Merlot Read online

  “Yes a $500 first prize. Oh yes, Milton, I’ll win, I’ll show them. Try and strike me will they? We’ll just see about that!”

  Milton attempted to focus on Osborne. The room began to spin, objects took on a bit of a blurry edge. The floor developed a slight rolling wave action, and he steadied himself against the edge of Osborne’s desk. As long as he didn’t have to drive anywhere, he might be able to make it through the day.

  * * *

  Merlot was racking his brain trying to think of a way he could pull off this robbery, not get caught and still keep Cindy on his good side. Thus far he had come up with absolutely nothing.

  If he could lure her away from the bank, or at least from her teller window, maybe, just maybe he had an outside chance. Then, all he had to do was make his getaway, hand the cash over to Osborne as fast as possible and be done with the whole sordid affair.

  He decided that the best thing would be to carry the gun unloaded into the bank to ensure no one, least of all him, got hurt.

  He spun the cylinder, dropped the shells, listened as they bounced off the wooden desk. A couple of the shells rolled around in a semicircle and came to rest against the beer-stained photo album. He held the empty pistol in his hand, looked absently at the scattered rounds and wondered what in the hell he was going to do?

  * * *

  It was becoming very clear to Lucerne that he was going to have to do something, take some action where poor Tracey was concerned. The poor little thing, so shy she didn’t even know how to ask him for help, and after all they’d been through: the late night calls, the early morning calls, the mid-day calls. As a matter of fact, the call he was placing right now.

  “This is Tracey,” Daphne said, quickly swallowing the last bit of chocolate chip cookie. “I’ve been waiting for your call, hoping it was you. You there, baby?”

  “Course I’m here, Sugar. Just calling to check up, make sure you’re doin okay is all.” Lucerne said into the phone, grateful Tracey recognized his voice.

  “Lucerne, that you?” Daphne guessed, narrowing his voice down to three possible choices and getting lucky.

  “The one and only.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Lucerne,” Daphne continued, reaching for another cookie.

  “I’ll just bet you have. How’s things goin’?” he asked.

  “About the same, we don’t know from one minute to the next if we got a job. At least the dancing is over for the time being,” She choked down the cookie, then reached for another.

  “Well that’s good. I didn’t like the idea of you having to dance with that fat old Osborne fella then havin to run back upstairs and do your vice president stuff.”

  Daphne shook her head, wondered what in the hell he was talking about.

  “So what are you up to, Lucerne?”

  “Well, I was gonna ask you the exact same thing. Funny how we’re thinkin alike, ain’t it?”

  “Listen, you won’t believe this. Old Osborne is going to have a suntan contest, tomorrow. Open to everyone. Guess it’s his way of trying to break the strike.”

  “Well, if you’re on strike, are you just taking a break from the picket line or are you still doing your vice president stuff?”

  “Well, there isn’t really all that much to my vice presidential duties. And I just lend support to the girls who’re picketing. I’m not really on strike, I can’t afford it.”

  Lucerne figured she most likely had elderly parents, a terminally ill child or both. “So, you’re okay, is what you’re sayin. What the hell’s with the suntan contest?”

  “Osborne’s trying to break the strike, get a bunch of new girls in here with a $500 prize. Then he’ll offer them a dance contract and they figure it’s just too good to pass up. The girls out on the sidewalk will be out of a job and in a year or two the exact same thing will happen all over again.”

  “And all this to hire some gal just cause she’s got a good tan? Is he crazy, stupid or both?”

  Daphne shook her head in disbelief. Lucerne might be good, kind, maybe even decent but he was sure dumb as a post. She grabbed two more cookies.

  “He doesn’t hire them because they have a good tan, he has a contest to see who has the best tan, offers prize money. He’ll get all kinds of girls in here and they all get the idea that dancing pays real well, but it just never quite works out that way.”

  Lucerne was back to his image of a fat guy in a tux and all sorts of innocent women, tanned women apparently, waiting to dance with the rich old bastard.

  With his share of the bank money he could buy a double wide, with one of those screened in porches off to the side. Have a picnic table where he and his brothers could drink beer and Tracey could serve them fried chicken.

  “Does he still make you dance?” he asked.

  “Just that one time the other day, but, like I said, it didn’t work out too well,” she stuffed another cookie in her mouth.

  “Hey, Tracey, did you tell me what you’re wearing?” Lucerne asked.

  “Finally, I was beginning to worry.” Daphne said, then snuggled back in her chair, brushed crumbs off the front of her T-shirt, and reached for another cookie, this might be a good long session.

  * * *

  With the unrelenting heat and his unattended piles of laundry Otto was forced to attire himself in an old North Stars hockey jersey. It was the green traveling jersey, and he was grateful for the protection the longer sleeves gave his arms. As usual he had his face covered with zinc oxide and the handkerchief pinned onto the back of his baseball cap.

  He was waiting in Cindy’s line, working the old Otto magic after looking around to ensure the area was safe for her. He touched the forty five beneath his hockey jersey.

  “Morning ma’am,” Otto said giving Cindy his two-fingered salute. A few of the other customers glanced in his direction.

  Cindy nodded, afraid to look up, worried about another nose smudge down the length of her teller window. Her fingers grew greasy as she counted his currency, the area suddenly smelled like fried bacon.

  “Ahem,” Otto cleared his throat, stood up as straight as possible waiting for her complete attention.

  “Forty, sixty, eighty, nine hundred. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty…” she counted in a whisper, praying to God he wouldn’t try to interrupt her. She had a bad feeling about what might be coming.

  “So, what are you doing when you’re off work tonight?” Otto asked, absently pulling up a jersey sleeve and exposing about two thirds of his Donald Duck tattoo.

  “Thought it might be time for us to get together, get a little more acquainted, make it all kind of official, you know.”

  Cindy thought this can’t be happening. Please don’t let this be happening to me.

  “Let me give you this ticket into the Fair,” he continued, pulling a thrice folded, sweat soaked ticket out of the back pocket of his shorts.

  “Oh, no, that’s not…”

  “Here’s a half off coupon for my stands, all you could possibly eat, half off of course, cause we’re an item. That’s where you’ll find me by the way, at one of my stands. Figured we could maybe grab something after that,” he said, casually tossing the coupon on top of the folded ticket, giving her an all knowing wink.

  The coupon featured Otto’s logo, the sunburned pig in a lawn chair with the shorts pulled down revealing a deep butt crack. He folded his arms, nodded toward the grease-stained items, sweat soaked from being in his pocket.

  “Like I said, we could maybe grab something a little later on.” He accentuated ‘grab something’ with a sort of moronic leer from behind the zinc oxide.

  She was speechless, her worst fears becoming an awful reality.

  “Thank, thank you,” she stammered, using a Kleenex wrapped around one finger to pull the greasy, sweaty little pile out of the window well, dragging the items next to her can of Lysol. A greasy trail shone across the Formica counter.

  “I, I’m afraid I, I might be busy for the rest of the wee
k but, thank you, anyway,” she was biting her trembling lower limp hoping she wouldn’t start to cry.

  “Only the beginning,” said Otto, not taking ‘might be busy’ as her final answer. The woman he’d like to do his laundry and cleaning was just playing hard to get.

  She was afraid she might cry. She bit her lip, forced down the hard lump in her throat. Then just stood there dumbfounded, looking at Otto with a glazed expression across her face.

  “My ah, deposit slip?” he asked eventually.

  She had forgotten the total and would have to count anew, “Oh, yeah, s-sorry,” she said sniffling back a tear as she started over, counting as fast as ever. She hoped she could hold her scream in until he was gone.

  He smiled, gave a knowing nod to two women in the line next to him.

  She sniffled, continued biting her trembling lower lip, fighting to hold back a tear, keying in the deposit slip before creaking out a timid, “Thank you.”

  “At your service, ma’am,” Otto replied flipping his two-fingered salute.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said to the next customer before running off to the ladies room.

  He had handled it perfectly, even helping the poor little thing out when she couldn’t believe her luck and just stood there staring at him. Yeah, he still had that old Otto magic.

  * * *

  Merlot had been rolling the ancient bullets around on his desktop for over an hour trying to think of a disguise, a mask, something, anything he could do that would allow him to pull off this robbery. He had been toying with the idea of dressing as a woman and had spent the past ten or fifteen minutes thinking about an appropriate breast size.

  He could feel the clock spinning out of control, moving faster and faster while he sat here wasting time thinking about fake boobs. He decided to go to the bank again, check things out a final time.

  * * *

  Merlot held the door for some sort of local character with clown white smeared over his face, wearing an old North Stars hockey jersey, grinning like an idiot. But for the grace of God, he thought, staring as the obviously deranged little man walked away. He hoped the guy would be able to find his way back to the group home where he lived.

  The heat in the small bank lobby was stifling. Walled on three sides with floor-to-ceiling windows the lobby design cleverly allowed the sun to beat mercilessly into the room from sunup right through to sundown. Crammed with short-fused people dripping sweat, the room rarely had a chance to cool.

  He hadn’t stepped five feet in the door before Cindy quickly glanced up and spotted him. He thought she looked a little pale and wondered if their night and early morning had anything to do with it.

  He stood in line for fifteen minutes. By the time he made it to her window he was dripping sweat.

  “I just need two fives for this ten,” he joked, sliding a soggy ten-dollar bill across the counter. “Hey, what the hell? You guys oil this, it sure seems slick?” Rubbing his fingers across the counter, then examining the oily sheen on his fingertips.

  “It’s the fair traffic. Everything gets kind of greasy,” she said shaking her head to move damp strands of hair off her forehead. She pushed two fives back beneath the thick glass window.

  “Got time for a coffee or Coke?”

  “I’d love to, really I would, Tony, but we’ve just been jammed with customers all day and I really can’t take any breaks. None of us can.”

  “Not a problem,” he said.

  “You okay? You seem distracted.” She glanced around behind her to see what he was looking at.

  “Yeah, just looking is all. You sure you can’t take a break?”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t,” she shrugged, half nodding to the crowded lobby. The color seemed to be return to her face. She leaned forward and half whispered, “But thanks for last night. I had a wonderful time, really I did, thanks,” she smiled.

  “Yeah, that’s a great little restaurant.”

  “I didn’t mean the restaurant,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too, thanks. You sure? Final chance, lady.”

  “I’d love to but I just can’t.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I held the door for one of your top customers on my way in,” he laughed.

  “Hunh?” she crinkled her nose, not following the joke.

  “Oh that handicapped guy, you know.”

  “What handicapped guy?”

  “The guy with the clown face in that screwy hockey-jersey outfit. There a group home around here?”

  “Yes, there is and he doesn’t live there,” she said.

  “Look, I’d better get going,” he pocketed the fives, oblivious to her reaction.

  “Can I call you later, Tony?”

  “Yeah, please do.”

  He took his time exiting the lobby looking for a possible camera. He found three. This was going to be more difficult then he had first thought, and he still didn’t have any sort of plan.

  * * *

  Milton’s eyes were glassy. He was running a fever. His hand had stopped throbbing, but only because his arm had gone numb. He reeked of the disinfectant Osborne had just finished spraying over him.

  “We’ll just see how that bovine rabble likes the idea of being upstaged by the crowds I’ll have in here for the suntan competition,” Osborne sneered.

  The police presence was supposedly onsite to keep order. Osborne himself had phoned earlier in the day to complain, hoping they would arrest the protestors and cart the ungrateful wenches off to some dark hole. That had turned into a fiasco. The police arrived in two patrol cars; he had been watching out his office window and ran downstairs to greet them, ready to point out the ring leaders, thankful his tax dollars were at work.

  “Thank God you’ve finally arrived. You can start with this slut here,” Osborne pointed Sassie out to a large gawking sergeant.

  “She’s the ringleader, once you arrest her, that medical ingrate should go next.” He indicated Serpentina, in her mini-skirted nurse’s uniform. She had unbuttoned the upper six or seven buttons on the skimpy white garment exposing deep cleavage.

  Hearing Osborne’s directions to the officers Sassie struck a pouty pose, in one fluid motion thrusting her chest out, cocking her thong clad backside and presenting her wrists to the officer for handcuffs, batting her eyes.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he laughed nervously, running his wide eyes up and down her figure.

  “Is this gentleman bothering any of you ladies?” he asked, as two of his compatriots took hold of Osborne’s elbows, quickly spun him around and pushed him up against the redbrick wall of the Beaver Hut.

  “Assume the position,” a young officer said forcefully, kicking Osborne’s feet apart, pinning him up against the wall.

  “Careful ma’am, I’m not exactly sure what we’re dealing with here.”

  Misty Morning put on a frightened pout. She wore a blue baby doll nightie, and matching false eyelashes.

  “This is absolutely ridiculous, I…” Osborne attempted to protest, just before a hand forcefully bounced his forehead off the brick wall.

  “Sir, I’m not going to tell you again. I want you to remain still while I search you. Now, do you have any needles or sharp instruments that will make me very unhappy if I find them?”

  “But I haven’t done anything,” Osborne whined, attempting to blink away stars.

  “You wanna do this here or downtown? I don’t want to hear one more word, not one.” The officer instructed about an inch from Osborne’s right ear.

  “Will you be doing that to the rest of us?” Natashia, a perky brunette in a bustier with matching French cuffs and bow tie asked.

  “No, unfortunately.”

  They cuffed Osborne then led him off. Placed him in the back of a squad car, slammed the door and hurried back to the sidewalk.

  “Sarge, you think we better hang tight, make sure this thing doesn’t get out of control?”

  “Already calling in for an overtime authorization. Nothi
ng I don’t think the four of us can’t handle, for now.” He was watching two of the girls apply suntan lotion to one another.

  After giving the girls autographs and posing for a series of photos with the line of perfumed protesters it was a good hour, possibly two before the officers finally remembered to remove Osborne from the back of the squad car. He had become slightly dehydrated. He was soaked with sweat, groggy, confused and there was a large purplish knot the width of a brick running across his forehead.

  “Sir, I’m releasing you for the time being, but I’m going to insist that you return to your office. You are not to converse, touch or in anyway attempt to communicate with these ladies.” An officer uncuffed Osborne’s wrists, then smiled at a protester wearing little red satin devils horns.

  “Should you attempt to engage these demonstrators, I’ll have you taken downtown and booked for disturbing the peace, harassment, attempted assault and I’ll probably throw in public nuisance, too. Any questions?”

  Osborne’s head lolled back and forth for a moment before he nodded groggily.

  They took him firmly by the arm and led him to the front door of the Beaver Hut, shoved him in the darkened entry and left him to his own devices.

  Now Osborne looked down from his office window, closed his eyelids in response to the throbbing in his head.

  “The cows, I’ll have each and every one of them walking in the unemployment line by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll flood this place with new talent from my suntan contest and they’ll find themselves out of work.”

  “Milton, what about this matter with DiMento? We’re supposed to see something from him within the next forty-eight hours. I trust you’re ready to move?”

  Milton’s tongue was thick, his right arm had vignetted into various shades of red, purple and green. The words seemed to echo from some great distance as he attempted to focus through glassy eyes.

  “Milton,” Osborne called standing over him, liberally dousing him with a heavy mist of disinfectant.