Max watched as Bobbie swished through the lobby doors, stepped into a pool of lamp light, and drifted down the sidewalk.
"So, Jerry, tell me about her. She say's that she comes here for the Mexican food."
"First time I saw her in here was two--no--three days ago. Came in around opening time. As a matter of fact, she asked me if I knew who the owner was. I told her it was old man Russell. Right away she says: "Not the bar owner, the building owner." Seemed to me she was asking a question that she already had the answer to."
"Well, Jerry, what did you tell her, about the owner?"
Wiping the spots from a long-stemmed glass, Jerry grinned, eyes twinkling. "Like I said, it sounded like she already knew the answer, so of course I didn't know anything. 'Hey,' I say to her, 'I'm just a working stiff. Bartenders are paid to be listeners, not talkers.' She didn't get the hint. Never did leave me a tip. So, I just poured her drinks and kept my yap shut."
"She been in since that first day?"
"Boy, I'll say! Comes in about half an hour after we open each morning, then at noon for about an hour of so, and then each evening. She talks to a lot of people. Really mingles. Never has mentioned your name, but when you walked in tonight, her eyes were on you like a vampire going for a pint of AB positive."
Through a thickening fog, Max scratched his growing stubble and stared blankly back at Jerry.
Even though thoroughly infused with the Russian anti-freeze, Bobbie was rubbing her arms to combat goose bumps. She plucked the folded business card from her back pocket. It was a plain white card with blue printing. Max had not written his name or office number on the lines provided for that purpose. The card displayed the receptionist's phone number and the county seal under the bold-face type proclaiming DOWNTOWN CITY-COUNTY ADMINISTRATIVE ANNEX. Penciled on the back was the address of Max's apartment building and a telephone number. She knew that the phone number was the landlord's.
Passing through the illuminating cone of a street lamp, she stopped and squinted at the card. Too dark. Too cold. Sticking the card into her clutch, she trotted the remaining few yards to her car.
In a few blocks, the heater began to do it's job, but Bobbie was still looking forward to a warm bed. She hated days like this. Hoping that her soon to be new address would be only temporary--and brief--she pulled into the driveway. She grabbed her purse, slung the gym-bag over her shoulder, and slowly padded up the walk.
The house was dark and quiet. The air inside was clean, fresh, free of the exhaust and exhalations of the streets. Flipping off her shoes she dug her toes into the thick pile carpet and headed for the bathroom. Shorts, T-shirt, and underwear dropped behind her, leaving a trial down the hallway. She snicked the bathroom door shut as quietly as possible. Warm spray soon was washing away physical and mental grime. The translucent glass of the shower door softly reverberated with white-noise generated by one hundred twenty-degree water at ninety psi. Liquid murmurings that gently masked Bobbie's sighs and sounds of relief as she stretched and washed and smoothed-out tense muscles and tight nerves.
Thirty gallons later, blotted dry, and with her hair wrapped in a terry towel, she stole into the bedroom. Mere whispers of breathing were slow, deep, and steady--her roommate was sound asleep. Gliding in between warm, satiny sheets, she drank-in the musky sweet air trapped between the covers. Her roommate stirred as she wrapped her arms about warm silken skin.
"I'm here, lover. Sorry I'm so late." Bobbie sealed her apology with the softest of kisses.
"Mmmmm, Bobbie...you're finally home," Shelly answered drowsily.
The cacophony of traffic began about 6:15 a.m. and built to a sustained crescendo Monday through Friday. This Saturday morning at 8:15 the street was quiet. Unfortunately, Bruno didn't place much stock in calendars or timepieces. For the past two hours the pea-brained slobbering food processor had been circumnavigating his pen. Each of the preceding five days, and in the preceding three years of his life, Bruno had been liberated from his keep for a quick trot to the park, where his dogly bowels were also unleashed. Today, a very typical Saturday in an equally typical weekend, Bruno's digestive tract had reached a typical level of discomfort. The increasing tempo of his footsteps became too much for the maintenance of his master's extended slumber.
Beginning at 8:05 a.m., with each circuit of his turf, Bruno paused at the doggie door, bumped it with his pointy skull, and whimpered a pleading whine. At 8:10 a.m. the whine was accompanied by a resonant yowl. Clutching a pillow a bit more tightly around his ears worked for about five minutes. At 8:15 the pace-bump-whine-yowl mutated into a rapid-fire ninety decibel barking spasm.
If Bruno stopped for air, it was never detectable.
Max rotated his body as gently as possible so as not to jiggle his throbbing brain against his skull. When his legs were clear of the side rails, he slowly lowered his feet, and simultaneously levitated his torso from the mattress. Sitting somewhat upright, he plucked a blue fuzz ball from his navel and blew it beyond the range of his blurred vision. He reached to the night stand for the obligatory three aspirins and a glass of water. It was a ritual that he followed religiously when plans for a couple of drinks became a dozen. Both kneecaps and his lumbar-thoracic vertebrae contributed to the general pain level as he shuffled in the general direction of the kitchen. Feeling his way along the Formica counter top, Max dumped a handful of arabica dark-roast into the grinder. The piercing scream of the ten thousand RPM blades punched through Max's eardrums as the beans were pulverized. Grimacing at the pain in his head, (not only from the volume, but the sound's similarity to the pneumatic bone saw at the morgue) Max shook the last Camel from a crinkled pack and lit up. Nicotine and the first hints of brewing coffee provided enough stimulation for the selection of two cans of food for Bruno.
The label advertised this morning's breakfast as beef flavored meat by-products and gravy. Max couldn't help theorizing on just what it was that constituted 'meat by-products'. Most likely a conglomeration of lips, entrails, and scrotums from a variety of hapless farm animals, fused into a homogeneous loaf and slathered with a mucilaginous preservative gravy scooped from caldron of simmering body parts.
With the ends of each can severed and detached, the lumpy brown contents were expelled into Bruno's dish. In less time than it took to traverse the 15 feet from the door release button, back to the coffee pot, Bruno had devoured the tubular paté, and was snuffling up splatters and fragments from the linoleum.
A full packet of Sweet'n Low was the perfect compliment to a double-shot of espresso decanted from the small aluminum pot. A Styrofoam cup and Bruno's leash nicely accessorized Max's faded Levi 501s, the Chuck Taylors, and an NRA Life-Member T-shirt.
Man and beast were off.
"So, how did it go last night? Any luck this time?" Shelly was stirring some Grape-Nuts into a plastic container of yogurt. She scooped a big dollop into each of two dishes waiting in the sunny breakfast nook. The yellow dinette table was set with place mats, some toasted English Muffins, and a dish of orange marmalade. Between the two place settings was a bud vase containing a single pink rose and a sprig of Baby's Breath.
"I talked with him, had a few drinks, and ate some chile rellenos." Bobbie wiped some sleep from here eyes and took a sip of coffee. "He gave me a business card and told me about a vacancy in his building."
"Where? At Frank's? Did he tell you that he owns the building?"
"Yeah we were at Frank's, and no, he didn't tell me he owned the building. But he sort of left that topic open. I didn't ask, but he didn't offer. He gave me the address and phone number of 'The Landlord', he just didn't bother to tell me that it was also his address and his phone number. It was sort of late; I guess that he figured I probably wouldn't notice that the address was the same as Frank's."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"What did you find out? Did he say anything about Gustafson?"
"Shelly, are you nuts? I just met him for the first time last night! I got his address, phone number, and a written invitation to check out his apartment. Not too bad considering the circumstances, don't you think?"
"We have all of that information in our files. You haven't provided anything that I don't already know."
"What is your problem, Shelly? Jeez, no wonder he calls you 'The Prune'.
"Prune? Max wouldn't call me a Prune! Just what did you talk about anyway, and how did my name come up in conversation? My relationship with you, and your association with this investigation is strictly confidential." Shelly was flailing the air with a butter knife in one hand, and clutching at her robe with the other. Her face was reddening and there was a frenzied look of anger in her eyes. "Compromise of privileged information at this early stage must be considered as grounds for...."
"Take a chill pill, Wonder Woman, mellow out for Christ's sake." Bobbie was pleading for mercy, unused to interrogation and accusation at this intensity.
Saturday morning breakfasts were supposed to be lazy and comfortable. She had never seen this side of Shelly. When Shelly had first told Bobbie about R. Maxwell Beemer, and how he was to be a part of this investigation, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Now, however, as it had been for the past three days, Shelly became more agitated at the mere mention of his name.
"Your name never came up. Max had mentioned that he had a run-in with 'The Prune' at work. He didn't say who this 'Prune' was but, it didn't take much brain strain to put two and two together to decide that he was talking about you. Anyway, he decided to take a few days off and go camping, you know, get away frown the rat race. By the time that he returned from a restful weekend in the woods, things seemed to have simmered down at the office. He told me that it was like nothing had ever happened. As far as Max could tell, it had all blown over."
Shelly assumed her most defiant posture, hands on hips, shoulders back. "Well, then, what makes you think that I am this 'Prune'?"
Bobbie gestured with her coffee cup, pointing at Shelly's robe as it fought a loosing battle to restrain her augmented physique. "Its those!" Crumbs of the English muffin fragments sputtered out of Bobbie's lips, quivering to hold back an even bigger laugh. "And that pose! You're just exactly the way he described 'The Prune'!"
Shelly pulled her lapels tightly around her throat, spun on her heel throwing her half-finished yogurt toward the sink as she stomped out of the kitchen. Bobbie shrugged and helped herself to another English muffin before getting dressed. She was hoping to get down to the park in time to intercept Max and Bruno on their morning constitutional.
"Hi, Max! How're you feeling this morning? It sure took me awhile to get started."
Max was sitting on a park bench, soaking-up sun rays with his head tipped back and eyes close. Bruno was running at full speed around a small fish pond, trying to catch his own reflection.
One eye opened beneath an arched eyebrow and an outstretched hand. "Hi, Bobbie. I'm perfect. Just love the sun." There was more than a trace of suspicion in his voice. "What are you doing down here on Saturday? Long way from home, huh?"
Well, the address that you gave me last night...it's the same as the address at Frank's."
"That's right. You want to look at the apartment? I've got the key."
"Sure, what's a good time for you?"
"Oh, anytime today. How about right now?"
"Great! Let's go.
"Sit down for a minute. I've got to wait until Bruno gets tired, bored, or hungry. There isn't much use in calling him until he wants to come. He knows that I usually wont leave without him, and if I do, he always finds his way."
Having tired from chasing his doppelganger around the fish pond, Bruno was now fully occupied with a few high flying sea gulls, floating on thermals about 100 feet above his incessant barking.
Bobbie sat down on Max's half of the wrought iron park bench. She unzipped her fanny pack and pulled out two Tootsie Roll Pops, offering them to Max.
"Take your pick, cherry or grape."
"No thanks, I've got my own." He plucked a Camel from behind his ear, and lit up with a kitchen match and a flick of his thumbnail. "So, Bobbie, is there anything you want to ask me about the landlord?" He blew a stream of smoke up and away from her searching gaze. "Anything about you that he should know?"
"I'm not certain exactly what you mean, Max...."
"Yeah, I can tell that you're not quite sure. Either am I." In a very serious tone, he commanded Bruno to come. From about 100 yards away, the dog instantly snapped to attention and stared intently in Max's direction. In another instant he exploded into a full speed run, not letting up until skidding to a stop at his master's feet. Bruno, ears standing erect, cocked his head inquiringly at Max. Bobbie did a double take, looking from man to beast. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you said that he wouldn't come if you called him. Looks like he's not quite as difficult as you led me to believe."
"Every once in a while I get lucky and catch him in a good moment. Besides, it's not wise to believe everything you hear these days."
His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked back at her. He was searching her facial expression for a clue, and at the same time transmitting body language for her benefit. He snapped the leash onto the collar's D-ring. "Come on, let's walk back toward Frank's."
Try as she might, Bobbie was unable to germinate any small talk. The way back down Burley Avenue was a quiet one.
"Jerry tells me that you've been in several times. Several times each day for the past few days."
"Jerry?"
"Oh, come on. Jerry, the bartender in here!" With a sideways jerk of his head, Max pointed through the etched and gold-leaf lettered plate glass window. He would have pointed with his hand, but it was being inexorably pulled forward by the dog leash. He looked like he was divining for water, or feeling his way along like a blind man. "He says that you not only have been in very frequently in the past week or so, but have also asked about me. Jerry seemed to pickup that you knew who owned the bar, and also who owned the building. So, Bobbie, tell me, just what is it that you do know about me, Frank's and the Franklin Building?"
At this point, Bobbie was having very serious second thoughts about becoming involved in the first place. How had Shelly ever convinced her to do this? It sounded so much easier in theory than in actual practice to gather information on the sly. This was really none of her business. She wasn't trained for this kind of cloak-and-dagger bull shit. She was, however, very relieved that the walk from the park had been, for the most part, a silent one. Those few minutes had allowed her to gather her wits and regain some semblance of composure. If presented with a similar request for explanation, or a dump of available data, just a few minutes earlier, who knows what beans would have been spilled.
With a little laugh, and a contrived bearing of resignation, she confessed, "Okay, you caught me. I had seen you over at the Admin Annex a few weeks ago. I asked around, and at first I thought everyone was just teasing me because I was new. You wouldn't believe some of the stories that some of the other girls told me about you! Most of them were second-hand, or hearsay, but really...."
"Whoa, there! What the hell are you talking about? What kind of...and who is it that...what have they been telling you about me, and why in heaven's name were you asking in the first place?" Max had forgotten or abandoned his suspicions, and was now fully engaged as a referee as his own self consciousness, ego, and curiosity locked horns in a three-way duel to the death.
"I was over there to talk with personnel about some benefits package options, when I saw you walk in the lobby. Well, I didn't actually see you at first, but I did notice that there were several others that were noticing you. More than one woman made an obvious effort at not noticing, or at least making it obvious to everyone else that they did see you and were not impressed, or didn't care. Actually, I thought that you looked sorta cute."
At that last remark, Max began to frantically search for a rock to crawl under. He could feel his cheeks turning red, and was certain that he was beginning to shrink. Melting just like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. "Hey, I know that it's kinda early, but my mouth is suddenly getting dry. Care to join me for a cool drink?"
"Okay, maybe just a club soda, or maybe some iced tea."
"Great. Go on ahead and I'll take care of this." He ducked out into the court yard between Frank's and the Boutique, disconnected himself from the leash, and clipped it onto a hook embedded in the exposed-aggregate patio. The hook had been installed for just such a purpose. It was situated far enough from the doors such that the patrons of either establishment could venture out into the courtyard and not be subject to attacks from Bruno, or any other hound that may have been temporarily tethered. In consideration of the captive beast's comfort, there was a small astro-turfed area within reach of the courtyard birdbath. Max had never seen a bird in the courtyard, but the birdbath masqueraded perfectly as an automatic dog-waterer.
Back in Frank's, Bobbie's lips were wrapped around a straw sticking out of what appeared to be a glass of orange juice. "Jerry convinced me that what I needed this time of day was a mimosa. Well, not actually a real mimosa, but fifty-fifty orange juice and champagne. To make a mimosa, I think that there should be some vodka added for emphasis."
"Not for me, thanks. Jerry, gimme a red beer."
Jerry produced the red beer, and half of its contents were dispatched forthwith along with the dryness surrounding Max's tonsils. "Now where were we.... Oh, yeah, about the comments that you solicited from some of my loyal and trusted co-workers. Please, elaborate." Both forearms were on the bar, hands cradling the beer schooner, as he waited intently for input.
"Like I said, most of it was hearsay. You know the type, `She said that she saw', or `So-and-so told me this-and-that about Max Beemer'. You get the picture.... Mostly, I guess, it was the fact that there were so many women willing to share a little tidbit with me that they had heard, or seen, or read, but not actually first-hand. It was like they all wanted to share something about you but didn't have any personal...uh 'experiences' if you'll pardon the expression."
"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced, nor did he intend to.
"One of them told me that you owned some apartments in this part of town. You can imagine what sort of stories that circulate about a bachelor running an apartment complex. Anyway, it was more than worth my while to dig a little deeper and find out what was going on. An apartment is just as hard to find as s a decent single guy these days."
The whole story sounded a little lame to Max. It had very familiar ring to it also. Either this chick was unusually open, or she was a particularly accomplished prevaricator. Of course, it was entirely possible that all of this could be the result of his suspicious nature... especially where women were concerned. This side of his personality had been most recently reinforced by his latest encounter with the Prune. Come to think of it, this present scenario with Bobbie was strangely reminiscent of his fist encounter with the Prune, (at that time known only as Shelly). During his first days on the job, she had guided him through a miasma of forms, questionnaires, and interviews. She also guided him around some of the more noxious preparations in the cafeteria. Within a few weeks, guided expeditions to and from each other's favorite night time haunts were punctuated by private tours of each other's apartments and bedrooms. It was little surprise to Max when, in a few more weeks, that he found himself less and less attracted to Shelly. It was on one of their last outings that Max was subject to a major mid-course navigation adjustment. They were at the bar in an eating, drinking, and dancing establishment touted as her favorite hangout. From the smokey depths of the pulsing dance floor came an Amazon of over 6 feet tall, not counting another foot of big hair and stiletto heels. Motes of glitter on her face and hair sparkled in the dancing multi-colored light beams that ricocheted around the lounge. A slender stemmed wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in a holder in the other, she circulated around the room, pausing from time to time at a table, whispering and touching and laughing the way that women do. Her meandering course through crowded tables and stand-up bars straightened to a beeline when her eyes locked onto Shelly. She poured herself into a chair between the two of them. Painted eyes gave Max the once-over, quickly dismissing him as a possible threat. His date was receiving 100% of her attention, Max never did learn her name. An animated conversation, words obscured by the surrounding din, was raging between the women. Fingers and eyes pointed and glared in Max's direction. The Amazon stood, grasped Shelly's hands, and coaxed her from her seat. A parting handshake became a hug. The hug became a kiss. And this was a kiss, not a peck, but a full blast open-mouth, down the throat osculation.
The frequency of his telephone calls and unannounced visits at the office quickly dwindled to zero. He hadn't even thought about the Prune until the run-in last week. He was pondering just what it was about Bobbie that brought these visions to the front of his mind again.
"Hello.... Earth to Max. Anybody home?"
"Uh, yeah...sorry. You mentioned talking with personnel and security. I was just thinking about that very thing. I had a friend working in personnel and security a while back that has apparently turned on me. I hope that she is not one of the people that you have been talking with." Max searched her eyes for some reaction or recognition. Nothing. "Anyway, I'm sorry for drifting off. Okay, what say we go and look at the apartment?"
Walking up the courtyard staircase, Max was asked why there were two sets of stairs, one inside, and one outside, just a few feet away.
"It's the building code, or fire safety code, or something like that. The original building plans called for an elevator. They ran out of money right after they finished this place and the elevator was either never installed, or was sold to make the mortgage. This place wasn't designed as a residential building so it had only one fire exit path. Before I could legally rent these units the building inspector insisted on the second stairwell. It could have been because the codes have changed, or because I did major remodeling, I don't know for sure. With the center of the building opened up into this courtyard, it was the cheapest and easiest way to add another set of stairs. Using the elevator shaft for a stairwell would have been easy, but the stairs would be narrow and cramped. Who knows, someday when I'm rich and famous I might be able to afford to put in the elevator.
They paused briefly on the third floor landing. To the north was the courtyard. The atrium was carved from what were formerly windowless interior office suites, one on each floor. Structural beams and columns remained exposed at each floor level and the building roof, lending an informal and relaxed ambience to the space. The roof opening was covered with transparent panels, transforming the courtyard into a bright, dry sanctuary from the elements. The floor at the patio level was treated in exposed aggregate concrete, laid out in random geometric shapes. In the center was the fountain/birdbath, a concrete park bench, some large potted plants, and small potted trees. Frank's and the Boutique both had doors that opened onto the courtyard. There were a few small sidewalk cafe-type tables scattered about beneath the potted flora.
Her muscles tensed and she started back at the scene to the south of the building. Max had grown accustomed to the squalor that spread out just a few yards beyond the serenity of the courtyard. Ramshackle buildings squatting amid narrow lanes infested with potholes and mud puddles stood in stark contrast to the affluence on the other side of Burley Avenue. The Franklin building was a sentinel on the frontier between poverty and abundance. To newcomers, it was a sight that invariably left an indelible impression. An impression of reality. The reality to some was that the security of the building and it's charming courtyard were threatened by what appeared to be decay and grime in the adjacent blocks. To others, the decay was being driven back and won over by shrewd investment, and tenacity. Max was of the second group, as were all of the tenants in the Franklin Building. Those of the first persuasion were either loath to stay at all, or were quickly frightened off by the seamy south facade.
"How quaint. Nice neighborhood. Let's take a look at the inside."
At this juncture, it was difficult for Max to fix Bobbie in either category.
The Apartment tour was less of an inspection and more reminiscent of a laboratory rat's frenetic scrabbling through a maze in search of cheddar. Bobbie poked her face into each of the bedrooms for the briefest of moments. She lingered only slightly longer in the bath and kitchen areas, finally settling in the semi-enclosed balcony area overlooking the courtyard, badlands to the south, and Myrtle Creek park to the East. Arms folded and elbows on the railing, she leaned out into a humid breeze, forty feet vertically removed from asphalt softening in the midday solar assault.
"With all this room outside, and wonderful weather, who cares about the inside. Its so quiet up here, and the park, it seems to go on forever. I could just eat it up. I like it Max...I think I'll take it. Ummm, how much?"
"You sure? Some of the locals are tough cookies. Especially at night."
"Oh, Max, it's not that bad. Part of the neighborhood is a little run down, but I don't have to go out there. The people down at Frank's don't seem to be much different than those up town. For the most part they're all very nice, and I haven't had any trouble at all."
"I don't think that you're getting the whole picture quite yet. The clientele at Frank's is still about 25% vermin on the average. Vermin has a tendency to run off the weak at heart. Tell you what, before you make a decision, I'd like to introduce you to a few friends of mine this evening. Come on by my place or meet me down at Frank's around 8 o'clock."
Concentric arcs radiated beneath a battered greasy knob. Innermost arcs were distinct and sharp, shining bare metal. Faint outer rings faded into rusty nothingness. A nickel plated padlock pinched the chain around the knob. Max cleared his throat and spit on the key before inserting it into the lock. Hunched over against a drizzle of rain, he jiggled and twisted for several seconds before the shackle sprung free. Liberated from its restraint, the heavy gauge chain snaked through two huge eyebolts and the window bars as it rattled loudly to oil stained concrete. He put his shoulder to the dented metal doors and persuaded them open. Tortured hinges groaned open on the third bump. Reaching around the corner, he flipped a switch. A bare bulb in a green painted metal shroud pushed the wet darkness back from the doorway. The light penetrated only inches into musty blackness. Waiting at the dimly lit doorstep, Bobbie pressed tightly against the wall to avoiding raindrops curling from eaves of corrugated iron. Two feet past the doorway, Max vanished. Dust on scarred concrete made temporarily transparent by his wet footprints. A sharp metallic snap accompanied by the blink of an electric arc brought three fluorescent fixtures slowly to life. The tubes glowed pink at the ends, then yellow, and gradually sputtered to life. Leaning next to a cobweb enshrouded electrical panel, Max struck a match and lit a smoke in perfect unison with the excitation of the final tube. Save for the 1962 falcon, in an obvious state of disrepair, the place was vacant. Thick, dark planks, edges worn round, covered the opening to a grease pit in the center bay. A hodgepodge of drawers, and cabinets and benches dotted the outer walls. Hanging from shadowy rafters was a rack, formerly holding automobile tires, now relegated to the support of non-descript cardboard boxes, a stepladder, and scrap lumber.
"Here, gimme a hand with this." Max pulled back a tarpaulin hanging from a cable stretched across one dark corner of the old service station garage. Bobbie grabbed one end of a drop cloth, and Max the other. At the count of three, they jerked it up and away from the table. A cloud of dust from the cloth ballooned out into the rest of the garage, settling slowly and visibly in the harsh fluorescent glare. The circular table, about five feet in diameter, was covered in dark green felt. A large round incandescent fixture hung from a twisted electrical cord. The bulb projected a cone of light that perfectly enveloped the table. Six chairs around the perimeter were left in shadows.
"What's yer pleasure ma'am, stud, low ball, or can I offer you a high ball?"
"Cool! I can do that. I hope that it's not going to be just you and me. If we're going to play cards that is."
"Yup, cards it will be. Care for a cool one while we wait for the rest of the boys?" Max slipped his little finger around the long chrome refrigerator handle. It was one of those old fashioned 1950's models with rounded corners and aluminum art-deco gingerbread emblazoned across the door. "This is a BYOB game, but I suppose that I can share my stash. Let's see, I've got a couple of Lone Star longnecks, one Coors', a six pack of ginger ale, looks like about half a bottle of Smirnoff, 100-proof peppermint schnapps, a fifth of Jim Beam, and a whole shit-load of Diet Pepsi." The little light didn't work anymore, so Max was squatted down and peering inside of the antique icebox to the light of a one-hundred watt automotive trouble light hanging from a light socket in the ceiling. "Let's see, I've got a couple of Lone Star longnecks, one quart bottle of Coors, a six pack of ginger ale, looks like almost half a bottle of Smirnoff, 100-proof peppermint schnapps, a fifth of Jim Beam, and a whole shit-load of Diet Pepsi."
Bobbie opened a pack of cards plucked from a cardboard shoe box on the poker table. She shuffled the deck a few times, and spread the cards out with a smooth, palm down sweep of her left hand. The arc of perfectly spaced cards covered about two feet of the fuzzy green surface. Max shuffled slabs of salami, cheese, cocktail rye, and saltines. The cards dancing from Bobbies nimble fingers did not escape Max's notice. Bobbie noticed that Max noticed. Max dealt a hand of coasters, paper plates and napkins for himself and Bobbie. Awaiting the arrival of more players, they sat down munching snack laden crackers washed down with swallows of Coors from mismatched jelly glasses.
The garage was a relic from decades past. It squatted on the back lot behind the Franklin Building. After years of peaceful repose, imprints of tire treads embossed the dusty concrete floor. For the past four Saturdays muffled rattling of clay chips and the staccato sputter of a shuffled deck replaced furtive rustlings of mice and an occasional night watchman. The game had moved to the garage when renovation of the last apartment was completed. Max, and a collection of the neighborhood fixtures, had been exchanging the same money across green felt for about five years now. Texas hold'em and low Chicago were the games of choice.
Headlight beams tracked across glass bricks set into one wall of the garage. Adjacent windows, rendered nearly opaque from decades of automotive exhaust and urban fallout, blazed into luminous brilliance as a car pulled up outside the service bay doors. Two quick beeps on the horn was Max's cue. He pulled a six-inch cotter pin locking the overhead door track and unlatched the handle. It took only a quick tug on the rope to launch the roll up door rattling into position among the rafters. Before it stopped moving, the huge gaping grimace of the 1956 Roadmaster lumbered into the service bay. A final rev of the engine blasted dust away from below the tailpipe, darkening the concrete with a wet blue-black cloud of noxious exhaust. Each and every month, Max asked Mike to dispense with this arrival salute. Invariably, the request was ignored. As a result, the garage door would be left open for most of the evening so the unburned hydrocarbon cloud could dissipate more freely.
From beyond the limits of visibility afforded by a sodium vapor street lamp another car approached the garage. Wide, black, and low slung, it approached slowly and silently. Gravel and shards of broken glass grinding between vulcanized rubber and wet asphalt provided the only audible escort. A plait of vapor marking each rear fender evidenced that the completely muffled engine was actually running. Gliding in and docking alongside the ancient Buick, the late model Cadillac hearse appeared modern and sedate. Undulating ghosts of exhaust vanished when the engine switched off. Barely perceptible subsonic rumblings were replaced with erratic metallic tinking sounds spawned by a cooling engine block.
From across the room, it was impossible to see the occupants of either vehicle. Reflections from the bare fluorescent tubes twisted and warped across wide expanses of windshield glass. Freshly waxed paint on acres of sheet metal compounded the glare and shimmering mirages dancing in the glass. In seemingly choreographed unison, both of the behemoths disgorged their cargo. Five huge doors opened. Five pairs of shoes emerged from behind tinted glass and stepped onto the concrete. Shoes carried legs and bodies holding brown paper bags filled with groceries and libations suitable for an evening of gaming.
Being the only unfamiliar face in a crowd that now numbered seven, Bobbie quickly became the center of attention and multiple rapid-fire introductions. Smiling and nodding and shaking hands, all of the names and faces were running together. Turning to greet the last new face, her heart skipped a beat and breath froze in her throat. Manny Gordon's face, name, and extensive dossier flashed through her mind. She wrenched herself back to the present moment before her jaw had time to drop open.
"I hope that you gentlemen will excuse me, but I am going to dash out to my car and get some cash. You do allow women into this game, don't you?" As Bobbie was talking, she couldn't resist watching Manny as he emptied his bags into the refrigerator. A six-pack of some thing or the other, a white plastic tub of chip dip, and another small item that went into the freezer compartment.
"Sure, lady! If you can hold your own, then you're welcome to sit at any poker table with me, any time. And if you can't hold your own, then I'll be more than happy to hold on to your dough, permanently! Ha!"
That was Wilis. Wilis Franklin. Old man Franklin had built and operated the garage in the '40s. Twenty years later, he sold the garage at an unbelievable price, allowing him to live in the style to which he wished to become accustomed. Willis' days were spent atop a bar stool in a run-down dive across town. His nights (nights being the few hours between closing at 2:00 a.m. and opening at 9:00 a.m.) were passed between musty sheets on a lumpy mattress at a boarding house just a few blocks south of Burley Avenue. Each second Saturday night of every month was spent playing poker with Max, the Mike brothers. Sometimes, like tonight, the group included one or two folks that worked with Max down at the lab.
Bobbie chuckled nervously to herself and stepped out onto the parking apron. Darkness looming beyond a sticky yellow glow from sodium vapor street lamps made walking treacherous. Cautious as she was, she was oblivious to the evil that was patiently stalking her. Gaping maws; always open and never closing. Never pausing to take a breath. Never moving, but likely to appear suddenly around a corner or beneath a shadow. Asymmetrical jaws with jagged lips of crusted dark broken teeth. Black greasy slime in the shallow pit of each tarry throat. Constantly waiting to bite and snap the carcass of a hapless victim. Biting and chewing without movement, capable of bringing a huge lumbering hulk to a certain halt in an instant. Electric pain burned into her nerves like a red-hot scalpel. She nearly fell to the slimy warm macadam, steaming slightly as heat from afternoon sunshine dissipated into cooling gloom.
"Goddamned pot-holes!" Bobbie hissed as she grabbed her ankle. Each subsequent step brought with it a stab of searing pain. By the time she had hobbled around the corner and down the sidewalk to her car, each breath was painfully sucked through tightly clenched teeth. Cold beads of sweat misted her forehead. Fumbling keys scratched the pristine paint before the door could be coaxed open. Burning in her ankle and the urgency with which she searched her address book, distracted Bobbie from the pain that should have been induced by the scratch. It was the first blemish on her expensive German car, the first new car that she had ever owned. Punched in by the light from the orange neon tubes above Frank's red brick facade yielded a grating electronic tone and a recorded message announcing that YOU MUST DIAL A '1' BEFORE DIALING THIS NUMBER.
"Fuck!" She dialed her cell phone again. It rang this time. And it rang again, and again. It rang a long, long time.
"Hello?"
"Shelly! It's him, he's here!"
"What? Who is this?"
"It's me, goddamn it, Bobbie! I'm at Beemer's place and Gustafson is here!"