“You make me sick, you make me wanna toss my cookies,” said Bucky
Washburn.
“I
--,” said Sean from Springfield.
“First
you say the NBA’s soft in the paint, then you say the refs oughta
crack down on rough stuff under the bucket. Which is it?” Bucky
Washburn demanded.
“Uh
--,” said Sean from Springfield.
“Hey,
bozo, you can’t have it both ways. We overpay these guys to bang
bodies and when the ball comes off the iron they better pound the boards
or I wanna know why I’m shelling out fifty clams a ticket to watch
some seven-foot prima donna who’s drawing ten mil per year. If him and
his rich pals are pussyfooting like you say they are, which is a crock,
and you’re meanwhile bitching that the refs ain’t blowing their
whistles till they’re blue in the face, you’ll have to pardon me all
to hell if I dunno where you’re coming from.”
“I,
uh --”
“We’re
outta time,” Bucky said, disconnecting Sean. “Saved by the bell is
what it is. Sean and these other turkeys the last three hours, they must
live in the same home for retards. But I got hopes that tomorrow we’ll
find intelligible life on the planet. This is Big Bad Bucky Washburn for
Bucky’s Jock Talk on KJK, K-Jock, the world’s finest all-sports
station, so till then, boys and girls, remember Bucky’s motto, a good
loser is a loser.”
Bucky
threw off his headset and killed switches with an angry slap. Today’s
call-ins had been a steady stream of wimps, morons and fairies. He’d
gone ballistic when some homo wanted to ban fighting in hockey. That
brought them out of the woodwork, the worst being a weenie who’d
argued before Bucky shouted him down that boxing should be banned.
Must be something they’re putting in the water, Bucky thought as he
stood and stretched his five-foot-six, two-hundred-and-eighty pound
frame. Jimbo was doing scores and sports update. Moose, the midday host,
wasn’t in yet.
It
was just as well, considering Bucky’s mood. Moose was a pussy in his
own right. He’d reason with every yo-yo who knew how to dial a phone,
for Chrissake. Bucky Washburn was paid to talk, not listen.
He
barged out of the studio. Station employees read his foul humor and gave
him plenty of space. Shaved pate, permanent five o’clock shadow,
neckless head tapering into rounded shoulders, bulging eyes, square jaw
grimly set, the Buckmeister lumbered through, discharging a contrail of
testosterone. This was a galoot not to trifle with.
Bucky
grabbed his mail, squeezed into his plaid logger’s coat, and went out
to the biggest, tallest, widest, most bechromed sport utility vehicle
that money could buy. Bucky was the highest-rated and highest-paid
sports talk jock in town, and KJK’s Arbitron numbers were consistently
in the top five. He was a local celebrity who regularly guested sports
bars and golf tournaments. He deserved to drive the best, a man’s rig,
not some faggoty yupmobile convertible.
Bucky
drove home to a district near downtown that was undergoing spasms of
gentrification. Transients and financial planners coexisted. Union halls
and boutiques too. Futon stores beside taverns where anything could
happen.
Sociologic
schizophobia, Bucky reflected, driving by an auto body shop. Up the
block, a restaurant with a cutesy name in neon and candles on the tables
was opening up for the expense account lunch crowd.
Diversication
is what he thought they called it. Everything from jillionaires to folks
down on their luck to kids with weird hair and earrings all over their
zit faces, boys you couldn’t tell from girls and vice versa and proud
of it. Live and let live, Bucky thought, although he’d take a wino
over a queer any day of the week.
Bucky
lived at the top of a high-rise condo. He’d paid a bundle for the
joint, which looked out at the city skyline and if he lowered his eyes,
at the old brick buildings across the street converted into low-income
housing. That was okay with Bucky too. Mostly geezers in there and they
didn’t bother nobody.
He
parked in the basement garage and rode up to the twentieth floor. A
forty-year-old in a transient profession, the talk jock traveled light
and furnished sparely. His decorating themes were genuine leather and
imitation leopard skin. An HDTV, the screen of which had never been
illuminated by other than a sporting event, highlighted the living room.
Hanging above it was a painting on black velvet of a fullback barreling
for a first down in a crucial third-and-short situation, his lowered
helmet a functioning clock.
Bucky
stripped out of jeans, sneakers and sweatshirt. He showered in water as
hot as he could stand, singing discordant bars of college fight songs.
He emerged pink and steamy, toweled down, wiped off the mirror, took an
outfit from the closet, and held it in front of him.
No.
He
tried another.
Then
another.
Then
another.
He
settled on a burgundy velour number that snugged gently at the waist and
swept into a full skirt that ended at the ankles. One shoulder was bared
and coarse tufts of hair poked over the top of the dress. Provocative,
he decided, without being slutty.
He
pirouetted and the pleats flared, exposing stumpy, hirsute calves. He
was in a size-26, the maximum available in the catalogs, and it clung in
the midsection. Bucky Washburn looked like he had swallowed a bowling
ball.
“Pretty,”
he trilled at the image in the mirror. “Oh so pretty.”
This
was Bucky’s quality time, when he kicked back and read his fan mail.
He poured light beer into a brandy snifter, swooshed into a recliner and
propped his feet on an ottoman.
There
were three letters, his daily average. His was an electronic audience,
listeners energized by what they had seen on the tube. The writers were
too bashful to phone in. Bless their pointy heads, the majority
couldn’t write worth a damn, couldn’t spell or punctuate or nothing.
The
first wondered if O.J. would ever play again. He’d seen The Juice on
CNN and thought he looked in shape. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Bucky
lobbed the wadded letter at a wastebasket.
The
second was a thick sheaf of computer paper. The writer took Bucky to
task for once saying that southpaws didn’t hit to the opposite field
as well as right-handers. He was proving the contrary with statistics
dating to 1959. Get a life, Bucky thought, slinging the printout.
The
last had no return address. Not unusual. Probably some pipsqueak without
the stones to identify himself before unloading on Big Bad Bucky. He
tore open the envelope, prepared to skim a few lines before flinging it
against a wall.
The
text was brief, a photocopy of words and letters clipped out of
magazines and pasted on plain paper: WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, YOU PERVERT.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU DO. HAVE $2000 IN SMALL UNMARKED BILLS READY. YOU WILL
BE CONTACTED.
The
letter fell from Bucky’s trembling fingers. How could this happen?
He’d been so careful.
His
eyes flooded and tears ran down puffy cheeks. His career was finished.
His career and his life, which were one and the same.
#
Mrs.
Orville (Alma) Spangler squinted through bifocals at the luxury
condominiums on the other side of the street. Her view was partially
obscured by snowfall and the planter box outside her daylight-basement
window, even though winter and urine had shriveled the vegetation. Dirty
slush was accumulating in the street, the wet snow they’d predicted.
It seemed to her that forecasts were correct only when they promised
foul weather.
Her
sight line was adequate, however. The lights had gone out in the
condominium unit long ago. The occupant had not departed by lobby or
garage.
Mrs.
Spangler checked her watch, a Timex given her by Orville on their
twentieth anniversary. She’d wait fifteen more minutes, when her
surveillance subject would be exactly two hours late.
Mrs.
Spangler was neither young, nor aging gracefully. She had been petite in
her youth, her features a bit too bunched to be considered pretty. Now
she was bordering on shrunken.
She
had been abandoned as an infant, left in a basket on the porch of a
childless New Mexico farm couple, who raised her as their niece. In
adolescence, Alma realized there was something different about her, as
did her classmates. Something different, but nothing anybody could put
her finger on. A little strange, a little aloof, a funny look in her
eyes at times.
She
realized that her arrival in the summer of 1947 at a farmhouse three
miles from Roswell was hardly a coincidence. She realized this despite
her adoptive parents laughing and saying she was being silly. A child
with a disturbingly vivid imagination.
A
coincidence? Bosh. Did they think they had raised a fool! How could
anybody who’d ever gone through a supermarket checkout line not know
the truth?
Mrs.
Spangler’s adoptive parents, long deceased, and her late husband
comprised her family. Children were a genetic impossibility. Orville
hadn’t known her true origin. She’d convinced him her barrenness was
a “female problem.” So tragic. She knew she was the sole survivor of
that awful crash the government tried to cover up, she just
knew.
The
old steam radiators clanged, as if a lunatic was smashing the boiler
with a sledgehammer. Only in the summer was the heating system adequate.
To settle her stomach, she brewed a cup of tea. Shivering inside a knit
shawl, she sipped. It tasted weak and bitter.
She
checked the time. Very close to two hours late. She sighed, steeling her
courage. She bundled up in scarf, galoshes and overcoat, and trudged out
into the cold slop. The condominium lobby was marble flooring, potted
palms and prints of English hunts on the walls. La-di-da. Naturally the
entrance was locked, to shut out the riffraff.
Mrs.
Orville (Alma) Spangler took a deep breath and buzzed 2003.
No
answer.
She
buzzed again.
“Yeah,
yeah, yeah, hold your fucking horses. Who is it?”
Mrs.
Spangler flinched. Words would not escape her lips. Mr. Washburn used
the same tone in the intercom as he did to the beer-soaked louts who
called his program to rehash sporting events they had already seen.
Sports mania had claimed her Orville in the prime of his life, yet
another reason why she loathed the man in 2003.
In
the kitchen cooking, Mrs. Spangler had discovered Orville when he failed
to respond to her call to dinner. He was bolt upright in his recliner,
can of beer impaled between porky thighs, bag of chips spilled on the
end table, tub of clam-garlic dip overturned on the carpet. Orville’s
face was the color of cranberry sauce and a football game still blared
on the TV. The medics who came for him said that he’d possibly become
overexcited, the game a contributing factor in his seizure. The lead had
changed a dozen times and it had gone into overtime.
No,
perhaps she wasn’t attractive, but you couldn’t’ve told that to
her Orville, who also accepted her as perfectly normal. They’d met
when he was stationed at White Sands. No Clint Eastwood himself, Orville
Spangler was for the most part a good man.
Mrs.
Spangler’s eyes moistened. She had never felt so alone.
“Mr.
Washburn,” she said at a whisper.
“Huh?
Spit it out. I ain’t got all day.”
“Mr. Washburn, it’s Mrs. Spangler. I, I’m sorry to bother you, but
you didn’t come by and pick up the jumper.”
“The
who? Oh yeah, yeah, right, okay. I been tied up. I’ll be right
there.”
“Right
there” was twenty minutes. Mrs. Spangler huddled in the doorway, bony
blue-veined arms
wrapped tightly around herself. He could have pushed a buzzer, allowing
her to enter and wait in the nice, warm lobby. But he hadn’t. An awful
awful man.
Mr.
Washburn finally shambled out of an elevator in a soiled jogging suit.
He opened the door, filling the space, showing no inclination to invite
her inside. His eyes were bloodshot and he was chewing a mint, a
pathetic attempt to conceal the fact he was drinking.
She
handed him the jumper she had carefully wrapped with paper and string.
“I apologize again, Mr. Washburn. You always deliver and pickup at my
apartment. You were late and I was worried.”
“Yeah?
How much?”
“What
we agreed on. Not a penny more, despite having to let it out at the
pockets too. ”
“Yeah,
yeah, fine,” he said, thrusting a wad of small bills at her. “I’m
sure you did good.”
“It
would be helpful, I think, sometime, at her convenience, if I could meet
Mrs. Washburn for a fitting. Alternations are so left to chance when I
work from measurements.”
“Yeah, well, Bibi don’t get out much. She’s a big girl as you are
aware and no spring chicken. She’s under the weather too.”
“Oh,
I’m sorry. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“She’ll
be okay if she stays off her feet, so she won’t be buying clothes as
far as alternations are concerned anything soon. I’ll let you know
when.”
Mrs.
Spangler began to say that was a shame when Mr. Washburn let the door
latch in her face and plodded to the elevators, the crack of his behind
disgustingly exposed above the waistband.
She
crossed the street with a spring in her step. His behavior had confirmed
her suspicions, him and the mysterious Mrs. Bibi Washburn. Balderdash!
Mrs. Spangler had done alterations for obese women before. None were
cursed with Bibi’s dimensions. They retained feminine bustlines and
hips, not the blobby roundness she had incorporated into the Washburn
garments.
She
went into her apartment with a smile on her face. She was picturing
Bucky Washburn in that polyester-blend navy jumper. She pictured a
hippopotamus at parochial school.
Giggling
now, she made a cup of tea. It tasted as sweet as honey.
She
sipped, thinking, rationalizing. She wouldn’t have dreamt of doing
such a thing if she weren’t so poor and if Mr. Washburn weren’t such
a beast. Her Orville, not much of a planner, had left her with no life
insurance, no savings, no pension.
If
she had to take in sewing until she contracted arthritis or went blind,
she might as well sew on the best machine. Two thousand dollars would
buy her a spiffy new Singer or Pfaff with all the trimmings.
#
As
a child, Buckminster Washburn had been too chubby and uncoordinated to
play the sports he loved. In adulthood, he participated in the
quasi-athletic activity of golf, but had by no means mastered the game.
He
had been a profound disappointment to his father, who taught PE and
coached at the high school Bucky attended until Coach Washburn was
discovered under the bleachers on a tumbling mat with Miss LePage, the
French teacher. Before and after the senior Washburn’s dismissal by
both the school board and his wife, Bucky devoted long afternoons at
home to his mother while his envied classmates were in the gym and on
the practice field, running and shooting and blocking and tackling.
Him
and his mom were as close as he and his rugged, muscular father were
distant. They talked and they watched soap operas together. Sometimes,
he would serve as a sewing dummy. She was a difficult size, a physical
double to her adolescent son. Nothing off the rack fit quite right.
Minutes
passed like seconds as Bucky stood draped in wool or formless flowered
print, him like a statue while she chalked and pinned hems. It was
simultaneously mortifying and thrilling.
Memories
of sewing-dummy afternoons throbbed inside his aching skull as he
fielded Ed in Edmunds, who said of yesterday’s fill-in, “Moose is
okay, Bucky, but he doesn’t have your grasp of the issues and game
situations.”
“Hey,
the Mooster is aces, but I gotta agree with you as far as smashmouth
sports. Moose, he’s more into baseball, you know, fresh-cut grass and
tradition and whatnot. For me, the best thing about the national pastime
is cold suds and a dozen hot dogs.”
“Well,
all of us here at Edmunds Auto Parts hope you’re feeling more
chipper.”
Bucky
shunted from his mind the past twenty-four hours spent mostly in the
fetal position when he wasn’t in the bathroom puking his guts out.
“Let’s hope she’s feeling chipperer too. Not so sore if you catch
my drift. The party, it kinda spilled over into the next day.”
Ed
in Edmunds chuckled knowingly.
Bucky
gritted his teeth and said, “We have the momentum.”
“What’s
that mean, Bucky?”
“Whadduya
mean, what’s that mean?”
“Hey,
don’t get angry, Bucky.”
“Don’t
talk to me about no angry, bozo. The station manager, ex-station
manager, he told me I had to go take an anger management course. I told
him, hey, I already know how to get pissed off. I don’t need to go to
some class.
“Next
caller. And please, somebody, okay, who can ring up an IQ in triple
digits.”
#
Mrs.
Orville (Alma) Spangler smiled. She put down her needle and thread, and
turned off the radio. She had been sewing a separated lining into a
customer’s coat.
The
repair could wait. It was time to make merry. She brewed a cup of tea
and seasoned it with a teensy taste of apricot brandy.
Prudently,
she had not retained an incriminating copy of the note, but she knew it
by heart: TONIGHT. SIX P.M. SOUTHTOWN MEGA MALL. PARK IN EAST LOT. LEAVE
MONEY UNDER DRIVER SEAT. SMALL UNMARKED BILLS IN PLAIN PAPER BAG. EAT
DINNER AT FOOD COURT. TAKE YOUR TIME. CONFIRM ON YOUR SHOW BY SAYING
“WE HAVE THE MOMENTUM”. YOU ARE BEING MONITORED!!!!
And
he had confirmed, after a day off work recovering from what she assumed
to be a crippling hangover. She drank her spiked tea, amazed at her own
audacity.
She
had her late husband to thank for the confirmation inspiration. We
have the momentum. Orville was an encyclopedia of
sportscaster lingo. He’d probably approve of her foray into the
blackmailing profession too. Orville definitely wouldn’t approve of
Mr. Washburn treating his Alma the way he did. No sirree. Orville often
said that you gotta do what you gotta do.
Mrs.
Spangler resumed repairing the coat. When she was finished, she’d take
a short nap. It would be a long bus ride to that mall.
#
Bucky
parked outside the Southtown Mega Mall food court entrance, taking two
slots so some doofus didn’t ding his doors. Anybody has a problem with
that, tough nookies.
He
had ten minutes to kill, so he just sat there, thinking what a fucking
disaster. It was falling into place, though, who was behind it. We have
the momentum. This was the synthrax of the sports media pro. The
extortioner had to be someone or something jealous of his success trying
to run him out of the business, like a rival radio station or Fox Sports
or ESPN. Had to be.
But
how come only two grand? It was chicken feed.
Bucky
thought of Mrs. Bibi Washburn. If she existed except on catalog order
forms, she’d be one classy broad. But Bucky and the babes, it hadn’t
worked out. He was always afraid he’d blush and say something stupid,
and sure enough he always did.
Not
that he was fruity. He’d bust your chops if you ever said that to his
face. Just cuz he liked to dress up elegant in the privacy of his own
home, why was that skin off anybody’s nose?
How’d
they found him out? How, how, how?
Bucky
scouted the scene. Only thing suspicious was the kids loitering outside
the doors, cocky little pricks in baggy pants and ball club jackets and
baseball caps on backwards. They were loud, smoking, blocking foot
traffic, making general nuisances of themselves.
They
saw Bucky glowering at them and responded in kind. He got out and
swaggered past, eyes forward. He hated leaving his rig unlocked under
any circumstances. The thought of two grand under the seat weakened his
knees. Irregardless, he had no choice.
The
smell of frying meat and potatoes bubbling in grease perked his spirits.
He remembered he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He went for his gutbomb
standard -- two double bacon cheeseburgers and jumbo fires. If his tummy
still growled afterwards, he’d spring for one of them monster cinnamon
rolls. He tore into his food. If things weren’t gonna be hunky-dory,
on a full belly they’d at least be semi-okay.
#
Mrs.
Orville (Alma) Spangler wished she had a Swiss bank account like they
did in the movies. She could have instructed Mr. Washburn to wire the
two thousand dollars and that would be the end of it.
She
hurried into the Southtown Mega Mall after her hellish ninety-minute
journey. A jouncing ride, rich with diesel fumes. A frigid wait at a
stop. A transfer to another coach occupied by the deranged and the
unwashed.
Mrs.
Spangler had visited this mall shortly after the grand opening. She was
appalled now as then by its monstrous size and tackiness. The icky fast
food, the electronic gizmos, the jewelry that would turn your skin green
before you fastened the clasps. Worst of all were the clothing stores.
Lordy, where did this junk come from? Oriental sweat shops, probably.
If
folks would just buy quality and maintain it. She grudgingly admired Mr.
Washburn’s taste. He bought nothing but the best for his fictitious
bride.
At
6:05, Mrs. Spangler began skirting the outside of the complex. She
presumed that if radio work had taught Mr. Washburn anything, it was
punctuality. His motorized behemoth was easy to spot, a cow among
calves.
She
edged toward it, a scarf and parka hood covering much of her face. She
was afraid and she hoped he was too. She was also excited, quite an
unfamiliar sensation.
When
she reached the end of the aisle, the vehicle suddenly lurched out of
its space, burning rubber and fishtailing, lights out. She skittered
helplessly between parked cars to avoid being struck as it accelerated
by. Unlike that silly Superman fable, she had been endowed with no
powers. No X-ray vision for this old hen, no buildings leapt in a single
bound.
After
she caught her breath and boarded the next bus for home, shock shifted
to terror. Mr. Washburn had no intention of honoring her modest demand.
The stinker, he had tried to kill her.
#
“You
say you know who took your vehicle, Mr. Washburn, and now you
don’t?”
“It
was stole, is all I know.”
“Mr.
Washburn, you told the 911 operator, and I quote from the recording
‘Them little punks out front with their caps on backasswards is who
done it. They’re in on it’.”
“I
didn’t actually see nobody. I went outside and my rig was gone. I
dunno, maybe somebody didn’t like me taking up an extra space.”
“Can’t
blame them on a chilly night. What were you doing at the mall?”
“I
went to window-shop and eat dinner. I love their burgers. So how come
I’m getting the third degree? I ain’t the fucking criminal. I’m
the victim.”
“You
were adamant to the investigating officers it was those kids. Your
vehicle meant a lot to you and you were insistent how we direct our
investigation. Yet when we recovered your vehicle and notified you that
it was stripped and partially submerged in a river, you seemed
unconcerned.”
“Hey,
shit happens. That’s why you got insurance.”
“What
were they ‘in on’, Mr. Washburn?”
Bucky
shrugged. “Don’t have the foggiest what you’re talking about. My
words that came across in the 911 call, they must of been
miscomboobalated by the phone lines.”
The
detective gave up and left. Bucky slumped in his recliner and stared at
nothing. He should have been dying to try on the jumper the nutty old
bat across the street had alterated for him. Maybe some walls had ears.
His had eyes, maybe some kind of a high-tech radar laser vision kind of
thing.
Never
again could he slip into something frilly without wondering.
If
he hadn’t thought it over and clammed up about those juvenile
delinquents, he’d be a dead man. Them hanging out at that mall, it
wasn’t any accident. ESPN or some high-wattage radio station, they
wouldn’t besmirk their own hands, they’d sub it out to lowlifes.
They’d rattled him too, he didn’t mind admitting just to himself.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t of been preoccupied and forgot to remove the
keys out of the ignition.
And
nobody squeezed you for a lousy two grand and walked away. This was only
the beginning. The creeps, they’d bleed him dry.
#
Mrs.
Orville (Alma) Spangler had a dream.
She
dreamt of calibrated buttonholing, of automatic needle threading, of
built-in rolled hems, of multi-color embroidery features, of dual feed,
of a limited lifetime warranty.
She
awakened with a start, looked at the ringing alarm clock, said “Oh my
gosh,” and scurried out of bed. She had tossed and turned all night
long, and hadn’t drifted off until after midnight.
It
had been a great relief to see the newspaper piece on Mr. Washburn’s
SUV, the photo of it nosed into a river. Her presumed murderers turned
out to be common car thieves. Mrs. Spangler had been caught in the
middle of a coincidence. She would likely survive continuation of the
scheme.
The
close call caused her to ponder her mortality. Her greatest fear of
death was an autopsy. Outwardly, yes, she supposed she appeared a bit
unusual, although well within human range. She knew her body and assumed
there were significant internal irregularities. For that reason she had
never visited a doctor. Mrs. Spangler lived quietly. She had no more
desire to be a freak attraction in death than she did in life.
Mrs.
Spangler went out into a light drizzle, wearing the same parka, but a
different scarf. The weather had warmed and the snow remained only in
filthy patches. She walked the four blocks to the Mission Charities
Thrift Store.
There
was a great need for it in the neighborhood. Transients, bizarre street
people, day laborers and those like her on a meager income could not
afford to buy new garments, even at the cheap discount chains.
So
this was why she felt her plan and her next note was so sweetly ironic:
DONATE A DRESS WITH AMPLE BODICE. FILL LINING WITH $4000 IN UNMARKED
BILLS. DURING NIGHT AT MISSION CHARITIES. LAST CHANCE. BETRAY US AGAIN
AND SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES!!!!!!
Sister
Aggie, director of the thrift shop, didn’t approve of people dumping
things after hours -- so often it was just trash -- nor did she like
people prowling through the items, making even a bigger mess. She
understood that there was desperation in the area, though, and didn’t
make an issue of it.
Mrs.
Spangler wouldn’t be noticed perusing the things. She’d wait for
others, then be lost in the throng. She was intimately familiar with Mr.
Washburn’s secret wardrobe. She’d pick it out easily.
She
turned the last corner, preoccupied, narrowing it down to the sequined
red cocktail dress and the strapless taffeta evening gown. Neither
should be worn by anyone that size, male or female. She couldn’t have
been too specific on the garment or he may have guessed the truth. The
sight of a KJK 1520 All Sports Talk Radio van froze her in her tracks.
#
As
befitting one about to hold court, Bucky picked the venue. The owner of
the Weasel’s Breath Brewpub meekly protested Bucky’s choice of a
window booth. He had hoped to seat such a personage in the center of his
establishment, fronting the antique backbar. It came from a turn of the
century hotel and had cost him an arm and a leg.
He
didn’t push Bucky or his luck, blessed that the KJK star was filling
in for the scheduled radio celebs. Not that there was anything wrong
with Moose and Dutch, but they weren’t the legendary Big Bad Bucky
Washburn.
Patrons bellied up for a porter or amber ale crafted in shiny copper
vats visible at the rear of the pub. Wide screens on all walls blared
with pre-game commentary. As customers got their game faces on for the
upcoming NFL doubleheader, Bucky riveted his eyes on the junk store
across the street, two doors down.
Must
be fate, he thought. Them doubling up the ante on him, then being dumb
enough to set the drop-off on the same block as a K-JOCK celebrity
appearance. They didn’t count on him pulling the rug out from under
Dutch and Moose.
A
guy wearing team colors from head to toe came up to him with a bar
coaster to autograph.
Bucky
sneered. “Get lost, dildo. I ain’t on till ten. Can’t you see that
I’m mediating?”
The
guy shrank off to his buddies, with a Big Bad Bucky story he would be
relating for months.
Bucky
continued his vigil. Nobody out there but tramps and geezers shuffling
along the sidewalks, and yuppies setting their car alarms before coming
in for a Weasel’s Breath brewski and an opportunity to be starstruck.
He
didn’t have a clue what he’d do when he saw his red sequenced number
snatched. He’d jammed the bills up where you’d stick falsies if you
was so inclined.
At
least he’d know who he was dealing with.
Bucky
sighed.
It
was his favorite outfit.
#
The
tavern’s reader board announced Mr. Washburn’s imminent guest
appearance. The stunned Mrs. Spangler had passed the point of no return.
She presumed he was already there. She snugged up inside her raingear
and minced ahead.
She
thought of the last road trip vacation she and Orville had taken. Had it
been eight years ago or nine? Anyway, Roswell had been a stop, a must
stop of Orville’s. He hadn’t been in the area since his White Sands
days and their courtship. Mrs. Spangler worried that he suspected.
Her
worries proved groundless. Orville had merely developed a UFO
fascination from television programs. He enjoyed the sights, the tours,
the museum. So did she, though absolutely nothing was familiar. Nothing.
She
tugged at her hood so her face would lie deep in the cloth tunnel.
#
Bucky
watched the losers rummage through the hand-me-downs. There must of been
a half dozen bums and freakoids checking out the duds and some old
folding chairs. A tall skinny dork with big earrings and a cape was even
climbing on a beat-up bike. He looked like he was on something and about
ready to fall on his keester. This neighborhood, he thought. The land of
the fruits and the nuts.
Bucky
couldn’t picture ESPN or their muscle mingling in this mob. But you
never knew. Whoever put the arm on his finery, that’d be his man. He
didn’t know what he was gonna do then, but he sure as hell was gonna
do something.
#
The
discards were drawing the usual morning crowd. Mrs. Spangler knew the
regulars. There were some others too, younger people whose styles were,
well, eccentric. Should she try it now? Blend in and stick the dress
inside her parka? Mr. Washburn couldn’t recognize her if she stayed in
the group, her back turned.
Then
a peculiar gentleman on a bicycle lifted from a plastic garbage bag Mr.
Washburn’s tent-sized red cocktail dress. He was holding it, dangling,
gaping at it as if it were something that had snagged his fishing line.
Mrs.
Spangler quickened her pace.
#
The
technician in the van told Bucky that they were up and running, and that
they had three minutes until airtime. Bucky said yeah, yeah, yeah,
hardly able to believe his eyes. The twink who could barely stay on the
junk bike, he was holding what Bucky had shelled out $289.95 plus
shipping for, ownership written all over his freaky puss. Not to mention
the four grand inside. That was his boy!
Bucky
erupted out of the booth, off balance. He knocked aside the technician
and caromed into a waitress carrying a tray holding glasses and a
pitcher of Weasel’s Breath Oktoberfest Lager.
#
“No,
dear,” Mrs. Spangler told the strange young man straddling the
bicycle. “This is much too large. You take a size twelve or fourteen
long.”
“It’s
for my mom. What the hell you think I am, lady?”
“Oh,”
was all Mrs. Spangler could manage to utter, although she had a firm
grip on the dress’s waistline she had so carefully let out.
“Leggo,
granny.”
But
Mrs. Spangler would not let go. She tugged harder as she glanced and saw
Mr. Washburn thunder out of the saloon. He was drenched with beer and
wore a most demented expression on his crimson face.
#
Some
old hag with her back to him was fighting over the dress with the freak.
She ducked behind the bike, still yanking, almost pulling him off of it.
He yanked too, harder, and -- ah
shit -- ripped the
tape Bucky’d stuck on the underside. Twenties and fifties fluttered in
the air. Everybody was grabbing. It was a fucking shark feeding frenzy.
Knees
pumping like a blitzing linebacker, howling like a banshee, Bucky
plunged into the fray. And almost ran smack-dab into a Harley Davidson.
As it skidded to a stop, Bucky lost his clumsy stride and fell on his
butt.
A
towering gray-haired visage in black dismounted the motorcycle and
extended a hand. Bucky had attended a Catholic elementary school. Though
he was unhurt, his knuckles stung from the memories of all those ruler
blows. The talk jock accepted the helping hand and was effortlessly
jerked to his feet.
“Weren’t
you taught to look both ways before crossing the street, young man?”
Sister Aggie admonished.
Big
Bad Bucky Washburn lowered his gaze and softly replied, “Yes,
ma’am.”
“My
stars!” Sister Aggie exclaimed, eyeing the green folding manna.
Her
resonant voice put an immediate halt to the greedy, grasping chaos. The
scavengers stared anxiously at her, clutching currency. The cocktail
dress by then was in shreds.
“Does
that -- thing belong to any of you?” Sister Aggie asked.
Nobody
answered. Bucky Washburn backpedaled to the Weasel’s Breath Brew Pub.
“Well,
does it?”
“No,
Sister,” somebody murmured.
“The
money was in the lining,” someone else said.
“Apparently
a silver lining, a remarkably generous donation to the Mission Charities
Thrift Store,” Sister Aggie said, looking upward. “Thank you.”
So
that was that, Mrs. Spangler thought as she peeked around a Dumpster.
The folks forked over what they’d grabbed, picked the rest off the
ground, and gave it to Sister Aggie.
Perhaps
Mrs. Orville (Alma) Spangler wasn’t destined to have that new Singer
or Pfaff. Perhaps she had been preordained to perform good works late in
her life. Perhaps she had been sent from a distant galaxy for this very
purpose. Perhaps at her guidance Mr. Washburn was meant to pay for his
sins through donations to worthy causes, the instrument of her goodness.
Eight
thousand dollars next time?
She’d
give it serious thought.
Copyright 2007 by
Gary Alexander
Gary Alexander
has published eight books in two mystery series with Walker Books and
St. Martin's Press. He's also published 125+ plus short stories, most to
the mystery magazines. A story that appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery
Magazine has been converted into a screenplay treatment and is being
shopped to the studios by an L.A. literary manager/producer. .
