Eureka (11 page)

Otis decided he would go to the Gulf station and said so to Charlie, who made no vocal or physical response. He was clearly too occupied making fudge to care where Otis went.

It was a gorgeous, crisp morning. The sun was just above the horizon, on its way to being bright and full. The sky was clear and on its way to being that gorgeous blue it can be only on April days in Kansas. The rain was long gone, having left behind a few small puddles in the potholes and crevices of the driveway
and roadway. Otis considered going by the Cushman and taking his toiletries with him to the Gulf station’s crapper, but it seemed like an inappropriate thing to do. Shaving and brushing teeth were not crucial parts of Church Key Charlie’s world. Otis felt the same way about changing into some of the dry clothes he had packed in the rear compartment of the Cushman. It also seemed natural and appropriate to remain in the damp clothes.

So. He had run away to this. And how far had he run? He figured it was twenty miles, at most, back east on old U.S. 56 to Eureka and to his home and office and life. But it seemed so much farther.

And he felt wonderful. It was crazy. Insane? But he felt great walking down this old road to use the bathroom at a Gulf station run by somebody named Johnny Gillette.

He wondered what time it was. He had asked himself a lot of questions since had he woken up on the raunchy red couch, but not that one. Now he looked at his wristwatch, a fifteen-hundred-dollar Omega that Sally had given him for Christmas two years ago.

It was 7:17.

A Monday morning at 7:17. If he were still at his home in NorthPark as Otis Halstead, insurance company CEO, civic leader, and devoted husband and father, he would at this moment be finishing breakfast. Probably a bowl of oatmeal and some fruit—blueberries, most likely. A cup of half-and-half coffee—half decaffeinated, half real. He would have already read the papers—
The Eureka Times
and
The Kansas City Star
—while riding his Exercycle, and he would have shaved, showered, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. It was his uniform of work as much as those worn by police officers and bus drivers—and professional football tight ends.

In thirteen minutes, at seven-thirty, Otis Halstead, CEO, etc., would take off in his Explorer for downtown and the KCF&C Building, where he would begin his workday with a quick meeting at eight with senior staff. How are sales in Omaha/Lincoln? Any word on the planned Hallmark project in Kansas City? What’s the outlook for our stock on the AMEX today?

He wondered how Sally had handled the notifications. He had left her a note on the small table in the kitchen, where she was sure to find it when she returned from church. It said:

The Gulf station was no longer a Gulf station. It had been one in an earlier life; some of the faded porcelain Good Gulf and other signs were still around. But now, according to a roughly painted red, white, and blue sign hanging out front, it was
JOHNNY’S CAR AND TRUCK REPAIR—FREE ESTIMATES— CASH AND CHECKS ONLY.
Clearly, Johnny Gillette and Charlie Blue ran their respective businesses with the same consumer finance philosophy.

Otis heard a radio and some banging behind the small tattered building. There, working on something under the hood of a dark green 1987 Chevy pickup, was Johnny Gillette. He was a black man about half the size of Charlie Blue and fifteen years older.

Otis said he was a friend of Charlie Blue’s, and could he use his restroom?

“You’re lying,” said Johnny Gillette. “Church Key ain’t got no friends.”

Otis wasn’t sure if the other man was joking—putting him on. But the words were not accompanied by a smile.

“Well, he said to say that. I’m sorry,” Otis said.

“I’m sure he did. I’m just saying it’s a lie, that’s all. The last friend Charlie had will be his first. Do you know him?”

Otis said he really didn’t. Just met him, in fact.

“Had any of his fudge?”

“Not yet,” Otis said. “Looking forward to it—a lot of it.”

Johnny Gillette said, “Don’t you think there’s something weird about a grown man making bags and bags of chocolate fudge?”

Otis said yeah, it was pretty weird, all right.

“He’s weird in a lot of ways, so watch yourself,” said Johnny Gillette as he reached into his right-front pants pocket, pulled out a key, and handed it to Otis. “Leave it the way you found it, is all I ask. Okay?”

Otis promised to do that. Then he asked, “Did you always want to be a mechanic?”

“When I was a kid, I just wanted to grow up to be the boss, I didn’t care what I was doing,” said Johnny Gillette. “And you saw that sign out there, didn’t ya?”

Otis followed Johnny Gillette’s directions to the restroom inside the shop. It was remarkably clean and well equipped with toilet paper, paper towels, soap, and all of the essentials. It even smelled good, like soap.

As he did what he came to do, Otis thought about what Gillette had said about Church Key Charlie Blue not having any friends.

The thought made him sad for the monstrous fudge-making ex—football player back down the road.

But then he thought again and realized that someone could say the same thing about him—soon-to-be-sixty-year-old Otis Halstead—not having any
real
friends.

Maybe now, in this new life, he would have some.

OTIS FELT LIKE
changing clothes. So instead of returning directly to the chocolate factory, Otis went first to Charlie Blue’s house next door. The Red Ryder BB gun remained at the ready, hanging on the Cushman. He opened the scooter’s rear storage compartment. There were the toy fire engine and the maps on top of the valise. Things seem to have shifted around from the travel and turmoil of yesterday, but at a glance, everything seemed present and accounted for.

He stripped down and dressed in all-clean, all-dry everything—from skivvies and socks to trousers and shirt. He laid the clothes he had taken off across the handlebars and seat of the scooter so they could dry.

He felt great. It didn’t make sense. But he did.

He reentered Church Key Charlie Blue’s world of chocolate.

“Make yourself useful, Oat-tus,” said Charlie. “Put on a pair of these gloves—the health department will lock me up if you don’t. They’re the same as what the doctors put on to stick their finger up your ass to check your prostate. How many physicals have you had in your life, Oat-tus?”

Otis said he had not kept a good count.

Charlie said, “Well, I’ve had one million, four hundred thousand and twelve. Or more, even. They gave us one every three minutes, it seemed, when I was playing ball. Somebody was always poking on me or in me or up me somewhere.”

Otis grabbed a pair of the gloves from a small box on the floor by the stove.

Charlie said, “Now cut those sheets of fudge into two-inch squares, then scoop ’em up one at a time with that spatula and put ‘em in those plastic bags over there. Twelve—an even dozen—in each bag. There’s a twist tie for each bag. Got it?”

Otis got it. He went immediately to work, using a chocolate-splattered wooden ruler to measure and then a chocolate-splattered carving knife to mark and cut through the scrumptious-looking sheets of fudge.

He filled two bags and moved on to the next table of uncut fudge as Charlie kept making more.

“Are you using a special recipe?” Otis, measuring and cutting and bagging, asked Charlie.

“I used to help Aunt Ninnie make it when I was a kid—the only thing I learned to do besides football—and I helped her sell it around town,” Charlie said, not looking up from his work. “It’s Hershey’s powdered cocoa, sugar, butter, good milk, vanilla. Cook to a boil, test till it rolls good to a ball, and pour it out. It’s the best there is. Take a piece, see for yourself.”

Otis took a piece, ate it in two bites, and saw for himself. It was the most magnificent chocolate fudge he had ever had in his mouth. As good as—slightly better than, even—his grandmother’s.

“Spectacular,” he said.

“Keep working, Oat-tus,” said Charlie. “My morning customers’ll be coming soon.”

Oat-tus kept working, but he also kept eating. Piece after piece, piece after piece.

Finally, he got to eat as many as he wanted.

In a few minutes, people of various ages and fashions started coming through the door. Most carried large shopping bags or
cardboard boxes. Each handed Charlie cash in exchange for bags of fudge, the exact number carefully counted out into the individual’s respective container.

Within an amazingly fast half hour, all of the fudge was gone, and Charlie had a stack of paper money.

“Who were all those people?” Otis asked when it was over.

“They run or work for cafes and sweets shops and little grocery places around here,” Charlie said. “Some of them take my fudge, claim they made it themselves, and mark up the price a bit. I do three batches a day—early morning, around noon, late afternoon.”

Otis looked at the money Charlie had in his right hand, still gloved in plastic. “Looks like you did all right this morning,” he said.

Charlie flipped his left hand through the bills as if he were a bank teller or a Las Vegas blackjack dealer. “Most of these are little things—there’s probably not more than a hundred bucks here.” He set the money down and reached up and took off his Dallas Cowboys helmet. “There’s a lot more in here. Got it?”

Otis didn’t get it.

Charlie turned the helmet upside down, stuck his right hand inside, and pulled out from behind the webbing a much larger stack of bills, held together by a large tan rubber band.

Otis recognized that rubber band.

“While you were over at Johnny Gillette’s, I decided to check out you and your Cushman,” said Charlie. “I found all of that money of yours, and I decided to split it with you.”

Otis said nothing.

Charlie said, “I decided to split it four to one. Four thou for me, one thou for you. I left your thou in the case, so why don’t you take your thou and your Cushman and get your butt on to running away.”

“That makes you a thief,” Otis said.

“Well, call a cop, then. Yeah, call a cop. Or sue me, scooter man. My guess is that there’s no way you’re going to do a damn thing. People carrying a lot of cash like this—particularly in neat stacks—are usually dealing drugs or doing something they aren’t particularly proud of. I know, ‘cause I’ve been there. That’s why I’m here making fudge instead of running loose back in Texas right now. Probation. Got to keep my nose clean, save some money—including some of yours, Oat-tus—to make some restitutions and pay some fines. But you ain’t calling no cops down on me and my probation. The only thing you can do is get your butt on down the road before I decide to take your thou, too.”

Otis considered his options. He could think of only one: Retreat and get out of here. And leave with only the silent satisfaction—and rationalization—that this stupid football player may have taken four thousand dollars, but he’d left an antique toy fire truck worth three times that.

Otis couldn’t leave without leaving behind a few words. “Johnny Gillette said you had no friends, and I can certainly understand why. I come back here and help you do your work and be friendly. I don’t have any friends, either. I was thinking you’re a man trying to work hard to make a living, and what is it you really are? You’re a goddamn thief. No wonder you don’t have any friends, and at the rate you’re going, you’ll never have any.”

“At the rate I’m going, it’s too late for me to have a friend,” Charlie said. “Get your butt gone, scooter man.”

Within minutes, Otis put on his Chiefs helmet, stuffed his damp clothes into the back of the scooter with his other things, and rolled the scooter outside. He hoped that being inside overnight had dried out the Pacemaker’s little engine.

Otis assumed Charlie was watching him from a window in the factory side. He kicked down on the starter. It turned over,
but no fire. He twisted the throttle farther and kicked it harder. The motor sputtered.

Then it popped. And sputtered again. This time it caught.

Otis mounted, gunned it, released the brake, and took off west once again on old U.S. 56.

He was furious with himself as much as he was with this stupid idiot football player.
He steals my money, and what does Otis the new man do? He makes a speech
, Otis thought.