Merlot (13 page)

They had obviously hit something. The crease
extended beyond the wheel well and across the driver’s door. The
good news was it appeared to have been an object as opposed to an
individual.

He opened the car door and immediately
recognized the heavy, stale smell of dope, noticed the empty
malt-liquor cans on the floor and a condom on the backseat. At
least they were practicing safe sex.

He crushed the malt-liquor cans, tore a stick
off a tree to remove the condom. He started the car just to make
sure it ran, and left all the windows down to give it a good
airing.

* * *

Otto had been wondering all day what line
would work best with the teller at the bank. He decided it was
better to keep the information to himself for a while. Maybe spring
it on her at just the right time. A combination of black mail and
her dreams come true all at the same magical moment.

The sun had been merciless all day, burning
through the haze from the heavy humidity. He had long ago sweated
through the Vikings jersey, and he was still getting flipped off by
folks. His forearms, the back of his legs and the back of his neck
were burned a nice nuculear red. His ears were painfully blistered
from sunburn. His nose would have been the same except that he had
the presence of mind to slather it with zinc oxide, which gave him
more than a slight resemblance to a clown.

He didn’t care and in fact, it never even
dawned on him that he looked ridiculous. Hell he’d always looked
ridiculous. He was trying to decide if he should choose a
particular Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon for his favorite little bank teller
or just give her a sampling of all the flavors and let her decide
which one she liked the best. Then she could tell all her
girlfriends.

“This really cool guy, Otto. I told you about
him, he invented Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick!”

“The regular?” someone would ask.

“The maple flavor?”

“The Cajun Bar-B-Que?”

“Of course, he invented them all,” she’d say,
then gaze off dreamily.

Yeah, that was how it would work. She could
leave that teller job, come and work for him. Course she’d get her
own apron, one with the pig roasting in the sun and the butt
crack.

“He invented this logo, too,” she could
brag.

Then, at night when they got home she could
cook dinner, after she fixed the pan of Epsom salts for his feet.
Eat in front of the television. Watch the weather for the next day.
He could load up the truck twice as fast in the morning because she
could carry the sacks of batter, learn the business from the ground
up. Free him up to invent more flavors.

He had been sort of mulling over the idea of
a drink, not exactly pork juice but something that went with the
whole theme. Sauerkraut juice might be a thought. Maybe experiment
a while, a mint jelly shake had been rattling around in the back of
his mind. She could start doing some of the more mundane chores
that were taking time away from Otto’s creative endeavors.

He waited in her line again, thought he
caught the hint of a little smile directed across the crowded
lobby. He touched the forty-five stuck in his belt beneath his
sweat-soaked Vikings jersey. Looked around the place just to make
sure it was safe for her. There was a new sheriff in town partner,
Otto O’Malley’s the name and I’m here to see that this pretty
little girl stays nice and safe.

“Next,” another teller called to him.

He blinked his eyes and wiggled his zinc
white nose as he came to his senses, shook his head no, pointed to
Cindy and said, “She wants to talk with me.”

Cindy looked up for a moment and thought,
what?

He gave her a meaningful nod, subtly patted
his jersey where the forty-five was tucked, letting her know it was
okay, she was safe, the Sheriff was here.

Oh God, thought Cindy, and slid the Lysol can
closer to the window.

“So, how’s it going?” He asked a few minutes
later, opened his briefcase and took out two grease stained bags
crammed with cash.

“Just fine,” she said, grabbing the bags as
quickly as possible, the sooner she finished the sooner he would
leave. The heavy air in the tellers area suddenly smelled a lot
like bacon.

“Yeah, that’s right. I did it all. First year
there was just the regular flavor.”

“Twenty, forty…”

“Then came the maple flavor, later on the
hickory, folks raved about it, said they’d never had so many
choices. Of course this year, there’s my new Cajun Bar-B-Que. You
were right, I invented them all, came right from here,” he tapped
the side of his head.

“Three thousand, twenty, forty, sixty…”

“Working on the drink thing just now, letting
it percolate through, something unique. Say, I, ahh caught you
yesterday morning,” he said giving a little nod.

“Yesterday?” She wasn’t tracking this
conversation, didn’t think she was hearing correctly.

Here it was, he thought, moving in for the
kill. Their first moment, they would laugh about this later on
while she fixed him dinner or mixed his Epsom salts or hell, even
folded his laundry.

“Yeah, yesterday, Sunday morning. You get up
early for a girl. Or maybe you were just coming home!” he
winked.

“Oh, my, God!” she half screamed, loud enough
for the tellers on either side of her to look over as she brought
her hand to her mouth in absolute horror.

“Yeah,” he had her full attention, so he
moved right up next to the glass, steaming it with his breath.

She did the same, in shock, not quite
believing she heard correctly. She grasped the counter for
support.

“I was thinking,” he half whispered, so close
to the glass that the white zinc on his nose was leaving a smear as
he moved his head slowly down toward her change well. “Maybe we
should get together you and I.”

He stood up straight, grabbed his deposit
slip, then reached into his briefcase, pulled out a pile of what
looked like dog poop on a grease saturated paper plate and crammed
the whole mess through her cash well.

“Here’s a little sample of all my flavors,
just a little thank you. Maybe a taste of things to come.” He
grinned, pushing three pieces that had fallen off the plate through
the cash well.

“Oh, thanks,” She shuddered.

He blushed even redder than his sunburn.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he said, giving
her his two-fingered salute.

“Hey, Cin, you okay? You don’t look so good,
honey.” Carol, a teller at the next window asked.

“Oh, my, God! Dog poop on a stick,” Cindy
said, carrying the plate to the trash.

She took a minute or two to calm herself,
caught her breath and returned to her window. She saw the streak of
zinc oxide from Otto’s nose running down the length of her window
and wished she could just crawl down on the floor and cry.

Well, that seemed to go pretty well, Otto
thought driving back. He could just hear her bragging to all her
girlfriends,

“Well, my new boyfriend, Otto, he invented
these. You can go to his stands. He’s got five. Mention my
name.”

He tried to figure her out, was she a Maple,
Hickory or Cajun gal? The timing could not have been better, by the
end of the week he was going to have a lot of laundry.

* * *

Osborne answered the phone. A reptilian sneer
crept across his face. He wore a heavily starched pale pink shirt,
a pink-and-blue-striped tie, plaid boxer shorts, and tan knee-high
stockings.

“Excellent, excellent, have her highness wait
right there. Milton will be down to fetch her momentarily,” he
said, snapping his fingers to get Milton’s attention.

“Milton, you oaf, quit whining about that
hand. Go downstairs and fetch this Sassie wench, already crawling
back to grovel at my feet for her petty little job. I’ve half a
mind to slap the little vixen. If things were just slightly
different I’d throw that tie-dyed twat out in the street but I’ve
got to get the dancers back on stage. I’m going broke with the Fat
Farm down there, not to mention my phone revenues.” He tossed a
stack of disheartening financial reports on his desk.

“I’ll have to bide my time with Sassie, but
her days are numbered. Milton, get up, come on, let’s not keep her
waiting.” With that he strode purposely to the wardrobe and
retrieved his trousers.

“Damn hand’s killing me. Between that bitch’s
bite and that metal bat yesterday, I should get it checked out.”
Milton held his swollen right hand out for Osborne’s inspection.
There was a twinge of greenish brown around the edges of the purple
bite wound, the throbbing had gone from intermittent to
nonstop.

“Your hand!” Osborne half shouted. He
buttoned the waist of his trousers, zipped his fly, and turned to
face the massive beveled mirror on the wardrobe door.

“You’re worried about your hand when I’m
about to be locked in negotiations with the very witch who’s tried
to ruin me. All because a simple beer bottle was surreptitiously
shoved up her shapely posterior! I simply won’t have it! Now get
down there before she has a change of heart.”

“I’m just thinkin’ that…”

“Milton, please stop, listen to yourself.
Thinking? You? Quickly now, move along, that’s a good man, left,
right, left, right.” Osborne adjusted his belt in the mirror while
counting cadence, then donned a blazer and waited for Sassie to
crawl back.

“So, you’ve returned to the scene of your
crime, Sassie,” he said as she flew into his office, her hair a
cascading vignette of white blond at the crown to electric blue at
her shoulders. He had positioned himself behind his desk, trying to
look intimidating while at the same time keeping a safe distance
from the little tramp. God only knew what germs she carried.

“We can start by you calling me Ms. Sassie.
For your information, this is my lawyer,” she said as a short,
round little creature in a baggy suit followed her into the
office.

Her lawyer, a weasely, bald little man
wearing a look of complete exhaustion, shuffled hesitantly into the
office. He carried a worn leather satchel under his left arm. He
needed a shave and probably a good night’s sleep. Clearly she’d
paid in advance.

“My card,” he said in a voice that suggested
sinus blockage. He laid his card on Osborne’s desk with a trembling
hand, sniffled, pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and
wiped his nose.

Osborne quickly reached for his disinfectant
and sprayed the plague carrying card. He silently cursed Serpentina
for not being on duty to deal with this situation. He picked up a
pencil from his desk and used the eraser end to drag the card
slowly toward him.

“Prescott Spaulding the second,” he read,
glancing up first at Spaulding, then over to Sassie before
returning his withering gaze to Spaulding.

“At your service, sir,” Spaulding
whispered.

“Would second be the same as Junior?”

“I prefer second,” Spaulding said, a slight
tremble in his voice.

“I prefer not to waste my time. What is it
that you want?”

“We only want what’s fair here, Osborne. We
want you to give us some heat on that damn stage down there. We go
home it takes two hours just to thaw out. No more bottles on the
edge of the stage and we want you to sell beer in smaller bottles,
just in case.”

“Yes to the smaller bottles. I can increase
our profit there. No to restricting bottles on the stage, despite
the somewhat unappealing image your particular situation presented.
We’ve a large clientele who drink heavily while being enraptured
with your entertainment. No to your request for heat. It will cost
me money and frankly, the cold temperature adds to everyone’s
overall performance.” He cast an understanding eye in Prescott
Spaulding‘s direction, looking for agreement.

“Umm, ok?” Spaulding looked hopefully at
Sassie.

She sighed and shook her head. “You might
just as well go home ‘cause you ain’t doing nothing here and you
ain’t getting’ nothing else for doing it.”

Spaulding seemed to deflate, looking even
more rumpled, if that was possible.

“And Osborne, I’ll take this to the ladies,
but I got a feeling they gonna give you a big, fat no. That’s N-O,
then we just might have to come up with something else to get your
attention.” She swung her purse over her shoulder, turned and
walked out.

Spaulding watched her admiringly for three or
four paces.

“Ah, nice to meet you, sirs,” he nodded to
Osborne, then Milton before running to catch up.

“Burn this,” Osborne directed Milton, sliding
the offending business card across his desk with the pencil eraser,
then furiously misted the desk and surrounding area with
disinfectant spray.

“There goes exactly the sort of woman who
gives strippers a bad name.”

* * *

“For goodness sake, Anthony, what were you
thinking? Your uncle called me at seven o’clock this morning. All
the way from St. Petersburg, Florida…” Merlot’s mother was standing
at the ironing board, shaking her head, saying the exact same thing
she’d said during every one of her phone calls throughout the
day.

“Honest to God Anthony, I’m getting tired of
repeating myself.”

He was just as tired of hearing it. He wished
she would hurry up and finish ironing his jeans so he could get the
hell out of there. Christ, you’d think the way she was going on
that it had been
his
ass hanging out on national television
instead of Dickie’s.

“I don’t know, I’ll have to move somewhere.
Lord knows if I can even find someone to buy this house after
what’s happened.”

“Mom, Jesus Christ it…”

“Don’t you use that tone and language with
me, Anthony. Maybe that’s just who you should begin paying a little
more attention to, your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Instead of
these, these bums you seem to want to cavort around town with. I’ve
told you before what you need in your life is a nice girl. Start to
think of a family, that’s, what’s that sound? That horrible
noise?”