He met her the first time at Otto’s. Payday Friday, he
wanted to meet her again. A date he’d call it. A short drive from the plant
after showering, slap on the bay rum. “Someone’s getting some tonight?” He
grinned, blushed. Anders shrugged, a young twenty-five. She wouldn’t expect
him.
The wind barreled off Lake Superior, greasing the iron footbridge
high over the railroad tracks with ice. A perilous walk to the lot where his Starlight
coupe sat. He’d tuned it up just before winter clapped down. She’d get a cozy
ride home. Anders was mindful in some respects.
Otto’s, red and yellow neon over the front door, snow ghosts
blowing past the streetlights, hunkered down in the chiaroscuro of moonlight,
streetlight, snow, and the wooden railroad trestle running out to the harbor
and docks.
Anders looked around, pulling off his stocking cap, lined
choppers, unzipping the heavy red-and-black plaid jacket. Somebody had plugged
the Wurlitzer with coin. Patsy Cline sang “Walkin’ After Midnight.” He looked
for Marcella’s Lucille-Ball-red head. In that booth? No.
He ordered a sip and snort from
Raymond, slammed home the warming shot. “Say, you seen Marcella tonight?”
Playing dim, wiping glasses
clean with a dingy cloth, Raymond twitched his melon head no.
“Marcella Lundquist?” Anders
tried again, post-Fitger’s sip.
Raymond cocked his head. Anders
knew he was nowhere near a halfwit. What, did he have to slip him a sawbuck for
information, like he was a movie detective? “That leggy redhead?”
Anders smiled. “Yeah. That’s
Marcella. So?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“But I just came on at six.” The
Hamm’s clock on the wall read 11:18. “Not to say she wasn’t here earlier. Uncle
Otto was tending bar then. He’d know. But he’s probably sleeping now.”
Nodding, Anders swept the
barroom again. Three couples slow dancing. No Marcella. He turned back. “Set me
up. I’ll be right back.”
He hit the john. Stomach
wobbles. He situated himself on the throne just in time.
Belly settled, he noticed an
expensive cigar-brown overcoat hanging from the door. Anders checked its
pockets, looking for some identification. Leather gloves, a pack of cigarettes,
a matchbook, and an envelope with First National Bank printed in the upper left
corner. It was thick with cash.
After splashing water on his
face at the sink, drying off, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket. Opened it
again, thumbed the bills.
He glanced at the door latch. Locked.
He pulled the wad out, counted it, then he recounted it. He looked in the mottled
mirror. He wasn’t dreaming. He counted the bills a third time.
Each time, the figure was the
same.
Ten thousand dollars. More than
he made in two years.
He shoved the envelope inside
his shirt, tucked low beneath his belt. He walked back to the bar and pulled on
his jacket.
Raymond, at the end of the bar, gestured
come over. He wouldn’t look Anders in the eye. “Okay. I saw Marcella. I saw her
leave.”
“Yeah?”
Raymond polished a slice of bar
top real estate. “Yeah, she was talking with Mr. High-Life. Hinckley, the bank VP.”
The name meant nothing to Anders. ‘Bank’ did. “They were getting hot and heavy
in a booth back there. Fucking redheads. Even that one, what you seen when you
came in.”
“Okay?”
“They left like they were going
to make Hot Springs tonight.” Raymond rolled his eyes. “The dick-for-brains
didn’t even wear his overcoat. He’s probably hopping her in his car right this
minute.”
“What’s he drive?”
“Aw, kid. You don’t want…”
“I’m not going to do anything to
him.”
Raymond shook his head. “A big
fucking Caddy. Shiny, black. This year’s model.”
The wind still blew. Anders
spotted the banker’s ’56 Cadillac in the lot. It stood out. It glared.
He walked alongside, his shadow
not falling across either occupant. High-Life, eyes closed, leaned back in his
seat. Marcella’s head dipped in his lap like a drinking bird toy.
Anders moved off into the
trestle’s dark shadow, a hand in his coat pocket pressing against the ten
thousand.
The Cadillac action dropped off.
Anders walked to his coupe, figuring, the three
of them, they each got their payday.
