David A. Schwinghammer
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Marv's best friend Rip thinks Marv may have kidnapped Dorie.
Chapter 9
Thirty Pieces of Silver
"What are these wounds in thine hands? . . .
Those with which I was wounded in the house of my friends."
--Zechariah, 13:6
Marv went outside, threw the frisbee around with Rex for awhile, then fed him the gravy-flavored biscuits he liked so much and broke the ice on his water dish. The dog licked his hand and tried to jump up on him so''s he could get at Marv''s face.
"You like old Marv, dont''cha boy?" he said, pushing the dog down and ruffling his fur.
Marv climbed into his truck, pumped the gas several times. She roared to life, and he eased her through the puddling snow and swung the wheels onto the road toward town. When he checked the rearview mirror, he could see Rex, who''d stopped eating and was watching the truck with his ears perked up in that way that German shepherds have. Loved that dog.
Whistling off-key, Marv thought about what a pain Dorie was getting to be. Just this morning he''d spent an hour making her a nice breakfast of chipped beef on toast with freshly squeezed orange juice. She trusted him so far as to let him make her breakfast lately. Not today, though; she''d thrown the whole tray at him. "You stupid hick," she''d said. "They call this stuff shit-on-a-shingle in the army! And there are pits in the orange juice!"
And then she''d sent him out to get her some Kotex. And more toilet paper. What did she do with all that toilet paper? It took him a whole month to use four rolls.
About a quarter mile down the road, snow began to dust the windshield, and he turned on his wipers. The farmer who lived a mile down from Marv had already put up his snow fence. That farmer had a good-looking daughter. He''d seen her walking down the driveway to pick up their mail. She ignored him when he waved. Stuck-up bitch.
Girls never gave him a chance; people in general never gave him a chance. When he tried to talk, they''d interrupt and finish his sentences for him. Fuckin'' pricks.
Marv cruised by an especially nice stand of spruce trees swaying in the breeze. They were all in good shape. They were evenly spaced, not at all dried out. Somebody was obviously taking care of them.
Trees were reliable. They provided shade, firewood, prevented erosion. Girls, on the other hand, made Marv dizzy. Dorie was right about that movie, "The Collector." That guy hadn''t really hurt that girl, though, not until the end anyway when she''d tried to trick him. Marv would never hurt Dorie, unless he had to defend himself. He really felt bad about hitting her.
Approaching a stop sign, Marv put his foot on the clutch, then tapped the brake. A black Corvette was coming from the other direction. Marv''d never spend that kind of money on a car. He''d only paid two thousand for his Trans Am he''d gotten from his cousin Nick.
He honked and the guy waved. Nobody coming. He put the truck in first and steered right. Yeah, he''d had this old beater for five years. She had a hundred and ten thousand miles on her, although the odometer had probably been turned back once or twice.
As he drove along, he thought about what Dorie might be like in bed. Maybe he would put something in her food. She''d smell it on him, though; must have a sign painted on his forehead; people could always tell when he was lying.
He''d built that room in the basement for her; it had carpeting, television, a refrigerator, a big bathtub. Everything she could possibly need. And she still hated his guts.
"Wonder if Dorie found the peephole yet," he said. "Maybe I better plug it up. She''ll really get pissed at me if she ever finds that." So far he hadn''t been able to catch her taking a bath. When would be the best time? Nine o''clock? Ten o''clock? The times he''d peeked she''d been watching TV. That''s all she seemed to do. That and eat.
He turned left onto the main road leading into Mason City. An apartment complex he''d worked at once was up ahead on the right. "I should stop and ask if they need any help," he said. "No, that wouldn''t be too smart; if anybody at Dorie''s apartment told the cops about me, they might start looking for guys who work with trees, especially at apartment complexes." Was that paranoid? Why would anyone suspect him? He wasn''t going to take the chance. He had enough money to last for awhile.
When he got into town, he stopped at the Wal-Mart. "What kind of Kotex would you like?" the saleslady asked.
Marv''s pulse began to accelerate. Oh my God, there was more than one kind! "Just r-r-regular," he said. The woman smiled. She must have been about fifty; she had one of those bouffant hairdos. Probably didn''t have to worry about Kotex anymore.
"Is your wife a heavy bleeder?"
"I w-wouldn''t think so. She''s just a little b-bitty thing."
"Hah hah, you''re so funny. I better give you an assortment. Just keep the sales slip; you can bring the others back." She handed him three different packages. He''d never seen a tampon before. Maybe he''d check them out before he gave them to Dorie; he liked to take things apart to see how they worked.
Marv reached for his bandana in his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wandered down an aisle and came up to the video section. He''d get her a movie. Now, what would she like? Maybe The Bodyguard; that had Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner in it. Out in the parking lot he checked the trees in the meridians between the parking lanes. Browning of the needles. Probably salt injury. He''d have to come back here and talk to the manager. Later though. There was a poster on one of the light towers offering a $5,000 reward for information on the whereabouts of Dorie Bendix.
Marv pulled into parking lot at the bank, next to a brand-new, red Thunderbird that had been there for awhile, as the snow around the wheels hadn''t been shoveled. Marv needed to deposit his check from a landscaping job he''d done for this lawyer guy who''d wanted him to do the sodding and everything. He''d raked in a thousand dollars for that job after expenses, although he''d had to call the guy twice about his bill.
The bank was ultra busy, considering it was ten o''clock in the morning and most people were at work. All eight tellers were occupied. The clink of change machines merged with the shuffle of crisp new bills, the hum of conversation, and the burping of telephones. All of these noises Marv feel gawky, out of place. He got in line behind two blue-haired old ladies.
The woman in front of him was wearing mink. Marv scanned the rest of the bank to make sure he wasn''t in the line of fire of an animal right''s activist with a bucket of blood. He snickered. The old woman turned and gave him a dirty look. The old bitch must be really rich with a coat like that. How could she look at herself in the mirror in the morning when she spent all that money on herself?
Something was taking the woman at the front of the line an awful long time. Marv lit a cigarette. Mink woman turned and pointed at the "no smoking" sign. Marv dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.
She was lucky he wasn''t Rip. His best friend Rip would follow her out of the bank, wait until she was in an isolated area, and take her mink.
It''s not fair for her to have all that money when some people didn''t even get enough to eat, he thought, like when I was a kid. These days he had a big freezer, and he bought a side of beef at a time from this farmer who lived nearby. He made lots of money working on trees. People didn''t generally know a damn thing about them.
Marv tapped mink woman on the shoulder. "Excuse me, ma''am; I was w-wondering if you''d heard anything f-further about the Dorie Bendix kidnapping."
She flinched when he touched her. "Young man, if you don''t leave me alone, I''ll call security."
He moved to another line. You just couldn''t be nice to some people. Now there were two old men and a big guy dressed in an overcoat and a powder-blue, three-piece suit in front of him. The big guy sensed his presence, turned and nodded.
Marv nodded back. He''d never had a three-piece suit. Not that he''d want one. I should maybe get one, he thought. I could wear it to church. It wouldn''t be so bad to start going to church again. How boring could it be?
Examining the lawyer''s signature on the check, Marv thought about how J. Pritchard Albright had probably never been hungry a day in his life. Certainly he''d never had to take free lunch. The other kids picked on Marv because of it. Bastards. The teachers, too. There''d been one nice one, though. Mrs. Olson. He had a problem with stuttering (The other kids called him Elmer, after Elmer Fudd) and it was her job to break him of it.
Mrs. Olson demanded a hug when he visited her little closet of a room. "You and I are going to be best friends," she said. "I want you to tell me everything about yourself. Tell me about your family." He told her about the time he and his brothers had a rock fight with the Hansen brothers who lived across the freeway.
I never talked so much in all my life, Marv thought. Hardly stuttered at all anymore after working with Mrs. Olson for a few months; but then she moved away, and the new lady, whose name he couldn''t remember, had him talk into a recorder while she went to have coffee with the other teachers. His stutter came back.
"A lot of snow for this time of year." The line wasn''t moving, and the big guy in the blue suit was talking to him. Salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back, a hardy smile plastered on his round face.
"Yeah, I guess the groundhog won''t see his shadow this year," Marv said.
The big, round-faced fellow laughed and turned back toward the front. One of the old men had finished his business, and the line was moving.
Marv wasn''t much for small talk. He''d never had any close friends in elementary school; he was one of the dumb kids, and he always wore the same clothes. He remembered when Guess jeans and Nike tennis shoes were popular. When he''d begged his mother to get him some, she''d just looked defeated. He even tried to steal a pair of tennis shoes from the K-Mart, but he got caught. His dad had strapped him for that. They were the wrong kind anyway. But then, when he''d started high school, things were different. He got him some friends:
Rip and Stan were in his English class. They sat in the back making fun of his favorite teacher, Ms. Swanson. One day after getting kicked out for farting, Rip slapped Marv on the back and said, "Have fun, kid."
Marv sassed Ms. Swanson the next day. When she asked for his homework, he tried to imitate Rip''s low snarl: "Ain''t got it." He and Rip had been friends ever since.
"Heard anything new about that TV anchor girl?" It was the big, round-faced guy in the three-piece suit again.
"Just what was in the papers. You?"
The big guy leaned toward Marv, put his hand to one side of his mouth, as if he was worried the wrong people were listening. "I heard that Detective Black knows the guy''s name. It''s only a matter of time before they get him."
Marv felt his face catch fire. "Did the kidnapper leave something at the scene?" Marv lit another cigarette.
"I''ve got a friend who knows Captain Pillsbury. He''s Black''s boss." Marv nodded. "The captain says Black has a first name."
"Did he say what the name was?" Before the man could answer, it was his turn at the counter.
Marv came out of the bank, immediately inspecting the plants and trees on the grounds. Split bark on some of the trees. They should have been wrapped.
Watching for maniacs swerving off the main road into the parking lot, he hopped back in his truck, worrying his thumbnail about what he''d heard. Was Dorie worth all this stress? He remembered the first time he''d seen her. He never watched the local news. Usually he watched Don Shelby on WCCO in the Twin Cities. Don, the female anchor, and the weatherman always seemed to be having such a good time. But one day he forgot and left it on the local station. She wasn''t too cute. She reminded him of Cathy Rigby, that little gymnast he sometimes saw doing feminine hygiene commercials.
Dorie was reading about the World Trade Center attack with this little grin on her face. He was shocked that she was grinning about something so horrible. Could be she didn''t know she was smiling. That was when he wrote her his first letter, just trying to be helpful. He didn''t even expect an answer, but she''d actually written back, explaining that she was new and hadn''t realized she was grinning and that she hoped he didn''t hold it against her. That was when he fell in love.
His imagination ran wild. Dorie had an older brother in the marines and a younger sister who was in seventh grade and a horse named Coco she rode on weekends and she liked to have a few beers at a neighborhood tavern with that other girl Arlene, who did the six o''clock news regularly. He''d like to be a fly on the wall and listen in on what they talked about. Probably clothes and boys and their job and maybe their parents, how glad they were to be out on their own. Turned out his forgetting to change the channel that day was kismet. Dorie was substituting that day. Usually she only did the morning news.
The big, round-faced man in the three-pieced suit was coming out of the bank and Marv remembered what he''d said about Black knowing his first name. He''d have to move Dorie. That wouldn''t be an easy process. Maybe he should just let her go, or else . . .
Funny how things worked out. Once he found out Dorie did the morning news, he got up extra early to watch, and one of the first days, one of the other newscasters mentioned something about how tiny Dorie was, during one of those chat sessions they sometimes had, and that had settled it for him. She was short, just right for him.
The first time he''d followed her, he''d sat in his truck all day until she''d come out of the station and trailed her home. Watched her apartment building for two weeks, like the cops on TV when they were on stakeout, until he had her routine down pat. It was kind of a coincidence. He''d worked on the trees in this apartment complex, he knew the manager; he''d thought at the time that might be a problem.
Someone tapped on his window and Marv hit his head on the roof of the truck he was so surprised. "Aren''t you the guy in the bank?" the round-faced man in the three-piece suit said, still smiling. "I didn''t mean to scare you. It''s just that you seemed so interested in what I said about Captain Pillsbury. The man''s name was Marv."
Pain stabbed at Marv''s gut, hurting so bad he had to double over; he tried to say thank you, but he couldn''t get his mouth around the words. After a few moments waiting for some sort of response, the man turned and walked back toward the bank, glancing back over his shoulder. The smile was gone. Would he report this suspicious behavior to the police? Would he say, "I met this little fellow at the bank; we were talking about the Dorie Bendix kidnapping and he damn near had a heart attack when I said I thought I knew the kidnapper''s name." And Black would find the teller who''d waited on him and get his last name, too.
Marv breathed in, filling his lungs with stale air, then slowly exhaled. He reached down and started the truck. I''m getting paranoid, he thought. Nobody''d go to the cops about something so stupid. Still need to know how the cops got my first name, and what else they know, though. Maybe I''ll call Rory and find out what he told them. I can ask for work. Winter''s the best time to prune certain trees.
Before he knew it, he found himself at Dorie''s apartment building. Pretty stupid actually if they had a description of his truck. But the truck turned into the parking lot, and he sat there staring at the front door, reliving the morning he''d taken her.
He''d had to get her when no one else was around. He''d sent her presents. First he sent her flowers and candy. Then one day he''d been in this jewelry store shopping for something nice for Mother''s Day when he''d seen this little cameo that had a face on it reminding him of Dorie. He couldn''t think of a way to let her know who was sending her all those gifts. He''d seen the news stories about Madonna and David Letterman who didn''t like fans interfering in their personal lives. But he''d called her a couple of times.
"Don''t call me again, Fucker, or I''ll have you thrown in jail," she''d said and hung up. He couldn''t believe she used that kind of language, not that it made him any less enchanted with her, but he figured he couldn''t call her anymore because he''d seen an advertisement that said the phone company had Caller ID now, and if he made her mad enough, she''d probably get that.
He didn''t have any choice. He had to take her. He supposed he''d known all along he was going to take her; ever since he''d seen that movie, he''d known he was going to take some girl. He just couldn''t stand to be alone anymore.
He''d be smart about it, though. He''d rent a place out in the country away from people, so she couldn''t scream her head off and attract the neighbors (Hadn''t noticed the landfill until after he''d moved in). He''d really soundproof the place as well. He knew how to do that from school. You got those little ceiling tiles with the holes in them he''d counted oh so many times and lots of insulation. Still it bothered him that he''d worked at the place she lived. Told the manager his name was Marv. On his W-2, though, he went by Bertram M., so they''d never find him that way.
As he sat watching the front door, Rory, the long-haired apartment manager opened it, looked directly at his truck, pivoted on his heel, and went back into the building.
#
From Dorie''s apartment, Marv drove to the quarries where he had a date to meet his good friend Rip. Rip liked to hang out there because he could throw beer bottles at the rocks and take target practice with this little derringer gun he had. Marv needed desperately to tell somebody about the new developments. What should he do? Rory had seen him, and the cops knew his name.
Rip offered Marv a toke of his joint. It was the only selfless act Marv could remember Rip ever making. Maybe because of that song he liked so much which you never heard on the "oldies" station, "Don''t Bogart That Joint, My Friend." Marv always got nauseous when he smoked dope, and he never got a so-called high. The marijuana smoke had the flavor of a bad-tasting cigarette.
"Get me a bottle of Red Dog out of the cooler in the Camaro," Rip said.
Marv was tired of Rip ordering him around. They''d known each other for fifteen years, and Rip was always bossing him. "Get it y-yourself," he said.
Rip put Marv in a headlock and tripped him, burying his face in the decaying autumn leaves. "Say Uncle, Motherfuck!" The granite rocks spit back the obscene word, like a three-year-old parroting an older brother.
The bastard had fifty pounds on Marv and was a good foot taller so he had to say uncle. "Say you''re sorry." Marv said he was sorry. "Say you''ll suck my dick." Marv wouldn''t agree to that. "Just kidding. I wouldn''t get any thrill out of that anyway."
Marv wasn''t so sure about that. Sometimes Rip reminded him of the mean little hillbilly in Deliverance who''d raped that guy.
Rip put the roach in his mouth and started chewing on it, sparks coming out his nose. Rip was always pulling stuff like this. Maybe he was the devil. Marv was dying to tell him about Dorie Bendix, but he knew that if he did, he''d have to prove it to him, and Rip would take her away from him.
Before Marv had a chance to get up and get the beer, Rip went to his car and came back with this woman. She was blond with kind of kinky curly hair. She was rather overweight, pleasingly plump he guessed they called it.
The girl''s open green parka revealed a flowered dress with a v-neck. Marv could see the crack between her heavy blue-veined breasts, and he smelled baby powder. Rip had her by the neck, kind of massaging it, but then his hand stiffened, and he made her kneel in front of him. "You want to suck my dick. Say you want to suck my dick."
The woman didn''t fight it. She reached up, undid Rip''s zipper and took out his tool. Marv turned his back. He''d seen it lots of times watching X-rated movies, but never in person, and he didn''t really want to.
"Want her to do you, Marv boy?"
Marv whirled. Now that was a different story. "What''s her name?" he said. Marv would feel like he was doing it with an animal if he didn''t at least know her name.
The woman stopped gobbling on Rip''s dick and said, "I ain''t gonna suck that little creep; I don''t do guys with acne."
Rip grabbed her by the hair and said, "You''ll blow anybody I say, bitch."
The woman jumped up and ran off into the woods. Instead of chasing her, Rip hopped into his cherry-red ''86 Camaro and spun on out of there, digging up sod.
Marv followed the woman''s tracks through the woods into a grove of spruce trees. He loved spruce; they were so much more symmetrical than other Christmas trees; hardly had to trim them at all. Sometimes Marv worked on a Christmas tree farm during those times when he couldn''t find work. They always needed somebody since they couldn''t keep the teens they usually hired very long. They weren''t used to physical labor. They''d get blisters and start whining, and then they''d quit.
The kinky-headed wench had stopped in a clearing, her eyes bugging out, kind of running in place, completely disoriented. Now he really wanted her, but he couldn''t see how he was going to get her to do anything with him. "Are you lost?" he said. "I''ll take you back if you want." Breathing heavily, she sneered at him. This only made him more excited. He could jump on her and make her do it, and nobody would be able to do anything about it. Rip would never tell.
"I promise I won''t hurt you," he said.
"Fuckin'' pizza face," she spat. "There''s no way I''m doing anything with you."
A woman who talked like that didn''t deserve to be treated like a lady. Marv undid his zipper. "Will you do it if I give you money?" He moved closer and she backed away.
"How much money you got?" she said. Marv noticed that she had a face similar to Dorie''s. Could''ve been a heavier older sister. An irresistible urge grabbed him and he rushed her, but she kicked out at him, hitting him right in the nuts, and when he went down, she hit him over the head with a tree branch, knocking him out. When he came to, she was gone. And so was his wallet.
He thought about following her trail back out of the woods, but he wasn''t sure how long he''d been out. Seems like the sun was a lot lower in the sky.
Marv squinted up into the trees. A tree rat was gawking down at him. He patted the ground feeling for a rock, maintaining eye contact. If he took his eyes away, he knew the squirrel would be gone when he turned back. He found one which fit perfectly in his hand; he whipped it at the tree rat''s head and surprisingly hit it. The squirrel toppled to the ground. This was one tree rat who''d never kill another tree.
#
Rip pulled into Marv''s yard, raising geysers of water as he maneuvered the Camaro through the puddles left from the melting snowbanks. As he parked the Camaro on the lawn, the German shepherd started raising holy hell and ran up alongside the car. You''d think the stupid dog would know him by now, but every time he came over here, it was the same damn thing.
As he opened the car door, the dog darted toward his leg, and bit him, ripping the fabric of his jeans. Rip shut the door, rubbed the spot where the dog had nipped him. He turned up the radio, which was playing a song by Alan Jackson, the blond turkey with the scraggly mustache. People told him he could be Alan Jackson''s twin.
Rip was pretty sure Marv was preoccupied with the slut he''d left him with out at the quarry. He took a swig from a bottle of Red Dog he''d been sipping on ever since he''d decided to see if Marv had anything worth stealing. Rip already owed Marv five hundred dollars, and even a shlep like Marv wasn''t going to loan him money unless he paid him something down every so often. He had never paid Marv anything. Bought him a beer with his own money was all. Maybe a toke on a joint every so often. And then there was the girl. What the hell was her name again? Some skag from Rusty''s.
He rolled down the window and measured the dog. There was a tire iron under the seat, just in case some husband or boyfriend or brother developed a ferocious hard-on for him. He reached his left hand out the window toward the dog as a lure, and when the dog snapped at it, he bounced the tire iron off the mutt''s cranium, the aftershock numbing his arm. The dog hit the ground with a thud.
He got out of the Camaro, rubbing his tingling forearm. The dog was history, its tongue dangling between bloody teeth. Teach him to tear his almost new jeans; he didn''t go for that hippy fashion of torn-out knees. He even had his wife June iron them.
Rip circled the house on the lookout for a way in. Ah, there was a tool shed. He was still carrying the tire iron he''d clubbed the dog with, and he used it to break the lock. There was one of those Sears mulcher lawnmowers in there, not a speck of grass on the thing. He could get maybe a hundred dollars for it at Melby''s Pawn. No weed whacker, no chain saw, but there was a nice set of tools in one of those compartmentalized toolboxes. He could get maybe fifty bucks for that.
After pushing the lawn mower back down to his car, he folded the steering mechanism and settled the mulcher in his trunk. Then he went back to get the tool box. He lit a Camel and searched the sky. Looked like it was going to snow again.
He closed the trunk, sauntered around to the passenger side of the Camaro, and opened the door. Perched on the edge of the seat, he braced himself with the heels of his boots and twisted the cap on another bottle of Red Dog, eyeballing Marv''s house. Marv had rented it from Old Man Bentler for a hundred a month. Bentler was going on seventy and his wife had made him move off the farm. Cheap rent for such a monster.
Wonder what the hell Marv wants with such a big house? he thought. He took another slug of Red Dog and dragged on his Camel. Melby said he''d give me two hundred dollars if I could find a good stereo system. Probably have to break down the door to get in, though.
He set the beer bottle down and strode toward the house, checking for an open window or a door Marv forgot to secure. No luck. The front door wouldn''t give; all the windows were closed. The back door sprung, but opened onto a vestibule, and the door leading into the house was locked. He took a half-hearted run, putting his shoulder to the door, but it held. His shoulder felt as if he''d dislocated it.
Massaging his shoulder, he stalked around the outside of the house in search of a basement window. He found one on the east side of the house. It was one of those glass brick windows, but he thought he could see some movement down there. He scrunched down on his heels to investigate, held his breath. Definitely, someone was pacing up and down, talking to herself. It was a woman''s voice.
Rip ambled back toward the Camaro, kicking at loose pebbles and ice. Marv hadn''t said anything about any relative staying with him. He certainly wouldn''t be able to attract a woman by himself. Even that skag at the quarries wouldn''t have anything to do with him. Rip got into the car, backed up, and positioned the front tires so as he''d be able to drive over the dog''s head. He put the Camaro in drive and could hear the bones crack as he nudged the car over the body.
#
Rip slammed the Camaro in gear and swung onto the county road just ahead of squealing brakes and a blaring horn. A jet-black Mustang had swerved off the road butting up against a snowbank.
He flashed the Mustang the finger, hoping the clown would try to cut him off. He felt like bashing somebody; he still had the tire iron he''d clubbed the dog with.
As the Mustang receded in the rearview mirror, the mulcher shifted in the trunk with a thump, causing Rip to flinch. He needed to hock the junk he''d stolen from Marv as soon as possible.
Rip floored the Camaro, the stuffed gorilla he''d won for his kids at a church bazaar doing backflips from his rearview mirror. He was on the outskirts of Mason City before you could say Richard "The King" Petty. There was a Burger King on the main drag. He was starving to death, but he''d spent his last few bucks on the Red Dog, so he''d have to wait until he hocked the lawnmower and the tool chest. He could never keep any money. He''d had a nice little racket going at Shep''s Fina Station, changing oil. Made six bucks an hour for something people could do themselves if they had a grain of sense. But that son of a bitch Shep expected him to be there at eight o''clock in the morning on the dot, and he couldn''t get up that early, after raisin'' hell at Rusty''s until two in the morning.
Melby''s hock shop was only a block down from the Burger King. Rip parked the Camaro in a handicapped zone, got out, and strolled toward the pawn shop, keeping an eye on the car.
He nudged the door open with his hip, setting off the door chimes, and zeroed in on the watch display. He''d seen a Bulova with a gold band the last time he''d hocked something, and it was still there. That fat bastard Melby wanted fifty bucks for it. He knew he could jew the son-of-a-bitch down to thirty or forty. Probably paid ten for it. June had been nagging him about shoes for the kids, though. If he got a hundred and fifty for the lawn mower and the tool chest he could afford both.
Melby finally noticed him, and Rip stepped over to the counter. Melby weighed a good three hundred pounds, never shaved, and smelled like fermenting potato peelings.
"Whatcha got for me today, Rip? Hope it''s clean. I ain''t takin'' nothing hot." Melby''s way of haggling; he knew damn well whatever Rip sold was hot.
"Got a Sears mulching lawn mower and a tool chest. Let you have the works for three hundred dollars. Inherited it from my grandfather, and I got no need for either one."
"Lawn mowers is a dime a dozen, but I can probably give you a few bucks. Let me see it."
Melby waddled out from behind the bulletproof glass and shuffled toward the door, the dinger going off again as he opened it. Rip followed him outside and popped open his trunk.
"Clean as a whistle. Bet you never seen a used lawn mower in such good condition."
"Give you seventy-five dollars for the both of them. You won''t get that much no place else."
Rip would have liked to stick his derringer in Melby''s ear and take all the money he had, but he knew he''d need the bastard again some time.
"I ain''t got time for this hard-sell bullshit. Aren''t I one of your best customers? Gimme a break."
Melby agreed to pay a hundred dollars, fifty short of what Rip needed. He bought the watch. The brats would have to wait on the shoes; June could pick up some at a garage sale or something.
Rip sailed into the Burger King and pulled up in line behind a station wagon. A lady with her hair up in curlers was making her order, three little rugrats hanging out the windows. If June went out in public lookin'' like that he''d beat her ass good. The little shits were stickin'' their tongues out at him. He jammed the Camaro in neutral and pressed down on the accelerator. He had a glass pack hookup on his muffler, and the roar made the whelps dive for cover.
They finally finished their order and Rip pulled up to the window. "Gimme three Big Macs, a large malt and a large order of fries," he told the kid in the paper hat.
"We don''t sell Big Macs at Burger King," the smartass said.
If Rip hadn''t been so hungry, he would''ve sent the order back when he got it for being too rare and driven on out of there. He had forty bucks left. As he waited, he thought about making another trip out to Marv''s. Marv should still be out in the woods chasing Millicent, that was the skag''s name. He''d open that back door with his crow bar. And while he was at it, he''d take a peek at who it was down in that basement.
On the way out to Marv''s, as Rip was inhaling his burgers and sucking down his malt, a news report interrupted the music. Usually he couldn''t care less about what was going on in Israel or Afghanistan or Algeria or some such sorry place, but this time, the news was about that kidnapping that he was mildly interested in, that TV anchorperson. He liked to fantasize what he''d do to her if he''d been the one that took her.
Rip became so absorbed in the newscast that he missed the turnoff to Marv''s and had to do a doughnut to get back on course. Could it be? Would it be possible? Nah, not Marv. Minutes later, he was dodging the potholes in Marv''s yard. Goddamnit, Marv was home, kneeling over the dog, bawling like a motherless calf. Rip would have to come up with an excuse for bein'' here.
"Just came over to see how you did with Millicent," he said, rolling down the window.
Marv rubbed his eyes, said, "That her name?"
"Yeah, you''d think she''d have brains enough to shorten it to Milly, wouldn''t you? But then Milly does sounds quite a bit like a cow. If the shoe fits, I always say."
Rip got out of the Camaro, crouched down next to Marv. "Somebody run down your dog? Probably some kids. They''re gettin'' really out of hand these days. Practically all of them got that attention deficit thing." Marv hadn''t noticed the broken hasp on his tool shed yet, so Rip put his arm around his shoulder and led him to the house.
Marv didn''t want to let him in at first, but Rip pushed past him. "I need to use the little boy''s room," he said.
After he''d used the can, he flopped down on Marv''s couch and refused to move. "Got a headache, need to rest my eyes," he told Marv.
Marv gave Rip a can of Coors and flipped on the TV set. Oprah and Bill Clinton cooking some kind of shit. That fool Clinton was wearing a chef''s hat.
Just as he was getting involved in the show, there was a banging on the ceiling down below. Sounded like somebody poking at it with a broomstick.
"What the hell''s that?" Rip said. Marv reacted like it was as much of a surprise to him as it was to Rip.
"Probably a tree banging up against the roof. It''s awfully windy out there."
Rip hadn''t noticed any wind and the noise was coming from the basement. "Better get up there with your chain saw. Ruin your shingles otherwise." Maybe there was some money in this for him. Bendix''s parents and the police would be organizing search parties. Wait! There was some kind of reward, wasn''t there? But then maybe he was going off half-cocked. He''d have egg on his face if that lady down there was a boarder or something.
He chugged the last of his beer. "Want another? I''ll get it." Marv nodded. He was really involved with Oprah and Clinton.
Rip found some masking tape in a drawer near the refrigerator, doctored the lock on the back door, grabbed two Coors out of the frig, and strolled back into the living room.
He''d get a picture of this Dorie Bendix and come back when he knew for sure Marv was gone. And he''d get that stereo while he was at it. Yeah, that''s what he''d do. A commercial break provided Rip''s excuse to leave.
"Gotta go Marv. The old lady''ll brain me if I don''t get those shoes I bought for the kids home. Say, you ain''t got fifty you could lend me, do yah?"
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Mystery Writer
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The realism hits home with a lot of references to where I grew up in the upper Midwest and the people I knew. I had to laugh because one time on a road trip, a bit disoriented from five hours of driving, I ordered a Whopper Jr. at a McDonald's to my niece and her husband's delight.
Makes you want to read… "The rest of the story."
Ron