Merlot Page 9

  “You keep some late hours,” he said, with an all knowing wink.

  Oh, you absolute creep, she groaned to herself, counting his cash, piling it into stacks.

  “Yes sir, open until 6:00.” she said.

  “Just wondered if you started early like that every day?” he half whispered, then snickered at his own crazy sense of humor.

  “Mmm-mmm,” she said, counting twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, anxious to get him away from her window.

  “Go there often and, and do that sort of thing?” he asked.

  Forty, sixty, eighty, hundred, four thousand six hundred she counted, checking the amount on his deposit slip, crediting the cash. She shoved the grease stained bag and the deposit slip back under the glass. Making sure the deposit slip was at all times between her fingertips and the bag that had touched his sweaty body.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” She smiled, thinking gross!

  He wiped the sweat running down the side of his face with the back of his hand. He felt a tingle from the tip of his jungle boots to the top of his head when she spoke to him. He seized on her double meaning, anything else?

  “Well, now that you mention it,” he said posing, putting his forearm in front of the window, wanting her to see his Donald Duck tattoo, U.S.M.C. boldly scripted just below Donald’s ass. He moved his head back and forth, trying to buy time. He could feel his face blushing and he began to sweat. He waited for her to ask about Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick.

  It didn’t happen.

  She repeated the refrain in her head, gross, gross, gross. Then heard her voice ask sweetly,

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “I guess not, at least not here,” he laughed, winked, shrugged, waited for a moment before giving her a little two-fingered salute and ambled out the door.

  The woman waiting behind him approached the counter shaking her head.

  “Just a minute please,” Cindy said, then sprayed a can of Lysol over the window area and wiped it clean with a paper towel.

  “Lord, I don’t blame you one damn bit. And those dreadful Vikings!”

  * * *

  As Mendel opened the door to the bank, he was cut off by the same character he had labeled Porky Pig the other day. Bastard dressed the same way, Vikings jersey, jungle boots. White shit smeared on his face. Mendel caught the Donald Duck tattoo on the forearm; the vague, distant look, sweat running down his face. He decided to give this nutcase all the space he needed.

  * * *

  Merlot had gone to bed thirty minutes after arriving home from the game. He didn’t have the courage to watch the news, afraid that he and the others got caught on film. Despite exhaustion he slept fitfully, waking with a start a number of different times, frightened by a recurring nightmare of Dickie dropping his boxers and screaming, “Wild Card”.

  He showered, dressed, and drove to the coffee shop for his doughnut and latte on the way in to work.

  Chrissie was spilling out of a T-shirt two sizes too small and shorts that looked too wonderfully tight.

  “Hey, Merlot, was that you on the news last night with that fat guy at the Vikings game? God, wondered if you’d even show your face today.”

  “Viking’s game, me? No, had to work, I wasn’t there.”

  “Oh, man I could have sworn that was you. They were showing this gi-normous guy and I thought that was you right next to him. Oh gee, now that’s really weird ‘cause I yelled out to everyone in the room. We were watching at my sisters and I yelled out, hey,” she raised her voice, yelled across the coffee shop. “I know that guy, that’s Merlot next to that fat dude’s ass. Isn’t that crazy? You know, like you could have been famous or something.”

  A number of people looked up from their computer screens or over the tops of newspapers. He smiled weakly, grabbed his latte and doughnut and ran out the door.

  That was only the beginning. He had to walk past two newspaper vending machines, one for St. Paul’s Pioneer Press and the other for the Minneapolis Star and Tribune. Both were running a full color shot of Dickie and company at Sunday’s game. The Pioneer Press ran with the headline Family Entertainment? While the Star Tribune took the more subtle approach, Biggest Loser! Pictured next to Dickie, in order of appearance, Merlot, Wiener and Victor. Andrew somehow managed to get cropped out of both editions.

  Merlot stumbled in the Lounge-room door downing his Latte, cramming the doughnut into his mouth and wearing a shell-shocked look.

  “Hey, Merlot,” Patti called, pouring a double for one of her morning regulars.

  “You’re famous, saw you on the news last night. Oh and ah, nice picture in the paper. You made the front page in both cities, good job,” she laughed, before wiggling her finger to get him closer.

  She reeled him in for more bad news.

  “Hey, remember those two creepy guys from last Friday?” she said, giving her little I’m-so-cute smile.

  He nodded blankly.

  “Well, they’re waiting for you again in your office, honey. God, I had to hide the paper from my kids, Merlot. Like I said, I don’t want them near a guy like you.”

  * * *

  “Gentlemen, you’re a bit early, didn’t we just speak Friday?” Merlot walked behind his desk, picked up a slight medicinal scent and felt his face begin to flush.

  “So, what can I do for you this morning? How was dinner with your nurse friend by the way?” he addressed Osborne, working to calm himself.

  Milton kept his right hand against his sport jacket. It was clearly swollen with a purplish tinge extending partway up his fingers.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new Vikings mascot. Taking up a second job to make ends meet?” the hand doing nothing for Milton’s sense of humor. He was wearing a light blue sport jacket over a rippled black silk T-shirt. The coat sleeves tight against huge biceps and thick forearms.

  “That’s the problem with public facilities like the dome, you never know who you’ll end up seated next to. Now, my office on the other hand is private. I can appreciate the concern for your loan, but like I told you Friday, I’m concluding arrangements shortly and intend to pay that debt on time if not before. Anything else?” he asked.

  “All of a sudden you’re a big media star and you think your shit don’t stink?” Milton moved maybe a half step closer and cast a glassy eye toward Merlot.

  “Milton, please,” cautioned Osborne, brushing imaginary dust off his pink tie. He wore a tan suit and pale blue shirt, the pink tie apparently chosen to match the rim of his eyelids.

  “I think it’s time for you two to leave.”

  “Milton,” Osborne said.

  Milton quickly reached across the desk, grabbed Merlot tightly by the collar, and effortlessly lifted him off the floor.

  Merlot gasped. He thought of kneeing the giant, but the desk was in the way. Held inches from his face, Milton’s eyes had a glassy look, breath a subtle mix of salami and latrine.

  “I trust you will endeavor yourself of our generosity. Remember, in the event of nonpayment we can invoke the special extermination clause,” Osborne calmly continued.

  Milton snickered, and tightened his grip.

  Merlot fought for air. He couldn’t swallow, his eyes bulged, his tongue grew too large for his mouth, and he panicked. He attempted to kick Milton but only succeeded in smashing his shins painfully against the edge of the desk.

  In desperation, he swung his elbow and caught Milton solidly just under the edge of his jaw, teeth cracking as the massive head snapped back. Milton’s eyes rolled as he fell backward, grasping Merlot’s collar, pulling him up and over the desk. They crashed onto the floor with a collective groan. Merlot rolled off Milton and sucked in precious air.

  Milton shook his head back and forth and blinked his eyes.

  Osborne leapt to feet, but not as quickly as Merlot who suddenly brandished an aluminum softball bat in his left hand, adrenaline coursing through his body.

  “I’ve had a real fucking bad day,
and your unexpected visit isn’t helping. Now get him out of here before I really get pissed.” Merlot smashed the bat viciously against Milton’s swollen right hand just as Milton attempted to rise, knocking him back to the floor.

  Milton roared in pain and rolled to his side, curled into a fetal position. The right sleeve of his sport jacket ripped along the shoulder seam.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Di…”

  “Shut up, I’ll assure you, I’ll take you out without a second thought if you two don’t get out of my sight right now. Get him up, and get out and not another God damned word.” He shook the bat in Osborne’s direction.

  Osborne, red faced, furious, pink-rimmed eyes glaring, helped the groaning Milton to his feet and out the door.

  “Good day, sir,” Osborne said not looking back.

  Merlot suddenly felt an incredible urge to be sick.

  * * *

  Sidney sat at his desk, periodically looked up at Mendel out in the bank lobby. He seemed lost, looking this way and that, in and out of various teller lines. What a week to come in here and open an account, Sidney thought. But just as he was about to offer assistance Mendel suddenly turned and left.

  “Where do all these loons go when it’s not fair week?” Sidney wondered.

  “Place is crawling with folks waving money,” Mendel declared.

  “And no guards that I seen. There’s one little room in back but I don’t think there’s a guard in there, just let’s ya into them bank tellers. I’m thinking they got all that money sitting there just waitin for someone like us to come take it off their damn hands.”

  “No guards?” Lucerne asked.

  “I said no guards. Get the shit out of your ears, son.”

  “If there ain’t guards why do we need the guns?” Elvis asked leaning forward and feeling stupid before the words had left his mouth.

  Mendel’s look gave him his answer and he sat back in the rear seat, quiet for the remainder of the ride.

  * * *

  The OK Corral gun shop sat on the far northern edge of the suburb of Blaine, not a strictly rural setting. The clientele consisted of guys who hunted whatever was in season, survivalists, ex-military or military wannabes, like the owner, T.J. Flood.

  T.J. wore a side arm virtually at all times, a blued Sig Sauer 229 with a twelve round .357 magazine, to be specific. He took it off when he was in bed with his wife, Miss Suzie, then the Sig Sauer rested on the nightstand within easy reach.

  A Dolly Parton look-alike, Miss Suzie insisted on two things: First, even though her name was Marsha, he was to call her Miss Suzie after the old Creedence song “Suzie Q”. She’d partied with some of the Creedence roadies for two nights and a day when they played Denver, not that she ever told T.J. about it. Second, T.J. was not allowed to wear the Sig Sauer into her bed, hence the nightstand repository.

  T.J. himself was a rather slight man with soft hands, a whiskey-tenor voice, dishwater blond hair, a waxed handlebar mustache and soft brown eyes magnified behind Coke-bottle glasses. It had been poor eyesight that kept him out of the service.

  He spotted the Ditschler brothers through the tinted glass front door as Mendel, Lucerne, and Elvis piled out of their two toned Fleetwood Brougham enveloped in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.

  “I don’t think so,” he exclaimed.

  He set down the Army field manual he had been re-reading, FM-175 Ranger, and came out from behind the counter, meeting the Ditschlers just inside the front door.

  Mendel, Lucerne, and Elvis walked in looking in desperate need of a shower without a dollar between the three of them, a demographic T.J. wasn’t the least bit interested in serving.

  “I see some I.D., please?” he rested his hand on his holster, blocking their path, not meaning the please part.

  “Just taking a look round see,” Mendel grinned, exposing dingy teeth in a misguided effort to win T.J. over.

  “Sorry gents, not without a proper ID, and a backup. House rules, we scan everyone’s ID, keep a record. I’m sure you can understand, what with our inventory.”

  Mendel’s eyes rested on a long steel gun rack behind T.J. holding exactly what they had come looking for, AKs, the ones with the folded plastic butt.

  “Well, we just ain’t got that kinda time. Got us an appointment in a few minutes, wanted to just pop in, take a look around, is all. But, if you’ve a mind to treat good-paying customers like this, I guess we’ll just be on our way. Come on boys. Nothing here of interest for us and our hard earned money.”

  The three beat a hasty retreat back out the door.

  T.J. watched as they fired up the Fleetwood, a blue cloud of exhaust drifted across the parking lot while they revved the engine a number of times then drove off.

  * * *

  “Shit, now what?” Lucerne asked.

  “Course neither one of you two dummies was looking round, was you?” Mendel asked. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Hell, what we need is right there about fifteen feet inside the front door. Right behind where that soft shouldered bastard was standing. So, what we’re gonna do now is knock us off a liquor store or two for a little walking-around money. Then one of these next nights we’ll just come back up here and take what we need. Simple,” he said snapping his fingers.

  * * *

  “You listen to me, Anthony,” Merlot’s mother was using her no nonsense tone the moment he picked up the phone.

  “Please tell me your uncle Mario was wrong when he phoned me at seven o’clock this morning from St. Petersburg, Florida. Apparently you were on the news last night and Good Morning America this morning. Please tell me that wasn’t my son staring back at me from my morning paper with that Wiener person at the Vikings game yesterday. And that dreadful performance by Suzanne Ulmbacher’s son, I’m sure she’s a proud mother.

  “Hi Mom,” he said, attempting to get a half moment to think.

  “Now you listen here, you’re known by the company you keep, young man. You bear just as much responsibility for those dreadful actions as if you’d done them yourself.”

  Fucking Dickie, he thought.

  “What are you thinking, Anthony? Did you, in your wildest dreams, think that, that, that you could cavort around town like some sort of ne’er-do-well? What are my friends going to think? My God, I’ll have to move.”

  “Mom, you’re not going to move.”

  “Don’t you be too sure about that. Now you just listen here, mister, I’ve had just about enough of these shenanigans. Your father, God rest him, and I, did not raise you so you could behave like some sort of criminal. Now you will cease this nonsense, immediately, do you hear me, immediately. This is exactly why you need a good woman in your life, so you settle down. And you are going to apologize.”

  “Apologize? Mom, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Listen here, you’re not so big that I won’t take you over my knee and blister that backside. And don’t you think I won’t.”

  He could see her, waving her finger as she spoke to him.

  “Okay, Mom. I’m sorry. Look, unpack the moving boxes, I’ll be over tonight for dinner.”

  “Well be prepared for a healthy serving of humble pie. There is a lot I intend to say to you.”

  “Gee, I can hardly wait.”

  “Anthony, you will stop immediately. Do you hear me? I will not suffer that tone from you. Now I will see you tonight, and do not be late!” Click

  Fucking Dickie, he thought, dialing Dickie’s office number.

  “Hans Ulmbacher, please.”

  “Hello, you’ve reached the office of Hans Ulmbacher. I’m unable to take your call just now, and I will be unavailable for the next few days. If this is an emergency you can press extension 011 at anytime. If you wish to leave me a message please press star 015. Thank you and have a nice day.”

  Merlot was not having a nice day, and he pressed star 015. What he got was a computer-generated voice that said, “this mail box is full,” before disconnecting him altogether.

  He had j
ust hung up the phone, about to get back to work when it rang.

  “Hello.”

  “So, how in the hell is your morning?” Victor asked.

  “Well, let’s see, I’ve been identified and accused by everyone from a blond at the coffee shop to my own employees. I assaulted some prick with a baseball bat, and my mom called and said she’s so embarrassed she has to move. You?”

  “About the same, except for the assault thing. Do I want to know about that?”

  “Just joking,” Merlot lied.

  “Yeah, well, not funny the way things are going. My loving bride Tasha raced over to her mother’s in hopes of getting the paper from her before she saw me on the front page. She called the office to inform me we’d talk about it when I got home. My own mother called me to say she didn’t work two jobs to send me through law school so I could embarrass her on national TV. On a positive note, I got a call from my brother in Atlanta who said he enjoyed it. Of course I had to cut that conversation short since Mr. Ehrmann, as in Ehrmann, Benson, Benson and Barnes, the firm’s senior partner called and wondered if I had time to chat with him for a few moments, immediately.”

  “Jesus, what’d he say?”

  “We’ll let’s just say we won’t be using the firm’s season tickets, ever again.”

  “Fucking Dickie, I tried to call that giant piece of shit and he’s got his calls blocked so I can’t reach him,” Merlot whined.

  “Look, his bank is a major corporate sponsor. Word gets out that fat white ass beamed across all fifty states belonged to an employee and Dickie is toast,” Victor reminded.

  “You think they’ll do that?”

  “I think it might be shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later. Look I’ve got to attempt to salvage something out of this morning so I had better go. You playing poker Thursday night?” Victor asked.

  “I plan to,” Merlot replied, thinking he couldn’t possibly.

  “See you there.”

  He hung up, about to track down La Tondra and Celeste, to see if they picked up the Saab from that Bernice woman on Saturday. He found them in the kitchen.

  “Merlot, caught you yesterday on the television. Man, I’ve always wanted to do that, it was really cool,” Celeste said.