often move around at will and many got some kind of unescorted temporary absence privileges. Of course, the guards used that fact as one more bargaining chip in the never ending tug-of-war of inmate discipline. Carson didn’t get day parole, but he used what pull he had to get a fresh guy bunked with him every few weeks.

  Ninety-four days and counting, Danny told himself as he lathered up. He’d survived the darkness of prison life without becoming an animal. With day parole, the few remaining months would be easy. He’d watched other inmates panic approaching full release—wondering how they’d survive on the outside. But he wasn’t like them. For him, prison had been a waiting game, nothing more. When he got out, he’d have all the cash he’d ever need to lead a decent life, as long as he didn’t splash around too much too soon.

  He closed his eyes to rinse the shampoo from his head. No sooner had he shut them than an all-too-familiar stench burned his nostrils. Carson. T
he bastard smelled so bad it permeated even the acrid chemical fog of the shower stall—a mix of industrial-strength soap and that body odor particular to hyper-stressed men. The one good thing about Carson’s distinctive reek was the warning it delivered when he crept up behind you.

  Danny twisted on the balls of his feet only to find himself pinned at the wrists, his arms stretched wide, a fat knee wedged between his thighs.

  “Shit, Carson, gimme a break. This here’s my big day. I’m going downtown!”

  “Hee-hee-hee.” The freakishly young voice twittered in his ear. Carson’s breath replaced his body odor as the three hundred pound con licked Danny’s earlobe and pressed his belly into his back. “I’m a-goin’ to take you downtown, show you aroun’, and make it my big day, now ain’t I, Danny-girl.”

  Danny relaxed, giving his best impression of submission under the circumstances and when he felt Carson’s penis start to slide between his cheeks, he kicked like a mule and caught the lovelorn man high enough on the thigh to make him jump back. He felt the grip on his wrists loosen just enough for him to wriggle free. Ducking under a flabby arm, he made a dash for the outer room and called for the guard.

  Three hours later, Danny sat grinding his breakfast into the second hour at the Minute Diner in downtown Kingston, Ontario. The prison shuttle had let him out right across the street. He’d walked all of sixty feet with his first taste of freedom. All day breakfast for $5.99 and a waitress who kept him coffeed for a fifty cent tip. Danny was in heaven. He stirred three sugars and two creams into his sixth cup, then smeared a full packet of orange marmalade onto a half slice of toast and wolfed it down. He drained his cup in one gulp and signaled the waitress for a refill. As she poured, Danny asked if he could buy a cigarette.

  “Here, just take one,” she said and handed him her pack of smokes. “How long were you away?”

  Danny felt himself shrink. How could she tell? Then he looked down at the Woody Woodpecker sweatshirt he’d stolen from Carson’s hook on the way, and the pale green trousers beneath them. Who the hell else would dress like this?

  “Too long. But I’ll be out soon enough. Thirteen more weeks.”

  “Oh, so you’re on day parole, eh? What’re you in for?”

  “For being stupid,” Danny said, ending the conversation. “Hey, can I read that paper over there if you’re finished with it?”

  “Sure, pal. I’ll bring it right over. It isn’t today’s though. It’s from last Saturday. I’m just working on the crossword, about halfway done. Don’t go throw it out on me.”

  Watching her ass as she went to retrieve the newspaper, Danny felt his heart pump a little harder and then grow heavy again. He was sure he’d seen her smirk at the ridiculous sweatshirt.

  When he got out, first thing he’d do is buy some new clothes. He’d be rich and dressed right and able to ask a good-looking waitress what time she got off work. But would he still be a fuck-up? Would he still make bad choices? Or, would he finally dial it all in and make a real life for himself? Whatever that meant.

  Danny certainly had no illusions about working for a living. Nope, he was headed straight for retirement. For four years, he’d lain on his bunk staring at the dirty yellow concrete ceiling, listening to his cellmate mumble and moan on the bunk below. The guy spent the day “singing” along with Def Leppard, playing the same silent tunes over and over on his iPod. By now, Danny could recite the lyrics to Hello America, and he’d never even heard the song. Another three months and he’d pick his own damn radio station. Still, he knew there would be complications.

  As a paroled convict, he couldn’t up and leave the country, fly off to Jamaica, and chill. And if he hung around Peterborough spending the dough, he’d get noticed for sure. Then there was the question of his mother. Would she get in touch with him once he was released? Was she so pissed that she’d disappeared for good? Skeritt would know how to reach her, but would he tell Danny? And would Danny tell him about the money?

  The money.

  The thought of having it, spending it, counting it, and knowing it was his had kept Danny going all these years. It was how he had dealt with the sham of pleading guilty to manslaughter, how he had kept from bawling his eyes out when he said goodbye to his mom in the courtroom, how he had watched weeks turn into months in prison without losing his mind.

  He drained the last of his coffee and got up to take a leak. On his way to the men’s room, he noticed this guy in a booth near the back of the restaurant who seemed to be grinding away the morning just like him. The man had walked in as Danny was digging into his own plate of eggs and bacon nearly an hour and a half earlier. All two hundred fifty pounds of him were stuffed into a cheap polyester suit, brown with blue stitching. It was the kind of suit Danny imagined some do-good might give him the day he got out of prison. “A little something to get you started on the right foot,” his parole officer would tell him.

  The men’s room had one urinal, one stall, and one sink. In theory, it could be used by two people at a time, but it was barely large enough for one. Danny had to lean uncomfortably close to the urinal when the guy in the bad suit followed him into the tight space just as he unzipped himself. He listened to the man piss into the toilet with a throaty sigh. A relieved moan followed a robust fart. Then the man coughed, cleared his throat, spat, and walked straight out. He neither flushed the toilet nor washed his hands.

  Danny still hadn’t peed.

  Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Three years in the slammer hadn’t made him particularly fond of shared washroom facilities. Not every con had a telltale scent like Carson.

  On his way back to his booth, he threw a scowl at the beefy guy once again seated at the back of the diner. In his own mind, when Danny pulled his eyebrows low and squinted, he looked like the meanest convicted criminal imaginable and not at all like some kid on a high school quiz show about to get eliminated by a simple question. The bulky target of his best attempt at an evil eye picked his teeth and ignored him.

  Waving the waitress over, Danny ordered a slice of raisin pie. “Oh, and maybe a little more coffee to wash it down, while you’re at it.”

  Despite his apparent indifference, Perko Ratwick had indeed been paying very close attention to the day-paroled convict, tailing him from the moment he stepped out of the prison van. The seemingly coincidental trip to the men’s room had allowed him to confirm the window was too small for Danny Grant—and certainly himself—to crawl through.

  As he watched the punk dig into raisin pie and slurp back yet more coffee, Perko’s stomach tied another knot. The brown polyester suit he had outgrown five years earlier did little to make him feel like a fully-patched member of the Libidos Motorcycle Club. Despite never having met Danny Grant face-to-face, he’d had plenty of time to dream up ways to kill him, and that went a long way toward making their relationship intimate. His preferred method would be to stuff the puke’s head in a toilet and flush repeatedly, but he knew he’d settle for strangulation, suffocation, just about anything that involved using his bare hands. As long as he could watch him die and be certain Danny knew exactly who did the killing. Unfortunately for Perko, snuffing Danny Grant was off limits. The Libidos wanted him alive. Besides, since his screw up at the grow op, Perko’s own chip stack around the clubhouse had been pretty darn short.

  The humiliation was acute. For the first year, he’d been barred from even the clubhouse couch, forced to spend every night offsite at Shelley’s whether he wanted to or not. Eventually, Hawk had managed to convince Mongoose to lay off his protégé, saying he was less of a risk held close than far, and that he was their best chance of finding the stolen money. Nonetheless, Perko was tagged with responsibility for bullshit clean-up jobs. He was fed up with busting chops when street-level dealers tried to fuck with the count or delivering baggies to those upright members of society whose reputation didn’t allow them to buy their drugs from the local riffraff. He hated that gig the most because it involved wearing street clothes not
unlike this stupid brown suit.

  For his part, Mongoose razzed Perko non-stop. About the fire, about the money, about the humiliation dealt to him in front of the cops, the Skeletons, the Nancy’s Nasties, and those spic extras. Every couple of months, Mongoose would get take-out from Aunt Helena’s kitchen. And every time, he’d order a double helping of her newest dish: Perko’s Paella. “Guaran-fucking-teed to flush you clean,” he’d announce.

  There’d be a time and a place to deal with Mongoose.

  For now, though, his anger focused on the shithead farmer. Seeing him up close for the first time, Perko could barely contain himself. What was with the fucking Woody Woodpecker sweatshirt? Was the runt bastard laughing at him? Ha-ha-ha-HA-haaaa! Ha-ha-ha-HA-haaaa! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-HEH!

  When the jerk started reading the newspaper again, Perko groaned and had another wet dream about murder.

  Danny was thinking he should take in a movie or maybe browse the used CDs in the music shop down the street. He found it hard to relate to the newspaper. Stories about business confused him and since he hadn’t voted in the last election—or any election, for that matter—he found politics a bore. There was a paragraph on page five about Indian Summer accompanied by a four-column picture of two girls sunbathing; he read that until his pie was done. The bikinis duly committed to memory, he turned the page and coughed up a noseful of coffee.

  Two pictures ran under the headline: “Volunteer hero saves much-loved doggie.”

  On the left, a woman with an exceptionally dirty face clutched what appeared to be a white fur hat to her chest. In the picture, the hat was licking the woman’s chin. Upon closer inspection, Danny decided it looked like a Pekinese whose face hadn’t been smushed quite all the way in. He wasn’t interested in the dog, though, nor the woman for that matter, although she was pretty. It was the smoking hulk of a cabin in the background that caught his attention.