The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man (9 page)

“I heard about the fight here the other night. I'm sorry I missed it,” Janelle observed.

Kermit slunk in then, not sure I was going to allow him inside. He sort of slithered across the floor, finally winding up at the end of the bar. “Stick around,” I told Janelle, “you may get to see another one.”

I wandered off to check on the other customers, conscious of Kermit watching me like an elk eyeing a wolf. I got the sense that if I suddenly whirled and glared at him he'd flinch and fall to the floor.

Eventually Becky came up to my side. “I replaced the evaporator fan in the back fridge,” she greeted.

I glanced up to where the television was playing the Home Repair Network or Fix Your House Network or whatever it was my sister kept it tuned to twenty-four hours a day. Even with the sound off, it annoyed me—a bar should have the game on. We'd talked about it, though, and it was her bar, so unless a customer requested something different we got a steady stream of unreasonably handsome guys ripping down walls and laying carpet. I used to play football—believe me, nobody is that attractive and that muscular; it's an impossible combination. “I would have helped you with that evaporator fan,” I told her.

“I know that.” She gave me a neutral look while we both didn't mention that after I helped her put in new shelves she had to basically tear out my work and do it again. “Wish we had the money for me to replace the lighting in the kitchen.”

I grunted noncommittally. If we didn't try to cook food, we wouldn't even need a kitchen.

Becky was lingering at my elbow as if wanting to talk about something. I gave her a questioning look. “Who's your friend?” she asked, nodding at Kermit.

I was glad we were off the topic of problems at the Black Bear. “He's not a friend. More like an unsightly growth that I need to have removed.”

“Introduce me?” she queried after a pause. I peered at her but got nothing back but pure Becky-style blandness.

I shrugged and she followed me down to where Kermit was clinging to the end of the bar. He looked exquisitely alarmed at my approach. “Kermit, this is my sister Becky, she owns the place. Becky, this is Kermit, the reason why your brother needs a chiropractor today.”

They shyly shook hands. “You're bleeding!” Becky exclaimed to him, giving me an accusatory look. Kermit had a bruised lip, but it wasn't a gift from me. Next time he used his uncle's truck to ram a Ford Mustang he should keep his mouth off the steering wheel. I turned away, not caring what she thought. I refilled my glass and sat heavily in a chair.

Claude and Wilma soon joined me. Claude's stained sweater bore the name of the place he'd worked about three car dealerships ago, and Wilma was tented in a blue dress that flashed like aluminum foil. “If it isn't the Wolfingers,” I greeted. “Oh wait, you probably have new identities now. Let me guess: you're Mandrake the magician, and your wife here is the ambassador to Spain.”

They were still at the stage of their drinking where they found everything hilarious instead of an excuse to scream at each other. They laughed for what seemed like three full minutes—a stand-up comic would kill to have an audience like them. Finally, wiping their eyes, they calmed down. “The government. They don't care about anything. Worst people on earth,” Claude lamented.

“Wilma works for the government,” I pointed out.

“Not the county. I'm talking about the feds. They acted like I was an idiot when I told them I wanted to join the Witness Protection Club,” Claude spat indignantly. Then he leaned forward. “Doesn't matter, though. We've got something else going, you won't believe it.”

“Please no,” I replied honestly.

Claude told me his plan, laying it out like it was a bank heist. I was keeping my eye on things, mainly on Kermit talking to Becky, and didn't really listen. I gathered, though, that it had to do with Claude and Wilma's homeowner's insurance policy. “That's a quarter of a million dollars, Ruddy,” Claude announced dramatically. Wilma nodded happily in agreement.

“Now what, again?”

Claude shook his head in exasperation. “Weren't you listening?”

“It's the slander clause,”
Alan advised. Apparently he could pay attention even when I didn't, which I had to admit might occasionally come in handy.

“The slander clause,” I repeated.

“Exactly,” Claude beamed. “It says we're covered for slander for up to two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

Wilma leaned forward. “That's a lot of money, Ruddy.”

“I can't argue with that.”

Claude glanced at Wilma triumphantly, as if my endorsement settled the matter. “Right. So what we do is, Wilma and I get a divorce. And she gets the house, I let her have it.”

I blinked. “You and Wilma are getting a divorce?”

Claude shook his head in exasperation. “Dammit, Ruddy, pay attention to me now, this is complicated and we can't afford any screw-ups. We get a divorce, and Wilma gets the house. That means she gets the homeowners' policy, which covers her, see? And then she slanders me, so I sue her for the full extent of the policy. The insurance company says, ‘Holy cow! It's slander all right, let's pay this before it becomes another…' What was the name of it, that company lost all that money?”

He snapped his fingers at his wife in a way I could see instantly irritated her, but she suppressed her reaction because they were going to be rich. “Golden Sachs,” Wilma prompted.

“No, that's not it.”

Wilma's eyes flared, but Claude ignored her. “Whatever it was. They can't afford that, bad for business. So they write me a check, and then we remarry, have the wedding right here at the Bear.”

Wilma frowned, not sure about that part.

“But they can't make me give the money back, so we're rich!” Claude exulted. “The little guy wins!”

I gazed back at the two beaming con artists. “What could Wilma possibly say about you that would be considered slander?” I asked at last.

They laughed gaily, propelled by their foolproof plans and probably a quart of vodka between them. “Oh, I'll come up with something, I promise you,” she winked.

“And Ruddy”—Claude's hand was back on my wrist like a manacle—“I want you to know, you'll get your share. I promise.”

“Thanks, Claude,” I said sincerely. “And why do I deserve a cut in this completely foolproof, completely felonious plan to rip off your insurance company?”

“Because I'll be living with you!” Claude announced happily.

There was a long silence. “With me,” I repeated.

“Sure, on the top floor. Nobody's using it, right?”

When my mother died half a year or so after Dad, Becky got the bar and I got the house. I turned an outside staircase into a separate entrance and tried to rent the place as a duplex, but Kalkaska didn't have much of a market for that sort of thing and I'd gradually lost my momentum. Claude knew the place had been empty for nearly a year, after I kicked the last fellow out for failing to understand the relationship between occupancy and rent.

I sighed. “I'll have to charge you something,” I warned, feeling helpless. I was reminded of the time we all watched Claude and Wilma attempt to sell ten-foot teepees to tourists from their front yard, probably sinking their whole savings into the idea. Were they really going to try this mad scheme?

“Yeah, and more important, you need to keep quiet about when Wilma comes to visit for, you know.” They both giggled like kids, and I had to suppress a smile.

“Okay.”

Claude became serious. “We'll have to stage a fight or something, so that people will think we have a reason to be splitting up,” he speculated.

“Claude, anyone who was here when Wilma tried to break that chair over your head will believe you've got a reason to be splitting up.”

The two of them stared at me blankly. Incredibly, I could see that neither one of them remembered the incident.

I served Janelle another bourbon and gave two ice fishermen the pitcher they wanted, offering menus which they refused without looking. I wondered if Becky was as trapped by Kermit's nonstop yapping as I had been earlier, and decided not to go rescue her. Good life lesson. Tough love.

Jimmy came in. I nodded and he headed right over. “Hey there, Ruddy, did you get a chance to look into my whole … the thing with the checks?”

“Yeah, but I don't have anything for you yet.”

“Because I got another one.”

I sat forward. “You did? Let me see it.”

“Well…” He stared down at the floor.

“Wait a minute. Jimmy. Jimmy, look at me.” His eyes were as evasive as a dog caught sleeping on the couch. “Don't tell me you cashed it.”

“Well…”

“Where? Milt wouldn't take it.”

“At work.”

“At the hotel? They cashed it for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Jimmy, why would you cash it? I told you not to do that!”

He shrugged, looking miserable. I sighed. “Jimmy.”

He glanced up.

“It is going to bounce. And when it does, they will take it out of your paycheck.” I watched him process this, a clever look stealing into his eyes. I held up a hand. “Do not try to tell me that it's somehow okay because a thousand bucks is more than your paycheck. You weren't really going to say that, were you?”

He drew himself up. “No, 'course not.”

I explained to him that until the hotel got their money, he wouldn't be receiving any paychecks at all, so he'd better not spend the cash that was probably burning a hole in his pocket at that very second. He sorrowfully agreed. “And if you get any more checks, you give them to me, okay? You cash another one, I'm going to wring your neck.”

“Sure, yeah. Sorry, Ruddy. Hey, Ruddy…” Jimmy looked left and right, then lowered his voice. “Is it true what they say?”

“What do they say, Jimmy?”

“That you got Repo Madness and everything?”

“Great.”

At midnight we were treated to the Claude and Wilma Show, a loud production featuring such incredibly faked anger I found myself laughing a little. How could two people who battled each other every single night be unable to repeat the performance when it was theater? “That's it, I'm throwing you out of the house!” Wilma shouted at the climax of the play. Claude pressed a hand to his heart as if he'd just taken a bullet and staggered around the room.

“She's throwing me out of the house!” he yelled in the face of several people he probably pictured would make good witnesses at the slander trial. As he came up to me he was grinning hugely. “Ruddy, what am I going to do? Where will I live?”

“Don't worry about it, Claude. She'll get over it. She always does,” I encouraged.

His face fell. “Uh, no, no, Ruddy! That's not the … She really means it this time!”

To punctuate his declaration, Wilma slammed the door of the Black Bear behind her as she stormed out into the night.

“I'm a broken man,” Claude declared, sitting down in a chair. He shook his head. “A broken, broken man.” He looked up brightly. “Well. Can I buy you a beer?”

“Didn't she throw you out of the house like last week?” Jimmy wanted to know.

“That was different,” Claude corrected fiercely.

“I have to make a phone call,” I announced, shocking myself. I went to the back room and shut the door and regarded the telephone as if it were a poisonous snake. Katie's phone number was starting to get a little smudged from riding around in my pocket. I took a deep, steadying breath, my fear stronger than anything Repo Madness had ever served up. It used to be easy for me to call up girls—hell, there was a time when they called
me.
Now, though, I was a completely different person, not sure I even deserved to have a conversation with a pretty woman.

“Is this Katie?” I blurted when she answered on the third ring.

“May I ask who this is, please?” she responded, not unfriendly but not gushing with warmth, either.

“This is Ruddy McCann. Like the complexion? I gave you a jump.” I winced. “I mean, in the rain the other day, you were in East Jordan—”

“I remember, Ruddy,” she interrupted, laughing a little. “That sort of thing doesn't actually happen all that often.”

“Okay, good! Well…” My brain was having what mechanics term
vapor lock
. I simply could not get anything out of my head except for the various ways “I gave you a jump” could be interpreted as something sexual.

“Ruddy? This isn't a good time for me to talk,” Katie said, smoothly but a bit hurriedly.

Relief flooded through me as if I'd just been pardoned by the governor. “Okay then,” I told her. “Bye.”

“Bye-bye.”

As she disconnected I heard a male voice in the background. The boyfriend, I presumed, probably wondering who the hell was on the phone.

About half an hour later the Black Bear emptied as if it had been punctured. Becky was still pinned down by Kermit: I grinned at her as I walked out into the night. “She's going to be pretty pissed off at me next time I see her,” I chuckled. There was no answer. I cocked my head. “Alan?”

And then it struck me: I couldn't feel him there anymore. I hadn't realized it, but from the moment he'd given me boxing lessons, Alan had had a presence inside me, an almost physical sensation of another human being. But now there was nothing. “Alan?” I asked again. I listened carefully, probing my consciousness, but there was no response.

Alan was gone.

 

 

7

There Never Was an Alan Lottner

 

Alan had been like a loose tooth—irritating and constantly demanding attention—but when it is finally gone the hole it leaves behind is, in some ways, worse. I sat in my living room, watching the firelight reflect off my empty beer bottles in a festive fashion, and wondered what the psychiatrists would say if I told them how much I missed my psychosis.